Page 13 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
“You have all morning to review the materials,” Miranda interrupts smoothly. “You’re a straight-A student, Alice. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble preparing. In fact, I’m counting on it.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Remember, your tutelage will contribute to Ryder’s success.”
The words land like a threat.
“I’ve cleared out the library for your sessions,” she continues. “It’s on the first floor, past the dining room and kitchen. It’s quiet, private, and has everything you’ll need. Two o’clock. Don’t be late.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and I’m alone with the mountain of books and papers.
I drag myself out of bed and approach the desk with the same enthusiasm I’d show a pile of dirty dishes. There’s a worn copy of ‘What We Carry’ by Redmund Marsh, along with several literary analysis guides, a syllabus for senior English, and a stack of worksheets that look like they’re from Ryder’s teacher.
The pressure sits heavy on my chest. I’m supposed to review all this, prepare a study plan, and have Ryder learn all this material… in one afternoon?
I pick up the book and breathe out a sliver of relief. It’s a novel from the 1910s that I’ve already read. I had a summer of being really into classic literature. Thank goodness, because I can barely focus on the thousands of lines of text sitting before me. Especially when they’re all blurring into two. With a trembling hand, I set the book down by the study materials.
Through the tall windows, I notice dark clouds lingering on the horizon. Is the storm not done with me yet? Didn’t it get its kicks when it robbed me of sleep last night?
I plonk on the bed and let out a long sigh. Glancing at my phone, I remember the way the Sky Chaos song had kept meout of my spiralling thoughts. My heartbeat slowed down, and I stopped clawing at the bed sheets.
Maybe doing my part to make Ryder a success is worth something. If one song can put me at ease, a whole career of music has to be in my best interests.
I cross to the window and yank the heavy curtains shut, blocking out the threatening sky. The room plunges into dimmer light, but at least I can’t see the clouds building.
With my stomach growling but no desire to face Miranda or her staff in the kitchen, I remember the gas station snacks from yesterday’s drive. I drop to my knees and rummage through my bag until I find them. A crumpled bag of barbecue potato chips and a warm energy drink that probably tastes like artificial citrus. The kind of pathetic food my parents would have lectured me about. Which is why they’re absolutely perfect right now.
I tear open the chips and take a handful, the salty-sweet flavor coating my tongue. Not exactly breakfast, but it’s something. The energy drink is warm and vaguely syrupy. I chug half of it anyway, hoping the caffeine will help me focus.
Settling back at the desk, I try to make sense of the materials Miranda left. I remember the novel centers around a woman named Sophia, who has to decide whether to save her grandfather’s church from demolition. Themes of inherited responsibility, family obligation, and identity.
I make notes in the margins of the syllabus, identifying key chapters and important quotes, but my mind keeps drifting.
Why am I doing this? I just moved here, and I’m put to work.
Does Miranda not know how to deal with me? Is she hoping distracting me with schoolwork will help me forget my grief? Is it her own twisted way of helping me? She saw I excelled at school and thought I would enjoy it?
I rest my head in my palms and comb my fingers through my messy hair. School is the last thing I want to think about. I don’t want to change schools. I don’t want to be without my parents.
I lift my head and reach for the framed photo of them.
“Oh, Mom,” I whisper at her captured image. “Dad. Why did you have to leave? You couldn’t have wanted me to come here. Oh, I wish you could tell me what the deal is with Miranda. I’m freaked out, because there has to be a reason why neither of you spoke about her.”
I set the photo frame back down as pressure builds behind my eyes. As I will myself not to cry, I hear something that halts my breathing.
Music.
Not just muffled sounds through walls, but something clearer. A guitar melody that thrums through the very foundation of the house. Then drums join in, steady and powerful. A bass line that I feel in my chest.
And then a voice.
The voice I listened to over and over as I tried to get to sleep last night.
Ryder’s voice.
Raw, gravelly, and absolutely beautiful.
My hands press to my face as I listen. Like if I don’t freeze, the sound might slip away and never return. The music seems to seep through the walls and fills the empty spaces of this cold, stone room. It pulses to me like salvation.
I stand from the desk, forgetting the tutoring materials. My feet carry me to the door before I fully register what I’m doing. I just want to hear it better. Be closer to something that makes me feel less hollow.
The hallway is empty and dim, with only a few wall sconces providing light. But the music is louder out here, echoing through the corridors as if the house itself is the amplifier.
