The Deal

He had, but I hadn’t really believed him. How is he not partying every night? I mean, look at the guy. He’s drop dead gorgeous and more popular than the Bieber. Well, at least before Beebs went off the rails and abandoned his poor monkey in a foreign country.

We settle on the bed and get right down to work, but each time Garrett takes a few minutes to read over a theory, my mind drifts back to tonight’s rehearsal. Anger continues to simmer in my belly, and although I’m ashamed to admit it, my bad mood leaks into the study session. I’m crabbier than I mean to be, and much harsher than necessary when Garrett misinterprets the material.

“It’s not that complicated,” I mutter when he completely misses the point for the third time. “He’s saying—”

“All right, I get it now,” he cuts in, aggravation creasing his forehead. “No need to snap at me, Wellsy.”

“Sorry.” I briefly close my eyes to calm myself. “Let’s just move on to the next philosopher. We’ll come back to Foucault at the end.”

Garrett frowns. “We’re not moving on to anything. Not until you tell me why you’ve been biting my head off since you got here. What, did Loverboy ignore you in the quad or something?”

His sarcasm only intensifies my annoyance. “No.”

“Are you on your period?”

“Oh my God. You are the worst. Just read, will you?”

“I’m not reading a damn thing.” He crosses his arms. “Look, there’s an easy fix for this bitch fest of yours. All you have to do is tell me why you’re mad, I’ll assure you you’re being ridiculous, and then we can study in peace.”

I’ve underestimated Garrett’s stubbornness. But I really ought to know better, seeing as how I’ve been bested by his tenacity on more than one occasion. I don’t particularly want to confide in him, but my argument with Cass is like a dark cloud over my head, and I need to dispel the stormy energy before it consumes me.

“He wants a choir!”

Garrett blinks. “Who wants a choir?”

“My duet partner,” I say darkly. “AKA the bane of my existence. I swear, if I wasn’t afraid I might break my hand, I’d punch him right in his smug, stupid face.”

“You want me to teach you how to throw down?” Garrett presses his lips together as if he’s trying hard not to laugh.

“I’m tempted to say yes. Seriously, this guy is impossible to work with. The song is fantastic, but all he does is nitpick every microscopic detail. The key, the tempo, the arrangement, the frickin’ clothes we’re going to wear.”

“Okay…so what’s this about a choir?”

“Get this—Cass wants a choir to accompany us for the last chorus. A fucking choir. We’ve been rehearsing this piece for weeks, Garrett. It was supposed to be simple and understated, just the two of us showcasing our voices, and suddenly he wants to make a huge production out of it?”

“He sounds like a diva.”

“He totally is. I’m ready to rip his head off.” My anger is so visceral it coats my throat and makes my hands tremble. “And then, if that’s not infuriating enough, two minutes before rehearsal ends he decides we should change the arrangement.”

“What’s wrong with the arrangement?”

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong with the arrangement. And Mary Jane—the girl who wrote the fucking song—is just sitting there saying nothing! I don’t know if she’s scared of Cass or in love with him or who the hell knows what, but she’s no help at all. She clams up whenever we start fighting, when what she should be doing is voicing an opinion and trying to resolve the issue.”

Garrett purses his lips. Sort of like the way my grandma does when she’s deep in thought. It’s kind of adorable.

But he’d probably kill me if I told him he just reminded me of my grandmother.

“What?” I prompt when he doesn’t speak.

“I want to hear this song.”

Surprise filters through me. “What? Why?”

“Because you’ve been babbling about it since the moment I met you.”

“This is the first time I’ve ever brought it up!”

He responds with that flippant hand-waving thing again, which I’m starting to suspect he does often. “Well, I want to hear it. If this Mary Jane chick doesn’t have the balls to offer legitimate criticism, then I’ll do it.” He shrugs. “Maybe your duet partner—what’s his name again?”

“Cass.”

“Maybe Cass is right and you’re just too stubborn to see it.”

“Trust me, he’s wrong.”

“Fine, then let me be the judge. Sing both versions of the song for me—the way it is now, and the way Cass wants it—and I’ll tell you what I think. You play, right?”

I furrow my brow. “Play what?”

Garrett rolls his eyes. “Instruments.”

“Oh. Yeah, I do. Piano and guitar…why?”

“I’ll be right back.”

He ducks out of the room and I hear his footsteps thud in the hall, followed by the sound of a door creaking open. He returns with an acoustic guitar in hand.

“Tuck’s,” he explains. “He won’t mind if you play it.”

I grit my teeth. “I’m not serenading you.”

“Why not? You feeling self-conscious or something?”