She clasps her hands together and opens her mouth in an excited squeal. As I look around, I see other girls doing the same thing, everyone’s eyes wide with anticipation as they focus on the stage and the huge LCD screen right above it. I’m close enough to the front that I have to crane my neck to see the screen—we’re fifth row, middle. Avery has been saving up for these tickets for an entire thirteen months, insisting I come along since “even deaf girls need to experience their first real concert.” I’m not exactly sure why performances at Carnegie don’t count as real, but I know better than to argue with her when it comes to anything related to Tone Deaf.
Jace has finished his performance for the night, and he gives a short bow. As he looks down on the mass of fans in front of him—all squealing and jumping and ready to kiss his feet—his smile turns into a cocky grin. It looks completely fake, like the expression painted on a Ken doll, but none of his audience seems to notice.
The image on the screen changes to a close-up of Jace’s face as he addresses the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he calls out, and a second later, little subtitles dance across the bottom of the screen with his words. I squint as I struggle to read them. Stadiums have to provide subtitles to comply with disability laws, but apparently there aren’t any laws against making the letters ridiculously tiny.
The vibrations of the crowd die down a little, and Jace repeats, “Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for coming tonight and helping to kick off Tone Deaf’s summer tour.”
More cheers. More crazy jumping and blown kisses.
“Tonight a special fan will receive a special prize,” Jace says. “Tone Deaf is giving away a backstage tour, so one of you can come meet us right after the concert.” The subtitles are quickly replaced with a tiny legal disclaimer, and even though the text is too small to bother reading it all, I get the gist of it—crazy fans can win a half-hour meet-and-greet with the band, but the tour is of the stage and not anything in Jace’s pants. Then Jace announces, “Everyone in the audience has received a wristband with a raffle code on it,” as if every girl wasn’t already aware of this.
I stare down at my own band: A632D9. I wanted to rip it off as soon as the ticket guy at the entrance put it on, but Avery had started freaking out, signing frantically that the code was defunct if I took off the wristband. I kept it on, just to please her, but not before arguing back a little.
“In ten seconds, the winning code will appear on the main screen,” says Jace. He points upwards, and all eyes turn to the huge LCD screen I’m already staring at. A large “10” appears on the screen, quickly followed by a “9,” then an “8.”
A chant goes up in the crowd, and whatever else Jace wanted to say is drowned out as the concertgoers count down. At the “1,” a roar of sound hits me, even more powerful than before. I clutch my arms to my chest and turn to the side, trying to ward off the sensations.
Something slams into my shoulder, and I yelp, glaring at Avery. She excitedly clings to my arm as she jumps up and down, and a huge, shocked grin spreads across her face.
Which can only mean one thing.
“You won?” I scream, hoping I’m loud enough to be heard over the crowd.
“Ali!” she shrieks. “Ali! It happened! Oh my god, I told you it’d happen!”
A bubble of excitement rises in my chest as I watch her smile grow even wider. Avery babbles a long string of words, but no amount of lip-reading skill could help me interpret what she’s saying. Then she points eagerly toward the screen, and I turn, grinning as I read the code. I have Avery’s code memorized; she’d been chanting it like a good luck charm before the concert started, drawing out all the O’s like she was practicing for a kiss.
My grin falls from my face. I blink, hoping I’m seeing things wrong. But every time I blink, the screen just grows clearer.
It’s not Avery’s code. Not even close. Instead, the bright screen proudly displays: A632D9.
Well, shit. I just won myself a date with a rock star.
2
ALI
BODIES BRUSH AGAINST me as I struggle through the crowd, and I try not to shudder. My face must be pale, because Avery reaches down and takes my hand. If it were anyone else, I’d jerk away, but she gives my palm a comforting little squeeze, and I gratefully squeeze back. Avery doesn’t skip a beat as she continues babbling about the raffle prize.
“—can’t believe—Jace is just so—still can’t believe—make sure he signs all of them?”
I glance up at her lips every once in a while and catch snippets of her words, but I don’t bother with a response aside from a couple nods. What I want right now is to escape this crowd, not to hyperventilate over Jace Beckett. Although Avery has made it very clear that I’m not to leave the tour without getting as many autographs as possible. I have four of her CD albums and a rolled up poster in my purse, along with the metallic blue pen Avery brought for this very purpose. Earlier, I’d been teasing her for actually believing we’d get a chance for autographs, but I guess her optimism paid off.