Page 3 of Summer Skin

THE SECOND WEEKof school couldn’t be any worse than the first.

At least that’s what Chase kept telling himself as his aunt Colleen drove him and Brooklyn to school Monday morning.

“Why are you bringing your instrument?” Colleen asked, eying him in the rear-view mirror.

“School band tryouts are this afternoon,” he reminded her.

“Band,” she repeated, in a tone that made clear he may as well have said he was auditioning for bland.

“Yeah.” He stared out the window at multi-million-dollar home after multi-million-dollar home rolling by. “I play guitar.”

She sighed, like this conversation was waaay more than she’d bargained for when questioning why he was lugging a guitar case around. “I’m aware.” Her thumb jabbed at a button on the steering wheel, and the chill-out music playing in the background got a notch louder. Which meant it was still soft enough to barely register at a level intended for human ears.

Chase huffed out a breath, thinking of his bright, vibrant mom—who dyed her hair lavender and always pulled over for a yard sale—and wondered, yet again, how on earth she could be related to this humdrum lady with all the passion of a robot. This woman who couldn’t even be bothered to step out of her beige-colored slippers before driving them to school in the morning.

But deep down, he wasn’t being fair. At least he and Brooklyn had a place to stay.

Even if it was with two cyborgs.

His sister looked back at him from the passenger seat, mouthing something, wide-eyed and smirky, but he couldn’t read her lips, so he just shrugged. She crossed her eyes at him and turned around.

“What were you trying to tell me?” he asked her later, striding from the car towards the high school.

“Nothing,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. Break a leg today, okay? You know, at your audition.”

“Breaking a leg is meant for the stage.”

“Right,” she told him, in a tone reserved for only the dimmest of brothers, “and you’ll be playing on a stage.”

“Okay, Brook,” he said, letting her win this round. “Thanks.”

“It’ll go great,” she told him, hiking her school bag across her shoulders and heading to class.

***

It was, in fact, the opposite of great.

Words like dismal, humiliating, and nightmarish seemed more apt.

Chase was seated in an aisle seat, a clump of empty chairs around him in a fairly packed theater. Students gathered together in small groups, cliques they’d most likely formed back in grade school, and once again, the feeling of being an outsider crept in, nearly suffocating in its intensity. A little voice in his head was demanding why he even bothered showing up to the auditorium at all.

Because.

Because it’s what I’m good at.

Because it’s the only outlet I’ve got.

His mom had unwittingly come off as a little resentful over this genetic gift passed down from his father—the ability to play guitar like he was born with one in his hand. Her bitterness was only compounded by the fact that when Chase was five, his dad split for good, never to be heard from again, and the one thing he’d left behind was the guitar Chase held in his hands now. An aching reminder to his mother of a fairytale gone wrong.

Sudden awareness prickled at the back of Chase’s neck. The familiar feeling of being watched that he recognized from growing up in places where walking safely home from school wasn’t always a guarantee. His eyes scanned to the left and right, and then he shifted in his seat, turning to look behind him.

And there he was …Aven Sinclair. The guy whom Chase had done everything possible to avoid for the past week, although ending up in three of his classes hadn’t done much to help. Ditto the fact that Andi, who seemed to be Aven’s other half, had attached herself to Chase as a permanent student buddy.

Aven was lounging in the back row, feet propped up on the seat in front of him, a group of girls gathered around. That much wasn’t unusual, but Aven wasn’t paying a smidge of attention to any of them. He was staring daggers at Chase like his mere existence in this room was a problem to set on fire.

Fucking, fuck this guy, Chase thought, and, raising his hand in a hyper-friendly wave, smiled big and bright, like he was just that goddamn happy to see him.

Aven’s head tilted, considering, and an eyebrow shot straight up. Chase swung back around in his seat, not wanting to dive any further into head games. This wasn’t a moment to engage with Sinclair. He needed to stay calm before getting up on stage.

But what exactly was Aven doing here anyway? A thousand percent, Chase would have pegged him way more of a jock than a band nerd. But these were closed auditions, and if Aven was in the auditorium, it meant he played an instrument. Chase would bet money he didn’t have on Aven playing something loud and intense. Drums. Aven had to be a skin smacker.

The kid up on stage was going at a brassy trombone solo like it was his last day on earth, and Mr. Edwards, the band director, had to raise his voice several notches to cut him off.

Finally, the dude got the hint, and after a “Thank you, Ryan,” from Mr. Edwards, he fumbled his way off the stage as someone in the audience made a long, loud farting noise with their mouth. A chorus of titters streaked across the auditorium.

“Put a stop to it, people,” Mr. Edwards warned them, followed by another quick sound of flatulence from the audience, this time to the band director’s left. The teacher looked towards the ceiling, let out a long-suffering sigh, and then called, “Chase Matthews?”

Gathering his nerves, Chase took the long walk to the stage with his head down, focusing on nothing but the song ahead. One he’d played a hundred times, knew from memory in a dozen different ways. Glimmers of his mom, with the windows rolled down in her old, beat-up, cherry red Saab. The sun caressing the side of her face as she sang along at the top of her lungs, the music turned up so, so loud. Loud enough to chase every worry from his head.

Taking his place on stage with the acoustic Martin guitar he’d inherited before he could even properly hold it in his hands, Chase watched Mr. Edwards for the cue to begin. It wasn’t something new to perform in front of people—Chase had played guitar at dozens of parties thrown by his mom.But still … there was an edge of anxious tension nipping at his gut, and he realized all at once that it was nerves about playing in front of him. Aven.

Stop, he told himself. That guy’s not worth it.

Let it go.

With a mental shove, he banished Aven from his head and let the music take over, playing the opening chords of The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven,” and letting himself get lost in the song.

In Mom’s car, the song on repeat with Brooklyn in a motel bed, penning the lyrics in his writing journal in dark purple ink.

Chase let his eyes focus on the crowd, on Mr. Edwards nodding along, and then, as though inescapably drawn there, straight to the back row. To Aven, whose fierce wolf eyes were trained on him like he was prey.

A shiver ran up his spine, and Chase hit a wrong note, cursing himself for letting his gaze find Aven’s at all. A few beats later, Mr. Edwards cut him off, and a spark of annoyance lit Chase up as he finished the audition.

There was polite applause and a “Very nice, Chase,” from Mr. Edwards, and not a single fart noise came from anyone sitting in the audience, so despite his fumble, Chase felt mostly relief as he hurried off the stage.

For a moment, he thought about exiting the auditorium, but paused, sliding into a seat near the aisle. Despite knowing what was good for him, Chase was deeply curious to see Aven Sinclair play.

The wait wasn’t long. A few tryouts later, and Aven’s name was called to the stage, and he ambled lazily down the aisle, a black Strat clutched in one hand.

Holy shit. Guitar. Aven played guitar.

A sinking sensation dropped Chase’s stomach. There was only one spot in the band for a front ensemble guitar player. Why on earth couldn’t his competition have been anyone other than the one guy in school who wanted to eat him alive?

Aven bounded up the steps to the stage, confident as ever, no sign of any nerves as he plugged his guitar into an amp. Chase cursed himself for bringing his acoustic. The Martin was his best-loved guitar, and technically, more challenging to play than an electric. Which Chase had been hoping to show off.

But the spot in band was for electric. And here was Aven on stage with one of the finest instruments known to man. Goddamn him. Chase’s stomach tightened further as Aven slung the guitar around his neck, waiting for the cue to begin.

“Let’s go, Mr. Sinclair.”

Aven played a few chords, something unfamiliar to Chase’s ears, then abruptly cut off. A few beats of silence went by, and suddenly his head snapped up, eyes fixed directly on Chase, pinning him in place with the weight of his stare. When he began to play again, Chaseimmediately and horrifyingly recognized the first notes.

Because Aven was playing the exact same song. His song. Chase’s song, “Just Like Heaven,” and holy shit, he was good.

Chase couldn’t take his eyes off of him. Not even for a second. And Aven’s gaze was locked on Chase like there was no one else in the room. Like he was playing for him. Only him. Showing Chase who he was through the strings of a guitar.

Skilled. Effortlessly cool. Magnetic.

“Thank you, Aven,” Mr. Edwards said. But Aven didn’t pay him a lick of attention, fervidly playing on, and violating a major rule for a band audition, he opened his mouth, and began to sing. And if Chase thought Aven was hypnotic a moment ago, it was nothing compared to this. To this outpouring of electricity flowing straight through his voice and guitar.

A wolf whistle rang out into the air, and a field of goosebumps bloomed on Chase’s arms. His breath felt heavy, and his body flushed, leaning forward in his seat. Captivated.

Cheers and whoops rang out through the auditorium as Aven sang of being lost and lonely, and Chase’s heart was a wild thing—flying, flying, unable to stay on the ground.

The song came to an end, and Aven’s chest was heaving as he finally broke eye contact with Chase, pulling the guitar over his head.

“Alright, rock star,” Mr. Edwards said dryly. “Show’s over. You may take your seat.”

“Do me, Sinclair!” someone called from the back, and Chase sat frozen in equal parts awe and humiliation. His performance was nothing compared to the act Aven had just put on.

A part of Chase wanted to bolt from his seat and flee the theater. To bottle his emotions up and pretend these auditions had never happened at all. But to show such weakness after the blow Aven dealt him would be a fatal mistake that could follow him all year long. Taking a shaky breath, he forced himself to meet Aven’s eyes as he strode up the aisle.

A hard stone of dread dropped in his gut the moment Aven paused by Chase’s seat, clapping a hand on his shoulder, like they were good ol’ pals. Leaning over, Aven’s breath tickled the shell of Chase’s ear.

“You”re not taking what’s mine,” he growled, low and determined. And whether Aven meant his spot in band, or Andi, or both, Chase couldn’t say. He swallowed thickly, looking away, and Aven vanished a split second later as Mr. Edwards called the next student to stage.

Quickly losing hope for his senior year to be anything other than miserable, Chase wished he could disappear through the auditorium floor and land in another dimension where he still lived in California with Brooklyn and their mom. It was never perfect. But it was what they knew. What was familiar. What they had.

Here, Chase had nothing.

Nothing but the unwanted attention of a guy who, deep down, Chase knew he could never compete with.