Authors: Melanie Jacobson
Yeah, right. But it was better than standing around looking dopey.
Someone else called out a question about their tour experiences, another guy asked about how the band had formed, and the ball kept rolling. I felt stupid, not asking anything myself. I didn’t know the etiquette on using the answers from other people’s questions, but Tanner stood there, smug in his golf shirt, and scribbled without asking anything either. Maybe this was like a presidential press conference where everyone got to use the same information. An intense dislike of Tanner’s shirt seized me. It mocked me by saying, “I’m not trying to fit in with you band groupie people because I’m above you.” I wished I still had my Coke to spill on him.
The questions continued to fly. “How did you get your band name?” “How long have you been together?” “Where do you get your inspiration?”
Some of the questions surprised me. I could easily find most of the answers by standing there and Googling while they waited for their turn to ask. I wish I’d had enough notice to research them so I knew what I wanted to ask too, but my next best choice was to listen to everyone else. Eventually, Foley’s drawl slowed and then stopped altogether, and people trickled out of the room. Not knowing what else to do, I followed them and headed to the door that led out back. It would be much faster to dart around front from there than to thread my way through the crowd still dancing inside. A human traffic jam at the exit slowed me down as two guys loaded a large speaker into the van.
“Did you like the show?” an uncomfortably familiar voice asked behind me.
I composed myself before glancing over my shoulder at Tanner. “It was fine.” He stood barely a foot behind me, close enough that I could sense his body heat. I struggled not to squirm.
“How did you score a backstage pass?” he asked.
I turned around with reluctance, sure to let my body language show that it was inconvenient for me to do so. “My editor asked me to cover the show at the last minute, so she called in and cleared me.”
“Your editor?” He shook his head. “I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. You wrote the Wonderbra of résumés. Who wouldn’t want to hire you?”
My hands flew to my hips. “I apologized for that already. My new editor, unlike you, knows talent when she sees it. I turned in a completely accurate résumé to her, and she saw my potential.”
“Potential for
what
? Disaster?”
I glared at him and whirled back around.
“So who is it? Your new editor?”
I ignored him.
“How very mature,” he said. “Maybe you should stick your fingers in your ears and sing so I get the hint.”
I turned back around. “It’s Ellie Peters at
Real Salt Lake
.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You work for
Ellie
?”
I had no idea what to make of his emphasis, but I was learning with Tanner that when in doubt, I should take everything as an insult.
“Yes, I work for Ellie. Is that so hard to believe?”
His brow furrowed, and he hesitated before answering. “Yes.”
I scowled and felt the short line to the door moving. “Any other questions? I need to find my date.”
“You brought a date with you on an assignment?” His incredulous tone was the last straw.
“I told you this was a last-minute gig. I’m sorry if my existence bothers you, but I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care if you like how I do things, and I don’t care if you like my writing. I plan to be a key player for
Real Salt Lake
, and I’m going to make it my mission in life to steal every single one of the young readers your paper is trying to win back.” A lock of hair flopped over my eye, and I shoved it out of the way, furious at it and at Tanner. “I don’t need your opinion or your approval, thank you very much.”
“You already said that.”
“Said what?” I spat, wishing the band’s van would back up and run him over now that we’d reached the alley.
Instead, he leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets, a smile playing around his lips.
“You already said thank you. I got your note, remember?”
I had been wishing for a week now that I had never sent it. My ears burned. Trying to rein my temper back in, I smiled sweetly. “It was totally heartfelt.” Then I turned and headed out toward the street and Justin while Tanner’s soft laugh sounded in my ears.
To my relief, I saw Justin as soon as I rounded the corner, his hat safely on his head and his bravado back in place. “There you are,” he said. I didn’t respond. I wasn’t a big fan of stating the obvious. It probably came from passing the winter in Handy’s with dozens of people coming in all day and proclaiming, “It’s cold out there!” like I couldn’t see the snow on the ground through the storefront.
“Are you ready to go?” I asked.
“Sure. I’ll walk you to your car,” he said.
I shrugged. Whatever. This date was already over as far as I was concerned.
I shoved my hands deep inside my coat pockets to protect them from the chilly night air. Even in early March, winter hadn’t loosened its grasp completely. It was two blocks to the parking garage, and Justin filled the walk with opinions about the deejay’s choices, the band’s lack of authenticity, and the quality of the street lighting we passed. Realizing that it came from a place of deep insecurity made me far more patient with him, but relief washed over me at the sight of our cars.
We stopped by The Zuke, and I tried to figure out how to navigate the awkward good night.
“Thanks for the evening,” I said.
“Yeah,” he smiled. “It’s been real.” And the tiny hint of irony in his tone made me smile back. He tugged at his hat brim. “So, uh, I should get your num—”
I shook my head. Better to nip it in the bud.
“No?” he asked. And before I could answer, he did. “You’re right. No. Want to hug it out?”
I smiled again. If I’d been hanging out with
this
guy all night, it would have been a much better date. I accepted his hug and then unlocked my car door while he walked three slots down to his. I was messing with the radio, trying to get my favorite alternative rock station to come in, when a knock sounded on my window and startled a scream out of me.
It was Justin, looking sheepish. I rolled the window down. “I have a flat,” he said. “Do you have AAA?”
I did, but I’d have to stay with him until AAA sent someone out so I could show them my card, and I was an hour past exhausted. I opened the door and climbed out. “It’ll be faster if I change it. Do you have a donut or a full spare?”
“You can’t change my tire,” he said, confused.
“Why? I can buy my own sodas.”
He flushed. “All right. Point taken. But I don’t have a spare.”
“Let me check.” I held out my hand for his keys and headed for his car. Sure enough, under the carpeting in the trunk of what I was fairly sure was his mom’s Buick, he had a spare. I wrestled it out while Justin shifted from foot to foot, fluttering his arms for a few seconds like he wanted to help but didn’t know what to do. Next to the spare, I found a jack—a pretty old-school one, but it would work. I hauled out the lug nut wrench and set to work, spinning the lug nuts off as fast as I could. The sooner I got this tire changed, the sooner I could go home.
I braced myself to tug the flat tire off and then pulled. A vehicle turning the corner toward the exit flashed me with its headlights, causing me to lose my balance and land on my butt, the tire in my lap. I glared at the car, only to see Tanner behind the wheel, his expression surprised. Well, that figured. I’d been wondering how this night could get any worse, but I hadn’t been humiliated yet, so why not add that to the mix? Why not have Tanner Graham drive by and catch me changing my date’s tire? Justin reached down and attempted to pull me up, yanking me by the armpits. I batted him away. “I’m fine,” I said, still sprawled with the tire on my legs. I was so thankful I had on jeans and not a skirt. “Can you go turn on the hazard lights?” Trying to find the button should keep him busy.
Tanner slowed to a stop and rolled the window down. “You need any help?”
I was already up and wrestling the spare in place. “Nope. I know what I’m doing.” Justin stayed blessedly silent as he poked around on the dashboard.
“Are you sure?” Tanner asked, sounding concerned.
“I’m really fine,” I said.
I’d be even better if you’d leave.
He hesitated, and I picked my head up long enough to pin him with a steady, unflinching gaze before he nodded and lifted his foot off the brake to roll away.
It took about ten more minutes of wrestling, but I secured the spare and stood up. Justin didn’t say much as I worked, just jumped to hand me things as I asked for them. Now he thrust some crumpled but clean fast-food napkins at me. I accepted them but doubted they would do much for the tire grease all over my fingers. Oh well. I could wrap the napkins around the steering wheel so I didn’t dirty it on the drive home.
This time, the good-bye was too short to be awkward. He said thanks, and I said see ya, and I hurried to my car before either of us had to think of something else to say. Once I hit the wide-open lanes of the freeway, I navigated on autopilot and thought about my next article. I focused on the concert review, heeding Ellie’s directive to write with a strong point of view. I played with an opening hook.
If you like your music loud and lacking any real emotion, then Sonic Machine’s Friday night show was a must-see. The band compensated for lack of talent with volume, serving up self-consciously political lyrics that criticized anyone or anything that did not embrace veganism, legalizing marijuana, or environmental activism. If front man Foley Helm’s bored explanation of their lyrics is anything to go by, their embrace of liberal policies is limp at best.
It was a start.
Dear Sister Miller,
Remember when I threw a huge fit several years ago during a Laurel activity because you made us learn proper table manners? How could you forget, right? I bet no one has ever offered a louder opinion about the pointlessness of a salad fork than I did.
Now imagine me cringing and begging your forgiveness.
I want to thank you for having more wisdom than your shortsighted Laurels. Specifically, me. Just the other night, when I needed it most, that long-ago lesson saved me from making an idiot of myself—although, I would have deserved it.
If they ever convince you to work in Young Women’s again, tell the girls that Pepper Spicer says knowing their salad fork from their entrée fork will one day help them out as much as all their scripture mastery memorization put together.
Of course, what I learned from you goes far beyond silverware usage, but hopefully I didn’t give you as much grief about the rest of it. Thanks for serving with us even when we were a total pain.
Sincerely,
Pepper Spicer
Chapter 8
“Ginger, when you sent the link of my article to all your friends last week, you didn’t tell them it was me writing the column, did you?”
She favored me with an irritated stare. “You said not to. I didn’t.” She turned back to flip her pancakes on the griddle.
I breathed a sigh of relief and downed another spoonful of oatmeal. This week’s column on Justin would make the Boring Brent date look downright benign by comparison. I didn’t want to risk exposing my identity because although I knew I’d sent Ellie a hilarious recap of my night, I’d feel the teensiest bit awful if someone figured out who my date was. I’d renamed him Tragically Hip and had no reason to think that Justin would see my article, but the fewer people who knew it was me behind the column, the fewer clues they would have in identifying my hapless subjects. I even omitted the tire-changing story because Tanner might decide to check the website, and that would give me away.
I’d definitely checked
him
out. Tanner. Online, I mean. I’d prowled through the
Bee
archives on Saturday afternoon, looking for Tanner’s byline. Close to a hundred articles popped up. Working from the oldest ones, they dated back about a year, and most of them focused on local Salt Lake news. Over the last month, though, several of them took more of an arts and entertainment slant. I wondered if his bosses were making Tanner cover the “young guy” angle until they found someone they wanted to hire. Like I told him in the interview, good luck. He was so condescending and thorny, it would be a miracle if he could find someone to work with him. Or even near him. Unless his hotness blinded them. I thought about his attitude problem for a moment. Nope, even good looks couldn’t lure someone in.
I had to admit that he wrote well though. His news pieces were straight to the point, while managing to include enough details that my curiosity was satisfied by the end of the article. I doubted the wisdom of sending someone who wore a golf shirt to a trendy venue to cover the local band scene, but he surprised me. In his write-up, he made intelligent comparisons, and his review showed thoughtful analysis.
I pictured him standing in Spackles, his hands in his pockets as he observed everything from the fringe of the crowd and brooded. However professional his reporting was, he wanted to get back to serious news.
Well, me too. Maybe not the hard news, but I’d kill for a shot to do some feature writing. Instead of reviewing Sonic Machine, I would have loved a chance to sit down with their manager or one of the roadies to find out what life was like on the road for them. The life-of-the-band angle had been done to death. What about the guys who played support roles without any of the glory? Maybe they had some insight on the band, a perspective that could add texture and interest to the dull interview Foley had given.
Ginger glanced over at me. “What are you doing anyway? You don’t have to be at church for a bazillion more hours.” She was already dressed and grumpy about it, not being a fan of nine o’clock church.
“I’m double-checking my article before I send it,” I said.
“It’s good, but Dad’s going to hate it.”
I jerked up. “You read it?”
“Don’t leave your laptop open when you’re in the bathroom if you don’t want anyone snooping.” She shrugged, clearly deeming it my fault that she had looked.
It didn’t really matter, I guess. If Ellie liked it, Ginger would see it the next day anyway. I skimmed it one more time then sent it off. “Dad’s not really my target audience,” I said, responding to her earlier observation.
“I know that. And the people who read it are going to think it’s hilarious. But Dad’s going to give you a sad frowny face.”
Since I hated the feeling that she might be right, I decided to do the mature thing and shift the attention to her shortcomings.
“Those are my earrings,” I said. “I don’t remember loaning them to you.”
“Do you remember cake-bombing my new shoes? Letting me borrow these earrings is one of the cheapest ways you can pay me back.”
“That’s the fourth time you’ve used that argument.”
She got up and took her dish to the sink. “Yeah. And I’ll keep using it forever until you buy me new shoes.”
I studied her. “You don’t want me to buy you new shoes. You want unlimited access to my jewelry.”
She lifted her eyebrows in a “So what?” acknowledgment, and I gave up, scooping my laptop up and heading for my room. At least when Rosemary was at church, I could pretend our room was all mine, as long as I ignored the giant pink Strawberry Shortcake staring up from her blanket in an eerily flat gaze. I dropped a pillow on her face and felt better.
Car doors slammed as everyone else left for church. I loved having a quiet house to myself. I considered my options. Blog? Spider Solitaire? Sleep? And before I could think too hard about it, I pulled up Tanner’s
Bee
archives, telling myself I was just scoping out the competition . . .
* * *
“You survived last week,” Courtney teased me a few hours later. “Think you can stand Sunday School again?”
“What the heck. I’ll stick it out all the way through Relief Society.”
“Pace yourself,” she said, grinning. “You might need to build up a tolerance.”
I laughed, something Courtney made me do every Sunday now. “I used to be a pro. I think I can handle it.”
I followed her to the cultural hall, where everyone met in one combined Sunday School class. We grabbed a pair of seats, and while we waited for the teacher to get her visual aids all situated, Courtney turned to me with another smile. “I wondered if you maybe wanted to come over for Sunday dinner.”
The invitation caught me off guard, but not in a bad way. Despite all her jokes, there was a sense of reserve about Courtney that I couldn’t quite figure out. I caught an occasional flash of sadness in her eyes during certain hymns, and once, she had excused herself from the chapel during “Where Can I Turn for Peace?” Maybe I was nosy, or maybe I was just destined to be a journalist, but I sniffed a story. Not one for the magazine but a whole tale that explained the sweet and melancholy air that sometimes hung about her. However, when I smiled and accepted her invitation, it wasn’t because I was on the trail of a story; it’s because I needed a new friend, and it looked like Courtney wanted to make friends too.
The rest of church was all right. Good, even. I’d sort of forgotten that I like Relief Society. Afterward, Courtney gave me her address and a warning. “There’s no telling who will show up for dinner. My parents tend to do things kind of freestyle. Or maybe free-for-all is a better way to put it. But it’s fun.”
“No problem,” I said. “It’s like that at our house too.” But it occurred to me as I drove home to change my clothes that I had no idea what her family was even like. For all I knew, she had ten siblings and two dozen nieces and nephews. I guess I’d find out in an hour. I let my mom know where I was going. I knew she wouldn’t mind because she would be so relieved I was doing something social. I popped my head into the den to tell my dad and found him crashed out on the sofa, with Mace and Rosemary on either side of him, watching
Planet Earth.
“I’m going to a friend’s house for dinner,” I said.
Rosemary’s head popped up over the back of the sofa. “A
boy
friend?”
“No. Just a friend.”
There was no story in
that
to run next door and tell Olivia. She sniffed and slipped down, tucking herself back under my dad’s arm.
“You’re going tonight?” Mace asked.
“Yeah.”
“That’s messed up,” he objected. “I cooked dinner tonight.”
That had been a deciding factor in accepting Courtney’s invitation, to be honest. Mace’s slow cooker attempts were almost legendary, but more along the lines of the Hindenburg or Three Mile Island. My mom made us all take turns doing Sunday dinner, and Mace insisted on improvising, which resulted in one failed experiment after another. A month ago, he dumped a jar of strawberry jelly in with a bunch of chicken and then charred it into a glutinous mass in the Crockpot. That ended up being a mac and cheese night.
My dad turned his head and mouthed, “Run like the wind.”
I grinned and headed for my room to change. “Don’t smother Strawberry Shortcake,” Rosemary called after me.
I threw on some dark jeans and a blue-and-gray striped v-neck sweater. I slid into my ballet flats and headed back out. Ten minutes later, I pulled up to Courtney’s house and stared. Our house is solidly middle class. My parents bought it when I was ten so there would be room for four kids. Even when we added Rosemary, it worked out okay. It wasn’t a fancy house, but it was comfortable. While we weren’t rich, my dad’s practice had always thrived, and we got everything we needed plus a little extra. Looking at Courtney’s house, I decided that even though I had no idea how much money my dad actually made, her parents made at least five times as much. The house was bigger than ours, definitely, but the whole street was full of manicured lawns and custom-built homes that told me this was the extra nice part of Highland. I pulled up behind a sporty Mazda and made my way to the front door. Courtney opened it within moments of my knock and ushered me in with a big smile.
I followed her through a front room that looked like it had been ripped from a Pottery Barn catalog to the kitchen, a gorgeous room in warm neutral tones with marble countertops and copper pots dangling over an elaborate stove. She introduced me to everyone seated around the breakfast bar as they continued to snack on pita chips and hummus. “These are my parents, Glen and Donna, and my brother and his wife, Rhett and Emily.” Her parents stood, and I shook hands with everyone except her mom, who gave me a warm hug. Courtney belonged to a good-looking bunch of people. Her parents were a bit older than mine but had youthful faces. Her mom’s delicate features were soft and pretty, without any of the weird stiffness of plastic surgery. Courtney definitely took after her. Her dad was nearly as tall as mine, his dark hair brushed with silver at the temples, but instead of feeling intimidated by his dignified appearance, I returned his kind smile and felt totally at ease. Her brother looked my age, maybe a little older, and he kept a protective arm around his cute wife, Emily, who looked like she had a beach ball shoved under her shirt.
“When are you due?” I asked.
“What?” Rhett asked, confused.
“Your baby? When are you due?”
He stared at me blankly. “What are you talking about?”
I flushed, mortified. Emily was so thin it seemed obvious she was pregnant, but my mother had told me a million times never to bring up someone’s pregnancy unless they mentioned it first. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I thought—”
Emily slugged her husband affectionately. “Stop it, Rhett.” She smiled at me. “Ignore him. The Grahams have a twisted sense of humor.”
“If you think I’m bad, wait until Tanner gets here,” Rhett added.
Tanner? Graham?
Oh no. Oh please, nonononono.
But my plea to the guardian angel of disgruntled twenty-three-year-olds went unanswered as the front door opened and I heard
that
Tanner Graham’s voice call out, “Mom? I’m hungry. Feed me!”
No one else registered the shock on my face when he swept into the room and scooped his mother up in a hug. By the time he had exchanged a hearty back-thumping embrace with his father, I had schooled my expression into something neutral, verging on amused. I hoped. He was reaching for Courtney to hug her when he caught sight of me and froze.
“You gotta be kidding me,” he said.
I didn’t answer, other than to offer a small smile. I did my best to make it mysterious, hoping it would come off as serene and Mona Lisa. And also not creepy. It occurred to me that he might assume I had stalked him and wormed my way into his parents’ house. Oh man. Despite my best effort, panic crept into my smile and tugged it downward into a grimace. Even with the delicious smell wafting from the kitchen behind him, I suddenly longed to be at home sawing through another one of Mace’s dinner attempts and playing guess-the-meat.
Courtney’s glance bounced between the two of us. “You know each other?”
I nodded, waiting for him to explain, totally at his mercy. If Tanner exposed me as the incompetent—maybe even dishonest—loser he had rejected for a job, it would be a long, uncomfortable dinner. If he accused me of stalking, I would hurl pita chips at his head then storm out and dissolve into a puddle of embarrassment.
Tanner hesitated for the tiniest second, and then he smiled. “Sure, we know each other. Pepper interviewed for a job at the
Bee
, but she went with a different option.” He leaned against the counter opposite Rhett and Emily, his posture relaxed.
Apparently, he was opting for a comfortable family dinner. I stifled a sigh of relief.
“Cool,” Courtney said. “I can’t believe I didn’t know you’re a reporter too, Pepper. Which paper do you work for?”
I cleared my throat. “It’s actually a digital magazine called
Real Salt Lake.
” Several blank faces confronted me, so I explained. “It’s sort of an online lifestyle look at Salt Lake City.”
“That sounds interesting,” Sister Graham said, her tone encouraging. “What sort of things do you write about?”
I’d pretty much die before explaining my Internet dating assignment in front of Tanner, so I stuck to the best answer I could give, considering I’d written exactly one nondating story for them so far. “Right now, I’m part-time, and I catch assignments when there’s no one else to do it. It’s a good experience. Dues-paying and all that,” I added for Tanner’s benefit.
“Have you gotten to cover anything cool yet?” Rhett asked.
“I reviewed a concert on Friday,” I said. “It wasn’t cool though.”
“I saw your write-up,” Tanner said, but he didn’t offer an opinion on it. I wanted to know if he thought it was any good, but I’d drive American Fork Canyon blindfolded before I’d ask him.
“You did a concert on Friday too, didn’t you, Tanner?” asked his dad.
“Yeah. The same one.”