Not to mention the embarrassment . . . Not to mention that cheating was WRONG.
“No,” I said more firmly. “I couldn’t do it.”
Outside, rain began to fall, and I dabbed a new brush into azure, convinced that the talk of cheating was done.
“Hey, Jill?”
I glanced up to see my friend staring at my feet, and I looked down, thinking I must have dropped paint on my ballet flats. “What?”
“Don’t those goody two-shoes ever feel a little tight?”
My cheeks flamed. “Becca . . . I’m just afraid . . .”
“Oh, just forget it,” she muttered, standing up and walking to the window. “I’ll just fail.”
I dragged my brush against the canvas, trying to fix my mistake and wondering if Becca had any idea how unfair that comment was. She was smart enough to do the work on her own . . . but pretty enough that she’d never really had to do anything for herself.
“I should get going,” she said, “but this storm is awful.”
“Just hang out until it’s over,” I urged, wincing as lightning struck close by.
Okay, so I was definitely using her a little, too. “Look.” I sighed. “I’ll help you with the test somehow, okay? I’ll make sure you pass.”
Becca turned to me, smiling again, like she’d already gotten what she wanted. “Thanks, Jilly.”
But I wouldn’t cheat.
As I put more blue on my brush, Becca started to wander around my room, absently picking up the stuff on my dresser, then setting things back down, obviously bored. “You wanna do something?”
“We could keep studying,” I suggested.
“Or better yet, we could pierce your ears,” Becca announced like she’d been struck by a brilliant idea. “That would be fun!”
“What?” I looked up to see her staring at my naked earlobes. “You’re not serious,” I said, picturing blood, and infection, and my mom’s expression when she saw that I’d violated her rule against piercing anything before I was eighteen.
“Why not?” she asked, grinning more broadly. “I did Angela Sloan’s last summer, and she didn’t even cry. The ice—and the vodka—numbed everything.”
“Vodka?” I kind of yelped. I knew Becca partied but . . . vodka? And needles going through flesh? “I don’t think so,” I said, dipping my blue brush into a waiting jar of turpentine. The liquid swirled greenish black, like pus from an infected ear. “No!”
Becca sighed—a “you’re so boring” sigh—and plopped down at my desk, shaking the mouse to bring my laptop’s screen to life. Opening the Internet, she started typing, and I watched warily, hoping that she wasn’t going to call up sites I wasn’t supposed to visit.
Cheating, piercing, porn . . . it would be too much for one night. And if Mom came home early and walked in . . . “What are you looking for?” I asked, wiping my paint-spattered hands with a rag.
“I’m going on my MySpace,” Becca said.
I felt a moment of relief—until she added, “I’m checking out Tristen Hyde’s page.”
I didn’t know why I wanted to object to that, too. Why I didn’t want to look at Tristen . . . especially not with Becca.
But even on a computer, Becca was socially adept, and of course it took her only a second to get to Tristen’s page, and before I could say anything to stop her, she announced, with triumph in her voice, “Well, well, well . . . here’s something interesting about the mysterious Mr. Hyde!”
Chapter 6
Jill
“TRISTEN IS, LIKE, A COMPOSER,” Becca said, sounding impressed. “He writes classical music.”
I left my easel and sank down on my bed, surprised and maybe skeptical about a MySpace boast. “Really?”
“He has audio links,” Becca confirmed. She clicked a lacquered nail against the mouse, and my bedroom filled with the sound of a piano. “He says it’s his stuff.”
I wasn’t sure what I expected to hear as the file opened. Maybe something that was so good that I’d know Tristen hadn’t really written it, and was, like most people, exaggerating online. Or maybe a simple, decent song like a teenage guy might actually write.
But the melody that came forth . . . it was incredible. And yet I also believed that Tristen Hyde really did create it, because it somehow reminded me of Tristen himself.
I cocked my head, listening closer and easily picturing him. Confident, kind of enigmatic . . . and comfortable at the edge of a grave. Although my computer’s speakers were cheap and tinny, the song was undeniably powerful. Dark and ominous, yet . . . majestic, like the storm that had finally broken in earnest outside.
“That’s amazing,” I said, forgetting that I’d been reluctant to look at Tristen’s online persona, as his composition continued to play. “Really beautiful.”
Becca wrinkled her nose, though, and ended the music with another quick tap of her fingernail. “Kind of gloomy, I think.”
Wishing we’d heard more, I watched as Becca navigated to some photos of Tristen, and my stomach got ticklish again, like when she’d first announced her intention to check out his page. Although obviously MySpace was public, I felt like we were trespassing, spying on him.
Becca clearly didn’t feel the same way. She clicked on an image, making it bigger, and whistled under her breath. “Wow . . . He is so hot, don’t you think?” she asked, eyes trained on the screen.
I didn’t say anything. I just stared at Tristen’s photo, feeling even more uncomfortable, like he had actually joined us in my bedroom, although the picture had clearly been taken at a concert. Tristen was seated at a glossy black piano, his thick hair falling over his forehead, and he wore a tux, which made him look much older than a teenager—even more so than the tie I’d seen him wear. He must have been playing, but the photographer had captured a moment when Tristen had glanced up from the keys, his brown eyes directly meeting the lens, and the intensity I saw there . . .
I felt myself blushing again, and I was glad Becca was also looking at Tristen and not at me.
“It’s not just how he looks, but the way he talks, with that accent,” Becca added over her shoulder. “You know he
