Free Ashes to Ashes by Jenny Han Page A

then we head to his car. He’s talking about who-the-hell-knows-what. I’m not listening. Instead I’m taking mental note of the people watching us together. I think back to how worried I was back in September, on the first day of school. It’s funny, the stuff I used to think was a big deal. Now I realize that none of it fucking matters.
    â€œHave you heard a single word I’ve said?”
    I turn to face Alex. He’s got his navy wool beanie hat pulled down super low over his ears, but a lot of hair still comescurling out the sides. It’s turning dark again, now that’s it’s full-on wintertime, with just a few flecks of rusty red.
    â€œHonestly, no, because you’ve been talking nonstop since the bell rang.”
    He laughs, like I’ve said something hilarious, and then chugs the last of his water bottle. It crinkles in his grip. “I’m nervous, Kat.” I think for a second he’s joking. But there’s something about his voice that makes me know it’s true. It’s low and kind of deep-sounding. That and he doesn’t look at me when he says it. Instead he keeps his eyes focused straight ahead.
    â€œNervous? About what?”
    â€œThat you’ll hate everything I play.”
    â€œOh, shut up,” I say, even though I’m a little worried about that too. What if Alex’s music really does suck? I mean, he rocked his “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” solo during the Christmas tree lighting. But I’ve never heard his original stuff before. And that’s the kind of program he’s applying for at USC—songwriting. I’ve already come up with a few stock compliments in case shit is really rough, but he’ll probably see right through them. I don’t have the best poker face. If his songs blow, should I still encourage him to do this? Or would it be better to tell him the hard truth, that I don’t think he’s good enough, like the judges on those stupid reality show music competitions do?
    Ugh. I never should have agreed to this in the first place. “Well, we could always do it another day. Or . . . like . . . never.”
    â€œI want to do it,” Alex says. “We’re doing it.”
    â€œAll right.”
    We get into the car, and Alex turns the key and starts it up. His stereo kicks on loudly to the CD I burned for him.
    â€œI like everything you put on here,” he says, turning it down. “But I don’t sound anything like these guys.”
    Uh-oh. I give his arm a friendly squeeze. “You don’t have to. You just need to sound like . . . you.” Whatever that means.
    *  *  *
    An hour later I’m sitting on the edge of Alex’s bed, sipping soda from a cold can. He’s on a wooden stool across the room. He has his head down, strumming his guitar. He doesn’t even look at the notebook he has propped open on a music stand. He knows the words by heart.
    This is the third song he’s played for me. And they’ve all been about the same thing—actually, the same person.
    Lillia.
    Which, yeah, I’ve known that he has a thing for her. But damn. The kid’s in love. From the sound of it, he’s been in love for a long time. Maybe forever.
    He lets the last note vibrate out to quiet. And then Alex sets his guitar down and wipes his brow. “Those are the three I’mthinking I’ll submit.” He picks up a pencil to take notes. “Okay. So. First thoughts.”
    I tell myself to keep my mouth shut, about a thousand times, rapid-fire in my head. Don’t be an asshole, Kat. Just focus on the music. I lean back and try to say it as casually as I can. “Do you have any other songs? Or do they all sound like those?”
    His face wrinkles up. “What do you mean?”
    â€œNothing. Forget it.”
    â€œYou don’t think I can take it? I can take it. Tell me. What do my songs