The burning shocks me. Kristen develops a new crush almost every month, and each one, she swears, is the best guy ever. Not me. I’m not some romantic who believes in love at first sight or anything, but I have to talk to this guy. I have to find out who he is.
My feet move, taking that huge grin of his as an invitation. So even though I’m never so forward, I plop down on the sofa next to him. “I’m Claire.”
“Jared,” he tells me, resting his head against the sofa and looking me up and down. This close, his eyes are an amazing shade of clear blue. He starts to say something else, then a song by this new group, The Frantics, comes on the stereo, a very popular—very annoying—cover of the Beatles’ “She Loves You.”
Jared sighs. “Lennon and McCartney must be rolling over in their graves.”
Whoa. He’s gorgeous, and he knows of the awesomeness that was Lennon and McCartney? I might swoon. “Really? You hate this song, too? I thought I was the only one.” I bounce in my seat a bit. “Though I’m pretty sure Paul McCartney is still alive.”
Jared shakes his head. “After what he did with Wings? He’s dead to me. So are you a Beatles fan? What’s your favorite album?”
We debate the merits of Abbey Road versus the “White Album” versus Revolver. Soon enough I know Jared’s a junior at one of the nearby public schools, and he’s been playing guitar since he was twelve and writes his own songs. I’ve been wanting to teach myself guitar ever since my piano teacher introduced me to sixties rock, and I have to stop myself from drooling.
We discuss our favorite modern bands and movies. Then somehow the conversation changes to things I never talk about with my friends—politics and religion and weirder stuff, like what if all those ancient gods were actually aliens doing experiments on humanity.
Maybe it’s the pot smoke that clings to the air, but it’s the most fun conversation I’ve ever had. Before I know it, the party’s dying, and my friends are ready to leave. Jared and I have talked for three hours.
He calls me the next day and we talk for two more, and from that day on, we’re practically conjoined. Jared picks me up after school, which my mom is okay with until she sees his ten-year-old pickup truck with the bumper held on by duct tape. All I can do is hope she never sees his house because then she’ll really flip.
Jared’s bedroom is the size of my bathroom, no exaggeration. It’s cluttered and messy and comfortable in a way my room with its enormous four-poster bed and white lace duvet cover can never be. Posters of his favorite guitarists line the walls: Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton and George Harrison, who Jared claims is so underrated. There’s barely enough room for us to sit between the piles of clothes on the floor and the albums and CD cases because Jared’s a freak about needing to own multiple copies of his favorite music. Yet somehow he clears space and teaches me guitar. He’s an awesome teacher, and it doesn’t hurt that when he helps me position my arms and place my fingers on the frets, his touch sends electric shocks singing through me.
“You need to relax your right arm,” Jared’s telling me as we sit in the middle of his room, the October afternoon sunlight pouring in through the window. It illuminates the dust that covers his furniture but also coats the room in a surreal honeyed glow.
Jared takes my upper arm and tries to position it for me. “Don’t tense up your shoulder.”
How am I supposed to not be tense when he’s touching me?
I grumble, trying to do as he says. “It’s awkward and uncomfortable that way.” The fingers on my left hand are screaming in agony from pressing down on the steel strings. I’m never going to get the hang of this.
“That’s because the guitar’s a bit big for you. Here, try this.” He comes around behind me and drapes his arm over mine.
My heart beats so fast I’m afraid I might pass out. Jared’s face is so close. His breath tickles my ear, faintly peanutty because we’ve been working our way through a bag of Peanut M&M’S, but warm and so sweet. My eyes close inadvertently. Just as I’m starting to feel stupid for thinking about his lips instead of my arm position, his grip on my forearm slackens and I feel those lips kiss my ear.
Arm? What arm?
He tucks my hair behind my ear and pulls away. “Claire?”
He sounds adorably nervous about what he did, and I don’t want to know what he wants to tell me. If he’s talking, he’s not kissing me anymore. So I twist around—not easy with the guitar on my lap—and kiss him back before he can say anything else.
And that ended my music lesson for the day.
Still, a month later, I’ve made progress amidst all the kissing, and Jared helps me pick out my first guitar. He takes me one day after school. I’ve been to this shop a few times to buy piano music, but I’ve never ventured into the room that’s wall-to-wall guitars. In spite of my lessons, I feel ridiculously out of place, especially since the clerk has blue hair and more piercings than a pin cushion. She also can’t be that many years out of high school herself, and she’s on a first-name basis with Jared.
While he tells her what we’re looking for, I catch my reflection in a security mirror and wonder what he sees in me. It’s not my looks that bother me, although I have to admit the clerk owns that blue hair in a way I only wish I could. As a result I’m feeling really plain as well as absurdly preppy in my hideous school uniform with its sweater vest and pleated skirt. But what really eats away at my insides is that I feel like such a poser. Part of me wants to run over to the keyboards in the next room and bang out some Beethoven just to prove that I have the tiniest bit of talent.
When Jared adjusts the tuning on one of the guitars then plays one of his own songs, my insecurity reaches new heights. I’m a string ready to snap, tempted to dash out of the store and declare myself a failure before I ever give this playing thing a fair go.
The clerk totally doesn’t help, either.
“Isn’t he amazing?” she says, offering me a guitar to try. “Watch for it. This dude is going to be famous one day. I’m calling it now.”
The guitar she hands me is a better size for me than Jared’s, but it feels awkward and misplaced in my arms anyway. “Yeah, no doubt.”
Jared just laughs and rolls his eyes. “You’re both crazy. Claire’s the talented one. I can barely read music, but you should hear her on the piano.”
“It’s hard to totally suck when you’ve been taking lessons as long as I have,” I say. But Jared’s compliment gives me enough confidence that I play a few chords. I still wish the clerk would go away, though, so I can relax.
She seems to read my mind because she gets up a minute later. “I think I can leave you two at it. Will I be seeing you Saturday?” she asks Jared as she heads to the doorway.
Saturday? My fingers pause, and I look at Jared curiously. He nods without glancing up.
After the clerk leaves, I place my thumb back on the strings but my mind is elsewhere, overrun with more insecurities. “What’s Saturday?”
“It’s nothing, just this thing they do. The owners are partnered with some organization that helps underprivileged kids. I’ve been volunteering with them, giving some of the kids guitar lessons.”
“Really? That’s awesome.” You’re awesome, is what I think. Why didn’t I know he did that?
But Jared shrugs. “It’s fun. Some of the kids are really into it. So what do you think of that one?” He motions to the guitar, seeming eager to change the subject.
“It’s all right. I don’t know. How