Page 13 of It's a Love Story

It had been a day of firsts: the kiss, the feel of his hand in mine. I ran my fingers over the inside of his hand like it was a gift that had just been given to me and I wanted to learn how it worked.

He squeezed my hand, and my heart fluttered in my chest. I knew then that this was the thing my mom had been telling me about—this bigger-than-yourself feeling of true love. For the first time I could feel the thing my parents had, and I felt like I was part of it. He drove me home and kissed me in the car, and the windows fogged up like the air knew we needed our privacy.

The next day on set, everyone was excited about the song. Angelica was thrilled, and even Hailey was excited. The lie of it didn’t bother her a bit—she was going to be an actual recording star. Jack and I sat offstage while Hailey and Will tried to get the lip sync right. We were supposed to be looking through the next song we would record, “Can’t Find My You,” but mostly we were pressing our legs together as we sat, entwining our hands under the sheet music. He stood and took my hand with him, leading me toward my dressing room, where he pulled me toward him and kissed me again. His hands on my neck, his chest up against mine. The magic I’d felt on my lips the day before spread throughout my body and I thought,This. This is the thing they write love stories about.Something in my heart told me this was forever, and because I was fourteen and only knew three other kids, I believed it.

“I love you,” I said.

I know.

He pulled away immediately and said, “What?”

“I love you,” and I leaned in to kiss him again, forever.

He removed my hands from around his waist and reached to turn the light on. “Jane, don’t be weird. Gross.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wiped me away. And I knew right then that I’d broken it. There was this thing starting to grow, and I’d smashed it before it even had a chance.

Weird and gross.Those words rang loudly in my head, unwinding the new version of myself I’d wanted to believe in. “Sorry,” I said. “I mean. I didn’t mean . . .” The shame started at my core and moved out toward my limbs. It made my heart speed up and my voice squeak. How could I be such an idiot.

He laughed an unkind laugh. “You’re so embarrassing, God.” He said this with a sprinkle of disgust that gave me the same thought I had the first time I saw him—that he saw me for exactly who I was. He opened the door to go but then turned back around. “And honestly, I don’t think you get who you are on this show. They’re all laughing at you. You’re the joke.”

Then he gave me a smile that sort of felt likeYou’re welcome.Like I should be grateful that he shared this insight with me. I turned back to the mirror and saw exactly what he saw.

I knocked on Angelica’s office door an hour later and told her in a too-chipper voice that I was thinking I’d like to sing “Can’t Find My You” on my own rather than as a duet with Jack. Her expression held a little panic, and I had a difficult time convincing her that he hadn’t done something horrible. I imagine my eyes held the expression of a person who had been irreparably hurt. I didn’t know how to tell her that I was the one who’d misstepped. Jack’s reaction was totally appropriate.

She leaned back in her chair. “Jane, maybe all this recording artist stuff is too much for you? How about you record ‘Can’t Find My You’ on your own—I know you can do that. And then we’ll get back to basics. You’re brilliant as Janey Jakes. You’re the heart of the show. We don’t need to go turning you into Hailey Soul.” I should have disagreed, but I couldn’t make the words come out. She was right: there was no turning me into Hailey Soul.

*

WHEN I HAVErearranged Clem’s and my books alphabetically by the first name of the author, I know that I am out of places to hide. I grab a pair of sunglasses and bring them with me into the closet. When the door is shut and my knees are pulled up to my chest, I make the call.

It goes to voicemail. I panic and hang up. I hadn’t planned for that, and now the hot shame burns and flickers. Of course no one picks up an unknown number. I catch my breath and call again. It goes straight to voicemail.

“Hi, this is Jane Jackson from Clearwater Studios in LA. Los Angeles.” Okay, not a necessary clarification. I’m starting to sweat. “I called a second ago, but got disconnected, so, anyway, we’re making a film. A great film,True Story? That’s the title. And we’d love a chance to talk with Jack about writing an original song. I knew him when we were young. We worked together?” I hear desperation in my voice, and it bounces around my dark closet. I picture Jack’s face when his uncle remembers me to him—he’ll laugh and then roll his eyes. Maybe he’ll tell the story; maybe he’s been telling the story this whole time. “Anyway, if you would call back or maybe pass along the message. Again, this is Jane Jackson. Okay? Bye.”

Honestly, someone should invent a way to take back a voicemail once you’ve hung up. I could have written something out, a script. Instead I defined the little-known term “LA.” I run my fingers along the hem of a pair of pants that’s at eye level. I pull the pants from their hanger and wrap the legs around my neck, like a shawl, and grab an Almond Joy.

*

I’VE SHOWERED, STRAIGHTENEDthe pillows on my made bed, and cleaned Clem’s room by the time my phone rings. I answer just as the closet door shuts.

“Hey, it’s Lyle Anderson. Jack’s manager. You called about that movie?”

“Yes, hi,” I say. “Thanks for calling me back.” Another strike. It sounds like I am a person who is not accustomed to being called back. Like I’m a cold-calling warranty salesman.

“Yeah, so, he’s pretty sure he’s not interested.” He’s breathing heavily, and I have the sense that he’s called me from a treadmill.

“If I could just talk him through the story, or talk to you actually—no need to bother him about it—”

He cuts me off. “Listen, Jane?” He says it like he wasn’t a hundred percent sure of my name. “I’m just calling back to say no. We get a lot of calls like this. I mostly ignore them, but you said you knew him, so I asked. And honestly, he doesn’t have any idea who you are. So.”

I hesitate. The thing I could say:We sang “Jump-Start Love Song” together.

And he would be intrigued. It would open up a whole discussion, and of course Jack would remember me then. That was his first professionally released song.

Lyle hangs up.

I couldn’t get the words out. I feel myself shrinking. “Okay, thanks,” I say to the silence.

CHAPTER 8

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