Page 43 of Disharmony

“Yep,” I agree, popping the p. “It sure is.”

“But what is someone at Camp Harmony doing at our show?” he asks, adjusting his mask. “Don’t you have anywhere better to be?”

“Hey!” I jut out my chin and turn on him. “Not everyone at Camp Harmony is just another pop star clone.”

Ripper snickers. “They could have fooled me.”

He has a point, but I won’t admit it.

“It’s the best chance someone like me has of making it in the music industry, okay?” I cross my arms over my chest. “When you’re eighteen from a small town, there’s not exactly people banging down your door to sign you to a record label.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says softly. “I’m curious about you, that’s all. I want to understand why a pretty Camp Harmony camper has come to Wilderton to see my band play. Plus, you never answered my question. What kind of music do you make?”

Did Ripper really call me pretty?

“Ash?” he prompts, cocking his head to the side. “Are you okay?”

I clear my throat. “Metal is my jam,” I say, “well, it would be… if I had the choice.”

“The choice?”

“It’s complicated.” I sigh and hide behind my hair. Someone like Ripper wouldn’t want to hear about how I’m basically acting as a fraud. “It’s a long story.”

A door at the other side of the courtyard opens and makes both of us jump.

“Ripper?” A male voice calls. “We have to go.”

Ripper stretches. He pulls a card out of his suit pocket and hands it to me. He leans closer, the sharp point of his beak brushes against my cheek. “It may be a long story, but I’d like to hear it.”

My heart pounds as I see his number scrawled on the paper.

“I can’t talk when we’re on the road,” he lowers his voice, but it still echoes through the transformer. “But you can text me. Maybe I can even share some lyrics I’ve been working on with you?”

I nod, biting my back teeth to stop my jaw from hitting the floor as he sweeps past and disappears into the night.

eleven

Ash

I don’t mention to anyone that I met Ripper. I’m not sure why. If I say it aloud, it makes it real… and, if not for the card burning a hole under my pillow, I’d question myself whether it actually happened.

Why would Ripper care what I have to say about his lyrics? Until my newfound internet fame, I’ve always been someone people went out of their way to avoid. Why would a somebody be interested in me?

It’s been two weeks since the gig, and I haven’t texted him. It saves me the disappointment if he doesn’t reply. Or worse, discover it’s a fake number that he gives to superfans who come across like obsessive stalkers.

“You’re in a good mood today,” Cookie comments as I smudge matte black eyeshadow over my lids and channel my inner skater girl vibes. Sadly, I look like more of a panda than a grunge style icon. Cookie’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “You have rehearsals with McCallister today, right?”

“Unfortunately,” I say, but even lessons with McCallister don’t bother me as much as they used to.

“The Basilisks gig really had an effect on you,” she says wistfully. “You’ve been acting differently since then.”

“I guess it made me realize I shouldn’t waste my time here.” I shrug. I feel bad for not telling her the full story, but I’m not sure she’d approve if I did. Who knows how old the Basilisks are behind their masks? I might be crushing on someone the same age as my dad. Although, judging by the look of their toned bodies, I didn’t think so. I pull my mind out of the gutter before it spirals into dangerous territory. There isn’t a lot of privacy in our cabins. I change the subject. “Even though I’m a backing singer, I’m still going to be on the stage. I have to make it count.”

“You’re starting to get used to this place now.” Cookie smiles brightly as she sticks gemstones over her defined cheekbones. They glitter and make her blue contact lenses pop. She changes colors so often that it’s easy to forget her natural color is brown. “I told you things get better when you get used to the craziness.”

It helps that Brick is talking to me again too. I check my cell and see he’s sent a funny picture. I snort at the sight of his cat, Mr. Kipper, reclining over his dad’s builder’s hat. He’s spending longer hours at work, which means we can’t speak often, but if he’s sending cute kitty pics, it’s a good sign we’re getting back to a normal place again.

“Tiffany hasn’t said anything to you recently, has she?” Cookie asks casually.

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