Page 48 of Disharmony

They’ll dissect you until there is nothing left.”

Zach’s right. The seating position really helps give an extra power boost.

“Much better,” Zach compliments as I come to a stop. “What do you think? Do you still not want my advice?”

My mouth twitches, shooting him a reluctant half smile. It seems there is some substance buried behind all his awards after all. “I guess that advice was helpful.”

“I told you, subtle changes make all the difference.” Zach beams. “Maybe we can—”

My beeping cell cuts him off. I pull it out of my pocket and look at the screen.

“I’ve gotta go,” I say, jumping up from behind the drum kit and slinging my backpack over my shoulder. I clear half the room in seconds. “See you around.”

I ignore Zach calling after me as I burst out of the building and race into the woods. My heart is beating like crazy, but not from running. I refuse to freak out until I can re-read the text again.

Ripper: I was starting to think you’d never get in touch. What’s up? Disharmony in harmony? ;) We’re on the road but no gigs, few weeks off. x

Am I imagining it, or is Ripper actually asking how I am? I steady my breathing. I’ve been obsessed with them for years, but the Basilisks don’t need another superfan. I want to be… a friend? A colleague? Someone Ripper can talk to about music?

Me: I won’t bore you with my problems. Same old shit, different day. Who knew it could be so tough pretending to be a pop star? :D Are you working on anything new? x

I re-read it ten times, and a warm fluttery feeling spreads through my chest as I press send. A terrible singing class and a weird coaching session with Zach Royal doesn’t feel so bad anymore. Hearing from Ripper gives me hope. I came to Camp Harmony to build connections, but maybe it isn’t the ones I make within camp that are going to be the most important…

parttwo

the chorus

twelve

Ash

Ripper: What are your thoughts on these lyrics? Something I’m working on. I’m bleeding out. The cracks in the pavement, slipping down, Dragging me deeper, the crimson streets we paint with the blood of men.

He wants my opinion! Mine! A few days ago, I’d never have believed I’d be texting one of my idols and getting snippets of their original work.

Me: Not bad for someone who doesn’t write songs…

Ripper: What did I say about believing everything you read on the Wiki? ;)

I laugh out loud as the lunch bell rings. After my morning lesson in the dance studio, I’ve been chilling on the cabin porch, trying to put together new compositions, but I’ve only managed half a page with my cell buzzing every few minutes.

I should be focusing on other things, like how I can try to redeem myself to McCallister, but Ripper inspires me. A smile spreads over my face as I scroll back through our conversation. We’ve been exchanging texts back and forth like a ping-pong match all afternoon.

The camp bell ringing causes my stomach to grumble. My writing can wait until later. I pack everything into my backpack and head for the mess hall. As much as I’m dying to tell Brick and Cookie about my chats with Ripper, I’ve decided to stay quiet… for now. Things with Brick are only starting to get back to normal, and Cookie won’t approve of speaking to a stranger, even one who I feel like I’ve known for years through following their work.

I deviate from the main path and take a shortcut through the trees. As I near, a woman’s voice pierces the air and sends birds flying in the opposite direction. I’m too close to the mess hall to turn back now.

When I turn a corner, I spot the source of the noise and the person on the receiving end of the shrieking tirade. I recognize the woman’s pointed nose and perfectly tousled waves from the movies. Rita Lockhart. Tiffany’s mother. Unlike on the big screen, her face is contorted into an ugly snarl.

“It’s not good enough.” Rita jabs a finger in the air close to her daughter’s head. Tiffany shrinks away, cowering under the wrath of her mom’s monster ego. “Do you know how much money I’ve spent to send you here all these years? That rehearsal was mediocre.”

Tiffany sniffs, wiping a falling tear from her cheek. “Mom, I’m trying… I swear…”

“Trying?” Rita scoffs in disbelief and swishes her ankle-length fur coat. Who wears something like that in the height of summer? My stomach turns at the sight of it. “Trying doesn’t make you a somebody, Tiffany. You wait until your father hears about this.”

I can see where Tiffany gets her bitch gene from.

“No! Please don’t say anything,” Tiffany begs. “Next time you see me, it’ll be more polished. We’re working on it. McCallister says he’s really pleased with how it’s going.”

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