Stephanie

Prologue

Josh

I’ve heard it said that life can change in a second, but I disagree. From my experience, life changes in milliseconds, and every single moment of the day is about change. Sometimes the change is for the better, and sometimes for the worse.

I stood frozen, clutching the dull metal door handle, as police cars wailed past the building. Their red and blue lights danced across the dirty, blank cinder block walls, and I waited for what I knew was coming next.

And there it was.

The sharp pang of regret, quickly followed by guilt, and then anxiety, all bundled up in one fist-tight package delivered right to the middle of my stomach. Brad nudged me through the door into the hallway, where the smell of something—a commingling of Chinese food and old gym socks—snapped me back to the present, greeting us as we made our way down the tiny, dark hallway toward the radio booth.

Fletcher, this station’s disc jockey, had two metal stools covered with black fabric set up in front of the two microphones, and he chuckled at the sight of us when we entered the room. People laughing upon meeting us for the first time was something I’d grown accustomed to over the past year, but it wasn’t something I liked. They always seemed to say the same thing. At first, we were pretty much what they expected—late twenties, boyishly good looking, and rich, something they were not…blah, blah, blah. But none of them seemed to be as bitter about it as this guy.

Leaning against the stool, I rested my guitar against my leg and plucked a few strings while waiting for Fletcher to cut back from the commercial break. So tonight we have Josh Jacobs and Brad Meyser of the band Stephanie in the studio with us. He turned to me, eyes wide and amused. Hello, Josh. How’s it feel to be in Nashville?

Good. Thanks very much, I said and smiled widely. Fletcher tried to smile back, but it seemed he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Yeah, I think it’s great, too, Brad chimed in, flashing a confident grin in Fletcher's direction. He was obviously feeling like the third wheel already. The people here are so friendly.

Fletcher ignored his sarcasm. Well, since we have a full show tonight, I’d like to just get to the meat of this story, if you guys don’t mind, he said. I snorted and shook my head in agreement. He wasn’t wasting any time here tonight. Now your band, Steph—. He choked on the name before clearing his throat, is, uh, obviously named after a girl, right? I stared him down with a smug smile on my face, waiting for the barrage of interrogating questions to begin. I mean, come on. Couldn’t you guys have come up with something better? Maybe something a little more cool?

It is cool, Brad said and looked over at me. We’d been questioned about the name before, but no one had been this openly aggravated by our selection.

Um, no. It’s not. I mean, how did you even settle on that name?

It was Josh’s idea, Brad volunteered, pointing in my direction.

Oh, really? Now I am curious. He stared at me, waiting for me to reveal that I had named the band after my sister or my grandma, but I didn’t flinch, and I didn’t answer his question. We had a method for telling our story, and some impatient radio disc jockey wasn’t going to ruin it.

It’s actually very cool, Brad continued, ignoring the tension in the room.

What? Is he like, your defender, dude? he asked, leaning back in his chair before shifting his body weight toward me. I mean, obviously you can sing, you were able to secure a contract, but do you speak, man?

I do. But I’m much more comfortable in a dark room in front of a microphone.

Kind of like a mushroom, huh? Well, I can turn down the lights if it would help.

I laughed and stood my guitar against my leg. Maybe this guy wasn’t so bad after all. It’s just that Brad really loves telling this story. There’s a method to our madness, and, to be honest, I’m a little nervous here tonight.

I see. So he’s kind of like your publicist-slash-band mate. Fletcher pushed his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose and crossed his arms. But what are you nervous about man? It’s just a nationwide audience.

Right. No pressure, I said, though Brad and I both knew that the national audience wasn’t what had been driving my nervousness. I picked up the guitar again and plucked the strings, waiting for Brad to dive in. Over the years, the guitar had become my security blanket. Without it, I felt naked. Somehow it was easier to listen to Brad tell the story while my strings sang their melancholy song.

No, come on, really. Fletcher bolted forward and leaned across the table. Is she, like, your girlfriend or something? I slapped my hand over the strings to quiet them in protest and stared at him. ’Cause, I mean, it would suck if your relationship ended badly, he quipped, excitedly. Then, like, what would you call yourselves?

It did, Brad said as I looked down at the floor and continued playing.

Fletcher jumped back from the table. What? It ended badly? But you still named your band after her? Dude, you’re killing me. You’re just leaving us all hanging, and we all want to know. He leaned into his microphone. Who is the mysterious, elusive Stephanie?

Chapter One

Stephanie

I sat in the driver’s seat of the car and amused myself, making faces at the cute, but oddly unrecognizable, girl staring back at me in the car’s side mirror. And when I wasn’t doing that, I contemplated whether or not this old beat-up jalopy of a BMW had once been someone’s baby, too. At one point in time, the car had probably been a recognizable, luxurious drive, but those days were long gone. Nowadays, the poor hunk of metal was just a teenage boy’s plaything.

Was that what I had become? A teenage boy’s plaything?

I scowled at the reflection and took a long drag from the joint that had made its way to the front seat, blowing smoke in the girl’s face and wishing she would take her perky smile and perfectly lined teeth somewhere else. I also wondered if her parents knew where she was and what she, or rather, I, was about to do.

Smoky haze billowed up from inside the car while eight of us sat in its musty, beer- and pot-smelling cabin outside the Golden Wing chicken restaurant waiting for Stanley Johnson to give the thumbs up. After thirty minutes, Anna Tyson laughed hysterically from the middle of the backseat while Hurley, Ponch, Rusty, and Tim pulled ski masks over their faces. The boys haphazardly spilled out of the car, tripping over each other and the assortment of beer bottles that littered the floorboards, and headed across the empty parking lot toward the restaurant’s side door.

I switched seats with Steve, sandwiching myself between Aaron and Anna, and waited for the others to return with dinner and enough cash for the week.

As the minutes ticked by, an original melody came together, taking shape in my head. I have always loved music. It’s simple, and it’s true. And while the melody can be as complex as a person wants to make it, the notes are never complex. They are absolute…unlike people. People are a contradiction of sorts. The ones that you are supposed to love like no one else are, more often than not, the ones that disappoint you the most.

Red, yellow, and blue hues danced beside a group of beamed eighth-notes until a wailing caused the notes to fall against the black pavement. I turned to my right, in the direction of the horrible screeching sound, and saw Rusty waving his arms wildly in air and screaming for us to go—to move. He wiped out on a small patch of graveled rock as he jumped the waist-high fence that divided the children’s outside play yard from the driveway. Ponch and Hurley were quick on his heels, but Tim was nowhere in sight.

Steve cranked the starter, but the old car engine wouldn’t turn over. He tried again as Rusty ran screaming past the car toward the woods. What are you waiting for? Get out of here! he screamed again. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer with each second that ticked by as Steve stupidly tried to start the car again.

Aaron opened his door, grabbed my hand, and pulled me through the woods that divided the shopping center from the subdivision. We ran along the tree line until we came to a side road in a dead-end cul-de-sac. He stopped at the edge of the property line to see if the others were following behind, but I continued running.

Several cars dotted the mostly empty road. Down the middle of the tree-lined street, the soles of my white canvas Keds beat against the black pavement, keeping perfect time to the music that had once again formed in my head as the police sirens wailed closer.

Every now and again, I caught a glimpse of someone running beside me, but as I tried to focus on who it was, no one was there. It didn’t matter if anyone was running with me or not; at this point, the music would always win out, so I focused on the colors and notes again. One color and one note at a time, until the bass line was solid under the melody, and then I’d work on the accompaniment. Even the police sirens and the old man walking at the corner with his pounding cane had a place and a purpose in the song. I stopped in the middle of the road and turned my head upward. With my eyes closed and arms stretched outward, I took a deep breath and prepared for the crescendo. My hands moved frenetically through the air, quickly and efficiently, as the notes rose and fell in my imaginary symphony. The slight summer breeze blew through the bright green trees, rustling their leaves at just the right frequency as I glanced up at the night sky to the twinkling stars—brightly beckoning forth the song, apparently approving of my work. I closed my eyes again, letting my frenzied hands dance through the air as I leapt and twirled across the pavement, intoxicated with the knowledge that the entire world was participating in my song.

I hit the ground with a hard thud.

That’s gonna leave a mark, a strange voice said, slicing through night. You alright, Bucks?

Yep, she responded and brushed herself off as she stood over me, pressing one leg on each side of my ribcage. She started reading me my rights, or what I perceived to be my rights from the various police shows I’d watched over the years, and I tried to regain my composure—my focus—but I didn’t understand what was happening. Why was she handcuffing me? Wait, I cried as the cuffs squeezed tight against my wrists. Wait. You have the wrong person. It was just a song. Why are you doing this? Bucks, or whatever her name was, pressed her knee into my back, driving my face into the freshly watered sod, and I choked a little.

Bucks, the man scolded.

What? She’s not hurt. She winked at him as she hoisted me to my feet. Well, at least not right now. But tomorrow, after she comes down from whatever high she’s on…well then, that might be another story.

A crowd formed, and people stood outside their houses, whispering to each other and watching these two idiots walk me to the car. Apparently this neighborhood had never seen this much excitement—or perhaps this form of police brutality —in front of their houses. The old man with the cane shook his head in disgust and stared me down as the two morons shoved me into the back of the unmarked Chevy Caprice. How do I even know you’re the police? You could be some crazy perverts trying to kidnap kids. Help! Help me! I screamed, but no one moved.

Bucks flashed her badge—at me first, and then to the rest of the onlookers—before looking at me again and smiling widely. I kicked the back of her seat and continued shouting for help as they climbed into the front of the car.

Alright, that’s enough, the guy cop said before mumbling something into the car radio. I screamed again and banged the back of his seat with my feet, but I stopped screaming as we drove past the old man with the cane. His piercing white eyes bore through me, and I couldn’t help but feel as if he was looking deep inside me.

Something stirred inside of me—my soul? Maybe? Whatever it was, I felt confused and, all of a sudden, dirty. I quickly closed my eyes, shielding myself from his gaze until the car turned the corner and drove out of the subdivision, and I drifted off to sleep.

When I came to, I tried sitting up, but it was no use. My arms had been restrained somehow, and there was a bright light hanging over the bed I was chained to, blinding me. It hurt to open my eyes, so I squinted, laid my head on the hard mattress, and screamed—blood curdling screams—as much and as loud as my lungs and the rest of my body would produce. Nobody came to my rescue.

I lifted my head up off the mattress and looked down at the foot of the bed. I was dressed in one of those stupid blue-and-white-striped hospital gowns with blue sock booties, and as I floundered around the bed like a caged animal, I wondered who had taken off my clothes and dressed me in such a ridiculous get up.

And what was I doing at the hospital? I wasn’t sick. Or hurt. So why was I here? The last thing I remembered was that old man and his creepy eyes. I shook off the memory and screamed again. I just wanted to go home, crawl into my comfy, plush bed, and sleep this nightmare off.

My chorus of endless screaming was interrupted by a bald man, dressed in white, standing in the corner of the room. I don’t know