Ransom(20)

“You need a day off, man,” he says after a few moments of silence.

I laugh. “That’s only what I’ve been telling people for the past three weeks.”

“I’m serious. How do they not know that all these interviews and extra performances are shit on your voice?”

I decide not to mention that my dad told me just yesterday that my hoarseness improves the natural rasp of my singing voice.

“You could finally pass for a blues singer, Dalt,” Dad said, then he laughed and slapped my shoulder as if it was a big joke. I don’t tell Levi that because it would just piss him off, and there’s no point in both of us acting like whiny bastards. I had that one covered all on my own lately.

“You still not sleeping real good?” he asks.

I look up, wondering how he knows that.

He shrugs, unabashed. “I’m in the bunk right over yours, dude. You think I don’t hear you getting up all the time?”

I scowl. The illusion of privacy is just that—an illusion. “No, I’m not sleeping much.”

“You need to sleep, Dalt. Being tired can’t be helping you.”

“I don’t wake up on purpose, Levi. It’s kind of beyond my control.”

“We could get you something,” he says softly, “to help you sleep.”

I glance up at him sharply. We have one iron-clad, long-standing rule in this band—no drugs. My dad looks the other way when we party after shows, even with Lennon and me being underage, as long as we stick to alcohol. Anything beyond that is a strict no, and we’ve all agreed. We’re not going to end up like so many other musicians.

Levi looks slightly embarrassed. “I’m talking about from a doctor, dude. A prescription for sleeping pills, that’s all. No biggie.”

“Right. Because depending on a pill for essential functioning has never turned into a bad thing for anyone in my profession.”

He holds up his hands. “Fine. It was just a suggestion. But you do need to sleep more. I’m going to talk to your brothers. Maybe if we all approach your dad together, he’ll get that your next day off needs to be an actual day off.”

I shrug, slumping back into the pillows of the couch. “If you wanna try.”

“You should come up front, man,” he says. “Hang out with us for a while.”

“Nah. Thanks.” I can perfectly picture the front lounge. Someone will have invited some girls from the show to join in on the drinking and partying. I’m not in the mood.

Levi gestures at the TV over my head. “Wanna play some Halo?”

I shake my head. “Go ahead, man. I’m fine.”

He watches me for another moment, as if he thinks he can’t trust me. I return my attention to my phone, not really caring if I’m being rude. I just don’t want any company right now.

After a beat, he stands. “We’ll be there in a few.”

I nod absently, clicking on the email button. A long line of band-related subject lines fill the screen. I rarely get personal emails. Who would send them? I haven’t kept in touch with anyone from school, and my friends have generally consisted of the people on this bus, with that one important exception.

But then my eyes land on an unfamiliar address. HarDai@ETU.edu. The subject line just says Hello. It’s probably spam. Or maybe fan mail. So why does my heart start to beat so fast? The seemingly random letters in the address are somehow familiar.

I touch the screen to open the email. I scan the first lines quickly, and my heart feels as though it’s going to beat right out of my chest.

Daisy.





Chapter Eight


Daisy





When I finally click Send, I feel sick to my stomach. I spent about two hours writing the thing, trying desperately to strike the right tone between apologetic and friendly. And normal. That’s pretty important, too, that he not be able to tell right away what a freak I’ve become.

I had another session with Dr. Jacobs today. I told her about my conversation with Paige and what I was thinking about doing. She was very encouraging and talked me through several possible outcomes. I came home feeling optimistic and resolved, but now that the thing is written, I just feel ill.

Dr. Jacobs reminded me that there was a chance he wouldn’t be using the same email address anymore. His life has changed tremendously since the last time I heard from him on this old account.

I close my eyes and wish that it would be true. I’m already regretting sending it. The idea that he might never read it makes me feel better.

I get up and head to the table, planning to do some homework to take my mind off of it. Yeah, right. Within minutes, I’m back at the laptop, reading my words for the twentieth time.