Amplified

218 Pages·2016·1.1 MB·English

by  Kelly Tara

For Maestro
Contents

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 1

I said no to my dad this morning. The five-foot-seven soup can of a man nobody
denies. It’s got to be his arctic blue eyes; they’re like the edge of a knife. And
still, I told him I wasn’t going to Stanford or any college next year.
Now I was stranded on Ocean Street with a few hours to find some rat hole
to rent. So much for a graduation present.
Smoke billowed from the hood as I got out of my Jetta, the melted rubber
stench burning my nostrils. At least it was white smoke, which had something to
do with coolant and not a fire—or so my limited knowledge of engines told me.
“Woo! Holla, baby,” a tanned boy yelled out the window of a silver car.
Summertime in Santa Cruz was all about the strip mall of tourists inching their
way down Ocean to the Boardwalk.
I sat on the curb to call a tow when an old blue Camaro pulled within inches
of my bumper. Tinted windows, a bass line that made the ground vibrate—this
should be good.
A guy hopped out of the driver’s side and slammed the door shut. His
footsteps were heavy and purposeful, the sound of combat boots. I got a better
look at him as he walked around the rear of his car. His head-to-toe black
clothing matched his scowl. The last thing I needed was some guy with a chip on
his shoulder yelling at me.
“Already calling a tow!” I wiggled my cell at him.
He pointed behind me. “Your car is in front of an auto shop.”
Sure enough, there was a big sign that said PETE’S AUTO. “Great, thanks.” I
waved my hand to dismiss him.
“You’re blocking the entrance, genius.”
I stood up, telling him to buzz off with my eyes. He was a lot taller than he
looked from the ground, but I was used to that. Crappy views at concerts and
being the first person relegated to laps in a crowded car were also perks of being
five foot two.
He glanced at my car and smirked. His eyes were an odd shade of green—
bright like he was wearing contacts. “I’ll be right back.”
Camaro Boy headed for the auto shop and yanked the door open, nearly
hitting a homeless guy leaning against the outside wall. The long-bearded man
didn’t seem bothered, though. He pointed at my car and let out a phlegm-filled
cackle.
“Yeah, hilarious,” I muttered.
Smoke trickled out of the engine now. I could at least pretend to know what
was wrong. Dad, one of the best cardiologists in San Mateo County, taught me
that trick. Seem confident—no matter how unsure of a situation I was.
I popped the hood and squeezed my eyes shut before attempting to pry it
open. Burned fingertips and guitar playing didn’t exactly mesh. Dad bought this
junker off his colleague’s son, seventy thousand miles and all. New cars don’t
teach values, he’d said.
“I wouldn’t attempt that just yet, little lady.” I jumped at the sound of the
gravelly voice behind me, expecting to see the homeless guy. Instead, a clean-
shaven man with thinning blond hair held his hand out. “I’m Pete, the owner.”
“Jasmine,” I replied, shaking his grimy hand.
Most mechanics didn’t have a trustworthy smile. This guy did. “She’s got a
bit of heatstroke, huh?” He motioned to my Jetta and winked.
I nodded and plastered a friendly grin on my face. Maybe he’d be willing to
help me move it at least.
Camaro Boy emerged from the shop dressed in a blue shirt with the sleeves
rolled up. His dark chestnut hair stuck up in places, like he’d wrestled with his
clothes. Despite the barbell through his eyebrow and the glare, his face was
sweet—what I would call boyishly cute. Too bad he had the charm of a housefly.
“Let’s get this moved out of the street,” Pete told him.
“What do you need me to do?” I asked.
Camaro Boy rolled his eyes. “Get in and put it in neutral—it’s the letter N.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
Pete muttered something to him as I got in the car, his tone disapproving.
After we got my green clunker in front of the garage and Camaro Boy
parked, Pete disappeared inside the shop and Camaro Boy poked his head in the
window. “If you want us to look at your car, I need you to come inside and fill
out some paperwork.”
My dad would’ve told me to shop around, but I needed every cent I had.
Towing a car wasn’t cheap.
I climbed out and slammed the door. The frame groaned in response. Too
bad cars couldn’t feel pain, because this one deserved it. “Where’s Pete?”
Camaro Boy held open the shop door for me. “Lunch.”
I grabbed the door and waved him in first. He raised his eyebrows but didn’t
protest.
The waiting area consisted of a blue table surrounded by folding chairs. Old
license plates, tires, and pictures of classic cars littered the walls.
Camaro Boy walked behind the white service desk and shoved a clipboard
toward me. “We can speed everything up if you’d fill that out.”
I scanned the paperwork. An address—great. I was still seventeen,
technically a runaway. Not that Dad would report me.
“Do you have a name?” I asked.
“Yes.” He stared back at me, blinking.
“What is it?”
“Clover.” He looked away and typed something into the computer. His
mouth kept twitching, like he was trying to hold in laughter.
“Seriously?”
He pushed his sleeve up, giving me a view of a blue clover tattooed on his
forearm. “I’m half Irish.”
And half shithead.
I took the paperwork, plopped in one of the hard chairs, and started to fill it
out. Every now and then, I’d glance up and catch him watching me. But he
wasn’t checking me out. His eyes were missing that playful spark guys get when
they like what they see. Not that I was on the receiving end of that much.
Mousy brown eyes, stringy hair, and a generous bust and backside didn’t fly
with the guys at Peninsula Hills Prep. Or Ken and Barbie Prep, as my best
friend, Jason, called it. I’d finally gotten the nerve to talk to my crush at
graduation and got this response: You’re that chick who plays guitar. What’s
your name again?
A tinny version of Placebo’s “Meds” sent me fumbling through my
backpack.
Clover, or whatever his name was, nodded in approval. “Good song.”
I flipped my phone open, forgetting to check the caller ID. “Hello?”
“Where are you?” Dad asked.
“Nowhere special.” I gathered my stuff and walked out of the shop, not
wanting Clover to be privy to my personal life. “You wanted me gone. I’m
gone.”
“That’s not what I wanted. You made that decision.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, my stomach tightening. It was always my fault.
“You said I had fifteen minutes to pack my things and get out.”
“You’re blowing off college!”
I had the power to make him stop. Just hang up. But my hand seemed
melded to the phone. Despite everything, he was the only family I had. “I’m not.
I’m deferring my enrollment. There is a difference.”
“So, what’s the plan? You can’t hide out in your chubby friend’s garage
forever.”
“His name is Jason, okay? Jason.” I didn’t have a plan—Dad knew that. All
I wanted was time for me, for my music. A break from pleasing him, the big,
dark cloud looming over my head. Trying to fix everything about me.
“And is Jason going to let you live with him?” Dad asked.
“He’ll be in Maui until the end of August.”
“When school starts.”
“They’re upping my hours at the café. I’ll find a place,” I lied.
Like I’d stick around Woodside. A town run by rich people with a penchant
for the Wild West didn’t exactly have a music scene.
“Serving coffee won’t pay rent around here.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
Dad let out his sarcastic chuckle. “There’s a great answer.”
“I just need a break—a year at most. It’s not a big deal.”
“A break from what?” His question cut into my ear. I had no reason to be
unhappy. My childhood wasn’t like his.
“Why don’t you ever listen to me?”
“Say something worth hearing, and I will. Give me a valid reason.”
A pressure grew in my throat, and my breath shook. I moved the phone away
from my mouth. No reason would be acceptable. According to him, I had only
one thing going for me: my brains. And I couldn’t contribute to society without a
degree.
“You can’t, can you?” he continued. “Because you haven’t really thought
about what you’re doing.”
“It shouldn’t be like this.”
“How did you expect me to react? ‘Oh, you don’t feel like going to college?
That’s okay, honey—just lounge around the house. I’ll keep paying your bills.’”
I kicked a rock across the parking lot. It felt good, but not good enough.
“No, I knew you’d throw me out.” He loved his ultimatums and deadlines, and
I’d always ended up doing what he wanted. Too afraid he’d actually let me go.
Not this time.
“You think it’s easy for me to show you the door? Because, believe me,