The Edge of Great Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue: Luke

  Chapter 1: Julie

  Chapter 2: Julie

  Chapter 3: Julie

  Chapter 4: Julie

  Chapter 5: Alex

  Chapter 6: Alex

  Chapter 7: Julie

  Chapter 8: Julie

  Chapter 9: Julie

  Chapter 10: Reggie

  Chapter 11: Alex

  Chapter 12: Julie

  Chapter 13: Flynn

  Chapter 14: Julie

  Chapter 15: Alex

  Chapter 16: Julie

  Chapter 17: Luke

  Chapter 18: Alex

  Chapter 19: Julie

  Chapter 20: Willie

  Chapter 21: Julie

  Chapter 22: Luke

  Chapter 23: Julie

  Chapter 24: Julie

  Chapter 25: Julie

  Chapter 26: Flynn

  Chapter 27: Alex

  Chapter 28: Julie

  Chapter 29: Alex

  Chapter 30: Julie

  Chapter 31: Julie

  Chapter 32: Luke

  Chapter 33: Julie

  Chapter 34: Alex

  Chapter 35: Alex

  Chapter 36: Julie

  Chapter 37: Julie

  Chapter 38: Julie

  About the Author

  Photo insert

  Copyright

  I’d totally love to tell you that, in the moment, I was focused on the unique vibe that sets in right before a show. Like the way the room is empty except for you and your bandmates, but also thrumming with energy. How the floors smell like a mix of sticky sweat and spilled drinks and ammonia that’s not even making a dent in everything underneath.

  I’d love to say that, but it’s not true. Because right before a show—heck, during a show—anytime I’m playing music, really, the only thing I’m focused on is me.

  Cocky? Okay, sure, if you insist. But it’s the truth. When I’m playing, I go to a place inside myself that’s separate from the whole outside world.

  Don’t get me wrong—I’d die for my bandmates. Alex, Reggie, and Bobby … the four of us, we’re not just Sunset Curve, we’re practically brothers. That’s how it’s always been. How it’ll always be.

  Of course—as Sunset Curve, we totally rock.

  And tonight? Tonight was our night. We were finally here: The Orpheum. Los Angeles, California. Sunset Curve was about to become big-time. This was our break, the night that was going to change everything.

  An amp buzzed, followed by the sound of Bobby plugging in his guitar.

  Alex followed, counting us in with his drumsticks. “One, two, three, four …”

  With the crash of a cymbal, I jumped in, wailing on my guitar. Chords flowed from my fingertips as they skated across the guitar strings. It was “Now or Never,” our opening song, and we belted it out like we meant every last note—because we did.

  All around us, a frenetic light show sliced glowing arcs against the walls, flashing with the crescendos of the music. The whole space felt totally cool and otherworldly.

  Don’t look down / ‘Cause we’re still rising / Up right now

  And even if we / Hit the ground / We’ll still fly / Keep dreaming like we’ll live forever / But live it like it’s now or never

  It’s now or never

  I poured every piece of myself into that song, every last bit of my soul. And my boys did, too. I could hear it in the reverberation from their instruments, in the strong, soulful pitch to their voices as we all harmonized … but even more than hearing it, I felt it. In the air, in the space between the four of us, the energy that we created together.

  When the song was over, from the VIP section, a lone club employee applauded. Dishcloth slung over one shoulder, she gave a few cheers and whoops as she clapped, definitely down with our music.

  Reggie leaned into his microphone. His forehead was sweaty and he was breathing heavily, but his eyes were shining. “Thanks! We’re Sunset Curve,” he said, winking.

  Okay, fine—showtime was two hours away. This was still just sound check. But Sunset Curve was slammin’. The waitress was beaming like we’d killed it, and our sound engineer was sending us a huge thumbs-up from his booth. “Great job, guys,” he called.

  “Too bad we wasted that on a sound check,” Bobby joked, giving everyone a high five. “That’s the tightest we ever played.”

  “’Til tonight,” I corrected him, “when this place is packed with record execs.”

  For months now—maybe even years, if I’m honest—it felt like Sunset Curve had been hovering just on the edge of something huge. I know, I know … we were only seventeen. But we had serious talent. I knew it in my gut, in my bones … All we needed was our big break.

  And it looked like our moment was finally here. Tonight. So close I could practically reach out and touch it. I just needed all the other guys to be on it, one hundred percent. Which meant totally positive attitudes. And from the way everyone was vibing right now, I knew we were good to go.

  Reggie turned to Alex. “You were smokin’, Alex,” he said, nodding with appreciation.

  Alex shrugged. I knew he appreciated the compliment and maybe even agreed—but unlike me, he was too humble to admit it out loud.

  “Ah, I was just warming up,” he protested. “You guys were the ones on fire.”

  Reggie gave him a mock glare. “Would you just own your own awesomeness for once?”

  Alex blinked, slowly realizing that now the three of us were all staring at him, waiting.

  He burst out laughing. “Okay,” he admitted. “I was killin’ it.”

  Alex jumped off his platform, and one by one, we moved off the stage. My stomach gave a rumble that reminded me it had been hours since we’d last eaten. We probably had just enough time to grab something before it was time to go on. I waved to the guys.

  “Come on, we need fuel before the show. Let’s get some dogs.” Hot dogs were basically all we’d eaten since we’d started preparing for this gig—we weren’t exactly rolling in cash. But I didn’t mind. Soon we’d be big enough stars that we could eat in a different restaurant every night (if we didn’t care about getting mobbed by fans, that is. Which I definitely did not).

  We all grabbed our jackets and moved toward the door. All except Bobby. He was standing at the bar, watching as the waitress who’d clapped for us folded up her floral-print jacket and tucked it away for her shift. Next to her, by the register, was a pink flower in a vase that was so totally out of sync with everything else in the dingy club, I wondered if she’d put it there herself.

  Reggie and Alex hovered at the front door, looking impatient. I glanced at Bobby. “You comin’?”

  He waved me off. “I’m good.” To the waitress he said, “Vegetarian. I could never hurt an animal.”

  I smirked. I’d heard that line before. And whether it was true or not (hint: it wasn’t), Bobby wouldn’t have mentioned it if he weren’t trying to impress this girl. I could hardly blame him; she was cute. Maybe he was being slightly cheesy, but that was just the way Bobby got sometimes. We still had his back, same as we knew he had ours. Bandmates for life, we liked to say.

  And this girl, she looked impressed, like his showing off was working. Like we were already as big as Weezer or Smashing Pumpkins or something. Ready to play the Orpheum as the main show and not just the opening act. Not just poised to take off but actually flying high.

  “You guys are really good,” she said. But she didn’t say it just to Bobby. She said it to all of us, and it was clear from the look in her eyes how much she meant it.

  “Thanks,” I said, trying to be modest. (It was a new look for me, I’ll admit. I’m not sure I
nailed it.)

  “No, really,” she insisted. “I see a lot of bands. Been in a couple myself. I was feeling it.”

  So were we, I wanted to say. But she could tell that already, and besides, I had to play it cool. “That’s what we do this for,” I said, reaching a hand out to shake. (It wasn’t like Bobby had dibs or anything, was it?) “I’m Luke.”

  The others chimed in. “I’m Reggie.”

  “Alex.”

  “Bobby.”

  “Nice to meet you guys,” she said, smiling. “I’m Rose.”

  Reggie stepped closer to her, handing her a T-shirt and a CD. “Here’s our demo and a T-shirt. Size”—he gave her a teasing glance—“beautiful.”

  Alex stepped forward to intercept the awkward cheese of the moment. “No, Reggie. Just, no.” To Rose he said, “Sorry.”

  She just laughed, shrugging. “Thanks. I won’t use this one to wipe down the tables.”

  Bobby cleared his throat. “Don’t you guys have hot dogs to get?” he reminded us, shooting us a meaningful look. Maybe he hadn’t called dibs, but he had a plan, and the rest of us were definitely in the way.

  He looked so ticked, I couldn’t resist giving it back to him a little. I leaned in toward Rose like I had a secret. Pointing at Bobby, I fake-whispered, “He had a burger for lunch.”

  Bobby’s mouth snapped open, indignant, as Rose laughed. Reggie, Alex, and I grabbed our stuff, and we were off.

  The side door of the Orpheum slammed shut behind us as we stepped into the dusk. Outside, the sounds of traffic—cars honking, people talking to each other as they made their way down the sidewalk—filled the air. Above us, the marquee showed our name: SUNSET CURVE. And beneath that, in letters just as big: SOLD OUT.

  SOLD OUT. I let the words fill me up, like I was a helium balloon. As we rounded the corner of the block, I could see a line beginning to form for the club.

  For us. That line was forming of people who couldn’t wait to hear us perform. I threw my arms around Alex and Reggie, totally in the moment.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” I said, that helium- balloon feeling bubbling up, out of control.

  Alex pinched his face up. “The smell of Sunset Boulevard?”

  I had to admit, at rush hour, there was a smell situation that was definitely not great. But even that—and another angry honk—couldn’t get me down. Not now. “What that girl said in there,” I explained, patient. “About our music. It’s like an energy. It connects us with people. I want that connection with everyone.” There was nothing like the feeling that came over me when I played my music for an audience.

  Reggie paused for a minute, thinking it over. “We’re gonna need more T-shirts.”

  “Three hot dogs, please.” I didn’t really even need to place the order—we were regulars here.

  Sam ’N’ Ella’s Dogs was definitely not on the list of Hollywood hot spots for fine dining; the hot dog cart actually gave greasy spoons a bad name. But I wasn’t going to complain since this place was keeping us going. Starving to death before we’d even had a chance to play the Orpheum—could you imagine anything lamer? At least James Dean went in a blaze of glory, right?

  Sam handed us our dogs and I went to grab the ketchup. Which—along with the mustard, sauerkraut, and the rest of the toppings—were all served out of Sam’s trunk. Maybe it was quaint. At the very least, one day we’d look back on this time in our lives and laugh …

  Or so I hoped.

  “I can’t wait to eat someplace where the condiments aren’t served out of the back of an Oldsmobile,” Alex said, echoing my thoughts. He turned to the vendor. “Sorry, I got some pickle juice on your battery cables.”

  Sam shrugged. “It will help with the rust.”

  The three of us collapsed on a beat-up couch that someone had had the foresight to prop against a wall. I held my dog up in a sort of toast to theirs. “Eat up, ’cause after tonight, everything changes.”

  All together we each took a big bite.

  Alex winced and glanced at us both. “Hmm. That’s a new flavor.” It did not sound like he meant it in a good way.

  Reggie rolled his eyes lightly. “Chill, man. Street dogs haven’t killed us yet.”

  As far as “famous last words” go? Those were kind of on the nose.

  We were gone before the screech of the ambulance’s siren pierced the air.

  My best friend, Flynn, is amazing: super caring, totally enthusiastic and supportive, and always up for fun. She’s basically my other half, and there was no one I’d rather brave the crowded and competitive hallways of Los Feliz Performing Arts High School with. But hot dang, the girl is not someone who shies away from saying what’s on her mind.

  She cornered me this morning just beside my locker. I was battling with the combination, head down, trying to blend into the walls under the brim of my baseball cap, when she cozied over.

  “Hey, underachiever,” she sang, the glint in her eyes telling me she was (mostly) joking.

  “Hey, disappointment.” Best friend or not, I could serve it right back with the best of them.

  Flynn cocked a hip and peered at me, curious. “Okay, I know you don’t want me to ask, but have you decided what you’re gonna do today?”

  Had I decided? No. Spent hours the night before, tossing and turning in my bed, considering, yes. But that was way different from deciding. “I’ll know in the moment,” I bluffed, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

  Flynn was not impressed. “Really? That’s all you’re giving me? Jules, Mrs. Harrison said this is your last chance.”

  As if I needed a reminder. I swallowed. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to play the piano since my mother died a year ago. Music was her passion, and it was the thing that connected us. Every time I sat down at the bench to prepare, my chest felt tight and fluttery. Playing piano now that Mom was gone? It felt pointless. Worse than pointless … it felt like a betrayal of her, and her spirit.

  But it was getting harder and harder to justify my place in a performing arts school specialty program when I couldn’t seem to bring myself to, well … perform.

  “I know,” I said to Flynn, more matter-of-factly than I was feeling inside. “I was there.”

  I expected some tough love from Flynn, but she’d turned, caught on something going on over my shoulder. “Ugh, what’s she handing out?”

  I turned to see who she was looking at. Carrie. Of course. Swanning down the halls like she owned the school. Her golden hair tumbled angelically over her shoulders and, of course, somehow the fluorescent lighting of the hallways cast a perfect shining spotlight on her expertly coordinated outfit.

  You know how in those old movies from the nineties, there’s always that classic “mean girl” type? Blonde, cute, always dressed head to toe in the latest trends—says whatever’s on her mind, no matter how nasty it might seem?

  Yeah, that type. That was Carrie, to a T. Never mind that we’d actually grown up as friends—those days were long gone.

  And judging from the smug smile on her lips right now, she was currently in the throes of planning and/or executing something particularly diabolical. Or if not necessarily diabolical, at least it would be annoying. And it seemed to involve printed flyers.

  “Here you go,” she said, gliding up to me and thrusting a flyer in my face. She ignored Flynn’s disgusted look. “My group’s performing at the spirit rally tomorrow.” She gave me a withering once-over. “I’m sure you guys have nothing better to do.”

  Ugh, Carrie’s group, Dirty Candi. Flynn and I always assumed that her dad gave her music career a boost. (Not that we blamed her for taking it.) Her father was Trevor Wilson, the famous musician. He’s, like, a huge star. One of his songs was even featured in a car commercial! My dad said it was selling out a little bit, but … come on! A commercial! Anyway, I figured Carrie’s always had her dad in her corner … and she and I have always been in opposite corners of the ring.

  Still, no matter how much suppor
t Carrie seemed to get from her dad, it was nothing compared to my mom and me. She was my biggest champion.

  But there’s that word again: was. And since she died, it’s become hard for me to … I don’t know, face the music? But, like, literally.

  Flynn threw a look at Carrie. “Oh my gosh, Carrie, thanks.” Her voice dripped with scorn.

  Carrie glared at her. “Oh my gosh, Flynn, don’t bother coming.”

  Carrie’s boyfriend, Nick, appeared and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, glancing at me as if to apologize for her attitude.

  I gave a small, imperceptible shrug. There was no apologizing for Carrie. And no accounting for what Nick saw in her. It was so wrong, the two of them together.

  I watched them move off down the hall. But that imperceptible moment between Nick and me? Yeah, not as subtle as I’d hoped. Flynn doesn’t miss a beat.

  She gave me a look. “Nick? Still? You know those two are gonna get married and have a bunch of unholy babies.”

  “Nick’s a sweetheart,” I protested.

  “Too bad his girlfriend’s a spoiled brat.” Flynn nudged me. “There’s that smile.” She linked an arm through mine. “Now, let’s go prove everyone wrong.”

  The music room at Los Feliz High School was more like a cathedral than a performance space; for everyone in our arts program, music was a kind of religion. The program was competitive, audition-only, and we all had to earn our spot here. We had to keep earning it, too, throughout our time in school.

  Meanwhile, my time? Well, it was running out. And there was a line of students out the proverbial door who’d be thrilled to take my spot if I didn’t find a way to get my muse back. The principal had made my options crystal clear—it was now or never. If I couldn’t play, I couldn’t stay.

  When Flynn and I entered the room, Nick was finishing up his own showcase: Smiling that easy, open grin of his, he was absolutely shredding it, wailing classical music on his electric guitar. It was the opposite of what you’d expect to hear from that instrument—which made it totally Nick. He fit in with everyone, all the time, and he made things that felt worlds apart, at least to the rest of us, converge seamlessly. There was a guy who never had a problem tapping into his muse.