He swings my hand then, ready to pretend with me. “I’ve been arranging for the choir a couple years. I play the piano—guitar, too. Of course, there’s the choir stuff, but I like Marley, and folk. Jazz it up sometimes. Not much pure pop or rock. But sometimes I can get down. Guess I’m a musical omnivore.”
I look out at the black lake and the lights winking on the other side. “Me, too. I’m no expert on Marley, but the folky stuff works for me. And then, I do listen to most of those divas.”
“Do you play?”
I shake my head. My dad played the guitar in his band, left an old acoustic behind. Mom still has it. Strange. I don’t know why she didn’t burn it.
We stop walking, stare out at the lake. A ferry goes by, all lit up with music playing. Derek squeezes my hand. “Let’s hop on one of those. Run away.”
I like that idea. “But it’s a lake.”
“A big lake.”
“We need to go back. You’ve got to go to bed.”
“Sing me something you wrote first. I need a lullaby.”
I shrug my shoulders. “You first.”
He puts his arm around me and starts to hum, breaks into Ooohs. This voice is rich with texture—not that pure choir voice he used at the concert. The melody is entrancing, winds into my heart, makes me want to smile and cry at the same time. It fades away. “That’s all I have.”
“I love it. What do you call it?”
“‘Beth’s Song.’”
chapter 13
ROCK STAR
Derek keeps his eyes on his conductor all through their competition performance until he starts his solo. His delicious chocolate eyes find me in the fifth row breathing in every note. Somehow he turns an “Ave Maria” into a love song. I’m lost in the power of it—overwhelmed by the intensity of the emotion that pours out of him. Tears form in the corner of my eyes. What is this? How can I feel like this?
I take everything back that I said about divas and love. If love is anything like the way I feel this moment, sign me up. Singing makes me happy, alive, but this is unbelievable.
His solo finishes, and the rest of the choir joins Derek. He focuses intently on the conductor again. We stand and applaud with everyone else when they’re done.
Leah frowns. “I think they beat us.”
Meadow stops clapping. “They’re kind of professional. It’s not really fair.”
I’d forgotten that we were competing with them. Gold medal. Right. Best youth choir in the world. I’m sure we’re looking at them.
Sarah watches Blake step down the risers. “Even with you, Beth, we’re not in their league. No one is.”
I lose the thread of their conversation as the next choir files onto the risers. I get up and go outside. They are in the foyer, shaking hands. Derek sees me and starts to head in my direction.
When he gets to me, he takes both my hands. I stare at him. What can I say after that?
He squeezes my hands, leans forward and whispers, “When’s your free time today?”
My throat is so dry I have to swallow. “Two hours, after lunch.”
“It’s mine.”
We wander, slowly, around the center of Lausanne, holding hands. Derek seems tired. He jerks away when I put my hand on his forehead to check if he has a temperature. “I thought I wasn’t a little boy.”
The rest of my choir is touring the cathedral. We avoid it. Too many stairs, according to Derek. There’s a big market set up in front of the tiny shops in old stone buildings. Tables of fresh fruits, veggies, honey, and carts selling cheese make the narrow winding streets even narrower. Derek buys some nasty dried-up sausage and makes me try it. So salty. I buy some fresh strawberries to get the taste out of my mouth—and his. The city center is a maze. We get totally lost, head downhill until we pick up the metro signs. We take it down to Ouchy and end up back on our bench.
He sits down, and I take up my position. Instead of kissing me, he pulls me into a hug.
I bury my face in his neck. It feels like coming home. “One more day and the fairy tale ends.”
“Don’t remind me. I want to stay here with you forever.”
“Sign me up.”
“Okay. The guys and I are staying on a couple weeks—backpacking, trains. Stay.”
“Two solid weeks with no distractions?”
“Blake would be around.”
“Even that would be so much better than”—emotion catches at my voice—“saying good-bye Monday morning.” I curse the bane of nonrefundable group airline tickets.
He strokes my hair. I washed it three times to get all the gunk out of it and hot oiled it before breakfast. It’s gorgeous today. As long as it doesn’t rain and spoil the flattening job the girls did on it. Keep touching it, Derek. Please, keep touching it.
He does. He’s wearing a short-sleeved polo like the one I cried on. I notice small red scars on the inside of his arm. Tracks? I don’t want to see them. All the drugs in the world won’t change how I feel about Derek. I close my eyes.
His fingers comb through my hair. “It won’t be good-bye. Just see you later.”
My eyes fly open. “Really?” Take that, Meadow.
“Like Meadow said, we’re neighbors. London is only a couple hours from Detroit. How far is Ann Arbor?”
An amazing, tingling sensation goes through me. I tip my head back and laugh.
“What?”
“I’m up in Port.”
“You’re kidding? That’s like a half hour from my house—if you go fast.”
Then I’m afraid. This can’t be real. He can’t be saying this. I clutch the front of his shirt. “You really want to keep this—happening?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
I nod my head.
He frowns at me. “What did you think?”
“I don’t know. That you were passing time. Being nice. That it doesn’t mean to you what it means to me.”
“That’s cold.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this. Nothing like you has ever happened to me before.”
“Good.” He shifts his hold so he can kiss me. “Let’s keep it that way.”
We get lost in lips and hands and hair and faces. It feels different this time—now that I know it will last. Less physical. More emotional. With every kiss, the way I feel about him deepens. With every touch, he is more and more precious. I’ll be his high. I’ll be his therapy. If he has me, he won’t need anything else. I so want to take care of him.
His lips flow over every inch of my face, promising me.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Of moments like this.
My official Bliss Tour Itinerary is fat as a book. The gala celebration tonight, the awards-ceremony thing tomorrow morning, shopping all afternoon, and our flight home the next morning are all that’s left. The schedule says we have to board the bus at 5:00 a.m. Derek and I better say our see you laters the night before. He doesn’t do mornings.
We, meaning me and eighty girls, not me and Derek, arrive at the sports arena, where the closing concert will be held. We’re lucky it hasn’t rained. Clouds rolled in this afternoon, but so far it’s been dry. They didn’t have to move the concert indoors. Terri hands the usher the plastic card with our seat assignments. Instead of leading us to nosebleed seats in the rafters, they take us to a couple of long, empty rows on the field.
The orchestra starts the evening off. Derek told me they are all Hungarians. The Choral Olympics couldn’t afford the Swiss. After a couple of stirring classical pieces and a piece from a recent movie soundtrack, a Hungarian tenor comes out and sings. He’s good-looking for a guy in his thirties.
Meadow flips out over him. “Next summer—Hungary.” Give me Canada. Just across the border. And soon.