The Sound of Us

Chapter One. “Learning to Fly” by Hills X Hills

CHAPTER ONE

“Learning to Fly” by Hills X Hills

SKYE

“I can’t do this.”

I hesitated on the threshold of the bar, taking in the teeming mass of bodies on the dance floor, the scents of stale beer and deep-fried chicken wings, and the ear-splitting shriek of “Cotton-Eyed Joe” playing over tinny speakers. Bile rose in my throat, bringing with it the taste of the multiple virgin margaritas my best friend Isla had made me drink to “warm up” for the start of a new year at Chicago’s Havencrest University. I’d missed the tradition the previous fall when I’d been away on a medical leave of absence and now everything in the room screamed that I didn’t belong.

“Yes, you can.” Isla grabbed my hand and dragged me through the crowd. Steamworks was a typical college bar decorated in Havencrest’s purple and gold, with pictures of sports teams and pennants on the walls and a reclaimed iron bell hanging over the bar. The recreation area consisted of a cramped space along one side where a pool table had been jammed precariously close to the dart board. A raised stage for live music and a generous dance floor took up another corner. I hadn’t been to the bar since freshman year, but it still had the same upbeat vibe.

“I didn’t drag your sorry ass all the way back from Colorado just to fill the empty room in my apartment,” she continued as we zigzagged around the scattered tables and chairs. “You promised you’d help me land my fangirl crush while we try to get your mind off your basketball tryout on Monday and I’m holding you to it. Maybe my fantasy guitar player has a friend…”

“I don’t have time for hookups.” I had to raise my voice so she would hear me over the buzz of the crowd. “I need to stay focused. I have to get back on the team, Iz. I have one chance to get my basketball career back on track. I really shouldn’t even be out tonight.”

I stumbled after her, still struggling to get used to walking in heels after my accident. I was okay in running shoes, but heels required a whole new level of coordination. Still, I’d been determined to dress up for my first night out in over eighteen months. I’d hidden the scars on my legs under a pair of skinny denim jeans that I’d paired with a new carbon-black lace camisole, big hoop earrings, and lots of bracelets. Instead of my usual ponytail, I’d left my long dark hair loose. Isla said I’d never looked hotter, but I missed my skirts and dresses.

“It’s Friday night, party night,” Isla pleaded as she squeezed us into the only two empty chairs at the bar. “I need you to dazzle him with your music knowledge or I won’t have a shot.”

With a head full of dark, bouncy curls, a round cheerful face, and an undying sense of optimism reflected in her wide, caramel-colored eyes, Isla was impossible to resist. She was loud, upbeat, and lived her life without a filter—pretty much the opposite of me. I would never have imagined we’d become besties when we found ourselves assigned to the same dorm room freshman year, but we complemented each other. Isla had a way of unleashing my wild side, and I had a way of keeping her calm.

“I’m not going back on my promise,” I assured her. “You want the lead guitarist of the Jethro Tully Band in your bed; I’ll do my best to get him for you.”

“I need some liquid courage first.”

“You had three liquid ‘courages’ before we came here,” I pointed out. “You need to be semi-sober so you don’t go all fangirl and make him think you’re a groupie who only wants sex.”

“I am a groupie who only wants sex,” she said. “But he’s not going to know that because you’re going to lure him in with music talk and then I’ll do what I do best.”

I hadn’t had a chance to really talk music in the eighteen months since my father and I had been hit by a drunk driver while on our way to the airport. Music is my everything—my escape, my solace, medicine for my soul, and the only way I can express emotions too deep and painful to share. Music is my language. It filled the silence in my heart after I found out my father had died in the crash, and for the duration of my recovery, it sustained me.

Isla managed to catch the attention of the blond, tanned bartender by leaning over the bar and shouting, “Broken glass!” He introduced himself as Scott and told us he spent his summers surfing in California. When he added an extra splash of juice and a cherry to my mocktail, Isla gave me a not-too-subtle “he’s into you” poke in the ribs. I gave her a discreet “not interested” shake of my head. Aside from the fact that blond surfer dudes weren’t my type, and the fact that I had more riding on the tryout than I’d shared with Isla, I wasn’t ready for anyone to see my scars.

Isla, of course, didn’t take the hint and decided to hype me up. “Skye is in journalism and she’s trying out for the basketball team,” she said as he handed me the drink with a flourish. “She is also big into music and has hundreds, probably thousands of playlists. She got paid by her boss at the Buttercup Bakery café to make a playlist for the coffee shop—”

“Isla…” I didn’t want to be having this conversation. It had taken all my effort to mentally prepare myself to return to college after having to take so much time off and give up my hard-earned position on Havencrest’s Division II basketball team. I knew Isla wanted to help me get back to normal, but I didn’t have the mental or emotional energy for anything other than sports and school.

“I’ve got tons of playlists.” The bartender whipped out his phone like we were in a competition and slid it across the bar. “Take a look.”

“Wow.” I flipped through his list. “That’s… quite a collection.” I sipped my drink, hoping he wouldn’t want to have a discussion about his musical choices including a cringe playlist called Boner .

“Show him yours.” Isla gave me a nudge and I grimaced. I loved talking music but I didn’t like talking about my music. My playlists are intensely personal, a secret peek into my soul and a record of poignant musical memories. They are a way to process strong emotions and express myself using the words of the poets of song.

I gave him an apologetic shrug. “I’m actually in the middle of changing things up, but right now I’m into Angerfist’s ‘The Depths of Despair.’”

His face paled as he listened to the track, and I called it a win.

Isla shot me a look of exasperation and quickly smoothed over the awkward moment with a smile. “We’re here to see the Jethro Tully Band. When are they on?”

“They aren’t playing tonight,” he said. “Last-minute cancellation. We’ve got Dante’s Inferno instead. They’re a great band. Well, they were. They had a few bad gigs over the summer, but we were desperate.”

“Sorry, Iz.” Guilty relief tempered my sympathy. We could finally go home, and I could find another way to deal with my pre-tryout jitters that didn’t involve high heels.

“Just my luck.” With a sigh, Isla opened her purse and pulled out her vape.

“If you want to smoke, you’ll need to go outside,” Scott said. “It’s quiet in the back alley.” His gaze flicked from me to Isla, letting us know he’d take whoever he could get. “I’m heading out there for my break in about ten minutes if you want some company.”

“Sounds good.” She tucked the vape away. “We’ll see you out there.”

I followed Isla past the long lineup for the restroom and down the back hallway, trying hard to disguise the slight limp that warned I’d hit my activity threshold for the day. Six months ago, still deep in depression after the accident, I’d never imagined I’d be able to walk properly, much less be back at university and planning to try out again for the Havencrest Warriors, but I hadn’t accounted for Isla. When I told her I wasn’t planning to return to Havencrest for my sophomore year, she flew all the way to Denver with a bag full of summer basketball training camp brochures, scholarship applications, and a copy of her lease. She was there for entirely selfish reasons, she said. Her roommate was graduating, and she needed someone to move in who knew about her past and could put up with her particular brand of crazy.

The back door to the alley had been propped open, and we walked outside into the humid, muggy night, where four guys were unloading band equipment from the back of a van in the semi-darkness.

Isla gestured me away from the door and I leaned against the brick wall to take the pressure off my left leg, wishing for fall with its crisp air and the cooling Lake Michigan breeze.

“Why are we here, Iz? We can come back another night when your fangirl crush is playing.”

“Because we need to talk about why you told the cute bartender who’s into you that you were listening to Angelfire’s ‘Song of Despair.’”

“The band is Angerfist,” I corrected her. “The song is ‘The Depths of Despair,’ and I came here tonight for you. I’m not ready to date, especially not someone who called his sex playlist Boner .”

Isla laughed. “He had playlists. You love making playlists…”

“I know what you were trying to do, but it’s not a good time. Tryouts are on Monday and if I don’t get back on the roster…” The fear I’d been trying to suppress all day welled up in my chest, stealing my breath away.

“Then you become a journalist,” she said firmly. “You didn’t just come to Havencrest to play basketball. You came because of their journalism program. Skye, they chose you out of thousands of applicants because you have talent.”

“Journalism is my fallback option,” I said. “Basketball has been my whole life. It’s what my dad and I dreamed about, and now he’s gone. I want to honor his memory. I still want to make him proud.”

I also needed the full-ride athletic scholarship that came with a place on the team. Between medical bills and the loss of my father’s income, my mother could barely make ends meet. My younger brother Jonah had a heart condition and required special care, and I didn’t want to add to her burden by telling her that I’d just had a meeting with my student financial advisor and things didn’t look good. I’d lost my prestigious internship at the Chicago Times when I withdrew to recover from my injuries, and even with my part-time job at the coffee shop on campus, I couldn’t pay for another three years at college without financial aid.

“Your dreams are going to come true.” Isla pulled out her vape. “I’ve got a sixth sense about these things.”

“Iz…” I shook my head. “You promised me you were going to quit. You’re a biochem major. You know how bad vaping is for you.”

“I just need one hit to get over my disappointment,” she said. “It gives me the kind of buzz I can’t get from alcohol. And Scott’s on his way. It wouldn’t be nice to make him vape alone.”

“Give it to me.” I held out my hand.

“This is the last time. I promise.”

“You told me if I saw you vaping again to stop you by any means possible.” I lunged for her, and she backed away just as two guys emerged from the van carrying a large amp. Isla stumbled, grabbing my arm and pulling me off-balance. We went down hard, falling against the amp and knocking it to the ground. I rolled off Isla and snaked up beside her to grab the vape from her hand.

A shadow fell across us, and a deep voice resonated in the darkness. “Now, that’s loyalty.”