Page 68 of (Not So) Famous in Paradise

“Hey, Sis,” I say to Britta as I pass by the hostess station and go straight for the kitchen.

Bear and Seb are setting up mics and amps in the corner where they’ll be practicing tonight. There are only a couple of customers, Carson Stevens and Steve Carson. Lifelong friends, for obvious reasons.

They’re regulars; here every Friday and Saturday night without fail until Memorial Day weekend when the summer season starts. That’s when Paradise grows from a couple thousand people to fifteen to twenty thousand, depending on the week, and locals are either too busy working to come in or don’t want to deal with the tourists.

Adam is in the kitchen whistling.Whistling.This is new…and has everything to do with Evie. The only thing not weird about him whistling instead of scowling is that the song he’s whistling sounds like “Ain’t No Sunshine,” which isn’t exactly a happy song.

“Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone,” I sing loudly as I walk into the kitchen. “Only darkness every day.”

“Dude, no.” Adam shakes his head and flips the bacon sizzling on the grill. Smoke rises, and my stomach rumbles.

“What do you mean, no?” I reach around him for a piece of cooked bacon from the plate next to the grill, but he slaps my hand away with his tongs. “Ouch! What the hell, bruh?”

“No singing and no snacking.” His eyes narrow with a stern warning.

“Since when can’t I sing?” I dodge his tongs and grab one of his homemade rolls. Before he can grab it, I tear off a piece and shove it in my mouth. “If you’re not going to feed me, I’ve got to eat somewhere else. I’m starving.”

“You’ve never been able to sing, and you can eat when I’ve got everything plated.” Without looking at me, he lifts the lid off a pot and checks whatever’s boiling inside. My guess is potatoes.

“Never been able to sing?” With Adam’s back turned, I grab another roll and scoop a spoonful of fresh butter to slather over it. “Are you trying to hurt me?”

“Just telling you the truth.” He slams the butter container shut before I can take any more.

“I call bull. Why’d you let me in the band if I couldn’t sing?” I shove half the roll in my mouth, just in case he’s thinking about taking it from me.

Granny gave him the bread recipe, and biting into one brings back memories of family breakfasts and dinners at her place in Little Copenhagen. She always had homemade bread for my siblings and me, even though cooking it every day heated up her entire un-air-conditioned house. But she knew how much we all loved it, and the extra love made the long summer days when our parents worked nonstop go a little faster.

Adam faces me and raises both eyebrows. “I let you in the band because you’re my brother and you begged.”

I scoff. “That didn’t keep you from kicking me out of the band.”

“The only bright side to you getting Dakota to leave me is that it gave me a reason to kick you out of the band.” His mouth quirks to the side, but not exactly in a teasing way. “Obviously, I’m grateful now, but that doesn’t mean I can let you back in the band.”

Then it hits me. “Wait. You’re not joking? You really don’t think I can sing?”

“It’s not that youcan’t.” He cushions his words with an uncharacteristically soft tone.“More that it doesn’t sound very good when you do,” he says slowly, as though that will soften the blow.

“Kick a man while he’s down, why don’t you?” I mumble and toss the rest of the roll in the garbage.

I turn to walk out of the kitchen, but Adam grabs my shoulder. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I thought you knew that’s why we kept turning off your mic.”

I stop, all the pieces finally coming together. Like Mom’s pained smile when I played and sang solos for her. It wasn’t the music she didn’t like. It wasmymusic, specifically.

“I thought my voice carried enough that I didn’t need it.” I’m not ready to admit he’s right, so I try to shrug off his hand and the feeling of shame sinking over me. But Adam forces me to turn around.

“You’re good at a lot of other things. Pretty much everything, really. You’re just notas goodat singing.” He squeezes my shoulder, but his forced smile is the death knell for my dream of being a rock star. “Now tell me what’s got you down.”

He lets his hand drop, and the bacon grease snaps behind him.

“You’d better get that.” I wag my head toward the grill.

“I will. But first tell me what’s wrong.”

“That bacon is going to burn.” My resolve to stay mad is melting fast, and he knows it. And maybe it’s not the worst thing to know the truth. I never loved band practice enough to actually be good, let alone famous.

Adam shrugs. “It’s not as important as what’s got you looking like sad Charlie Brown.”

“I’m not sad.” I look around him at the bacon, as much because I don’t want it to burn as because I don’t want to tell him what’s wrong. I’m not sure I can even put it into words.

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