Page 1 of On the Beat

Chapter 1: Ryder Black

LOS ANGELES, JANUARY 2021

I am a walking Venmo ad as I take the few steps up to the porch of the Perez-Holland residence.

Want to avoid hassle, save time, and never see your ex-girlfriend again, but still return the money you kind of stole from her? Say no more! With the Venmo app, you can easily transfer back the seven hundred dollars you spent on a guitar using her credit card.

Yeah, that’s not going to work as an opening speech.

Lifting a hand to knock, I tuck the manila envelope of cash under my right arm, noting the skateboard a few feet from the bay window and the potted palm fronds flanking the door. I try to imagine Leo Perez or Skye on a skateboard. The image never comes.

A brunette teenage girl appears at the door, not alleviating my confusion. Her eyes widen when she sees me. “Are you Ryder Black?”

“I think I have the wrong house,” I say, glancing down at the address that Poppy texted me. I’m at the right house, but who is this girl? “I think I’m just going to…”

“No, wait!” She grabs my hand and forcibly drags me into the house, surprisingly strong for someone who’s nearly a foot shorter than me and has a physique that suggests she survives on iced coffee and saltine crackers. “Did my brother tell you it was my birthday?”

“Uh… maybe?” I scrutinize her face, trying to gauge her resemblance to anyone I know.

“Wait here,” she says. “I’ll be right back. I need you to sign myFor The Recordvinyl!”

I groan, rubbing a hand across my face and readjusting my Lexington Legends baseball cap. “Okay…”

Casting a glance around the room, I try to figure out whether or not this really is Skye and Leo’s house. The decor is sleek and starkly modern: the living room is to my left, with a grey leather couch, made only slightly more cozy by the throw blanket draped over it, a glass-topped table and uncomfortable-looking chairs. The kitchen consists of a white marble island and one of those shiny new stovetops that resemble a set of NASA controls. Nothing screams to me that Leo Perez or Skye Holland lives here, without even a framed family picture on the walls.

I wouldn’t put it past my sister to trick me, especially considering we’re in a fight right now and I have no idea how or if it’ll end. Maybe Poppy just gave me the wrong address as a prank, and this is the house of a crazed Ryder Black fangirl who is going to cut off a lock of my hair and clone me. Actually, it might be convenient to have a clone of myself. Maybe I could use it to sing harmonies with me. Though is a clone of myself anitor ahim?

The teenage girl comes running back down the stairs before I can consider cloning myself. She thrusts a Sharpie and a vinyl record cover towards me. “Here.”

I uncap the sharpie with my teeth. If this girl really is a Ryder Black fan, I might as well give her a personalized signature. “What’s your name?”

“Raina Aguilar,” she says, before spelling it out. “R-A-I-N-”

“Raina,” says a vaguely familiar voice. “Who is this, and what are you doing?”

I look up from the signature and lock eyes with Leo Perez, my former boss, record exec at Volume Records, and the guy who’s married to my ex-girlfriend. He’s standing in the middle of the hall, clad in a suit and tie like he’s about to go to the office. Well, it is eight in the morning on a Tuesday. “Leo. Hey. I was just signing this for your… cousin?”

He clears his throat. “My little sister. Raina, were you never taught about stranger danger or do you just let anybody wander into our house?”

They look more alike, now, with the same brown hair and a similar way of moving I remember now that Leo is the son of Antonio Perez, the now-jailed filmmaker, and that his mother remarried. Raina must be the product of that relationship.

“He’s not a stranger, hermano major. I know exactly who he is,” Raina argues. “I’ve been toallof his concerts.”

“What are you doing here, Ryder?” Leo asks, ignoring his sister’s protests. “And Raina, maybe you should get your head checked, because if you think that it’s okay to let someone into your house just because you’ve been to their concert before, you’re losing it.”

I finish signing the record. “Did I spell that correctly, Raina?”

“Yes, thank you,” she says. “I think you should make another song likeThought You Hated Me. No offence, but your newer stuff has kind of… flopped.”

“Any other constructive feedback you have for me?” I say drily. My molars grind together.

“Yeah,” she says, pulling out her phone and opening what looks like the Notes app. “I have a whole list. Number one: You should’ve made a music video forNot That Drunk. Two: tell your record label to promote you more. Three: Stop singing songs written by other people. Start singing songs that you wrote yourself, likeThought You—”

I’m torn between jotting down her “feedback” and leaving, money be damned. I came here to move pastThought You Hated Meand the drama of my first album, not have the past dredged up like a rotting corpse exhumed for a postmortem.

Thankfully, Leo Perez prevents either from happening. “Raina, I’d like to talk to Ryder, alone.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Raina gathers her things and slinks off. “Thanks, Ryder! If you want more feedback, drop by anytime.”

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