Page 37 of On the Beat

“Paulo told me to call you and tell you dinner’s ready,” Eddie chirps. “You didn’t answer my question,TitoRyder.”

“Isla was helping me treat my sunburn.” I clear my throat, unsure of why my voice has suddenly reached the same pitch it did during puberty.

“You looked like you were going to kiss her.” Eddie looks between the two of us, nodding to himself like our momentary silence is proving him right. It’s a good thing I’m already sunburned, or my face would betray me.

“He wasn’t going to kiss me,” Isla says. “Not in a million years.”

“My mom says—” Eddie pauses. “She said it’s wrong to lie.”

“We’re not lying,” I say, standing from the bed, capping the aloe vera gel and putting it on the dresser. I wipe off my shorts and cross the small room to reach him. “Come on, let’s go to dinner.”

Eddie looks unimpressed. I’m not lying, technically, because Isla and I were not about to kiss. We arenevergoing to kiss. Not in a million years, just like she said.

So what is the lump forming in my chest, telling me that I’m deceiving someone?

Chapter 18: Ryder Black

Blinding lights flash on the stage of the venue, hundreds of people filling the seats in the auditorium. Onstage, a popular Filipino boy band, SB19, performs a song calledSLMT, which Isla told me is short forSalamat, meaning thank you.

I watch as they perform a perfectly synchronized dance routine, reminding me of popular K-pop groups.

Almost as if reading my mind, as I watch the impressive choreography and hair flips, Isla whispers, “A Korean company trained them for three years before they debuted.”

Nodding, I fiddle with the strap of my guitar, not ready to put it on yet. “Cool.”

If she notices my nervousness-induced fidgeting mixed with the one-word answer, Isla doesn’t mention it. For once, I wish she would. I wish she would prove that she knows something about me—that she’s the one person on this stage who knows me at all. She’s not a comforting presence. But she is someone who I might at the very least consider an acquaintance–or a forced roommate–and that has to count for something.

I take another swig of water and keep pacing the dressing room. In the corner, a TV broadcasts a live stream of the event.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. This isn’t a concert where people are coming to seeme—they’re here to support charities and orphanages and look philanthropic. The same reason I’m here.

So why is sweat soaking the underarms of my shirt?

“Are you nervous?” A frown knits Isla’s brows together as she glances up from her phone and at me.

“No,” I say, the word rushing out, lost in a scoff. I should be an old pro at this, so my answer should be true. Yet it isn’t.

“Kay,” she says, mimicking my one-syllable answer like she doesn’t believe me.

In thirty minutes, I’m going to perform the original song I wrote for this concert, along with a duet with one of the most popular Pinoy pop singers, KZ. Sucking in a deep breath, I list off reasons not to be nervous, hoping that logic will help me where my body seems to be yelling at me to be anxious.

1: Nobody will care if I mess up.

Immediately, my brain tells me this is an enormous lie, since the concert is being televised, tickets are selling for a thousand dollars apiece, and… Isla is watching. She’ll know if I mess up.

Okay, I need a better reason.

2: This is a performance for charity, not the X-Factor.

Even when I was onAmerica’s Got Talent, I didn’t feel this anxious. I take a swig of water, swishing it around my mouth to get rid of the sour taste of my dinner:sinigang,a faintly citrusy soup.

3: It’s just two songs. Not a whole concert.

But I realize that the more I retrace my steps in the tiny dressing room, the more I’m reminded of my last concert, nearly a month ago. The one in Houston, the night that collapsed the wreckage of my already-shattered life.

Even if this is nothing like that performance… it feels far too much like it.

Just as I’m trying to find a fourth reason not to worry about my performance, the door to the dressing room bursts open. A wide-eyed, panicked staffer runs in, doubled over with his hands on his knees, and says, panting, “KZ can’t make it to sing the duet.”

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