Page 48 of On the Beat

“Um… no reason.” Gloria tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, reminding me of Poppy when we were younger. One time, she broke our great-grandmother’s china and blamed it on River. Our mother believed her, too. “Girl stuff.”

I rest my head on the back of my chair and stare at the ceiling.

For Isla, I guess I’ll endure this much.

Chapter 23: Isla Romero

A week after the semi-disastrous family dinner that ended with me having a bruise on my shin from Gloria, who insisted that I tell my parents therealidentity of my fake boyfriend, I find myself completely alone in a recording studio with Ryder.

“I’m not a human sounding board,” I say, straddling the piano bench. Ryder sits on the other end, his guitar between us. A bright blue sticker with an image of a skateboard on it is stuck to the wood, standing out against the grains. I think Eddie gave it to him. “I actually have a job, you know.”

“Consider this an exclusive interview,” Ryder says, strumming a few chords.

How do I tell him that that’s exactly what I came to El Nido for? “Because I’m sure all the readers atVanity Fairhave such a vested interest in your music.”

Ryder doesn’t reply, humming a melody instead. His hair falls onto his forehead and I have the strangest urge to brush it away.

I donotlike musicians. I amanti-musicians. They get girls for no better reason than singing a few lines of someone else’s writing into a microphone and happening to be onstage while they do it. Their groupies and hangers-on are clearly misguided, and most of them make music not because they love it, but for a desperate, clutching attempt at fame. Even if I’m fake-dating a musician right now, it’sfakefor a reason.

“Do you have anything better to do?”

I cast an eye around the recording studio, which is strangely empty of furniture besides the piano, its bench, and one rolling chair by the mixing booth, which is currently unoccupied. “I guess not.”

Ryder strums another chord. His calloused fingers produce a vaguely familiar song as they move over the strings.

My eyebrows rise. “Is thatChristmas In Our Hearts?”

The popular Filipino Christmas song has been playing nonstop in malls and probably in my parents’ apartment, too, since September, so it shouldn’t surprise me that he would know it.

“Yes, and?”

“Nothing.” I shrug. My fingers dig into the tufted bench, sinking into the plush fabric. Ryder crosses one leg over the other, balancing his ankle on his knee in the way that guys always sit. Every time I tried to maneuver into that position, when I was little, mimicking my brothers, it felt foreign and unbalanced. “I just didn’t realize you knew it.”

He looks like he wants to say something before stopping himself. “Let’s play a game.”

I can do games. Competitions. Contests. I once won a lifetime’s supply of butterbeer at a Harry Potter trivia night, and I didn’t even like the stuff; I just liked competing. So his suggestion lulls me into familiar, comfortable territory, steering us away from the craggy rocks and uncharted waters of… whatever might happen between us. Something not so fake, and all too real. “What’s the game?”

“I play something, and you rate it out of five.”

“That seems a little one-sided. What are the stakes?”

“If I get four stars and you can repeat it on the piano, I’ll answer one of your questions.”

“Only four? Aim higher.”

“You’re a harsh critic,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “I’m worried I’ll only get ones and zeros.”

“You’d be right about the first part,” I say. “Fine. Let’s play your game.”

Ryder plays some chords. I fix my gaze on the palm trees swaying outside as he sings, “I’m calling you up for the hundredth time, / And I don’t know why I’m like this.”

“Two stars,” I say, fingers ghosting over the keys in the same pattern as his voice. “If it’s the hundredth time, I think you should know by now.”

“As I said, you’re a harsh critic.”

“Who’s it about?”

“No one in particular.” He shrugs. “Let’s go again.I’m calling you up for the hundredth time, / Clicking on your picture out of habit / Or maybe out of spite…”

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