Page 70 of Make The Cut

She wiggles her fingers in the air. “I’m really more of an amateur knitter. I was surprised Naoya wore the scarf at all.”

“Of course, I needed it to match my hair.”

Mitchell clears his throat. “Moving on, another fan wants to know…How did the feud between Ryder and Naoya begin?”

“How much time do we have?” I joke.

“Isn’t there a whole section about your feuds on Wikipedia?” Poppy says.

“There’s a section forallof my relationships on Wikipedia,” I say, trying to divert attention away from the topic of her brother. Who still doesn’t know about us and will probably pound his fist into my skull if he finds out.

“Funny, I don’t remember seeing myself on your Wikipedia page.”

“That’s because we’re just friends.”Unless you want to tell everyone we’re dating on this YouTube livestream, right now.

I want to hold her hand and proclaim to the world that I’m in love with Poppy Black.

But I’ll have to settle for staring at her for longer than necessary while she does that cute thing of flipping the charm on her necklace back and forth, or tucks her hair behind one ear and reveals the birthmark right under her chin.

“Next question.Why is Naoya Sugawa so hot yet so bad at picking outfits?”

“All of this—” I gesture vaguely to my torso, “shouldn’t be covered up. It’s a crime.”

“What’s acrimeis your fashion sense.” Poppy pokes my ribs with her elbow.

Mitchell clears his throat. “And that’s all the time we have for today, guys, thank you for sending in your questions! Naoya will see you again for the final episode ofMake The Cut, airing this Friday.”

* * *

One week later, I’m in the recording studio with Ryder. He’s sitting at the piano, playing random chords until one of them “clicks” with him. He told me that’s his usual writing process, but it kind of makes me want to throw my piano out of a window.

Meanwhile, I’m brainstorming lyrics. In my blue songwriting notebook, I jot down snippets and verses that come to me, which I guess is a lot like his piano chord method.

“That’s the one,” Ryder says suddenly. “I’ve found the right chord combinations.”

He plays a melody on the keyboard, veering into an angsty sound since it’s a minor, with an augmented fourth thrown in.

“Not bad. Now we just need to put it all together.” I scribble down one last lyric and start singing. “I don’t know if I can make the cut, because—“

“Really? Make the cut? More advertising for your talent show?”

I snort. “I thought we agreed on a truce.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t disagree with your lyrics. What else do you have?” He gestures for me to show him the notebook.

I jerk it back instinctively. No one reads my song lyric notebooks, usually, except for co-writers and collaborators. I guess Ryder now falls in both of those categories, which is a prospect I’ve never considered before. “Here.”

He scans the lyrics. “That’s not so bad. How about this? I’ll write the first verse, you write the second, and we can collaborate on the chorus.”

I nod. “Sounds good.”

I feel like I’m in high school again, collaborating on a group project.

Only this time, the teacher isn’t going to assign us a grade. Our song’s status will be determined by the raving fans or booing crowd at the Grammys. No pressure.

Just as Ryder half-sings, half-plays his way through a few lines, I hear someone hammering on the door. I frown. Who could be coming over now? I rack my mind and check my phone. We’ve been in the studio for two hours but time has flown by and made it feel more like five minutes, as though the recording studio has managed to turn into a time machine.

I’m outside with your outfit for the Grammys. Let me in.

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