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Angie gets thrown into the deep end of the music industry and goes head to head with a sexy new boy.see full description
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High school senior Angie isn’t usually a secretive person, but when her idol launches a songwriting competition which her mother forbids her from entering, Angie decides to do it anyway. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity... possibly her lucky break into the music industry.
When Angie meets Nevada, who has an extraordinary voice, she’s convinced that they’ll win if they work together. But Tennessee, Nevada’s older brother, is wary of Nevada’s friendship with Angie—especially when he learns about the contest.
Can Angie convince Tennessee that she’s interested in his family for the right reasons—or will her dream of becoming a songwriter crumble before her eyes?
“You mind if I play you something I wrote?” I ask.
“You wrote a song?”
I nod. “Mona Stone’s holding a songwriting competition. Not only will she make the winner’s song the title track of her new record, but the winner also gets royalties.”
“And it’s open to everyone? You don’t need to be eighteen?”
I shake my head. “I was going to suggest you write something.”
“That’s an original way to get fresh music,” she mutters.
“It could be my lucky break.”
June shoots me a pained look.
I shrug. “I know. I know. Thousands of people are going to submit something to this contest, but a girl can dream, right?”
She lowers her gaze. “Why don’t you play me your song?”
June walks over to the window and sits on the edge of the teal chaise Steffi bought at a flea market. Steffi loves home décor almost as much as Mom.
I take a rickety breath and press my fingers against the cool black and ivory keys. And then I let the music flow out of me. Although I’ve played it dozens of times, the melody still sounds foreign to me, like something someone else would have written. Not a seventeen-year-old wannabe. My fingers speed up right before hitting the chorus, then the rhythm slows, churns, turns almost languid, before picking up again. By the time I finish, June is no longer sitting on the chaise. She’s standing behind me, watching my fingers intently.
“You wrote this?”
I look up at her. “Is it any good?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t trust what I think.”
“That was spectacular.”
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