Page 33 of Can’t Say No

The way she chews on her lower lip, the little twinkle in her eyes… she’s excited.

This is the first time Delaney has talked about her work with anything close to enthusiasm.

I happily take the bait.

“New album? Got any samples I can listen to?”

As a reply, she whips her phone out and pops one ear bud in her ear before handing me the other one.

“This is a rough, rough cut. You're sworn to secrecy, and if it sucks, don’t tell me.”

The bus purrs to life as the track begins to play. At first, it’s hard to hear over the hum of the engine, but then it hits me.

A slow, soulful melody with an almost jazzy beat to it. Delaney’s voice is gritty and sultry, a far cry from the bubblegum pop she’s known for.

She watches me while nibbling nervously on her bottom lip.

“Delaney, this is…”

She cuts me off. “It’s so rough, I know. I just recorded it on my phone with my little keyboard at home. You can tell me if you hate it, just be nice about it.” Her fingers twist together anxiously in her lap.

I reach for her hands, smoothing them out in my palms, trying to unravel some of her self-doubt.

“Delaney, this is incredible. I’ve never heard you sound this…” I search for the right word. Sexy? Raw? Genuine? My English degree is suddenly useless, every word in my vocabulary falling short.

I land on, “I’ve never heard you sound so much like yourself.”

A smile erupts across her face.

“That’s what I was going for. Stripped down, a little funky. I’m sure it’ll never make it on an album, but I love it. I’ve got a few others I’ve been working on. Want to hear?”

“Of course, Lanie. I want to hear everything.”

So we sit like that for the next hour, sharing headphones and leaning into each other, looking more like students than chaperones.

I always knew she was talented, you don’t get where she is without a huge heaping of natural ability, but these new songs solidify it for me. And prove that her current management is holding her back.

This whole stunt, sending her to back to Ridgecrest to play the girl-next-door dating the fucking English teacher is ridiculous. Insulting, honestly. It’s so obvious to me that she’s outgrown the narrow path she’s been forced to walk for years.

I’m about to tell her as much when the bus pulls off the interstate into a rest stop.

“This is a ten-minute stop,” Mrs. Crane rasps over the speaker. “And you are accountable for your seat-mate. We're going with the buddy system, people.”

She hangs the microphone up and turns to face us.

“You two post up outside the bathrooms and make sure nothing funny is going on.”

As we file off the bus, Delaney elbows my side. “Crane looks terrified. Does she really think these kids are gonna try to get freaky in a rest stop bathroom?”

I shake my head with a smirk. “That poor lady. Working with teens has traumatized her.”

Mrs. Crane, head on a swivel, ushers everyone towards the big brick building and points for us to take our stations by the restroom doors.

It’s totally ridiculous, and maybe under different circumstances, I would be annoyed. But as Delaney makes ridiculous faces at me from across the breezeway, I’m starting to realize that I’d happily do just about anything with her.

It’s fully dark by the time the bus rolls to a stop outside of the lodge.

The senior choir has been coming here for decades, long before Mrs. Crane took over the program. There’s an old-school mountain lodge with log siding, smaller cabins, and chalets dotting the property. It’s picturesque, even at night.