Don't Blame the Music by Caroline B. Cooney Page A

than Shepherd, or Emily, or Jeffrey, I thought, and my face burned with embarrassment. Looking away from him, feeling supremely stupid, caught between my crush and the yearbook, I said, “We could cut a record. Record each rock group, the marching band, the concert choir, and the Madrigals. Bind a slip pocket into the yearbook to hold it. We’d be the only yearbook in the nation with a record in it.”
    Whit frowned.
    Embarrassment had the effect of making it impossible to look at him anymore. I dropped my chin and stared at the linoleum. If things progressed along their usual route, I would now start to cry.
    Great.
    Half the Wet Duet performs again in public.
    â€œSusan,” said Whit, “that’s a fantastic idea.” He took both my shoulders and shook me a little, excited. A grin spread across his face. It went right into me, like an electrical charge of friendship. Cindy was right. Whit had potential.
    â€œâ€™Course,” he added, frowning again, “it would be expensive. But then, this is a rich town. People can afford an expensive yearbook. And if Emily’s all she’s cracked up to be, the advertising will carry it anyhow.”
    â€œThen you’ll help me?” I said.
    He nodded. “Person you have to talk to is Luce. He and Carmine have been looking into making their own record. They want to stay in rock music.”
    â€œYou mean you don’t?” I said.
    â€œNah. I don’t care about the band.”
    I couldn’t believe it. He had had a taste of success and he didn’t want to follow through?
    Whit grinned. From the way he smiled down at me I actually thought he was going to kiss me, and I had time to think that yes, I wanted that, and yes, he was worth kissing—but he rocked back on his heels. “Some people want an audience,” he said. “I guess your sister was like that. That’s what she wanted for her birthday and for Christmas and everything else. An audience.”
    I stared at him. It explained so much! It wasn’t just fame that Ashley craved, it was the audience itself: people applauding her performances. Even an audience of three—us, her family—meant somebody watching her. She didn’t care if they liked it. They just had to watch.
    I suddenly understood one reason why my parents blocked her way. They didn’t think she ought to have an audience. A sweet girl doesn’t take center stage. It wasn’t the electric guitar or the wild dancing they objected to—it was their daughter before an audience.
    But why not? I thought. What’s wrong with it? Why couldn’t she have that? Out loud I said, “Why don’t you want an audience, Whit?”
    â€œI did at first. Then I found out that listening is more fun than performing. Plus, I like money. I’m going into construction with my father. Rock music is no way to earn a living.” He laughed. “I guess I don’t have to tell Ashley’s sister that.”
    I’m Ashley’s sister, I thought. Not Susan. I want an audience too, I guess. People who applaud me, not lose their thoughts to my sister. “You do think the record’s a good idea then?” I said.
    â€œYes. And remember what I said about Shepherd. Don’t let her know about this. You and I will meet Carmine and Luce to get a few details. Check with the record company they’re dealing with. Prices. Numbers. You need a real report for the yearbook meeting. Neat little folders and columns and stuff. That’s Shepherd’s kind of thing. But don’t tell a single other person about your idea. Shepherd would love to do you in.”
    â€œI’m not sure why,” I said.
    Whit laughed. “Sure you are. Sweet suave Anthony glanced in your direction and successful sultry Shepherd can’t stand it.”
    I began to laugh. It was so neat to think that Whit had watched, and understood, and cared.
    â€œKeep laughing, kid,”