How to (Not) Date a Popstar |✓|

1.3 Somebody That I Used To Know

"Everything's going to be okay, Q."

Quinn had been green since we left the hotel. "I can't believe I broke that stupid egg—I'm so fucking sorry, Ali. What are we gonna do? I was just kidding when I said I didn't wanna live to see the SATs!"

Yep, we were screwed. And if my aunt found out what happened, she would let Aleksandr and Bortnik kill us, then resurrect us and do it again.

I walked into Aunt Trina's house feeling like I had swallowed a rock. Not even the smell of her mouth-watering spaghetti could distract me from the hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar cloud hanging over my head.

I found my aunt in the kitchen, dancing to Megan Thee Stallion as she stirred the giant pot of sauce simmering on the stove. Aunt Trina was an ER doctor; right now, the only emergency was her dance moves.

Trina liked to joke that the fountain of youth could be found in her wineglass. Ageless, beautiful, our ritualistic skincare routine kept her deep brown skin smooth and glowy; the weekly co-wash kept her spiral curls bright and healthy. She was still in her hospital scrubs, her long, brown curls fastened in a pineapple on top of her head. Nothing was brighter than her hazel eyes and ten carat smile, except maybe the big fat engagement ring sparkling on her finger.

"Hey, Sugar." Trina turned down the music and grabbed a few plates from the cupboard. "You're back early. How did it go with Tyler? Is he in town for good?"

"For good, for evil. With Tyler you just never know." Taking a heavy seat in one of the barstools at the kitchen island, I placed my chin against my fist and sighed.

Trina placed a heaping plate of spaghetti before me. Brows raised, she leaned forward on her elbows, waiting.

I sighed, using my fork to push the garlic bread around my plate. "Things just aren't the way they used to be. It's complicated."

"I think if your mom was here, Amelia would tell you to cut Tyler just a little slack. Tyler's a popstar now. Complicated comes with the territory." Trina grinned. "But not so complicated that you two can't dance at my wedding."

Mouth full of bread, I snorted and rolled my eyes. "Me and Tyler? Dance? At you and Hudson's wedding? It would take a miracle—or, say, a hundred and fifty-grand?"

"Sure. I'll cut you a check." Trina only laughed because she thought I was joking.

Harbor Village isn't skyscrapers and city lights at night. There's no bumper-to-bumper traffic, you can't take the subway to school, and the concerts are usually local bands. But you can take boat rides and hike through the forest. You can always smell the sea, and every sunrise and sunset is a painting.

I was eight when I moved to the Village. I missed New York, I missed my friends—I missed falling asleep to the sounds of trains at night, and waking up to rush hour in the morning. But at least in the Village the gray skies were clear of smog, with no toll booths and boom gates to block the shady, winding streets.

In those first few years, it was just mom and me. We window-shopped in the town square and took pictures by the fountain, where the trees are strung with lights. We drove to the beach and watched sea gulls dip in and out of the blue-green waves as they searched for fish. And sometimes we took a drive down Peach Street, where the Victorian-style homes are painted exquisite shades of cotton candy.

Sometimes mom's younger sister, Trina, would drop by for a family meal. Trina would take me whale-watching at Pointer's Bay or shopping at the square, where she secretly bought all the things mom refused to let me try on. Eventually, Trina introduced us to her boyfriend, Hudson Espinosa, who ran the best auto repair shop in the Village. In the summer, Hudson joined us for snow cones on the pier, and came ice-skating with us during the winter. When I dropped French for Spanish, I learned more from Hudson than I ever did from Profesora Barnes. And because my dad was a deadbeat, Hudson showed up for every father-daughter dance, tournament, and picnic. Life was predictable, until I met Tyler Moore.

Our moms met a few years back, when my mom decided to take up weekly yoga lessons. Mom was a retired ballet dancer, one of the first black prima ballerinas in her dance company. She stopped dancing a few years after I was born, but she always made time to stay active. I thought yoga was boring—too much sitting and standing in one place, but when Monday and Wednesday afternoon rolled around, I was always the first one to the car, a yoga mat tucked under each arm and a backpack supplied with towels and water bottles. We would pick up Aunt Trina, stop for green tea smoothies, and make it to yoga just in time.

Eventually, my mom made friends with a fellow yogi named Madilyn who could bend and contort her body like she was made from elastic. Madilyn invited us to take dance lessons at her studio, Perfect Form. I was sick of yoga, so I figured, why not learn something new?

Under Madilyn's strict but never harsh guidance, I dabbled in ballet and hip-hop, but fell in love with contemporary. Madilyn always said you didn't truly learn a song until you had shed all the blood, sweat, and tears you had left to give. She was right—and I was good. But I didn't put much stock in other people's opinions until I saw Madilyn's son watching me one afternoon.

I was in the studio, practicing to Ain't it Fun by Paramore. It was a free-style dance—there wasn't rhyme or reason to it, except for my obsession with a flawless attitude and the grand jeté. This particular room had blue and purple lights, with floor-to-ceiling walls of glass. It was like dancing in a kaleidoscope. My croisé devant would have been perfect if I hadn't been taken off guard by the boy leaning in the doorway.

I had seen him around. His name was Tyler; he was rude and obnoxious and brooding and he got away with it because his mom ran the studio. It didn't matter that he acted like a jerk and only spoke to me when I had food to share. At school he checked off all the boxes for popularity—he was cute, and funny, and he played a guitar named Lola. Tyler was magnetic without trying, and that day in the studio he was my first real audience.

"You're pretty good," he said, lifting his guitar into the play position. "Can I play while you dance?"

Pretty soon, Tyler wasn't just popping up at the studio, he was dropping by my house with his mom for dinner. Lola came wherever he went, and we'd spend entire afternoons in the backyard, dancing to the songs he wrote. From our mutual interests bloomed a years-long friendship I thought could endure anything. But when fame knocked on Tyler's door, he left the same year as my mother. Colors faded, time slowed, but the world didn't stop. It continued to turn, I continued to dance, but nothing was ever the same.

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