Date With A Rockstar Read Free Page B

the back of my throat, tasting like bile. Being nervous is normal and so what if I lied. A tripod on wheels rolls through the door.
    â€œWhat would you do with the prize money?”
    â€œI would use it to help fund my college education.” I knew they’d ask that. Lucky I was prepared for that one. I mean, donating to charity might be a better response, but that might sound more like a lie.
    The interviewer nods along. “What do you like about Jeremy Bane’s music?”
    â€œThe quiet,” I answer without thinking. The desk guy frowns at my answer, likely wondering if he made a mistake putting me on camera. My hands tremble as I grip them together in my lap.
You can do this.
“I mean the mental quiet. When I listen, everything else in my life shuts off. I only hear the beat, the strange noises weaving with Jeremy’s voice. Nothing more. No worries, no desires. Just quiet.” I glance up and thecameraman wheels closer. The lens whirs as he zooms in on my face. How many people are behind the glass?
    â€œHow long have you liked Jeremy?”
    The obvious answer is forever, but I don’t say that. Every girl will say a variation of
that.
“Well, I don’t know if I like him yet. I’ve never spent any time with him. So I only know that he’s attractive and talented.” Ha, I sound good.
    â€œWhen you imagine kissing Jeremy Bane, what location do you envision?”
    The swimsuit cover photo of
Riffs and Reefs
magazine pops into my head. Smooth and bare-chested Jeremy, kneeling in the water, holding a guitar over his head. Memorable. He’s definitely cute enough to kiss, but as soon as I imagine my lips on his perfect skin, I remember I’m contagious.
    The interviewer clears his throat. “Um, a vacation spot.”
    I tuck my hair behind my ears. The idea of kissing Jeremy Bane chokes me. Spreading my diseased saliva all over my favorite musician is a definite no. I fold my lips in. My heart beats in my ears. I’ve never kissed anyone, and unless I come up with a bunch of money, I never will. The guys in my social class can’t afford the vaccine any more than I can afford the cure. If I chance the results, I might mark them for life, or lead them to their death. Then I’d feel so guilty I’d have to try to come up with even more money for medical treatment for them. I couldn’t live with that guilt. Kissing’s not worth it. The whole thing makes me sick. Maybe Jeremy’s had the vaccine. But it isn’t one hundred percent effective, and how would I be able to ask if he’s gotten it without tipping him off to my diseased status?
    â€œYou do want to kiss him, don’t you?” The guy chuckles a little.
    I can’t speak. What lie do I tell to make him stop asking me this question? The camera wheels closer. Please leave me alone. Another hiccup hits me. I try to swallow and say something, but I gag instead. Shit. I jump up and spots float in front of my face. “I’m going to be sick,” I try to mumble as I snatch up my bag and bury my face in it as I run to the door.
    â€œDown the hall to the right!” the interviewer yells as the door closes behind me. I bang into the bathroom and barely make it into one of the stalls. My stomach empties and tears plop down into the mess. It takes a minute for the disaster my interview just became to sink in. I flush away the evidence of my failure and sit back on my heels in front of the disgusting toilet. I ruined my one chance. After all that waiting in line, I blow it in front of the camera. Minutes pass as I weep in disbelief. I suck. I dig in my bag for breath mints or some reminder of my real life. The stale crust of my vitamin spread sandwich makes me feel worse. Nice reminder.
    There’s a knock on the door. “Hey, are you all right in there?” Oh, great. They’ve sent someone to make sure I’m not dying.
    â€œYeah, I’ll just be