Table Of ContentWhat if your devastating breakup became this summer’s hit single? In this
rock-and-roll retelling of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, music can either bring
you together or tear you apart.
At her dying mother’s request, Claire dumps Jared, the only boy she’s ever
loved. Left with a broken family and a broken heart, Claire is furious when she
discovers that her biggest regret became Jared’s big break. While Jared is
catapulted into rock-star status, another piece of Claire’s heart crumbles every
time his song plays on the radio.
The summer after her senior year, it’s been months since the big breakup, and
Claire is just trying to keep her head down and make it through a tense trip to the
beach with her family. But when Jared shows up, and old feelings reignite, can
Claire and Jared let go of the past? Or will they be stuck singing the same old
refrain?
Another Little
Piece of My Heart
Tracey Martin
About the Author
Tracey Martin lives in New Hampshire with her husband. Though always a
voracious reader, it wasn’t until studying psychology in graduate school that she
realized imaginary people were way more fun than real ones. She’s been writing
stories ever since. Her first novel for adults, Wicked Misery, was published by
Samhain in 2013. Another Little Piece of My Heart is her YA debut. You can
visit her online at www.tracey-martin.com or follow her on Twitter:
@TA_Martin.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Claire’s Summer Survival Playlist
Chapter One
Some people are like a venereal disease. Not that I know what one is like
firsthand, thanks, but I did have to sit through health class. My point is, these
people are the product of a moment of fun in your past, a wild and crazy passion
that you look back on with longing and regret. And just when you think they’re
gone for good, they return to irritate the hell out of you.
Jared Steele is one of those people.
Down the hallway, someone turns on the radio, and Jared’s soulful voice drifts
through my bedroom doorway:
Daddy’s girl, was that red Miata the price of your heart?
You know you can’t—
“Off! Turn it off!” I put my hands over my ears as Kristen runs over and slams
my bedroom door shut.
Slumping against my bed, I glimpse the key to my red Miata, which is
currently parked in the garage. My nails dig into my palms as I wait for the surge
of rage to pass.
It’s not as though Jared’s ever said “Daddy’s Girl”—or any of the other anti-
love songs on his hugely successful album—is about me. At least not publicly. I
know this because although I try to avoid the hundreds of interviews he’s given,
somehow I manage to read them all. But among those of us Jared left behind in
southern Connecticut, the truth is a much-whispered but never-confirmed rumor.
I’m Jared’s “Daddy’s Girl,” and he got the ultimate revenge, with whipped
cream, sprinkles and several Grammy nominations on top.
Asshat.
For good measure, Kristen yells at my sister and her friends to keep it down.
As for me, I take a deep breath and pick up my guitar. I need to clear my head or
distract myself. Both if I can manage it.
“So, Claire.” Kristen coughs in an exaggerated fashion, trying to pretend the
last thirty seconds didn’t happen. “About this new song of yours.”
This is why she’s awesome and my best friend.
Unfortunately, I am not so awesome. After a few minutes of plucking away at
an alleged melody, I let out a small scream and bang my head against the
footboard. “It’s not coming together. I suck.”
Kristen hits me with one of my slippers. “How long have you been working
on it—two days? Give it time. This is about your mom. You can’t just pluck a
tune out of thin air.”
“Some people can.” Some people. Meaning Jared. I have memories of sitting
on the floor of his bedroom while he provided soundtracks to our conversations.
Even his random nonsense could be amazing.
Groaning, I set the guitar down and throw myself on my bed in despair.
Kristen points a finger at me in an aha kind of way. “You and your mother
were a case study in the tangled knots of love and power struggles. Maybe you
can’t write a song about being twisted up in your emotions because you’re still
too twisted up in your emotions to write clearly?”
I hug my down comforter. “First of all, ‘a tangled knot of love and power
struggles’? That doesn’t even make sense. Second of all, twisted is the point.
That should help the song be honest or something.”
Kristen goes back to uploading the video she took of my band, Stabbing
Shakespeare, to our website. “Honesty is good, but maybe the song’s too heavy.
Why not stick to the I-hate-Jared tunes? You honestly kick ass at those.”
“Aren’t they getting old?”
“A classic ‘Jared Steele sucks lime-green donkey balls’ tune will never get
old. Not with me. And as your manager, you should take my advice. Stabbing
Shakespeare is all about the ‘Jared Steele sucks.’”
I slide off the bed and grab my guitar again. “You’re our manager now? I
thought you were my therapist.” Actually, Kristen’s father is a psychologist, but
she’s been reading his books for years. She claims it’s to help me survive my
post-Jared high school life without gratuitous amounts of bloodshed.
“The best managers are probably both.” Kristen presses a couple buttons on
my laptop. “Ta-da! Here we are, from last week’s talent show.”
I brace myself as I watch, but Kristen’s right—Stabbing Shakespeare kicks
ass, especially on those driving I-hate-Jared songs. But that doesn’t mean we
don’t have room to improve.
As she gleefully points out the audience reaction, I concentrate on our
performance. The sound is crappy, thanks to Kristen shooting the video on her
phone, but even so I can hear how we rushed through the beginning of our first
song until our nerves calmed down. So typical.
I turn my attention next to my band members, looking for ways we could
improve our visual performance, too. We’re an odd mix. Tiny Alex is lost
behind her drums in the auditorium’s poor lighting, but Nate is jumping all over
the place, a crazy ball of energy with his bass. Erica, in contrast, serenely strums
away, lost in her playing. Every now and then I peek at myself, stuck between
away, lost in her playing. Every now and then I peek at myself, stuck between
Erica and Nate, pretending I have the charisma and stage presence to pull off this
act.
I’m pretty sure I don’t. I’m the front person for the band only by default.
Yet despite these flaws, I know we’re good. Really good. Too good to just
play at stupid school talent shows or at drunken parties. Good enough that I am
determined that one day, one of the songs I write about Jared will get as much
play as his songs about me. Only unlike his nasty breakup songs, my songs will
be truthful. After all, the truths I have on Jared are so scathing that I don’t need
to make up lies about him.
Speaking of which, for the record, I did not dump Jared for a new car. That’s
just the most blatant lie on his stupid lying album.
The video ends abruptly and Kristen closes the laptop. “Not bad.”
I bite my lip. Kristen might make an excellent wannabe therapist, but she
doesn’t have a trained ear like I do. She didn’t notice how Erica’s high E was
slightly flat, or how Alex skipped a beat during the intro, or how I timed my
breath badly on the bridge and couldn’t extend the vocals long enough.
She doesn’t want to notice, either. She wants to be our cheerleader, which is
yet another reason she rocks and why I need her around. I can be critical enough
for both of us. But we will never, ever excel if I’m not. Never, ever be able to
compete with Jared.
It’s ridiculous of me to even try. I know. What are the odds of two musicians
from the same small town both making it to superstar status? My band will never
catch up to him, yet I can’t shake the dream. The sting of his success is all the
more painful since it comes at my expense.
But I’ve been over this territory so often that talking about it bores even me,
and I soften my thoughts so Kristen doesn’t start on me about the perils of
perfectionism. “No, it wasn’t bad, but we can always improve. And I still think
we need new, quality material. We’ve been playing mostly the same songs since
Erica and I started the band. We’re not going to get better if we don’t stretch
ourselves.”
I don’t know when I turned into my piano teacher, but that’s what she always
says whenever she challenges me with more difficult pieces. It frustrated me
when I was younger, but I get it now.
On that thought, my fingers crawl back to their respective frets, trying to work
through this mother-daughter song again.
Kristen chucks the other slipper at me. So much for hiding my thoughts.
“Okay, Ms. Morose, let it go. Have you considered that maybe the one-year
anniversary of your mother’s death is not the best time to be working on a song
