Steel Strings (The Chameleon Effect) Read online

  Steel Strings

  A Chameleon Effect Novel

  Alex Hayes

  Steel Strings

  A big dream. A hot guy. And a very wicked sister.

  Brianna Jones dreams of bringing music to the world via orchestral instruments fashioned out of recycled materials. But she must keep her project secret from her half-sister, whose mission in life is to destroy everything Brianna holds dear.

  Marek Lakewood is one of the few guys who sees Brianna for whom she really is and has admired her from afar for years. But he’s never been a risk-taker, not since his father was killed on a black diamond ski slope.

  When a physics project lands Marek in Brianna’s sphere, he finds himself taking bigger and bigger risks, and discovers Brianna’s life and aspirations are far more complicated than he ever imagined.

  Music gives soul to the universe.

  — Plato

  For all the world’s musicians.

  Books by Alex Hayes

  THE CHAMELEON EFFECT SERIES

  Silken Scales (Book 1)

  Perfect Pitch (Book 2)

  Siren Song (Book 3)

  Treble Clef (Book 4)

  The Golden Thread (Tie-in Novella)

  Steel Strings (Tie-in Novel)

  Foreword

  Steel Strings is the story of a girl who dreams of bringing musical instruments to impoverished children around the world.

  Brianna’s project to make recycled instruments was inspired by the Recycled Orchestra of Cateura in Paraguay, a group that plays orchestral instruments constructed entirely out of recycled materials.

  To learn more about the Recycled Orchestra of Cateura, search for them online or watch their documentary film: “Landfill Harmonic: A Symphony of the Human Spirit.”

  Alex Hayes

  December 2019

  Prologue

  TEN YEARS EARLIER

  If I lived in a parallel universe, maybe I wouldn’t have taken the bait. Maybe I wouldn’t have found myself behind the wheel of a car, barreling down a hill, straight for a white pine. Maybe my life would’ve been different.

  I wish.

  But this is my universe. My life. My problem.

  Mom had parked her SUV—an early Christmas gift from Dad—at the top of the driveway, making it easier to load party supplies. Sunlight glinted off the shiny black paint and the vehicle’s tinted windows.

  Except for a few icy patches, the sun had melted most of yesterday’s snow off the tarmac, leaving behind a steep rectangle of blacktop. On either side, the landscape remained hidden under a layer of pure white, all the way down to the plowed street.

  “Let’s drive!” my sister shouted. Two years older, she was always telling me what to do. Being my eighth birthday didn’t win me any slack. If anything, it made her meaner. “Race you!” Deya launched herself toward the front passenger door.

  With a squeal, I sped around to the driver’s side, party dress flapping. Clambering into the front seat, I slid into place and buckled up before she could shove me out of the victory throne.

  Deya slithered into the front passenger seat—she was still skinny back then—and punched me in the arm, but the pain was worth it.

  My day; my turn.

  While I pretended to steer, she produced a key and slipped it into the ignition.

  “What are you doing?” Messing with the key wasn’t smart.

  Mom would be ticked. Not that she ever got mad at Deya. That’s why my sister was so cocky. She got away with pretty much anything.

  “We need music if we’re going for a ride.” She turned the key and the console screen lit. “Mm, let’s see.”

  “Pick something I like.”

  She huffed. “Uh, why?”

  “Because it’s my birthday.”

  “No, it’s my birthday, so I get to choose.” She mimicked a whine I wasn’t making and pressed buttons until a pop station came on. “Yeah,” she murmured, “I like this song…” “Chasing Pavement” by Adele.

  “I’m so sick of that one.” This time my whine was genuine. It was my birthday, and I should’ve been allowed to choose. I reached for the tuner.

  Deya swatted my hand. “You’re supposed to be driving. Pay attention to the road!” She thumped me in the arm again.

  “Ow!” I turned my eyes back to the driveway.

  “This one’s the windshield wiper.” Deya flipped a switch.

  “Stop. It’s not raining.” I tried to work out how to turn off the wiper blades.

  Meanwhile Deya had cranked the music until the bass shook the windows and door panels. She shouted something I couldn’t hear, then jumped out and slammed the door.

  Ignoring the wipers still sweeping the windshield, I stretched for the dial, but Adele faded out before I reached it. Something inside the SUV clicked to a double beat. I looked around, not sure what the sound meant.

  Huffing, I turned back to the windshield. The driveway was moving.

  No, not the driveway—the car.

  Keri Hilson’s “Knock You Down” intruded, so loud it drowned out my shrieks.

  The music banged the walls and my eardrums. I couldn’t think.

  “Deya! How do I stop this thing?”

  I was eight years old. I didn’t know where the emergency brake was; I didn’t know there was such a thing.

  Our driveway was straight and steep, and directly across the street stood an enormous pine.

  “That old tree’s gotta be two hundred, easy,” Dad once said.

  A swish of brown moved across the rearview mirror, but there wasn’t time to work out what it was.

  I wrenched at the door; it wouldn’t open. My hands shook as I groped at the buttons, trying to find the lock release, while panic had turned my fingers numb.

  I pressed a switch and the window slid down. Triumph. “Help!”

  My head spun, but there was no one in sight.

  Stop the car, Brianna! Stop the car!

  I slid down the leather seat, tried to reach the pedals with the tips of my red-sequined party shoes, but my legs were too short and the seatbelt held me back.

  I’d buckled up like I was supposed to, like Dad always told me. Great thinking, Brianna.

  With a cry, I pulled at the door again. One of the buttons had to unlock it.

  The car rolled, picking up speed like a log on a water coaster heading for the big splash. Except this was going to be a big Crash!

  Then I saw them, an older lady pushing a purple stroller along the sidewalk. She was feet from the bottom of the drive.

  If I didn’t stop the car, I’d hit them.

  “Look out!” I wailed.

  The lady froze as the car barreled toward her on a collision course.

  “Look out!” I screeched.

  That last shout revived her. Blinking, she jumped backward, pulling the stroller with her.

  I looked the other way and screamed. A blue van zoomed along the street.

  The SUV streaked across the road right in front of the other vehicle. Brakes squealed. I shrieked.

  The shiny black hood of Mom’s new SUV met the massive silver-gray trunk and buckled. I felt the shock wave, heard the crunch and the airbag’s explosion. My head snapped back. White flashed before my eyes, followed by stars that morphed into an endless midnight sky.

  I woke with a groan, eyes fluttering. I didn’t want to open them, but blinking can’t be helped when you’re swimming in and out of consciousness.

  Mom stood outside the shattered driver’s side window, body stiff, staring at me.

  My quivering lips were stilled by cold fear.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing the shattered glass and crumpled metal would disappear.


  A breathless voice stuttered, “Is sh-she all right?”

  Cautiously, I opened my eyes.

  Mom drew a sharp breath that whistled between her teeth. “Yes.” There was no relief in her voice, only fury.

  No great surprise. I’d destroyed her new car and almost run down a kid in a stroller and an old lady.

  And I couldn’t explain why. I couldn’t say anything.

  So I remained silent.

  1

  Brianna

  My fingers graze the red-gold curve of the cello nestled against my inner thigh. I’m eighteen—ten years to the day since I hit that tree—and like a cello without strings, still silent.

  Sitting on a low riser in band, I slip a tight curl behind my ear and turn in place to face the back of the classroom. My gaze settles on the school drum kit.

  Thoughts drift, rehashing a complication with my recycled bass drum, but that can wait. I’ve a more urgent issue at hand.

  My eyes orbit the bass drum’s polished chrome hoop and come to rest on a jean-clad knee. Correction, a partially jean-clad knee.

  A white-edged tear in denim exposes dark skin. The knee moves to a beat, but not fast enough to obscure the two-inch scar crossing the joint at a forty-five-degree angle.

  I follow the horizontal curvature of a muscled thigh as it disappears behind the snare drum, then lift my sights past a button fly, red tee and full lips topped with a pencil-thin mustache.

  Marek Lakewood. Just the guy I need, for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with drums, aside from the fact he plays them.

  A smile lifts one side of my mouth because I need a physics partner for next semester. And Marek fits the bill.

  The slow beat of his drumstick against a cymbal stops at the exact moment my eyes meet his.

  I blink once, offer a glowing smile and glance away.

  Jeez. That was beyond totally embarrassing, Brianna.

  My cheeks flame as I make a grab for the cello case and divert my attention to packing the instrument away. But faster than the speed of light, my mind flips back to Marek because no one but him will do.

  A cymbal crash propels my eyes toward the back of class and the guy who has edged into the forefront of my mind.

  Marek silences a quivering cymbal and offers an apologetic smirk to the room. He hooks his backpack over a shoulder and strides across the wood floor, nodding to his best friend, Idris, as if to say, Let’s go.

  I track their progress until the decisive click of a hard case makes me jump. Wanda grips her violin, but my best friend’s eyes are pinned to Idris Williams’ denim-covered butt.

  Marek shoulder bumps his friend as they head for the door, laughing over some comment or other.

  “Mm-mm-mm,” Wanda murmurs. “That boy sure is cute.” Her wide lips, wet glossed in deep maroon, press together into an appreciative pout, making the diamond stud in her nose twinkle under the classroom lights.

  I join her rubbernecking, but my focus shifts from Idris’s tawny features to his best friend’s darker profile.

  Enough already. I’ve let that guy distract me too much over the past few minutes.

  Wanda swings to face me. “I wish I understood his sudden obsession with public speaking.”

  Right, Idris. Truth is, he’s a musical genius, so who knows why he sidetracked into back-to-back speech competitions.

  Amid the shuffle of sheet music and departing students, I stroke the alizarin varnish across my cello bout before closing the case.

  Given Millie blew me off in physics, I need a replacement brainiac partner. I can’t believe the urgency of my situation didn’t hit me the instant Mr. Connor announced the project. I’ve applied to Cal Tech and Stanford, and if I want to get into either, I’ve got to ace every class. I need better than an A in physics. I need an A and three pluses.

  After a nanosecond’s analysis, I conclude Marek Lakewood is the only acceptable option.

  “Well, do you?” Wanda asks.

  My contemplative smile flatlines. “Do I what?”

  “Agree about Idris and his public speaking mania?” Wanda arches her parabolic eyebrows. “What are you so stuck on that you’re not listening to me?”

  I offer her my sweetest smile. “Sorry, Wan. I was thinking about physics.”

  “Uh-huh. Here I am talking about the cutest guy in school and you’re obsessing over homework. What is up with you, girl?”

  “You seriously think Idris is the cutest guy in the whole school?”

  Wanda tilts her head of micro braids, making her giant loop earrings swing. “No, the second cutest guy, from your perspective, anyway.”

  I roll my eyes because she’s referring to Jac—my boyfriend—and silence on that subject is definitely safer. “I don’t need a cute guy. I need a physics partner.”

  Wanda’s brow lifts. “Who’s on your short list?”

  “Marek.” I slide a stack of sheet music into a folder and squeeze it into my backpack.

  My best friend drops a hand to her hip. “And who else?”

  I glance up. “There isn’t anyone else.”

  She grabs the violin case off her chair. “So when are you going to ask him?”

  “Soon, I guess. I’ve just realized he’s my only option. We’re supposed to choose partners and topics before school starts up in January. Anyone without a partner will get one assigned, which is way too risky.”

  “Dylan, don't forget you owe me lab time,” calls the jazz band teacher, who happens to be my mother.

  Her steely tone yanks my gaze across the room to where she stands at her desk, wearing her standard pencil skirt and blouse, and a scowl scary enough to set my own knees knocking.

  Mom waves a sheet of paper after the rapidly departing Dylan Tan. The guy’s scruffy black hair hangs limp over an Avenged Sevenfold T-shirt that looks like it’s been run over a hundred times by an eighteen-wheeler.

  He offers two thumbs up, but his demeanor suggests he’d rather be giving her the finger. “Sure, Mrs. Jones. Tomorrow.”

  As in Friday? Like that’s going to happen.

  Mom purses her lips, her dark features tilting downward as she tracks his departure over her black-rimmed reading glasses. The way she pins her arms across her chest says she’s already marked him as a no-show. Christmas break doesn’t start until next week, but most of the kids have already mentally checked out for the holidays.

  Dylan should be thankful she isn’t his mother.

  Wanda nudges me. “If Marek’s your only option, why haven’t you jumped on him already?”

  I blink. “Because I just thought of it. Besides, if I did jump on him—metaphorically speaking—there’s the risk he’ll say no.”

  Wanda snorts. “Why?”

  I sweep that annoying curl out of my face again. “Because he’s a brainiac super-nerd.”

  She laughs. “And you’re like so not one of those.”

  “I’m more of a second string, wannabe nerd.”

  Before we get into an argument over my assessment of self, I add, “Don’t you think Idris is kind of short?”

  Her lips part like she’s onto my counterplay, then her gaze turns thoughtful, for about a millisecond. “He’s my height, and I’m fine standing nose to nose with a guy, but he’s taken, remember?”

  I smirk. How could anyone forget? Idris can’t speak more than five sentences without mentioning how much he misses his girlfriend. “Have you heard from Rebecca lately?”

  Wanda’s brow creases. “Not for a while. She’s been busy, I guess.”

  “You don’t think she’s ghosting us, do you?” Wanda used to be her best friend, but after Rebecca left, Wanda and I became besties by default.

  She shrugs, then her eyes narrow like she’s just remembered something. “So what about physics?” Yeah, that.

  I tug my sketchbook from my open backpack for the comfort of running a finger along its worn edge. “Do you think I’m smart enough for Marek?” I frown at my framing of that question. “I mean in
physics.”

  Wanda’s brow shoots up. “What about Jac?” Her question ends on a high note.

  I huff. “Jac isn’t taking honors physics this year. And even if he was, he doesn’t care about the subject enough to put in the effort.” Aside from football, all he’s interested in is debate team and political science.

  “Yeah, but he’s your boyfriend.”

  I roll my eyes up to the acoustic ceiling tiles. “We’re talking about a physics project. Tell me again where Jac fits into that equation?”

  Wanda presses her lips, straight as a bar line. “Because, Miss Homecoming Queen, you’re sending out these vibes that say partnering with Marek in physics isn’t as simple as ‘partnering with Marek in physics.’”

  “I need an A on that project, so I need him to say yes.” I huff, again. “And I’m afraid he’ll think I’m not smart enough.”

  “Girl, are you crazy?” Wanda sits on the chair next to me, wafting the scent of Black Opium my way. “You seriously think he wouldn’t jump at the chance to work with you?”

  I groan. “Why should he?”

  “Um, because every other guy in school would.”

  I express a frustrated breath, then speak, slowly and clearly. “But Marek isn’t like any other guy in this school.” He’s serious and introverted, and has this expression that says he’s too busy contemplating the multiverse to waste time with a girl like me.

  “He’s got eyes in his head.” Wanda bats her thick lashes. “How can you think for a second he’d say no to you?”

  I drop my gaze to the floor and speak softly. “Because he won’t be blinded by my smile.”

  She shakes her head. “Do you remember that time back in freshman year, when Idris asked if you were interested in dating?”

  Ugh. “Uh, yeah.” My answer had been an unequivocal no. I hadn’t been ready to date guys. For lots of reasons.