Nick shivers slightly. “You know, you have the most hypnotizing voice.”
I frown, withdrawing my hand. “Now you’re being weird.”
“No, it’s true. Other people have commented on it, too. You get this tone sometimes, and it’s, like, irresistible. Why do you think Jordan used to have you narrate some of her vids? She always got tons more views when you did the voice work. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hires you to do some audio for her this summer.”
The unexpected turn in conversation has me a bit flustered. “But she has a great voice.”
“That’s not the point. There’s something musical about yours…”
“Jordan sings better than I do.”
Nick taps his fingers impatiently on the wheel. “You don’t get it.”
“Nope.” And with that, I shut him down and turn up the music.
I shouldn’t have said that bit about needing an intervention. That was too much, too raw. I don’t want Nick to know how much Tom’s betrayal is still gnawing at me, or worse, how stupid I must have been not to recognize Tom for what he was, and what he was doing to me.
Enough of Tom already. I just want to enjoy a gorgeous summer day and not think.
The rest of the drive is wind tangling my long hair into an inextricable mess and Nick blasting Glass Animals’ “Heat Waves” on the radio. I sip the coffee, smooth, sweet, and cold over my tongue. We pass a guy cutting grass, and I inhale that fresh green scent deep into my lungs.
Finally we park along the side of a mountain road and trek to the swimming hole Jordan uses for a lot of her stunts. When she’s not doing parkour in the West End of Greenville or along the back streets of Asheville, or touring the Midwest and bungee jumping into canyons, she’s up here in the mountains stretching her body to the limit.
I hate to think what death-defying stunt she’s cooked up this time.
2
“So I’m gonna ride the bike off that rock up there, jump off in midair, do a couple flips, maybe grab it again—might have to try it a few times to get it right. You just stand here and film, got it?”
Jordan grins at me, her dark skin gleaming in the shafts of sunlight glancing through the trees. If smiles were superpowers, she’d be freaking Wonder Woman. I’ve never met the person who can resist a Jordan Baker smile—except maybe our high school principal, Ms. Hammond. She and Jordan clashed a lot in twelfth grade because Jordan didn’t see the point of school at all, and she let everyone know it.
“Why should I study stuff I don’t care about when I already have a career?” she’d say, and then she’d tell everyone exactly how much her sponsors were paying her. Judging from some of the trips she’s been on since then, she probably makes way more now. Some of her content is public, and some of it she puts behind a paywall so people have to subscribe. Kinda brilliant, except for the part where she almost dies occasionally.
I should probably protest this stunt, even though I’m already standing here on the edge of a cliff, holding the phone, ready to film. “This is messed up, Jordan. What if you hit the rocks or something?”
“McKee already checked it out for me yesterday. No rocks in the middle of the pool, so as long as I land somewhere in the center, I’ll be fine. I trust my body, and you should, too. This is a throwaway video for me. I’ve done way bigger jumps than this.” She grips my shoulder briefly before walking the bike toward the spur of rock from which she plans to launch herself. A thrill of horror shoots through my stomach at the mental image of Jordan’s body cartwheeling thirty feet above the swimming hole.
“Nick,” I say plaintively.
He throws both hands up. “Don’t look at me. If you can’t stop her, I don’t have a prayer.”
“Oh god,” I whimper helplessly as Jordan reappears through the trees with her bike. Between us lie a few stories of empty air, with the glittering blue of the swimming hole at the bottom. To my right, a frosty veil of water sprays over the rocks, pouring down into the pool.
Jordan glances my way and gives me the thumbs-up.
“Nicky, I don’t know about this.” I adjust the focus for the phone’s camera. “Why am I filming? Doesn’t she have people to—”
“Not today. Now start filming,” Nick hisses. “The sooner we shoot this, the sooner we can leave and go swim in a nice safe pool full of chemicals instead of algae.” He shudders.
While I was away at college, I watched Jordan through a phone screen. It’s better that way—feels less immediate and dangerous. I forgot how terrifying it is to watch her do this stuff in real life.
My heart lurches into my throat as Jordan’s wheels spin and she rockets off the spur of stone. She’s suspended in midair, her body arching in a graceful, controlled curve that tightens into one flip and then another. She straightens, grabs for the handlebars of the bike—and misses. She and the bike crash into the swimming hole.
I rush to the edge of the cliff, staring down at the blue water below, too alarmed to even think to stop recording.
Jordan breaks the surface, then sinks again.
“What’s going on?” I clutch Nick’s arm. “Why isn’t she coming back up?”
Her wet hair glistens as she surfaces. She’s struggling with the bike. The swimming hole is deep, and if she lets the bike go, it will sink to the bottom. “She’s got to get herself and the bike to the edge. I don’t think she can do it.” I kick Nick in the shin. “You go help her.”
“Me? But—you know I don’t swim in mountain water.”
“Nicky.” I lower my voice to its most persuasive tone. “Go.”
With a screech of frustration, he jogs down the path. It takes a few minutes for him to get down to Jordan, so I watch her carefully to make sure she’s still okay. When Nick gets to the bank of the pool, he hops on one foot to take each shoe off and then, with a dramatic groan that I hear all the way up on the ledge, he jumps into the swimming hole.
He helps Jordan haul the bike out of the water, and they begin the prep for the next take. Her sports bra and shorts are soaked, but they’ll dry quickly. Nick pats her tightly braided hair with a towel and touches up the bit of makeup she’s wearing. Then, with another flashy grin at me, Jordan rolls the bike back up the path to the rock spur.
It takes a dozen more attempts to get a take she’s satisfied with. And then she tells me what to say for the voice-over—as usual, full of jokes I’d never think of on my own.
“My followers are gonna love you,” she says, jostling my arm. “Some of them still remember you from a few years ago. Hey, we should sing together sometime.”
“You’re doing songs now, too?” I lift an eyebrow.
“Covers, not originals. A subscribers-only perk.”
“I wouldn’t have thought the daredevil crowd would be into that.”
