Not Your Ordinary Wolf Girl Read Online Free PDF

felt. I glanced down and pretended to be fascinated by tuning keys.
    â€œWhere is everybody?” he asked.
    I reminded myself that he couldn’t actually read my mind. “Malika’s in the dressing room. Jules got here late. She’ll be in makeup for a hundred years.”
    â€œAhh.” He sat down cross-legged on the floor and took a sketch pad and an ink brush pen out of his canvas messenger bag. His curly hair flopped into his eyes as soon as he started to draw. He shoved it aside.
    I shuffled a few steps to my left, trying to get away from his smell. And tripped over a cord attached to Jules’s keyboard. Nearly went flying. Harris glanced up, then grinned at my dorkiness. Slick, Sam. You’re a real rock star.
    I prayed for one of my bandmates to come save me. Before I’d noticed how hot he was, being alone in a room with Harris was easy. Now that I wished his adorable girlfriend would fall off the face of the earth, it made me break out in hives.
    I fixed my eyes on the dressing-room door and sent hurry vibes in Malika’s direction. Jules wouldn’t come out until the last second. She loved to make an entrance. And if the poor woman applied her makeup “wrong,” which always happened at least once, Jules would make her start all over.
    â€œHope you don’t mind my coming,” said Harris, doodling away. “Vinnie said it would be okay. Seeing the shoot will inspire me.”
    â€œNo problem,” I said, craning to see what he was drawing. Was it me?
    His head bobbed up and down as he scribbled,looked up, and scribbled some more. He was drawing me. I blushed and my temperature rose another couple degrees.
    â€œDid you leave early or something?” he asked. “Last night, I mean. You didn’t come to the Cake Shop.”
    The Cake Shop is this bar on the Lower East Side that also has shows in the basement and serves addictive cupcakes. Malika and Jules hang out there all the time. I have a love/hate relationship with the place, because it’s always swarming with people who want a piece of me.
    â€œNeeded alone time.”
    â€œYou need that a lot, don’t you?” He said it in a nice way.
    â€œGuess so.” A zing shot through my chest. He’d been paying attention! Then Marie’s face popped into my head and the zing turned into a pang of guilt.
    Vinnie arrived in his usual used-car-salesman suit, along with our director, Spyke—one name only—who travelled with a pack of camera, lighting, and sound technicians. The crew all had choppy artistic haircuts, Williamsburg hipster outfits, and titanic lattes from a fancy Italian café around the corner. I used to find Spyke’s warp speed refreshing. Today the gang’s chattering grated.
    Malika emerged in her New Wave schoolgirloutfit: plaid miniskirt that barely covered her butt; blindingly white, collared shirt that looked great against her dark skin; and fitted black sweater vest with an Anarchist circle-A stitched onto it instead of a school crest. Horn-rimmed glasses framed her eyes and her full lips shone with gloss. She took her place next to the drum kit.
    At last Jules sauntered out, wearing cakelike violet crinolines under a purple slip cinched at the waist with a wide gold belt. On her feet were dark purple cowboy boots. Perched on her teased nest of white-blond hair was a sparkly lavender ten-gallon hat that would’ve been at home on a rodeo-themed stripper, but also worked nicely with her eye shadow. Somehow she pulled off the look.
    The stage lights turned on. I shifted into position, avoiding the electrical cord of death, and tuned out Spyke, who was barking orders at people. Someone played our recording of “The Spectacle.” Any song will annoy me after I’ve listened to it over and over, and the goofy dance moves we had to do for this video didn’t help. Screw catchy, juvenile tunes—my next song was going to be death metal. Ha!