I wouldn’t say I’m a fan anymore, but I would never give up an opportunity to learn from a professional with such a gorgeous, pure voice. I want to learn what it’s like to perform day in and day out. Despite what everyone and their mom says—that I’ll struggle as a musician—all I want is to play guitar in front of a crowd and hear people cheer for me.

I can’t believe I’m backstage at the Grand Ole Opry! I bounce on my toes. Jesus, is that an archtop Super 4, the model Elvis played? I’ve never seen one in real life. It probably cost more than my house.

I’m ogling the guitar when Jesse Scott comes out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. He pads across the room to the couch, wearing nothing but a pair of rugged jeans with more holes than Swiss cheese.

The lighting is dim, and he doesn’t seem to notice I’m here, which is good, because I’ve moved from ogling the guitar to ogling him. Who wouldn’t? He was one of People magazine’s “50 Most Beautiful People,” and it is a truth universally acknowledged that you should stare at people who’ve made that list.

The guy’s gorgeous. Like in the boy-next-door way. His wet, wavy, brown hair curls around his ears and nearly hits his shoulders, and while he doesn’t have a six-pack or anything, his body is fit. I wish he’d look my way so I can see his famous brown eyes. They always remind me of those caramel chews Poppy gives me when I visit. Jesse has some sort of Celtic symbol tattooed on his left shoulder blade. I want to reach out and trace the design.

God, get ahold of yourself, Maya. Don’t be a horndog. Besides, he’s so not my type. I don’t do pretty boys.

Jesse grabs a black T-shirt from his bag and pulls it on over his head, then heads to his personal buffet. Humming to himself, he piles a bun and a burger onto a plate and scrunches his nose at a plateful of pickles, which is just crazy, because pickles are what make the burger. Instead he grabs a bottle of ketchup, unscrews the lid, and tries to shake some onto his burger. It’s not budging. Must be a new bottle.

“Try hitting the little fifty-seven on the side—”

He startles. “What are you doing here?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did the Opry arrange for a ketchup expert to be at my beck and call?” he snaps.

“Clearly you need one.” I stride over, grab the bottle out of his hand, and tap the little fifty-seven with the heel of my hand. Ketchup pours out.

“Thanks,” he says calmly. Then he yells, “Security! Another girl snuck in,” as he strides to the door in his bare feet. Jesse yanks open the door, revealing Dr. Salter and Mr. Logan. “I’m beginning to think you guys are letting them in just to torture me.”

The manager claps once. “Oh good. So you’ve met Maya? Have you discussed the possibility of her shadowing you next—”

“I’m sick of these groupie meet and greets,” Jesse says as if I’m not here. “Can’t I eat my damned dinner in peace?”

“You can now that you’ve got your damned ketchup,” I reply. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Mr. Logan and Dr. Salter gape at me. Throwing Jesse a look, I squeeze past Beefcake 1 and 2 into the hall.

I can’t believe how rude he was! Dr. Salter invited me to the concert so I could meet Jesse, and since I’ve already had the pleasure, I see no point in staying. I don’t want to shadow a spoiled pretty boy who sings about making love on tractors anyway. It’s still early. If I drive back to Franklin now, maybe I could meet up with Nate, and my Friday night won’t be a complete bust.

As I charge down the hall, pulling the all-access badge off from around my neck, a bunch of screaming girls rush my way. What in the world? A hand grabs my elbow. I go to shake it off and find Jesse, still holding the ketchup.

“I’m sorry—can you come back inside?”

Before I can answer, the horde descends on him. It’s scarier than a zombie apocalypse.

“Shit,” he mutters.

“Oh my God, I love ketchup too!” a girl squeals at the bottle in his hand. “We have so much in common!”

“Want to come to my house, Jesse? My parents are out of town.”

A girl screeches and grabs his wrist. Another gets up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and he jerks back.

“Jesse, Jesse! Can I sing a song for you?”

“Jesse! I want you!” This one yanks her shirt open.

I snort at her hot pink bra. Jesse smirks at my reaction as security breaks the group apart.

Jesse pulls me through security back into his dressing room, where he drops my arm and scans me. I’m wearing a great outfit—black ankle booties, skinny jeans, the belt I made out of duct tape, bleached blond hair, black tank top, the silly glittery bracelets I wear ironically, and a bronze military star medal from World War I that hangs from my necklace. Kids at school often make fun of my clothes, but I don’t care. I feel so Madonna right now.