by Kilby Blades
"Looks like you got Deck more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs…"
I had to crack a smile at that. The accent he put on when he spoke his southernisms was so good you’d think he grew up in Alabama rather than just spending summers there with his grandma.
“What the hell happened with you two anyway?”
By then, my annoyance over Declan’s prank was fading and the reality of my new circumstances was closing in. The truth was, I was dying to talk to someone. And, his own situation notwithstanding, Gunther tended to be wise about such things.
"Roxy Vega and I are friends on Instagram."
Gunther's voice returned to its natural accent, though surprise made it register a bit high.
"Since when?"
He ripped his eyes from the driveway long enough to shoot me a curious glance.
"Since Declan friended her from my account."
His eyes widened momentarily before returning to the road to scan for Zoë’s orange Cayenne.
"What are you gonna—"
He stopped short the moment he saw Zoë, the surprise in his eyes replaced by the predicted stare of longing and sharp intake of breath. I was also preoccupied, because barely a school day had passed since Roxy’s arrival to Trinity that Zoë hadn’t been her ride.
Instead of chancing a glance in their direction, I changed the subject and dropped a question about Redbone, the newest addition to the Emory household. Gunther kind of had a thing for dogs. I figured the lazy smile that came over his face any time he talked about his puppy would ingratiate him to Zoë more than the half-scared, half-constipated look he usually got when she was around. I listened with one ear as the five-minute bell sounded and students walked past us, up the steps, and into the main door.
Judging by the pounding of my heart as I realized my new "friend" would be passing soon, some part of me realized I was at least half as screwed as Gunther. He was busy waxing poetic about how protective his older dog, Beaufort, was of Red when a shy, melodic voice lifted over his.
”Morning, Gunther.”
I looked up in shock at Zoë’s unprecedented greeting, inadvertently catching the last glimmer of her Gunther-focused smile as she turned to walk inside and leave my slack-jawed friend in her wake. Roxy, for her part, was looking at me from behind her sunglasses, her cheeks beautifully flushed and her smile warm as she shifted her gaze to Zoë, then to Gunther, before continuing toward the steps. Gunther’s hand and half of his body weight fell against my arm for support.
"She spoke to me…" he said with wonder, his eyes suddenly bright with hope as he watched her disappear through the doors. He blinked at least twice before turning his gaze back to mine. “Dude, did you see that? She spoke to me!"
Declan and Annika were suddenly next to us, supplying enough congratulatory snark to relieve me of the pressure to answer. But my pleasure at being smiled upon by Roxy was short-lived as I mentally replayed her expression. Hers had been a cryptic smile, maybe a calculating one. Coming up blank on what she could be scheming, a sickening possibility hit: what if Roxy accepting my friend request had nothing to do with me?
No.
My dawning theory shouldn’t have bothered me. My dawning theory was kind of sweet. Because what if she thought I’d friended her in anticipation of the uniting of our cliques? It would have been as obvious to her as it was to me that Gunther and Zoë would end up together. What if her mysterious smile had just been a wink and a nudge—from wingwoman to wingman—in solidarity to unite our clueless friends?
Roxy
Thank God Zoë suggested cutting for lunch. She claimed that after the "good morning" victory with Gunther, she didn't want to run into him at school for fear of being overexposed. I listened good-naturedly over a personal pan pizza as she dreamily relived the look in his eyes—his answering smile to her call.
Zoë had spent half the weekend thinking she was pep-talking me into figuring out what was really going on with Jagger. If you ask me, she'd been building her own confidence to finally make a move. I was happy for her. That weird, pained look Gunther got around her-and-only-her was a dead giveaway. Any idiot could see how much he liked her. Any idiot but Zoë, that was.
Zoë prattled on about Gunther on our way back to school. I thought ahead to what might happen in Civics—to all the promises I’d made myself over the weekend about what would definitely not happen there. I would neither seem too interested, nor too eager, nor too impressed by anything about him because no, I didn't have a thing for Jagger.
So why were my hands fiddling with the zipper of my hoodie as I walked, too-slowly, to class? And what had I been thinking as I’d gotten dressed that morning? It had taken me 'till last night to figure out the cryptic post that had gone up on his feed some time on Saturday: the lyrics from an old Pearl Jam song. I mean, how many high school kids were into Pearl Jam? Sure, I loved them. Growing up with a musician mom who sang cover songs in nostalgia bands pretty much guaranteed the musical diet I’d been raised on was different from that of my peers. But what was Jagger doing reposting emo lyrics to a song written before he was born?
I’d pulled up the song: Black. I’d put it on repeat. I’d tried to piece together what he’d been thinking with that post. He might have strutted around like he was too good for everyone else—like he was God’s gift to the world, and the school—but he was different when he listened to his music. These lyrics spoke of longing, of restless nostalgia for something or someone. Fuck if I hadn’t wanted to know what music he listened to, in quiet places, in the shadows. And fuck if the lyrics didn’t corroborate it. If I was honest with myself, it had been this hidden side of him that intrigued me. There had always been something sad about Jag Monroe.
"Hey…" he mumbled, barely looking at me as I slid into my chair.
"Hey," I offered.
It was two words more than we usually shared.
Mr. McAbee launched into his lecture. I was too preoccupied to hear. All of this was warping my perspective. They had only been hellos: Zoë’s to Gunther and now, his to me. Why did some part of me want to re-cast him in this play? It all came back to the lyrics. Replaying them in my mind with him sitting right next to me worried at my stomach like my fingers worried at the zipper of my hoodie. Beneath said hoodie was the best I’d been able to come up with after overthinking things for a solid thirty-six hours. If his posting had been a call for attention, my vintage Pearl Jam Vitalogy tour t-shirt would be my reply.
“Miss Vega?”
Shit.
If Mr. McAbee was using that tone, he’d already asked twice. A not-so-subtle gape at the whiteboard offered me no clues. In a divine act of grace, the period bell rang. Kids sprung from their chairs, as if they’d been coiled and waiting to bound forth at the slightest signal. Mr. McAbee’s “Pay attention next time, Roxanne” was issued sternly enough, but barely audible above the scraping of stools. The motion of Jagger rising to his feet and sweeping his books in to his backpack proved that he smelled as good as he always did.
A beat too late, I, too, sprang from my chair, still a little off-guard and momentarily forgetful of my hoodie. That is, until Jagger’s eyes were suddenly glued to my chest. He recovered quickly, mumbling a goodbye before hastening out the door.
He saw it, I realized, with sickening doubt about my plan, He saw my Pearl Jam shirt.
It wasn't supposed to happen like that. I'd thought he’d drop a compliment, or at least that we would share a knowing glance, like in the movies. He wasn’t supposed to be spooked by it, but I was pretty sure I’d scared him away.
Oh, God.
I zombied through the rest of the day—through class, then homework, then dinner with my dad. I took a long, hot bath, and distracted myself with some Ray Bradbury (no love stories tonight). The effort it took to not look at my phone during all that time was herculean. By ten-thirty, I was ready to rip it—the Band Aid had to come off.
Pushing my Instagram feed, I braced myself for his
update, certain I would find something like Anyone looking for a new Civics partner? or Just put out a restraining order on Roxy Vega. Or, maybe the ultimate slap in the face: an un-friend. I clicked on his profile to see his recent activity. In place of a creepy stalker meme, I saw an album cover I easily recognized in a photo Jagger must have taken himself. It was an impressive shot: an angled sample of his face appeared in the bottom left corner. Huge headphones covered his ears. The half of his lips that you could see were upturned in a subtle smile. He was lying down and next to him on the floor was a vinyl record: Binaural. His post was hash tagged only twice.
#AmListening #pearljam
Fuck. Me.
Five
Call Me Maybe
Hey, I just met you and this is crazy.
But here's my number, so call me maybe.
It's hard to look right at you, baby.
But here's my number, so call me maybe.
-Carly Rae Jepsen, Call Me Maybe
Jagger
She fucking got it. Roxy got the Pearl Jam reference. I'd spent half the weekend figuring out how to ward her off, but she'd treated my danger warning like a beacon. The pained song lyrics were intended to be both obscure and slightly frightening, to make her forget whatever compelled her to accept the friend request and to show her a side of me that would send her running. But she hadn't run-she'd come closer. The recognition in her eyes and the gorgeous blush on her cheeks when she saw me notice her shirt proved at least that.
I knew it had been extreme—and presumptuous—to think she would read into what I wrote at all. That I’d gotten so unhinged from thinking about her had only strengthened my resolve to keep my distance. By Sunday morning I'd formulated the plan; by midday I'd picked out the song and posted the update; judging by the silence of my usual stalkers on Sunday afternoon and evening I was pleased to believe it was scaring off more than just Roxy. And when she hadn't un-friended me by 7AM on Monday, I figured I might get away with admiring her from afar.
But, now everything was different. Now, she'd seen right through me and held out her hand. Now, Zoë and Gunther were that much closer to starting something that would make it hard for me to avoid Roxy. Now, I had a decision to make: step back or step forward? And it took me all night to decide. If anyone asked, I’d deny that I’d used a selfie stick and spent thirty minutes getting the right shot.
Of course, Declan was the first one to comment on the photo of me with my headphones on and the LP jacket sitting next to me.
Really, dude…Pearl Jam?
I rolled my eyes as I clicked reply.
You left your Spice Girls CD in my car. Again. #TrinHighRye
That’s right—I hash-tagged that shit. Since obsessing over Roxy’s possible reaction was the fastest way to insanity, I logged off for awhile. A hot shower, a fruitless tinker on my piano, and a lengthy session with my trusty companion, Spotify, were fitting distractions. By eleven-thirty, I had crafted a new playlist called "Beautiful", and couldn't resist hitting Instagram one last time. If she’d hearted my post, it would be a win.
I didn’t even make it to checking my updates. A second before tapping the alert, a new posting from Roxy loaded at the top of my feed. The image had a simple black background, a thin, all-caps font, and a pair of silver and white earbuds dangling off to the side, framing the centered question: What song are you listening to?
The fingers of the hand that wasn’t holding my phone carded through my hair. I blew out a long breath as I stared at the image on the screen. Not in any of the 217 posts that Roxy had made over the past two years had she once posed a question. A few people had already commented.
@DerbyGirlZoe– Rihanna: “Love on the Brain”
@OfficialStarVega – Does Adam’s snoring count as a song?
@OliviaB$ – Adele: “Rolling in the Deep“
@CivilWarBuff$ – Waylon Jennings: "Mommas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys"
Now Roxy and Gunther were friends? Yeesh…
@$enorDutton - Forget abt me what RU listening to, beautiful?
Ignoring Dutton’s bad grammar and cheap flirtation, I contemplated making something up—fabricating a song that would make me seem cool—but quickly changed my mind. Not only did I have no idea what would ingratiate me to Roxy, I'd spent the greater part of the evening deciding to be real. So I typed the name of the first song on the playlist I’d just made.
@Moves_like_jagga – The Cure: "Pictures of You"
A second after I pressed send on my phone, I pressed the space bar on my Mac—Spotify was open and the playlist was still up. When I saw my reply to Roxy pop up on my phone screen at the same time the bass guitar and wind chimes of the opening bars embraced me in surround sound, I knew I was already fucking gone.
Roxy
I chewed my lip and wrang my hands, acutely aware of the time. Zoë’s Cayenne would soon tear down the street and a decision had to be made. For the third time in as many days, it seemed that my existence could tilt and tumble from baring my soul, one status update at a time. However withering that thought was, my sense of self-preservation was losing the fight.
I had no one to blame but myself for my predicament, of course. I’d thrown out "What song are you listening to?" I'd made it seem casual, like it was a fun little question meant for all my friends to answer. But I knew better, and because Jagger Monroe was not stupid, so did he. His response made me wonder just like I did the first time: did we both just happen to love the same deliciously dark emo hits of yesteryear, or was he speaking directly to me?
Dutton kicking the question back to me gave me an unanticipated opportunity: saying what I was listening to would let me show Jagger my hand. My song was chosen, answer written, thumb poised to tap the arrow on my screen, and my pride nowhere to be found. Zoë's car horn prompted me into action. Before I could think too hard about laying myself bare, I pressed send.
@Roxxy_roxxy_roxx - Mazzy Star: "Fade Into You"
He had me so upside-down, I was barely coherent as I walked down the stairs and climbed into Zoë's car. I awoke from my haze to find that she hadn’t started driving. We were still in my driveway and she was looking at me expectantly.
"Well?" she exclaimed exasperatedly.
"Well, what?" I asked warily. With her, it could be anything.
"Were you ever going to tell me about your extracurricular activities on Instagram, or were you thinking I'd just piece it together on my own?"
Oh, God. If Zoë had figured it out, maybe everyone else had. What must people think of me?
"It's only been a day…" I stammered weakly, crestfallen that I'd been so obvious. "I didn't think—"
"Didn't think what?" she demanded. "Didn't think I could use an hour or two to pick out a cuter profile picture? Didn't think I might think twice before leading him to believe I spend Monday nights at home listening to love songs?”
What?
"Roxy,” she whined miserably, “How could you not tell me you and Gunther became friends? Now he can see everything I've ever written on your profile!"
Oh, thank fuck. She was upset about Gunther.
"Do you think he thinks I'm a freak?" Her tone changed on a dime from admonishment to fear as she handed me her one insecurity. "Sometimes he gives me these weird looks, like I creep him out or something…"
"Zoë…" I chided gently, slipping into best friend mode, "Gunther does not think you are a freak. You have to know he only friended me to get closer to you. Has it occurred to you that Jagger friending me out of the blue was just a roundabout way for that to happen? Or that Gunther only acts weird because he likes you so much? It's basic kindergarten psychology, sweetie…you're lucky he doesn't drop sand down your shirt and pull your hair."
Her look of bafflement almost made my secondary theory about Jagger’s motives—the one I didn’t like to think about—sting a little less.
"Oh." She stared through her windshield, toward the doors of my garage, as if she were trying to work something
out in her head.
"Besides," I continued, "if anyone's a freak, it's him, the way he won't even talk to you but waits for you every morning before school."
She blushed slightly and we shared a knowing smile that seemed to quell her doubts.
"So, step on it, bitch, or you're gonna miss your welcome party,” I said, pulling my sunglasses out of my pocket and putting them on.
She giggled and did just that. I felt slightly guilty for riding her Gunther high to deflect attention from my Jagger situation. But I was glad she was so absorbed in her own problems that she’d started to lay off of mine. I could barely explain what was happening myself, much less explain it to anybody else.
My problem’s car wasn't in the school parking lot as we crawled toward Zoë’s regular spot, but Gunther was by Declan’s Jeep. Gunther sported his usual expression of fear and reverence that surfaced only around Zoë, murmuring his own hopeful “Mornin’” as we passed, and holding the door for us as we walked inside. It would've been cute to watch their dance if Jagger hadn’t been MIA.
I spent the morning mustering the confidence to acknowledge him in Civics, you know…just in case he even showed up. I took the long way to class between Math and PE so I could spy through the window next to the third-floor stairs. In a scan of the parking lot below, I located his car, confirming that he’d come to school. In a scan of my Instagram feed, a couple friends had hearted my response, but not Jagger, nor had he replied.
Whatever courage I’d gathered was dampened the second I walked into the room. Something had changed. He seemed…aloof. I felt stupid and naïve when I slid into my chair and deafening silence resumed, nullifying yesterday's hello. I passed the hour wallowing in insecurity, wading through his schizophrenic behavior and drowning in my original doubts. I was dying to bolt, to find some deserted space in the school where I could pull off my game face and lick my wounds.
The second the bell rang, I hastened to leave, stuffing my books in my backpack. I nearly knocked over a few kids in my mad scramble to get out of the room. As I shuffled into the hall, I remembered that Jagger always went left, which was the same direction it made sense for me to go. I didn’t want to chance bumping into him, even accidentally. It looked like I’d be taking the long way to my next class. Again.