by Kilby Blades
"When I brought your mom home for spring break, it was a total disaster. Lily was supposed to be in Italy with friends but she cancelled at the last minute. Of course, she walks right into my parents’ kitchen, confident and unannounced, and jumps on me to give me what I'm sure looked like an intimate hug. What happened next was like something out of a movie. Lily turned around to your mom and said "Finally, we meet! I've heard so many wonderful things about you."
My mother interrupted the story then. "And I said 'Really? Because I don't have the faintest clue who you are.' "
I winced, stealing a glance at my father and noticed his eyes fixed on my mother. I don't think I was imagining that, after twenty years, he still looked a tad sheepish.
“Mom caught the first flight back to San Francisco. I followed her, of course, but she wouldn't speak to me for a week."
I took a deep, shaky breath and sighed onto my mother's shoulder. It felt good, the way she was stroking my hair.
"I sent her flowers, made her mix tapes, made a little album of pictures from when we first started dating. But she didn't give me the time of day until I did something huge."
The sound of my parents chuckling was drowned out by a sudden blare of sound. We all started.
"What was that?" I whispered.
My heart beat wildly. Living in the middle of the woods made for a strict playlist of nature noises. This was not a nature noise.
"It's coming from underneath your window."
My mother sounded hopeful. I looked at my father, whose lips were curling up in a smile.
"Well, what are you waiting for? For God's sake, son—go see what it is!"
They both nudged me forward, and, on shaking legs, I approached the tall French doors that opened to the outside. The sound got stronger and a glow of yellowish light could already be seen beaming from the ground below. My face flushed hot and my heart drummed like a snare as my eyes adjusted to the dark.
"Roxy," I sobbed in relief and surprise as my eyes fell upon her form.
For, standing atop of the hood of her dad’s truck, flushed and beautiful as ever was my one and only love. And, God bless her, the boom box she held over her head was half as big as she was.
Thirty
I Want to Know What Love Is
In my life there's been heartache and pain.
I don't know if I can face it again.
Can't stop now. I've traveled so far
to change this lonely life.
-Foreigner, I Want to Know What Love Is
Roxy
I sat at the end of the Monroe’s long drive waiting for the rain to abate. A clumsy girl climbing onto the hood of a truck in a rainstorm balancing fifteen pounds of primitive electronics in tiny hands did not seem wise. With my luck, the unwieldy boom box would slip and fall on my head, effectively knocking me out. And I couldn't let Jagger try to rescue me again—this time it was up to me.
Peering down at the yellow legal pad with its purple ball-point pen writing, I stared at a half a day's work. It had taken a come to Jesus with my mother, a heart to heart with my father, and hours of thinking to figure out what to say. I'd used half the notebook pages writing and editing, wordsmithing and crossing out. The page I stared at now was the final transcription. Yet, after so many drafts, I knew it all by heart.
Once upon a time, there was a scared little girl who wanted only to feel safe and loved…
Never had I dreamed that the stupidest lover's spat in the world would force me to take such a hard look in the mirror. I was nervous, of course, to share what I'd learned with Jagger when what I’d only just learned about myself felt fresh and new. But now was the time; Jagger deserved the truth; and, for him, I'd put it all on the line.
Speaking of putting things on the line…
I glanced in wonder at the boom box by my side. It had taken only an hour to find it in my dad's garage but a full four to track down the tape. I'd had the whole ride to Littleton to sort through my mental music files and pick out the perfect song. Once I had, I’d known I'd have to find some way to get it on audio cassette. I went to two vintage stores that I knew sold tapes, but found nothing that remotely fit. Half an hour at an internet café with no hits on stores selling cassettes and I was stuck with the tape that remained in the bay of my dad’s box. Before resigning myself to the prospect of having to use something from the Freedom Rock album, I tried Freecycle and eBay Local as a last-ditch attempt, seeing if any random neighbor might have what I wanted. I nearly fainted when I saw where the tape was on auction for a modest starting price of $2.75.
Holy shit. It's at Plastic Fantastic.
I raced there as fast as my dad’s truck would take me. Wet, frantic and no-doubt looking just a little scary, I made a beeline for the register and saw the face of the familiar clerk.
"Hey, you're Jag’s girl!"
"Thank God you remember me," I breathed, practically collapsing in relief on the glass display case counter. "Listen, I screwed up with Jagger. I need to get him back, and I think you have something that could help."
I elaborated, telling him about the boom box and my crisis of lack of tape.
"Righteous plan, babe! Very Say Anything—good choice, going with the ‘80s. But are you sure you got the right song? What about Hard to Say I'm Sorry or Can't Fight This Feeling?" He waggled his eyes conspiratorially. "A little REO Speedwagon never hurt."
"I don't know…" I hedged.
"Ooh! I got it!" he exclaimed triumphantly, snapping a soulful finger and breaking into song. "I wanna take a little time…a little time to think things over…I better read between the lines…in case I need it when I'm older…"
Grabbing an unseen guitar from behind the counter and switching into the right key, he wailed into the chorus to "I Wanna Know What Love Is". Ready to burst into tears from the kind of day I was having, I stood there and let him finish the song. When he broke out of his reverie, he refocused on me. My face must've given it away.
"No?" he asked, wincing.
I just shook my head. He disappeared for a moment and returned with the tape.
"Then this is on me, babe. Not that you need it. Jag’s totally in love."
I broke out of the memory when I noticed the sound of tiny pelts on the truck had gone silent, a sign that the rain had stopped. Looking back at my paper, then at my stereo, I started the engine on my truck. My heart rate doubled when I approached the house and saw his car parked outside of the garage. By the time I parked under the balcony off of his lit-up bedroom window, I was panting like an overweight dog.
It was no small feat for me to climb on my fender to scale the high-up hood of my dad’s truck. Setting the boom box down and following it up until I, too, stood on the surface, I pressed the heavy play button and hefted the beast of a boom box over my head.
Here goes nothing.
The volume knob was cranked to the highest setting, and once the music started, the stereo shook with sound. But, I could barely hear the lyrics I'd so painstakingly chosen. I was too busy looking for Jagger.
A tall shadow beyond the curtains of the French doors barely preceded the doors flying open. Light from the room illuminated a wide-eyed, crazy-haired, slack-jawed, beautiful Jagger. I held my breath for seconds waiting, waiting, then strangled out a sob when I saw his lips mouth my name. Our eyes locked and I was lost. But I was lightheaded and it was dusk and I didn't trust that what I wanted to see was there.
And just like that, he turned on his heel and slammed the French doors shut behind him. Except my song hadn’t finished and nothing that would have sparked hope had lit his eyes. My arms fell slowly from above my head, sinking down like me, until we were a pitiful pile of destruction knelt upon the hood.
I'm too late.
I didn't realize I'd spoken it aloud until his velvet voice spoke the sweetest answer.
"No, love—you're right on time."
Thirty-One
Oh Sherrie
Oh Sherrie, our love
&nbs
p; Holds on, holds on
Oh Sherrie, our love
Holds on, holds on
-Steve Perry, Oh Sherrie
Jagger
My hands gripped the waist-high glass balcony wall as I peered down in relief at my girl. This song, I marveled. She picked the perfect song.
You should've been gone,
knowing how I made you feel.
And I should've been gone,
after all your words of steel
Oh I must've been a dreamer,
and I must've been someone else,
and we should've been over.
Once my conscious mind caught up to my body, I was jumping down the stairs two-at-a-time and racing out the front door. I assured my love that she was not too late and collected her in my arms. I may have relished the scent of her hair and the weight of her body for minutes before I saw that she was wet, and probably cold.
"Please," I begged, looking down into gorgeous coffee eyes. "Come inside. Let me get you warm."
She shook her head stubbornly. It was hard to know whether the moisture on her face were stray raindrops or tears.
"It's my turn to talk."
However much I wanted Roxy to get inside before she caught hypothermia, now didn't seem like the time to insist.
“But I need you to just listen."
"I'll do anything you want,” I breathed.
Nodding, she stepped back an inch or six, her hands holding fast to mine. The shaky breath she took before starting made me a nervous about what her story would hold. She read from a crumpled paper with purple writing.
"Once upon a time, there was a scared little girl who wanted only to feel safe and loved. Unlike luckier little girls, who had a mother and father to take care of them, this girl was mostly looked after by strangers. When she was very young, and she cried or had a bad dream, any of a long series of babysitters might be there to hear. Sometimes they comforted her, but they were no replacement for her mother."
She looked up briefly, gauging my reaction. I nodded for her to go on.
"But the girl's mother wasn’t really like a mother at all, and she made it so that the girls’ father couldn’t be a father. Her life became about proving to everyone what she could be and never looking back. The truth was, the mother deeply resented the daughter for getting in the way of what she thought she should be. There were times the mother could barely look at her daughter for as much as she blamed the daughter for robbing her youth, and because none of it had been the girl’s fault, it hurt.”
She took another a shaky breath, keeping her eyes averted in something that looked like shame. My own stomach twisted with anger, but I put it aside.
"But the daughter survived," she continued eventually, a trace of strength reinforcing her voice. "Learned how to soothe herself. Learned how to make it through day by day. Learned important things her mother never taught her when she spent summers with her father. The mother moved them around a lot when she was young, so it was hard to keep friends. Left at home alone for hours on end, the small girl discovered music. It became her teacher, her friend, her shoulder to cry on, but most of all, her escape. No matter what apartment, or room she was confined to, she could always put on a CD.”
"When the girl got older, the mother really disappeared. She said she needed to find the girl a father. But the girl already had a father, even though he lived miles away—what the mother really wanted was a husband. The men she brought home were sleazy enough to promise things they never planned to give, and the mother was stupid enough to believe them."
Finally, she met my eyes and I noticed her hands had started shaking. For a moment, I feared one of her mother's men had hurt her and, God help me, the very thought made me homicidal.
"And, so the girl learned to see the world: men could not be trusted and she would never be stupid like her mother. People who were supposed to care for her would abandon her, and she could only rely on herself."
"Oh, baby…" I breathed sadly, allowing my thumb to stroke her cheek. Bringing her hand up to meet mine, something bright lit behind her eyes.
"Then she met him. The boy who made her dare to wish everything life had taught her could be different. He was beautiful and extraordinary and brilliant and more magical than anything she had ever seen. But she was invisible to him. He sat next to her in class every day, consuming her senses as he sat impassively for months and months, and paid her no mind."
I knew I deserved it, but ouch.
"Until one day, he did. And his attention gave her the most sublime feeling, but terribly bittersweet. Because everything she knew about men and boys and this boy told her it was too good to be true. So, when that night happened (the one that proved her theories), she'd been waiting for it all along. She knew a boy as magical as him couldn't possibly want her and that it had only been a matter of time."
I started to protest, but she took her finger to seal my eager lips. Shaking her head, she chided me gently. "My story.”
So I let her continue. When she was finished, I'd say plenty.
"So she ran. Buried her head in the sand. Thought until her brain hurt. She had never seen until then how much a part of her this cynicism was, or understood that she was so jaded. When she came up for air, an amazing thing happened—the boy actually wanted her back. She'd figured out by then that she could trust him with her heart, and wanted to go running into his arms.
"But she didn't at first, because she was afraid he only wanted the girl he thought she was. She wondered, if he knew she was this messed up, would he possibly want her now? So she tried to let him go a second time, but found she couldn't stay away. Because in that short two weeks she'd known him she'd fallen hopelessly in love."
And just like that, my words from a moment before disappeared, and there was only one thing I needed to know.
"Tell me how the story ends,” I choked.
"She devised an elaborate plan to tell him the truth and hope to win him back. Except she needs his help."
"Anything," I breathed.
"Be friends with her."
My face fell.
"First. Be friends with her first. Don't take her back until you're sure she's really what you want."
Oh, love, how could you think anything you tell me could make me change my mind?
"What's the second thing?"
"When she tries to make it all up to you, have pity and play along."
Before I could respond, she smiled sadly, planting a chaste kiss on my lips before taking the stereo and getting in her car. I touched my lips wistfully as her truck disappeared down my drive. In a daze, I ambled at a snail's pace toward the front door and collapsed on my own porch step. Beyond my own relief, I was heartbroken by her story, full of questions and speechless with lingering surprise.
She said she's in love with me.
My girl loves me.
She said she wants me back.
But, for now, we have to be friends.
She thinks I'll change my mind now that I know the truth.
Her story explained a lot—everything, really. It strengthened my resolve, making me determined to show her how different things could be.
Play along, she'd said. Except I'd wanted to act. I'd wanted to take off her beanie and run my fingers through her dampened hair, to tilt her chin up and kiss her deeply. I'd wanted to tell her I loved her and that we'd figure it out and to murmur my own regrets into her ear. I considered all of this as I stared out at the rain.
When the phone in my pocket buzzed, I pulled out the device. I'd kept it on loud mode since Saturday.The futuristic-sounding echo that I'd custom-programmed on the phone indicated a waiting message on Instagram.
@Roxxy_roxxy_roxx wants to follow you. We need to confirm that you know Roxy in order for you to be friends.
I grinned like a lottery-winner. Without a moment to waste, I hit "confirm".
Thirty-Two
I Still Believe
If there's one spark of hope
&nbs
p; left in my grasp,
I'll hold it with both hands.
It's worth the risk of burning,
to have a second chance.
-Brenda K. Starr, I Still Believe
Roxy
Peering through the window of Zoë's car, I craned my neck to scan the Trinity High student lot, finding relief only once I was certain that Jagger had not arrived. Pointing to the corner section by the steps, I nearly waved my arms in impatience as I instructed Zoë to park her car as close to the spot where I would wait for him as possible. Zoë was having too much fun watching me get nervous about what I had planned.
Her car had barely come to a halt before I hopped out and grabbed the breakfast I’d brought for Jagger. He loved Golden Grahams even more than I loved Cap’n Crunch. Leaning against the back of Zoë’s SUV, I balanced his breakfast on the flat part of the bumper in the back. Resuming the lip-biting that had gone on pretty much all morning, I scanned the road tirelessly for Jagger's car. So focused was I on scanning, I hadn't noticed Annika had arrived.
"Is Roxy channeling Gunther?"
Zoë giggled at Annika's remark. I ripped my eyes away from the road long enough to shoot her a look.
“You were the one who told me to go get my man."
Zoë clapped her hands excitedly. “Tell Annika about last night!"
I shrugged a little. "I played him an apology song on an old boom box. It was a little 1989, but I don’t know…it was inspiring.“
Annika studied my face in that calculating way before the corner of her mouth crooked upward in an approving smile. "Perfect."
Zoë looked impressed by the high praise from Annika. Before I could dwell on this, I sensed Jagger’s presence, and found that his car was coming up the drive. I tried not to stare as he parked in a nearby spot, but by the time he got out and walked my way, I was ogling him—hard.