Where It All Lands

by Jennie Wexler

  I nod, but it’s so not okay. My parents are going to murder me. But he looks at me like he never wants to stop looking at me and there’s no way I’m getting out of this car. I’m sick of missing things and nodding along to each move and rule my parents declare. A strand of purple and green beads dangles from the rearview mirror and I flick it with my finger.

  “Mardi Gras?” I ask. His melodic laugh, like a song, puts me at ease. He flicks the beads too.

  “Went a couple years back, with my dad.” His foot hits the accelerator and he rolls the windows down. My hair flies back as he drives fast, weaving in and out of lanes. I try to smooth it down but it’s no use, as strands tornado around my head. Both of his hands drop off the steering wheel and my nails dig deeper into my seat. The car sways into the next lane and he shifts the wheel back with his knee. He reaches into the middle console for one of those Adidas headbands tennis players wear, and pulls it over his head, securing his hair out of his eyes. Both hands grip the steering wheel again.

  “Faster,” I yell above the rush of air as trees, houses, and the entire world blur by us. The speedometer needle quivers higher as we hit seventy, eighty, and hover close to ninety. “Okay, too fast.” My hand grabs the door.

  Drew takes his foot off the accelerator and we slow. He reaches out and tucks a strand of my wild hair behind my ear before flipping on the radio.

  “Nice,” he says as “We Will Rock You” booms through the speakers. His thumb taps the steering wheel in sync with the song. I reach for the volume and turn it up. Drew turns it up even louder, raising his eyebrows. The car shakes with each stomp and clap of the beat. He starts to sing over the radio, and I was wrong. He doesn’t sound like Ray LaMontagne or James Bay. My mouth falls open as he rips through the verses, his deep baritone soaring into a rich tenor at the chorus. He’s not as good as Freddie Mercury. I mean, no one is, but still. He kind of sounds like Scott Weiland who tried too hard to sound like Eddie Vedder who sounds a little like Layne Staley, but that’s not the point. The point is, he’s incredible, his voice cutting through me. It’s pure, unfiltered, and raw, the person behind that voice praying to be known.

  “You have a great voice,” I say as the song fades out. “You should front a band.”

  “I’m in a band with some of the guys from my grade.” Drew smiles, a memory tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We play local shows. Nothing fancy.”

  “What’s it called?” is all I ask. But I really want to know what’s it like to play in front of people. To have an audience dancing to music you wrote, maybe even singing your words. To make a connection with an entire room. It must be the greatest feeling in the world.

  “Dark Carnival,” he says. “I got the name from a Ray Bradbury short story collection. You know it?” The air turns salty and I know we’re getting close to the shore, more than twenty minutes from home. I pray my parents don’t wait up tonight.

  “Science fiction, right?” I think back to a Bradbury story we had to read in middle school English class. It’s pretty out there, dark and mysterious, kind of like Drew.

  “Yep. I read all his stuff. Anyway, the name is an oxymoron of course.” Drew turns down a small side street. “Carnivals are supposed to be colorful and cheerful. But a dark carnival—that’s something else entirely. It’s all about the unexpected—kind of like the stuff Bradbury writes. It’s a name that confuses you and makes you think. And that’s what I want people to feel at our shows—confused and thinking about what they saw, but in a great way, you know?”

  “Does the audience feel that way?”

  “I hope so.” A faraway look settles in Drew’s eyes and I know he’s back in a moment I wish I could be a part of. “Anyway, we’re here.”

  Drew puts the car in park by a beat-up set of wooden stairs. He pulls the headband out of his hair, strands flopping around his face like a curtain call. When I hop out, the salty air sticks to my skin and I can almost taste it. I hug my arms around my body as Drew shrugs off his hoodie, a gray T-shirt clinging to his chest.

  “Here,” he says handing me the sweatshirt, which is still warm as I wrap myself in it. “Come on.”

  I take off my flip-flops once we hit the sand and the soft beach is one big beanbag squishing through my toes. Drew kicks off his boots and balls up his socks, stuffing them inside. This stretch of beach is deserted, silent except for the waves rising and crashing.

  “Isn’t the Inkwell somewhere around here?” I ask, referring to the famous coffee shop that Springsteen used to frequent.

  “A bit up the road,” Drew says, sitting on the sand. I sit next to him and he scoots closer to me, resting his arms on his knees. His phone vibrates from inside his sweatshirt pocket. I pull it out and catch a glimpse of the message on the screen.

  Tom

  Can you hook me up with Gotham Fest tickets?

  I hand Drew the phone. He glances at the text and shakes his head, tucking the phone into his jeans pocket. He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long sigh.

  “Tom Walker. Our quarterback,” Drew says as if he owes me an explanation, which of course he doesn’t. A wave crashes at the end of the beach, pushing a soft breeze across my face. Drew draws a circle in the sand, tracing the shape, hesitating.

  “Why is he asking you for concert tickets?” All the biggest acts are playing Central Park tomorrow and the festival is completely sold out. There’s no way Drew can pull off those tickets.

  Drew stops playing with the sand, dusting his fingers off on his jeans. He gazes at the sky and pulls his hair off his face.

  “My dad’s a music producer. People ask me for stuff,” he says softly. “A lot.”

  I snap my head to him as it hits me—Drew Mason. Drew’s dad is Don Mason. The guy who discovered Springsteen. The visionary who’s shaped countless careers. I watched a Netflix documentary on him a few years back. He’s one of the most powerful men in music, if not the most powerful. My jaw drops, but I close it fast as I notice the way Drew’s face falls, the way he starts to shut down. He shifts from me slightly and I recognize this move. It’s the same way I act when someone finds out about my own dad, especially someone I care about. Once someone knows, all bets are off. My judgment blurs, and I can’t tell if their intentions are genuine. Drew needs to know I’m here for him and nothing more.

  “I know what that’s like,” I say, making sure our eyes connect so he knows I mean every word. The moon reflects in his dark irises as he holds my gaze. “It’s hard to trust people, to know the real reason someone is hanging out with you.”

  “When I was younger, I thought Tom and his football crew were my friends. This was before Brent started messing with Shane and before I realized they were always using me for something. They were at the skate park the day I wiped out. They didn’t even bother coming to the hospital or even stopping by as I recovered at home. That’s when I realized they weren’t worth my time.”

  My heart squeezes, beating faster. I understand every word that comes out of Drew’s mouth, not only because I sympathize with what he’s saying, but because I’ve lived it. The excitement of a new friend, a connection, followed by the crash of realization—the new friend is a fake, a pretender. I say the one thing I longed to hear growing up with a larger-than-life father.

  “Drew, I don’t want concert tickets. I’m not here because of who your dad is.” Drew’s eyes flick to mine and they’re less heavy, like a veil has been lifted. “I’m here because of you.”

  Drew shifts closer, his eyes on me. Heat from his body settles on my skin and all at once it’s hard to breathe. His knees poke through the holes in his jeans as his hair falls in front of his eyes.

  “Same,” he says, a slow smile stretching across his face. “I’m here because of you too. And only you.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder, and I lean into him, the waves crashing ahead, a symphony of ocean water against the sand. We sit like this, listening to the tide, understanding each other. For the first time, someone understands
. Every second of tonight feels like the best type of beginning, a guitar riff that’s destined to build into a gorgeous melody.

  “You think it’s cold?” Drew asks, nodding at the waves.

  I’m not sure if it’s the salty air, or being close to Drew, but I say, “Let’s find out.” And before I can think, I wiggle out of my shorts and peel Drew’s hoodie off, giggling, my heart racing, and it’s like I’m not even in my own body. It’s like I’m watching an alternate version of myself, someone who breaks all the rules. Drew freezes, his mouth parting open, eyeing my pink heart underwear and red tank top.

  “What? It’s like a bathing suit.” I don’t recognize my voice either, bold and confident. “You coming?”

  I take off for the water, not even looking back.

  “Hold up,” he yells after me, but I head for the ocean, laughing the entire way. I gaze over my shoulder and he’s down to his dark blue boxers. All at once the sight of him brings me straight back into my body. I stop short right in front of the tide, crossing my arms over my tank top. I’m in my underwear in front of Drew Mason. I’ve never even kissed a guy unless you count that one game of spin the bottle, and I honestly wouldn’t know what to do if a guy actually liked me. In middle school, an eighth grader sent me a rose on Valentine’s Day and I pretended I never got it. He never asked, and I never brought it up.

  What in the world am I doing?

  “What are you waiting for?” He jumps into the water, disappearing beneath the surface. It’s quiet, the water almost black. I stare into the darkness as the waves lap on the shore.

  “Drew?”

  His head reappears, and he spits out a mouthful of salt water before floating on his back.

  “It’s warm. Come on!” He backstrokes through the water, but I can’t move, suddenly acutely aware that I’m half naked. “Fine, then I’m coming for you.”

  He jumps out of the water, soaking wet. His hair hangs limp, grazing his shoulders. The boxer shorts stick to him and I can’t look. But I can’t not look. He comes for me and I run backwards, my feet making divots in the sand.

  “Oh, no way,” I say, laughing and stopping dead in my tracks, giving him time to catch up. “You’re soaked.”

  Drew wraps both arms around my waist and pulls me toward the dark sky. I let out a yelp, and then I can’t stop laughing, uncontrollable breathless laughs. Drops of water run down my stomach to my legs and all the way to my toes.

  All of a sudden, a bright light shines on the sand and Drew puts me down, almost dropping me.

  “Shhh,” he says, holding a finger to his lips. He eyes the boardwalk and quickly crouches in the sand, guiding me down with him. “Shit. Cop.”

  My breath is short and fast, right in time with my heart. If a cop busts me, my parents will murder me, resurrect me, and then murder me again.

  “What are you two doing down there? Beach is closed,” echoes a voice from the boardwalk.

  “Sorry, sir. We’re heading out,” Drew shouts back, his voice tentative and polite. We rush to our clothes and scramble to get dressed.

  “You have three minutes,” he warns, and I silently thank the starless sky.

  “Yes, sir.” Drew grabs my hand and looks me in the eye. “Let’s get out of here.”

  * * *

  “That was close.” Drew turns to me, unconcerned about the road ahead. He tucks his damp hair behind both ears. “What do you wanna hear?”

  “Whatever’s on,” I say. Sand falls from my toes as I take off my flip-flops and put them back on. The bold and spontaneous version of myself from the beach has completely disappeared. I’m brought back down to reality as the seductive crash of the ocean waves is replaced by the quiet hum of the Jeep’s engine. My confidence drains away and instead I’m shaking like I stepped out of a swimming pool.

  “You cold?”

  “Yeah,” I lie to cover up my nerves. Drew glances at my trembling fingers as my mind searches for something, anything to say. “So, why did you join the band?”

  “Why did you?” he fires back at me, his eyes focusing on the road.

  “Because I love to play,” I say. A simple answer, but the truth. The truest thing I’ve ever known.

  “I can tell,” he says, expertly turning the steering wheel with his palm only, the Mardi Gras beads swaying as we merge onto the shoulder of the highway. The beach disappears in the side mirror.

  “I joined band because he asked me to.” Drew karate chops the blinker before jerking the car into the left lane. “My dad, he wanted me to expand my musical horizons, or whatever. That was right before he left us for his personal assistant. So I probably shouldn’t have taken advice from him.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, but I’m not surprised. The split was all over music blogs and gossip magazines. I want to ask Drew more, but pain settles in his eyes, so I change the subject. “You don’t seem like a Marching Mustang,” I say, pulling at a thread from my shorts as a green highway sign passes overhead.

  “Oh yeah? What exactly defines a Marching Mustang?”

  “Someone a bit more … someone … not you,” I say, my cheeks flushing. Drew laughs and shakes his head.

  “I’m not a type, you know. No one is. I can be in the marching band and sing in a rock band and like sci fi and be obsessed with basketball. Not one thing defines anyone, you know?”

  “I know,” I say, wishing he wasn’t driving so I could meet his gaze. “I guess I’ve never been in one place long enough to really know someone.”

  To really know myself, I think, but don’t say.

  “Have you ever tried?” He glances at me again, his eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to decode me. “I don’t know what it’s like—packing up and moving around. But if you ask me, you don’t need to stay put to figure all that out.”

  Drew toggles through the radio stations and settles on one. It so quiet in the car, that I’m thankful when the DJ breaks the silence and introduces an old Taylor Swift song. Drew groans and I laugh. Her stuff is always on—it’s like you can’t ever escape it.

  “What does this even mean? Go to lonely Starbucks lovers?” Drew asks shaking his head at the radio.

  “Try, got a long list of ex-lovers,” I say and Drew laughs.

  “I like it my way better,” he says, turning up the radio, and when he starts singing I can’t help joining. I sing even louder than Drew, and we’re like two over-dramatic chorus kids. He’s laughing now, so hard that little lines form by the corners of his eyes. We end the song in unison as Drew pulls onto my street. When he approaches my house, the porch light is mercifully off, the windows dark and still.

  “That song sucks,” he says, wiping laugh tears from his eyes.

  “Terrible. Although many other people think otherwise,” I say, as Drew shifts into park in front of my house.

  “Maybe we’re not other people,” he says, turning the engine off, and maybe he’s right. The car goes so quiet and still, I’m almost afraid to breathe. Drew shifts, exposing a small rip in his hoodie, right by the elbow. A couple loose strings fray down his arm. He steals a glance at my lips and I watch his eyes carefully, trying to uncover their secrets. Those eyes are like an abyss—never-ending and impossible to understand. Outside, the moon bounces off the hood of his car and everything—the car, the headlights, the dark sky—is fuzzy, and it almost looks like I’m in a dream. Part of me wonders if I am.

  His hand grazes over mine and for a split second my heart forgets how to beat. His touch, almost like a feather, sends a chill through my body.

  “Still cold?”

  “Maybe,” I say, and I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. I look out the window, willing myself to stay calm.

  “Stevie?”

  I turn to him as he takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. My hand squeezes back, almost like an invitation, and just like that, his lips meet mine. And it’s nothing like I imagined. His perfect mouth is soft and hard, wanting yet tentative. Fingers slowly comb through my hair and hi
s other hand lightly touches the side of my face. His thumb traces along my chin as he softly takes my lower lip between both of his. He pulls back and leans into me again, his mouth dancing with mine. A sprinkler sputters outside, but I barely notice. My eyes peek for a second as his hair falls in front of his face, and I see him, lost in a moment with me. I don’t want him to stop, but he pulls away, his mouth still parted, breathless. I’m stunned.

  “Night,” he whispers.

  “Night.” I’m so shaky and buzzy from that kiss that I can barely get the car door open. I climb down to the curb and I have never felt so completely alive. Not even the time when I stayed up all night with Sarah to watch the sunrise—pinks, purples, and oranges splashing across the six a.m. sky. This isn’t like watching the sunrise.

  This is like being the sunrise.

  CHAPTER 6

  Drew

  “Night,” Stevie says as she jumps down from the Jeep, her brown eyes alive. She heads for her house, gazing back at me. I’m sure I have some shit-eating grin plastered on my face, but I don’t care. Because now, Stevie’s not only the intriguing girl I noticed on the first day of band practice. She’s thoughtful and smart as hell and sincere. In one night, Stevie made me feel like myself, not the guy with the famous father and not the guy who can hook up tickets—just me. Stevie doesn’t want anything from me. Nothing. And just knowing that is everything.

  “Let me walk you to the door,” I say, hopping down from the Jeep and catching up with her on the stone walkway to her house. But before we reach the door, the porch light flicks on, like a jailhouse spotlight. Stevie freezes and shout-whispers, “Go!”

  She pulls away from me and runs up the steps as the front door swings wide open. Stevie’s dad steps onto the porch in a Jets T-shirt and drawstring pajama pants, his face pure stone. His chin and cheeks are hidden behind an aggressive five o’clock shadow. A dog from across the street barks like mad, fraying my nerves.

  “It’s midnight, Stevie.” His voice is steady, stating a fact. He’s too calm and it’s freaking me the fuck out.