“Drew!” yells a guy in black skinny jeans, and Drew joins him in the corner of the hallway. He doesn’t see me standing here, my heart a plane taking off from a runway, the ground disappearing from sight.
“Oh,” Ray says sharply, her voice deep diving into a low baritone. I snap my head to her, but she steps back, her eyes growing wide. “Is that him?”
Ray gestures at Drew and I nod, everything inside me churning, as the color drains from her face. She flips her hair off her shoulders, then ties it up in a loose ponytail, her eyes still on Drew. I don’t want her to say what I think she’s about to say, but I ask anyway.
“Did you guys…” The air is vacuumed out of my lungs, and I can’t complete the sentence. I like Ray and I could really use a girlfriend right about now, especially one who defends me against Brent Miller, and part of me hopes that the obvious isn’t true.
“It was last year,” Ray says, and my heart crashes through my feet. She fidgets with the bracelets, her strawberry shampoo wafting through the air. “We weren’t together that long. He ended it right around the time his dad moved out. I was super focused on making the team and he … well he was … he shut me out. We weren’t good together. And now, I’m much more interested in football.”
“You sure?” I ask because I don’t want to be that girl—the one who doesn’t know girl code.
A nervous laugh falls from Ray’s mouth as she forces a smile, her eyes darting from me to Drew. “Sorry, this is kind of weird. We’ve been over for a while though. Anyway, I should get to class. I’ll see you later, okay?”
But she doesn’t say it like she means it. As she pivots on her sneakers and heads for class, I can’t shake the feeling that this fledgling friendship is crashing before it got off the ground. Maybe if I’d gone to Dino’s, I’d already have a friend by my side, helping me learn the ropes at this new school. But maybe I don’t need someone to show me the ropes. I’ve lived in enough towns and trust me, it’s all the same. Maybe it’s time to forget about what I should be doing in favor of everything I want, even if it scares me, even if it could be ripped away.
When I glance over my shoulder, Drew’s eyes flick to mine, but only for a second. A small tremor of panic settles over my body. He’s freaked out by my family, he must be. Who wouldn’t be? I bet Ray’s dad never intercepted the end of one of their dates. As I try to calm my racing nerves, I wonder if Drew’s avoiding me. My heart sinks deeper with every second he doesn’t glance my way. But then he slowly raises his gaze to mine and this time his lips curve into an unsure smile. He motions for me to join him, cocking his head to the side. I take a deep breath and walk over to him and his friend, landing smack in the middle of their conversation.
“So set list? We play Old Silver on Saturday,” says the skinny-jeans guy.
“Hey,” Drew says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “This is Gabe. He plays with me in the band I was telling you about.”
“This is Stevie,” he says to Gabe, shifting closer to me. More people. More names. But this time, with Drew by my side, it doesn’t feel so overwhelming. It feels like a beginning. “She just started here.”
“Cool. Welcome,” Gabe says, shaking surfer hair out of his face.
“So set list,” Drew says. “I wanna try some of the stuff I’ve been writing.”
I’d love to see some of the stuff Drew’s writing. I wonder if anyone’s seen it, if Ray’s seen it.
“Let’s stick to the covers,” Gabe says, struggling to pull a phone out of those impossibly skinny jeans. Once he frees it, he taps out a text.
“Oh crap, forgot to tell you, Trevor can’t come on Saturday,” Gabe says. “He has a family reunion or something.”
“I’ll ask Shane,” Drew says, then he leans to my ear so Gabe can’t hear. “Shane’s a better drummer than Trevor anyway.”
“I can hear you,” Gabe says, barely glancing up from his phone. “So we’ll start with ‘One Night Only’?”
Drew sighs like playing that Struts song is a punishment. The second bell rings and Drew says, “Sure.”
Gabe slaps him on his back and heads down the hall. But Drew leans against the white subway-tiled wall, defeat settling on his face.
“Hi,” he says, shifting his brown eyes to me.
“Hey,” I say, waiting for Gabe to be out of earshot. “Do you like playing with that guy?” I ask because Drew doesn’t seem excited to go on stage with him. In fact, he doesn’t even seem to like him.
“He’s okay,” Drew says, shaking his head. “But if he cared about me at all, he’d know I’m stressed as hell about my dad showing up on Saturday. But Gabe is badass on the guitar and his boy Kevin holds it down on bass. I wish they’d let me replace Trevor with Shane, but they’re all tight with Trevor. And when it comes down to a vote, it’s three against one. The thing is, I love singing in this band, even if I don’t love the guys in it.”
“Saturday? Your dad?”
“We’re playing a show, at Old Silver Tavern. Wanna come? It looks like my dad may actually make an appearance.” Skepticism drips from Drew’s voice yet his eyes crinkle at the corners as a hopeful smile breaks free on his face. I want more than anything to go to the show, to watch Drew’s expression when his dad takes a seat opposite the stage.
“I wish I could, but I’m grounded,” I say, and Drew’s smile disappears. He steps closer to me, his eyes locked into mine.
“I’m so sorry. Is that why you haven’t texted me back? I thought maybe you were pissed at me from the other night.” He scratches the back of his head and paces in front of me, then abruptly stops. When he speaks, his words are soft, almost a whisper. “I thought maybe you didn’t want to talk to me again.”
“What? No,” I spit out fast. “I didn’t know how to explain it all over text.” I’m desperate to make him understand how much he already means to me and how afraid I am that in one moment Dad yanked it all away. “I thought that maybe you didn’t want to deal with my dad.”
“He’s not that scary,” Drew says, reaching for my hand and intertwining his fingers with mine. For a split second I wonder if he held hands like this with Ray, but shake the thought off. The hallway is empty now, except for a couple gum wrappers and loose paper that litter the linoleum. He pulls me to him, wrapping his arms around my waist, his T-shirt collar stretched and hanging from his neck. “I’m not going anywhere. You can explain it to me.”
His brown eyes gaze at me with such sincerity that I stop stressing about how he’ll react. Instead I start talking without planning and thinking through each word.
“I’m technically not allowed to see you until you officially meet my dad.”
“I guess I didn’t make the best impression,” he says, regret swirling around his eyes, but he shouldn’t feel guilty. I decided to go with him to the shore, not the other way around.
“My parents…” At home there’s no room for mistakes and maybe that’s my fault. I strive for good grades and honors classes to get Dad’s attention during our limited family time. All the rule-following is just to hear Dad say he’s proud. The thing is when I bring home those report cards and follow the rules, Dad’s not even there to congratulate me, so what’s the point?
“I’ve never missed curfew before.” My fingers curl around Drew’s hand as his deep eyes stare into mine.
“So why’d you do it with me?” Drew softly squeezes my hand as the answer dances on my tongue.
“I didn’t want to get out of your car,” I say simply as he pulls me closer, our lips inches apart, our eyes trusting each other.
“I’m glad you didn’t,” he says, closing the gap between us, kissing me, right here, in the middle of the hall. The final bell rings, and he pulls away, then kisses the tip of my nose.
“I’ll apologize to them, make them understand.” Drew says as he untangles himself from me. “I’ll come by tomorrow night.”
“Shane’s coming by to help me with All-State tomorrow night.”
Drew’s eyebrows fu
rrow slightly, so slightly I might be imagining it.
“I thought you were grounded,” he says, tucking his hair behind his ears.
“Academic stuff doesn’t count,” I say. “Anyway, my dad won’t be around until Saturday.”
“Saturday then, after the game. I’ll stop by on my way to the show. Maybe even convince them to let you come with me.”
Classroom doors close and echo through the empty hallway, signaling the start of first period. We part ways, holding hands until the very last second, when we have to let go.
* * *
Shane steps inside my bedroom, his eyes taking in my world. Suddenly I’m acutely aware that the yellow fabric duck hanging above my bed is childish, embarrassing even. I held on to it all these years, needing at least one thing in my life to stay the same. It’s adorned every bedroom wall since my nursery, and I can’t seem to leave it behind. Even so, heat rushes to my cheeks as Shane examines the yellow duck complete with blue suspenders.
“I need to replace that,” I say.
“I like it,” Shane says, kicking off his sneakers and making himself comfortable smack in the middle of my yellow rug. He drops a green backpack next to my wooden nightstand, two drumsticks peeking out of its front pocket. “Is that Pearl Jam?” My computer shuffles through a playlist, Porch barely audible through the tiny speakers.
“I can turn it off,” I say, standing.
“No way.” Shane reaches for his drumsticks and taps along to the song, smiling. “Greatest band ever. Dave Krusen plays on Ten,” Shane says, referring to Pearl Jam’s original drummer. “But then Matt Chamberlain took over. Then came Abbruzzese. His first name is Dave too. But he only played on Vs. and Vitalogy. Then Jack Irons came on the scene.” I know all this, but I let Shane explain it to me anyway. “And now they’ve got Matt Cameron, who—”
“Was Soundgarden’s drummer.” I can’t help finishing his sentence. I’ve always been drawn to the music I feel in my gut, lyrics with meaning, the stuff that makes me feel less alone.
“Impressed,” Shane says, and he looks it.
“So impressed that you’ll tell me how you got into All-State?” I ask. He’s still tapping along to Pearl Jam. “It’s obvious you can play. But how did you get in as a freshman?”
“I nailed the audition,” he says simply, not missing a beat. “I played something that I cared about, not something I thought they wanted to hear. ‘Moby Dick’ by Zeppelin—killer solo.”
I’m not sure if Shane realizes it but he switches the beat to Zeppelin as he’s talking, his hands moving precisely to a rhythm in his head, so precisely I can almost hear the kick of the bass and the metallic pop of the snare drum.
“How do you do that without sheet music?” Shane’s not simply tapping the rug, he’s playing intricate beats, one song morphing into the next. I wonder how I will ever get in. I’m not in the same league as Shane, nowhere close.
“I don’t need it.” He shrugs like it’s normal, like everyone has music flowing through their body and out through their fingertips.
“What do you mean you don’t need it? You’ve had it out every day at practice.” I glance at my music stand, covered in white pieces of paper dotted with black notes.
“I play by ear. I can’t even read sheet music. Don’t tell Mr. Abella. He’d probably make me take a torturous music theory class if he knew.” My playlist switches to “Rearviewmirror” and Shane seamlessly changes up the beat, all while continuing our conversation. “Best song.”
“So let me get this straight. If you hear something, you can play it? Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Shane says softly, a modest smile playing on his lips as he continues to use my rug as his own personal drum pad. “I can’t not play, you know what I mean?” I do know what he means. Music, playing the sax, it’s more than a hobby—it’s my sanity. “So what’s the big deal about All-State anyway? It’s a cool honor, but most people don’t go for it until junior or senior year. I would have waited but Mr. Abella convinced me to try out.”
Suddenly, the door flings open, bouncing off the door stop. Joey runs into my room and plops in my lap, shoving a Pete the Cat book in my face, my nose barely avoiding a paper cut. It’s Joey’s favorite, the one where Pete takes a train ride to visit Grandma. I spent hours reading him this book, praying he would repeat one of the words, my stomach clenching when he sat there silent.
“Stevie, read, please.” His curls tickle my chin and it’s still such a relief to hear him speaking even if the cadence isn’t perfect and even if the inflection goes up and down like a see-saw. I’m about to shoo him out of my room when Shane holds out his fist.
“Hey, little man, I’m Shane.”
Joey doesn’t look up, so I nudge him on the shoulder.
“Hi,” Joey says softly.
“His name’s Joey,” I say, but Shane doesn’t focus on me. Instead he scoots forward, making sure his eyes meet Joey’s gaze.
“What’s that book about?” His finger points to the train on the cover. “That’s a cool train.”
Joey bounces in my lap, first staring up at me, then looking straight at Shane.
“Um … it’s … a train … and a cat.”
“Very cool,” Shane says. “Nice to meet you.”
He holds out his fist again and this time, Joey bumps it with his own fist, a smile erupting on his face.
“Hey buddy,” I say, wrapping my arms around his waist. “Can I read this to you later? We’re doing some high school stuff.”
“Okay, Stevie,” he says, flinging his arms around my neck and attacking my cheek with a kiss before releasing me, jumping up, and running full speed out of my room. Shane holds his drumsticks in one hand. I didn’t even realize he stopped playing. I can practically hear the question dancing on his lips, the question people are too afraid to ask. What’s wrong with him? The answer is nothing. Joey’s just Joey.
“That’s why I want to get into All-State,” I say. “When Joey was two and all the other kids were talking, he was having trouble. Like, a lot of trouble. But music got through to him. It was incredible. The Beatles actually. And ever since he was able to sing along, the words came slowly. So yeah, I want to be able to help kids with music like that. To reach them, like ‘Yellow Submarine’ reached Joey. All-State will give me an edge with college and I have my heart set on NYU. It’ll be the first time I get to live in one place for a big chunk of time. I don’t know how long my family will stay in New Jersey and I want to grab this chance before it’s gone. So yeah, I have to get in.”
Shane smiles at this, a dimple appearing in his left cheek. I never noticed it before and it’s like his entire face changes, pure joy spilling from that dimple. And he doesn’t ask me about Joey. Instead he looks at me with eyes that seem to understand. Up close his eyes are the color of honey, and even though we’ve spent hours at band practice together, today is the first time I’ve really looked at him.
“I didn’t talk until I was three. Not one word. Then all of a sudden, I was speaking in sentences. That’s what my mom tells me at least,” Shane says, softly tapping the carpet again with his drumsticks.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Your brother’s cool.” His eyes shift to me fast, like a flash of lightning, then dart back down to the rug. “And you’ll get in.”
“I’m thinking a Coltrane piece for the audition,” I say, stretching my legs, pins and needles zapping at my feet.
“Do you like Coltrane?”
“He’s a legend,” I say.
“I know, but do you like him? Do you listen to him? Does he make you feel the way Pearl Jam does?” Shane asks, still drumming, playing along to “Why Go” as Eddie Vedder screams from my laptop. God, I wish I could play like Shane. He’s not even thinking about it, the sticks moving so fast and effortlessly.
“I guess not,” I say.
“Pick something you feel. A song you can’t get out of your head.”
“Springsteen,” I say. “A
Clarence solo. Maybe ‘Born to Run’?”
“Play it.”
“What, like now?”
Shane grabs my sax and hands it to me. I stand, securing my red neck strap and shuffling through the sheet music until I find “Born to Run.” Shane clasps his hands together and sits cross-legged on the rug, gazing at me like I’m a famous musician playing Madison Square Garden, not a high school girl in a yellow bedroom. Even though I tell myself this is just Shane, a hummingbird flutters somewhere inside my chest. I take a deep breath and shift my focus from Shane’s gaze to the notes, black dots and lines that make up a melody, that tell a story.
The piece is two minutes of pure bliss and I launch into it. I pretend Shane’s not watching, that he’s not a mere three feet away. My mind slows down as I concentrate on striking the keys in the right way at the right time. The tempo grows faster, and it’s like I’m soaring, flying out my window, high above my house and into the clouds that paint the sky. I need this feeling, this break from myself. It’s a way of being that’s hard to explain, but when I’m playing and listening to music it doesn’t matter what town I live in. For a few minutes I forget that I’m the new girl. I forget someone is watching. When I play, I’m fully and completely in the moment, and every worry disappears. The last note trails off and my eyes shift to Shane.
“Now you’re talking.” That dimple is back in Shane’s cheek. I unhook my sax and place it on the stand, excitement growing inside me. I might actually have a chance at this. “I have a studio in my house if you want to come over next week and practice. We can record it, so you can hear which parts you want to work on.”
“That would be…” I start to say but I can’t even finish my thought I’m so pumped at the idea of actually recording. “Yes, thank you!”
“Anyway, I should get going. You heading to the Dark Carnival show Saturday night?”
“Can’t. I’m grounded.”
Shane reaches for his backpack.
Where It All Lands Page 8