* * *
Shane powers down the mixing board and throws his drumsticks into the bin. He sits next to me on the Persian rug, right in front of his drum set. A drawing pad rests on his lap and he starts to doodle on the white pages.
“Audition’s in two weeks. How do you feel?” His eyes are warm as he glances at me, then back to his drawing, a night sky.
“Ready,” I say with confidence.
“You sleeping?”
“Define sleep,” I say. Shane puts down his charcoal pencil and shakes his head. I check out his drawing and now there’s a girl with long brown hair soaring among the stars.
“That thing where you get into your bed and dream about cool stuff like playing drums for The Who and then you wake up eight hours later.” Shane smiles.
“You have great dreams,” I say. “As for me, it’s more like dinosaurs chasing me through New York City.”
“Jeez, you’re messed up.”
I shove Shane in the shoulder, and he fakes an injury, clutching his arm dramatically. He picks up the charcoal pencil and scratches it against the paper.
“But I’ve been there. Trying to run away from the things you can’t control. But sometimes you can’t run. You have to stand still and face it.”
“How do you do that?” I ask, as Shane scribbles a menacing T. rex in the sky, hovering above the girl.
“Well first, you need a solid eight hours before the audition. Promise me you’ll do a top five list before you go to bed.”
“Promise, but all I really need that day is this.” I hold up my red neck strap. Without it my sax feels foreign and the notes don’t flow. Shane scribbles something on his sketch pad, then flips it in my direction. Now there’s a saxophone in the girl’s hand shooting fire at the T. rex. My breath catches as I read what he wrote.
You’re super talented and you don’t need anything but yourself.
It’s not true and Shane doesn’t even realize it. For three months, he’s been the one to push me to keep practicing, to believe I can make the cut. Without him, I wouldn’t be ready. In fact, I probably would’ve made up an obvious excuse to skip the audition, promising myself I would go for it next year, knowing that next year I could be living in an entirely new state.
“I need you,” I say quietly. “I never would’ve been ready without you.”
Shane scribbles something else on the notepad.
You’re very welcome.
I laugh and say, “Thank you.”
Shane clears his throat and stands, chucking the sketch pad on the snare. He heads for his computer, pulling up one of his obscure playlists. “Wanna hang for a bit?”
For the past few weeks our practice sessions have been extending later and later. I tell myself it’s because the audition is so soon, but after a certain point, we put down our instruments and talk. And it’s not only during practice. We’ve been talking at night on the phone, marathon conversations that stretch on for hours, the kind you wish would never end. It started with that first call, the day we watched The Wizard of Oz, and it hasn’t stopped since. Shane usually obsesses over a random band or what he learned that week during his EMT shift. Sometimes he tells me about the stuff Brent Miller pulled with him, swearing me to secrecy. Like I would ever tell. I ramble about all the cool spots in Seattle and how moving sucks and how Dad doesn’t know me. I know you, he said last night, and we both fell silent as something shifted, slight, like tectonic plates rearranging the world.
“I love Peter Gabriel,” I say as “Solsbury Hill” comes through the speakers.
“Great song,” Shane says, sitting next to me, sketchbook in hand, right as Peter Gabriel sings I’m never where I want to be.
“I disagree with that,” he says as he grabs the charcoal pencil and scribbles words on the sketch paper. Sometimes I’m right where I want to be.
Shane’s eyes are different, softer. Flecks of gold swim in a sea of honey. His mouth plays with a small smile, revealing that dimple in his left cheek. This is right where I want to be.
Being with Shane isn’t like being with Drew. Drew is the opening song on my favorite album. He’s the song that everyone loves, the song that draws me in and makes me want to listen to the whole album without stopping. He’s the catchy song with the great hook, fancy guitar solo, and soaring vocals. But Shane … Shane’s the hidden track. He’s the song I don’t listen to until I’ve devoured the whole album. He’s that quiet song with the unbelievable melody. The song that makes me understand myself a bit better. Once I discover a truly special hidden track, I never get sick of it.
Shane cranks the volume on the playlist and lies on the rug, music filling the room. I settle in next to him as he air drums along, both of us staring at the gray egg crates on the ceiling. Every few songs he says, “This one is great” or “Good tune.” As I lay close to him, his chest moves with his breath, and to my surprise, I long to kiss him. Being with Shane is easy, effortless, and in this moment, I can’t help comparing him to Drew and wonder What if? I consider looking at him to see if this feeling is real, but I don’t move, afraid to find out the answer. Every feeling swims around my body at once—the wanting with Drew, the ease with Shane, and the plain confusion at not knowing which one is right.
“Top five favorite songs of all time,” he says quietly.
“In no particular order because that would be too hard.”
“Of course,” he says like he always does.
“‘Imagine,’ John Lennon.”
“Absolutely,” Shane says.
“‘Songbird,’ Fleetwood Mac.”
“I knew you would say that.”
“‘A Day in the Life,’ Beatles.”
“Wow, two Beatles tunes.”
“One is Lennon, one is the Beatles,” I correct him.
“Semantics. Lennon is a Beatle.”
“Not semantics. We wouldn’t have ‘A Day in the Life’ without Paul, George, and Ringo,” I counter.
“Fair enough. Go on.”
“‘Black,’ Pearl Jam.”
“Predictable.”
“And this one,” I say nodding toward his laptop, which is now playing “Fields of Gold” by Sting.
“Really?” He’s surprised by my choice.
“The melody is sad, happy, and beautiful all at once,” I say. The notes are longing, missing someone. But the words are gratitude, the experience of love, real love before it disappears. “It’s a perfect song.”
“What do you think it means … a field of gold?” he says, staring at the ceiling.
“Maybe a wheat field? Or I don’t know … heaven?”
“Do you believe in all that?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper.
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“I do. I’d rather believe in something than not believe, you know?” he says, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling. I know I shouldn’t, but I snuggle into Shane’s side. He doesn’t move.
“But there’s no proof,” I say. “How can you be so sure?”
“I’m not. That’s the whole point,” Shane says, and I smile.
“I can’t not question it.”
“I know.” Shane’s body shifts, and for a second his pinky finger hooks over mine, like a promise of something that could be.
As the song trails off my eyelids get heavy with sleep. I can’t help it. I feel so completely safe, like nothing bad could ever happen. Lying next to Shane, my unstable life feels balanced, steady. With his voice in my ear, I don’t pick at my cuticles. With Drew I don’t think about what comes next, but with Shane I don’t fear what comes next. I fall asleep with ease, my head quiet and secure in the crook of his arm.
CHAPTER 15
Drew
DECEMBER
A moving truck idles in our driveway, a giant fuck-you. A short guy with jacked arms pushes Dad’s baby grand up the ramp to the truck. His ass crack hangs out of his jeans. Mom gets to keep the house today, but Dad’s taking all his things, the things that make it a home.
<
br /> “We’ll get new stuff,” Mom says, watching with me from the window. “Fresh start.” She closes one of the curtains, though, like she can’t watch it all disappear.
“How can you say that?” I put my hand on the cold window, my fingers leaving smudge marks on the glass. Mom smooths back my hair.
“What else is there to say? Sometimes we don’t choose what happens to us, baby. Sometimes life hands us a new plan.” The moving guy is carrying Dad’s mahogany desk with another taller man who stops for a moment, takes a deep breath, and picks up his corner again.
“What if I don’t want a new plan?”
“I don’t either. But here we are, right?” Mom cups my chin in her hands and kisses me on the forehead. “We’ll figure it out together. You and me.”
Even though Mom’s been MIA for months, thank God she’s here now. I couldn’t handle this one alone. I put on my brave face, faking a smile and tucking my hair behind my ears. Mom kisses me again on the forehead and says, “I’m going to see if the guys want anything to drink.”
“I’ll come with you,” I say, following her out the front door. Mom chats with the movers, pulling her sweater tight around her body. It’s fucking freezing out here. I step around the maze of Dad’s things, my hand lingering on the leather couch from his office. I picture him playing a James Taylor tune on his guitar, me ten years old and snuggled up against his shoulder. He would sing a line and I would sing a line, back and forth until we were singing together. Even then, I wanted to bottle the moment, so I could replay it when I needed Dad. Right about now I could use a replay.
“I’ll grab you boys some hot coffee,” Mom says before turning to me. “Come inside, you’re going to freeze.”
“In a minute.”
The tall guy hoists a wardrobe of Dad’s clothes up the ramp to the truck. But I don’t see a box. I see me at four, drowning in Dad’s suit, his Hermès tie hanging loose around my neck. I hear my tiny voice saying, “I’m going to work,” and Dad scooping me up high, laughing and blowing a raspberry on my belly.
I head down the driveway, no clue where I’m going as long as it’s not here. The endless blue sky is too blue, too beautiful for this shit day. When I reach the mailbox, I can’t decide if I should turn left or right. Shane’s not even home. He left with Stevie for All-State auditions before the truck arrived. As they hopped in an Uber bound for Rutgers, I wished them good luck, certain they’d both get in. Stevie smiled at me, her real smile, and she’s been on my mind ever since. But she still hasn’t spoken to me, even after I tried to apologize and explain it all. I’m starting to think she’s never going to forgive me, so what else could I say except good luck? I’m about to go for a walk to clear my head, when a splash of red catches my eye, something sticking out of the bush by the sidewalk. When I get closer I know where I’m headed and it’s straight to Rutgers because that splash of red is Stevie’s neck strap. And she can’t audition without it.
* * *
I swerve the Jeep into a parking spot and say a quick thank-you to the traffic gods. Ninety on the parkway and no ticket. I grab the neck strap and bolt to the student union. A girl with a nose ring directs me to the audition room and I take two stairs at a time, following the music. The hallway is lined with black folding chairs and clogged with musicians. I stop short when my eyes land on Shane and Stevie, but they don’t notice me. They are standing inches from each other and Stevie’s shaking her head.
“I’m not doing it,” she says, pieces of her dark hair falling out of her ponytail and grazing her cheeks. Her sax is propped against the wall. She straightens out her black skirt and shifts on her heels, like it hurts to stand. A girl carrying a flute maneuvers through the crowded hall and opens the door to the audition room, the golden bleat of a trumpet spilling into the air.
“You don’t need it, Stevie,” Shane says as she picks at a Band-Aid on her pointer finger. He holds up a black neck strap and says, “Use this one. Remember, you just need you.”
“Let’s go. You already auditioned. It’s fine, I didn’t want All-State that badly anyway.” Liar.
“You need a top five,” Shane says, like some secret code they have with each other. My stomach churns. Even though I know they’re friends, seeing them like this somehow feels like a betrayal. “Top five best voices in rock and roll.”
Stevie crosses her arms over her chest and smiles, her real smile. The smile I thought was reserved only for me.
“Dead or alive?” she asks, not missing a beat.
“Both.”
“Freddie Mercury.” She sticks her thumb out like she’s hailing a taxi. “Robert Plant.” She adds her pointer finger, the one with the Band-Aid.
“Obviously,” Shane interjects. The way he says it makes my mouth go dry, like they’ve been through this routine before.
“Ann Wilson, Chris Cornell, and … Bono.” Stevie flashes her palm at Shane, all five fingers extended.
“You’re giving your last spot to Bono?”
“That I am.” Stevie smirks.
“That’s it. We’re not friends anymore.”
Stevie playfully shoves Shane and he laughs, and I can’t watch this anymore, so I take my chance and head for them.
They both see me at the same time, confusion settling on their faces. The slightest hint of disappointment takes hold in the corner of Shane’s mouth. But Stevie’s brown eyes come alive, turning a lighter shade.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
I hold up her red neck strap. “I found this on my front lawn. Figured you might need it.”
Stevie might have said thank you, but I don’t hear a thing. Her arms fling around my neck and her body presses against mine. She’s shaking and squeezing the hell out of me but then as quickly as she pulled me close, she lets go.
“Thank you,” she says, putting the neck strap on and clipping it to her sax. “I’m up next.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For everything that went down. You have to know…”
“I know,” she says. Shane’s eyes ping-pong between us. “Ray told me. I believe you. I’m sorry it took me so long to believe you.”
And I don’t know if that means we’re okay or we’re starting from someplace entirely new. I don’t care as long as there’s the chance.
“Stevie Rosenstein,” a voice calls from the audition room.
Stevie smiles and heads inside, leaving Shane and me in the hallway. The door to the audition room closes and I eye Shane, who leans against the concrete wall.
“Shane?” I rake my hair back, waffling over whether to ask him the question tiptoeing on my tongue. For the first time in weeks, I have a real opening with Stevie. But at the same time, what I witnessed before wasn’t just two friends prepping for an audition. “What’s going on with you and Stevie?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you guys like…”
“We’re friends,” Shane says, staring at the linoleum floor.
“Look at me and say that.”
He picks his head up, looks me straight in the eyes, and says slowly, “We’re just friends.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m allowed to be friends with her.” Shane’s eyes fall back to the floor and I know he’s full of it. He can’t even say her name without blushing.
“We talked about this,” I say. “I thought you were cool.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
“Before I knew her,” Shane says quietly. I want to punch him.
“What makes you think you know her like I do?” I ask. “Don’t go behind my back, man. In fact, don’t go there at all.”
“We talk.”
“Huh?”
“Every night. We talk on the phone. Sometimes for hours. She’s never told you, right?”
“No,” I say, my pulse accelerating. “So what?”
“Maybe you don’t know her as well as you think,” Shane says under his breath.
“She might t
alk to you on the phone, she might be friends with you, but you’re just friends. At the beginning of the year she chose to be with me.”
Shane tightens his grip on a drumstick, like he’s about to stab me with it. His eyes slice right through me.
“That’s not how it went down, and you know it,” he says, serious, and I take a step back.
“Regardless of what went down, she still chose to be with me. I know I screwed up, but now I think I have a shot at making things right,” I counter, my insides on fire. I don’t know if I believe it. Even though the coin landed in my favor, maybe it’s Shane Stevie wants.
“Tell her,” Shane says, and I know he’s talking about the coin toss.
“I can’t,” I say softly.
“If you don’t tell her, I will,” he says, his eyes challenging me.
“This isn’t your secret to tell,” I say, stepping to him. “Stay out of it.”
He shakes his head slowly and even though I’m terrified to tell her, part of me knows he’s right. In the beginning, flipping that coin was a way to make it fair, so we wouldn’t fight. But now we’re fighting anyway, and instead of it being fair, that coin toss is wrong. It’s a lie.
“So you admit it’s a secret. It’s not right, and you know it. You need to tell her we flipped a coin in the beginning of the year. That the coin landed on heads and you’re the one who got to ask her out,” Shane says, his eyes softening like he’s on my side. But telling her could destroy everything. Maybe that’s exactly what he wants.
“What?” Stevie’s voice snaps my head to the audition room. She stands in the doorway, her brown eyes darting between me and Shane, her mouth parted open. Her face contorts as she computes everything she heard. God, how much did she hear? Shane and I stare at her, speechless. My heart begins to pound as a million apologies flood my brain, none of which leave my mouth.
“Stevie—” Shane starts to say.
“Forgot my sheet music.” Stevie’s voice is barely audible. She gestures at a pile of papers with a shaking hand. Her chest rises and falls and so much pain settles in her eyes that a wave of nausea hits my stomach. She holds my gaze, then turns to Shane. My heart drops through the floor when she speaks again, her voice trembling.
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