“You’re good,” a voice says from the doorway, and I grab the cymbal to silence it. Stevie holds her sax case with two hands, right in front of her ripped shorts. I’m staring at her tanned legs and I have to force myself to look away. I lock into her deep brown eyes and I’m frozen.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, hoping I’m not visibly sweating.
“Long enough to know you’re good,” she says, taking a step inside. Her voice knocks the wind out of me. There’s a softness and kindness that other girls lost sometime in middle school. Other girls do that thing where their voice goes up an octave at the end, like they’re asking a question, when in fact they’re not asking anything. Not that I would know. Girls at this school don’t know I’m alive unless I’m standing next to Drew. Even then they just use me to get to him. But right now, Stevie’s talking to me.
“Thanks” is all I say because my mind is melting, one big brain mush.
“EMT?” she asks, gesturing at my hat, which I forgot is on my head. My fingers adjust the brim a touch lower. She sounds like poetry in motion, her words falling into an easy rhythm.
“I volunteer with the squad. I try to ride with them a few days a week after school. It can get pretty intense,” I say, hoping I don’t sound like a complete loser. But I can’t help it. Volunteering with the EMT squad is an adrenaline rush. Not the same high I get when I’m wailing on my drum set, but pretty close. When I’m out on a run, and we’re racing to a call, it’s like every minute, every action we take, not only makes a difference in someone’s life—it makes the difference in someone’s life.
“Wow,” Stevie says, her brown eyes roaming my face. Her mouth parts like she’s actually impressed and sweat collects on my palms. I wipe my hands on my shorts.
“It’s not that big of a deal. Just something I do. And the guys are pretty cool. Last month the lead guy, Mack, did CPR on an infant who was choking and saved his life. It was incredible.”
It’s those moments, when I’m certain a patient is lost, and then, all of a sudden, they just … breathe. Those moments make me believe in something bigger than all of us.
“That is incredible. Have you ever saved someone?” she asks, stepping closer to me. I want to tell her that yes, I’ve held a stranger’s life in my hands. I’m a hero.
Instead I tell the truth and say, “For now, I watch and help out, but one day, yeah … I’d like to. Maybe even be an emergency room doctor.”
Drew says that sometimes the truth’s not worth telling. Last year he watched the truth destroy his entire family. But I have to disagree with him on that. It’s always better to know what’s real.
“Check this out,” I say, detaching Genie from my set. Stevie smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and her nose twitches like she’s about to sneeze. My palms are slick with sweat and I hold Genie tight to stop my hands from shaking. Girls don’t talk to me, plain and simple. I mean, they ask me to pass back a pop quiz or borrow a pencil in class. But they don’t talk to me. I stopped trying in that department after I asked Kayla Michaels to the eighth-grade dance and she laughed, like I was making a joke. I wasn’t kidding, but I played it off like I was, laughing right along with her. It sucked and I never told Drew. It’s the one thing he doesn’t know about me.
“See the resemblance?” I ask, holding Genie up to my face. And Stevie laughs, like I’m funny. But not funny like the butt of someone’s joke. For real funny.
“Your twin. Especially the smile,” she says, and I pat my stomach, because let’s face it, my gut is more like Genie’s than my smile. I try to work up the courage to ask Stevie to come to my party, but my stomach is twisting on itself and my mind won’t slow down. Her eyes meet mine as I take a deep breath and tell myself to get it together.
“So, listen,” I start to say, but Drew walks in, all beat-up boots and ripped jeans. Stevie doesn’t listen. She snaps her head to the door and runs her hands through her long hair.
“Hey, Shane,” Drew says, heading this way. “Basketball later?”
“I’ll be there,” I say, watching Stevie watch Drew.
“Hey, Stevie,” he says as he reaches us. All of a sudden, I’m invisible.
“Hi,” Stevie says, putting her sax case on the floor and squishing my big toe underneath. I wiggle it free. Drew scratches the back of his head, a move he only makes when he’s uncomfortable. The band starts to warm up, music filling the room.
“I should get my trumpet,” Drew says, shifting his eyes from Stevie to me.
“Drew,” Mr. Abella says as he blows into the room, wearing a sweater vest over a white T-shirt. Even in ninety-degree humidity he insists on those sweater vests. “Glad you could make it on time today.”
Drew salutes him and says, “My pleasure.”
This act with Mr. Abella is getting old. Ever since Drew joined band last year, he parades around like he has somewhere better to be. He doesn’t bother bringing his trumpet home and he’s hopelessly late. But when no one’s looking, he stuffs sheet music in his back pocket, and one time I caught him after class, asking Mr. Abella about voice lessons. Maybe trumpet isn’t his thing, but the fact is, Drew loves music as much as I do. For guys like us, music isn’t background noise. Because when life gets rough, music’s the one constant, the thing that’s always there for me. If Drew wasn’t so busy staring at Stevie right now, he’d definitely agree.
“I’ll see you for basketball this afternoon,” I say, standing, my eyes wide, hoping Drew gets the hint.
“Oh.” Drew snaps his gaze to me. “Yeah, definitely. See ya, Stevie,” he says before heading to the back music room. I take a deep breath and force a smile, but Stevie doesn’t notice. She’s still watching Drew.
“So listen,” I say, and Stevie focuses her attention my way, finally.
“Okay, people, take your seats,” Mr. Abella announces. I grit my teeth and plop down behind the drum set.
“See ya,” Stevie says, heading for the sax section. A trombone peters out, the last note dipping like a low, long fart. If that trombone could talk it would say exactly how I feel. That even though that coin landed on tails, I’m still the guy who always loses.
CHAPTER 2
Stevie
By now it should be easy to make friends. I should have honed flawless social skills from the sheer repetition of meeting new people in multiple cities. But no, the friend thing never comes easy or fast. In fact, stepping into a new school with cliques and social hierarchies fills me with dread, my cuticles bearing the brunt of my anxiety. It took three whole months of sitting next to Sarah in the sax section of our band before we became real friends. And we finally did only because Sarah wouldn’t stop chattering on about the bass player, Luke Stevens, and I was willing to listen. The people I meet during the first week almost never stick around. I learned that the hard way in seventh grade when the soccer team took me under their wing and invited me to sit at their lunch table, me naïvely thinking I hit the insta-friendship jackpot. Honestly, I don’t even remember their names, because after the season started, they got wrapped up in practices and games. I wasn’t part of their routine, plain and simple. It’s not like they were being mean, I just didn’t fit with their crowd. Or maybe it was me, too consumed with leaving to become a part of something. Thank God for Sarah. Without her, I would have been friendless in Seattle, pun intended.
That’s why here, at my fifth school, I bet Ray Stone’s going to forget about me after the intriguing-new-girl phase wears off. She’s the first ever girl kicker for the Mustangs, which is serious high-school-celebrity status. She’s not going to want to hang out with a girl in the marching band. Statistically speaking, this isn’t going to last.
“Stevie!” Ray yells as she jogs across the parking lot, her blond ponytail swishing like a windshield wiper. I wrap my pointer finger in a Band-Aid and chuck the wrapper in the garbage. Her gray leggings are covered in grass stains and her cleats click against the asphalt like horse’s hoofs. I wipe sweat from my
hairline and place my sax on the curb as Ray stops short in front of me. Somehow, there’s not a drop of perspiration on her, even though she’s been punting a football for hours in the August heat.
“How did practice go?” I ask, as Ray glances over the enormous shoulder pads beneath her blue and gold Mustangs jersey. The rest of the team files in from the field, Brent Miller trailing behind, squirting Gatorade into his mouth. I pray he doesn’t see me.
“Ray, let’s go,” he shouts before disappearing into the building. Ray rolls her eyes at him.
“God, he’s such a jerk.” Ray grabs her ankle and pulls her foot up to her butt, stretching her knee. “I heard you gave him shit the other day for messing with Shane Murphy. Something about his tiny dick?”
Ray raises an eyebrow at me as heat radiates across my cheeks.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” I say, even though it was such a big deal, the way I spoke without thinking through each word. It was like I caught a glimpse of the girl I want to be, if I ever had the chance to live in one state long enough to find her.
“It’s such a big deal. Everyone at this school tiptoes around Brent like he’s a bomb about to detonate. But you … you, like, lit the match and didn’t give a shit about the explosion.”
“I didn’t light anything,” I say. That comment was an outlier, a onetime surge of bravado that will never be repeated.
“Whatever, you’re badass.” Ray flexes her foot and bends down again, shoving her butt in the air, not caring who’s watching. Her confidence magnifies all my insecurities, and ever since I told her about Dad I can’t help questioning her motives for talking to me. It wouldn’t be the first time someone was nice to me because they think I have connections. Which I do. But still. She flips her head up, her ponytail whipping at her back. “So how was your practice?”
“It was okay. I’m planning to try out for All-State Band.” As I say the words Shane Murphy heads out of the main entrance holding two drumsticks.
“Shane got in last year.” Ray nods at him as he passes us. He smiles at me but looks away fast. Mr. Abella raved about him during practice, recounting tales of elaborate drum solos and not-so-subtly relying on him to keep the band in time. He even suggested I partner with Shane to practice for auditions.
“Do you know him?”
“Kind of,” Ray says. “You should ask him for help. It was a big deal when he got accepted as a freshman.”
“I’m hoping All-State can help me get into NYU.”
Shane stops at a black Jeep parked at the far end of the lot. He looks around and shakes his head before dropping his backpack on the asphalt. My phone vibrates from inside my bag. I pull it out and check it, sighing at the predictable message.
Mom
Running late. Joey’s appointment went long. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Love you.
“Do not tell me you’re thinking about college already. You just got here. Live a little,” Ray says, and I smile. But she doesn’t get it. She’s lived a little in Millbrook her whole life. She’s had the same friends and I bet she’s had a boyfriend or two. I’ve never had the chance. College will be the first time I get to live in one place for four whole years.
“Come to Dino’s Saturday night,” Ray says.
“What’s a Dino?”
“It’s the town diner, where everyone hangs out.”
“People hang out in diners?” In Seattle we tried to get into music clubs or hung out in someone’s basement. Diners were for eating.
“I know, most boring town ever,” Ray says as she starts to jog backwards. “Gotta get to the locker room before Coach gives my spot away. Rumor has it one of the junior varsity guys is gunning for it, even though he can’t kick for shit. I’ll text you.”
Ray heads for the school eyeing Drew Mason as he bursts through the main entrance and into the sunlight. He won’t look at her though. Instead he glares at his phone and shoves it in his pocket. Dark hair hangs in his face, like he’s hiding from something or someone. A black T-shirt hugs his torso, putting his tanned biceps on display. It’s easy to see why Ray stared at him. Why everyone stares at him. I heard his dad is Don Mason. The Don Mason. I’m sure most people think that’s the coolest thing ever, to have a Dad who can deliver the world on a silver platter. But I know better and my heart clenches at the truth. Dads like Don Mason and Caleb Rosenstein don’t have time to deliver the world on a silver platter. And kids like me and Drew, we don’t even want the world. We only want to have dinner with our dads, to be more than an afterthought.
Drew shakes the hair out of his face, his brown eyes locking with mine. Those eyes are a fortress, hiding away a sadness that begs to crash through. A sadness I know all too well.
“See you tomorrow,” he mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Wait,” I call out to him, but I have nothing to ask or say. I want him to stop and talk to me like he did that first day, when he pulled me up from the curb and helped me find my way to practice. But ever since then he acts like that moment never happened, like we never even met at all.
He turns to me, his gaze traveling from my eyes to my lips. My mind is an open desert, tumbleweeds rolling through.
“Where’s your trumpet?” is all I manage to ask.
Drew smiles and says, “Don’t feel like practicing.”
His eyes shift to Shane, still waiting by the Jeep, and he opens his mouth to say something, but he’s cut off by a booming voice from the parking lot.
“Yo, Ringo,” yells Brent as he strides over to Shane, looking like a cheesy WrestleMania action figure in a sleeveless Mustangs jersey and sweatpants.
“Fuck,” Drew whispers. “Fucking fuck.”
Drew walks into the parking lot, but stops halfway, just close enough to hear. I trail behind him. Sweat drips down Brent’s temples as he picks up Shane’s backpack, letting it dangle from one of his fingers. The stuffed genie’s head sticks out of the bag.
“What’s this?”
“Give it back,” Shane says calmly, reaching for his backpack. But Brent rips open the zipper, pulls the genie out, and cuddles it against his chest.
“Aw, do you need this to go to bed? Does Mommy still tuck you in at night?”
Shane grabs for the genie, losing his cool, but Brent holds it high above his head.
“Do something,” I say, but Drew doesn’t respond or budge. His hands are balled into tight fists.
“Give it back, Brent,” Shane says, this time with a bit more force. Brent laughs, then spits on the ground. Shane grabs for the genie again, but Brent shoves him, his back hitting the Jeep.
“Motherfucker,” Drew says, walking fast now, finally stepping in. I follow him until he reaches Brent and grabs his arm hard.
“Enough,” Drew growls. Brent shakes free of him and laughs, throwing the genie at Shane.
“What? We were just messing around. Right, Shane?”
Shane stares at the ground.
“Just go,” Drew says, glaring at Brent, his eyes almost black. He’s breathing hard and fast, like he’s doing everything in his power to restrain himself from punching Brent right in his face.
“Drew, man, chill,” Brent says before pulling car keys out of his pocket. “We’re all good here. I’ll see you later.” Brent heads to a black Range Rover parked a few spots over, gets in, and speeds out of the lot.
“Asshole,” Drew says under his breath. He focuses on Shane. “Are you okay?”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Shane says, stuffing the genie back into his bag. He pulls his EMT hat down low. “I had it under control.”
“That’s not what it looked like.”
They glare at each other and maybe I shouldn’t be hearing this. But they don’t seem to notice me.
“I can take care of myself,” Shane says.
“Don’t you think I know that?” Drew reaches for Shane’s shoulder, but he shrugs him away. “But your dad told me to look after you before he—”
“That was years
ago. I’m not a little kid anymore.”
I back away because I definitely shouldn’t be hearing this.
“Stevie,” Shane says, turning to me as he slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Wait up.”
“Uh,” Drew says, his eyes shifting between us. “I forgot my keys inside. Be back soon.”
I could have sworn I saw Drew shove his keys into his pocket, but he heads for the school, quickly glancing at me. The sun sinks lower in the sky, a cool breeze sailing through the air. Still no sign of Mom’s car.
“I wish you didn’t see that.” Shane sits, his back against the Jeep’s tire. He takes a deep breath as he taps a drumstick on the pavement, each tap sounding sadder than the last. I plop down next to him, hugging my knees to my chest.
“What’s his problem?” I ask, even though I know the answer. Guys like Brent Miller typically don’t have a reason for acting the way they do.
“It started in middle school,” Shane says, never breaking the cadence, like each tap gives him courage to speak. “It was at the spring talent show. Brent used to play the drums, like me. He went to this fancy music school, had a ton of lessons.”
“Did you go there too?” I ask.
“I taught myself,” he says, still tapping away.
The breeze picks up and I huddle into myself. Shane’s other hand rests on his knee, a white Ace bandage wrapped around his palm. He must practice for hours, ripping calluses until they bleed. I want to ask him about All-State, but it can wait.
“Right before the middle school talent show, Brent jammed his thumb playing flag football. Not like it would have mattered. He sucked at drums, even with all the fancy lessons.”
Where It All Lands Page 16