“I guess not,” she says, a small laugh escaping her mouth. “I don’t really like jazz.”
I stand and walk to her, unclipping the sax from her neck strap and setting it on the case.
“So who do you like? Actually, forget that. Who do you love?” I ask, already knowing the answer. I just want to hear her say it. “What music do you listen to when you need to work something out in your head? What album do you play over and over?”
“Pearl Jam,” she says quietly. “I know it’s old-people music, but Ten is the album I can’t live without.”
“It’s not old-people music,” I say, as my hand digs into my pocket grazing the tickets. It’s better than anything on the radio now. “Hold on.”
I head for my computer and scroll through my playlists, landing on Pearl Jam. I turn on every speaker in the room and click a few more buttons. Stevie sits in a chair, crossing one leg over the other, eyeing me. I press play and “Alive” fills the room, all kick-ass drums, raging guitar, and of course Eddie’s distinct don’t-mess-with-me vocals. The music is powerful, the kind of song that fills you up when you feel empty inside. Stevie’s eyes lock with mine and I know she feels it too. The song trails off and I pick up Stevie’s sax, clipping it back to her neck strap.
“You need to feel like that when you play,” I say. “Pick another song.”
Stevie’s eyes shift to the ceiling and then back to me.
“Springsteen,” she says. “I’ll need to start from scratch though.”
“Then we start from the beginning. We have three months until the audition.”
“So you’ll help me?” Stevie’s eyes are wide. “For real?”
“Top five reasons I should help you.” I’m messing with her and she knows it. She folds her arms over her sax, smirking.
“One, I’m really good at eating your mom’s chocolate chip cookies,” she says, grabbing another one from the bag and taking a bite.
“They are the stuff of legends,” I say, taking the other half.
“Two, I’m a quick study and I promise to practice every day.”
“If it’s the right song, it won’t feel like practice.”
Stevie smiles at this and eyes the pile of sketches on the mixing board.
“Three, I won’t snoop through your stuff anymore.”
“You weren’t snooping,” I say. I don’t tell her that I want her to snoop. I want her to ask me everything. To know everything about me. Everything except the coin toss which I vow never to think of again.
“Four, I have great taste in music.”
It’s true, she does. I shove my hand in my pocket again, touching the tickets, the question dancing on my tongue. But my heart begins to pound in my chest, making it hard to get the words out.
“And five … you’re the only one who can help me. The only one who hears music the way I do and who understands why I want this so badly.”
“Audition with ‘Born to Run,’” I say, the double meaning not lost on me. Stevie’s been running her whole life, even if it hasn’t been her choice. It dawns on me that maybe she’s never had the chance to really know someone, and that maybe that’s what she really wants. To stand still in one town and make the kind of friend who never leaves. I wouldn’t leave, even if she does. But I don’t tell her any of that. “Killer sax solo.”
“Good call,” she says, her hand grabbing hold of her red neck strap as she unclips her sax. “I guess I should get going for tonight. My mom needs me to watch Joey so she can paint.”
“Do you watch him a lot?” I ask. I wonder if Stevie ever comes first in her family. Dad always made me feel like I was the most important person in the room, and Mom, well, she flat out tells me I’m the love of her life. It’s beyond smothering, but it would suck the other way around.
“Joey’s the best,” Stevie says, not answering my question. “Come over to my house next Wednesday so you can meet him.”
“How is it? Being in a new house and all?” I’ve lived in my house my entire life. Dad’s firm built it right before I was born, and I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I think that’s why Mom hasn’t sold it yet, even though it’s way too big for the two of us.
“You know, no one’s ever asked me that,” Stevie says. She picks at a cuticle on her thumb. “In all the towns I’ve lived in, no one’s ever thought to ask me what it’s like, the newness of it all.”
“Is it weird?”
“Beyond,” she says, sighing as she opens her sax case. She takes the instrument apart, fitting each piece in its corresponding felt compartment. “And it gets weirder in each house, like I leave a little bit of myself behind with every move. Our house now might as well be a hotel.”
“That can’t be true,” I say. “You might not realize it, but you take it with you, you have to.”
“But all my old friends, my old favorite places, they’re all gone.” She snaps the case shut.
“It’s like this,” I say. “When my dad died, it felt like this big gaping hole in my life, like I lost something I would never get back. And in some ways, that’s the truth of it all. He’s physically gone and not coming back. When I graduate in a few years there’ll be an empty seat where he would’ve sat and no big congratulations hug. But on the other hand, he’s still here. He’s in the cathedral ceiling he designed in our entryway. And I swear I can still hear him cheering when I finish a drum solo. It’s why I tried out for All-State last year and why I’m trying out this year and every year—because I can feel him watching me when I perform. And sometimes when I look in the mirror, I see my dad’s smile in the reflection.”
“You look like him?” she asks quietly.
“His twin,” I say. “Just remember, all that stuff from your past happened. And all those friends and favorite places, they’re with you, even if you’re not physically with them. They make you who you are. And that’s everything.”
“But what if I want everything to stay the same?”
“Nothing ever stays the same. It’s about living in what’s happening right now. Really living. Not wishing for the past or worrying about when things are about to change.”
“That’s pretty smart,” Stevie says, picking up her sax case and heading for the stairs.
“You’re pretty…” I say as I flick off the lights to the basement, the words unexpectedly falling out of my mouth, shocking me. They were in my head just now, and let’s be honest, in my head the entire time Stevie was here. But now they’re out of me, let loose into the universe. Stevie freezes on the bottom step and we both stand here in the dark, motionless, those two tiny words stopping time.
“I mean smart…” I stutter, my brain short circuiting, sweat lining my palms. “I mean … you’re both … pretty and smart.”
“You think I’m pretty?” Stevie asks quietly, her back to me. Of course, I think she’s pretty. Pretty doesn’t even cover it. But now I can’t catch my breath and I don’t know what to say, because she might not want me to feel the way I feel. Worse, she might laugh. I’m friend zone. I’ve always been friend zone.
“You’re pretty enough,” I say, making light of it. And Stevie does laugh, turning to me, the curve of her smile barely visible in the dark.
“So are you.” She punches me in the arm.
Stevie starts up the steps again and then stops abruptly, turning to me.
“I’m really sorry about your dad.” She steps closer to me. “It’s cool how you handle it, how you see the world. And, um…” She fidgets with the handle of her sax and switches it to her other hand. She stares at the case. “Thanks for saying I’m pretty and smart. I mean, I like that you think that.”
For the first time in my life I don’t think. Every organ leaps around my body and I’m not letting this moment slip away. I grab the tickets from my pocket and hold them in the air between us. My heart is in my ears.
“Want to go?” is all I manage to get out.
Stevie squints in the dark, her eyes focusing on the tickets, and then
her mouth drops open.
“No way you got those tickets.”
“Yes way.”
“How?”
I laugh and she laughs, grabbing the tickets from my hand.
“Drew’s dad hooked him up and Drew didn’t want them,” I say. “So do you want to go?”
“Are you kidding me?” Stevie throws one arm around my neck, her sax case crashing into the back of my knees.
“Is that a yes?” I say in her ear.
“One hundred percent yes!”
She pulls away from me, her eyes still inches from mine, her mouth so close I could kiss her, but I don’t. Because my mind hasn’t caught up to my body and I need to process what just happened. Because for the first time in my life, I might not be in the friend zone after all.
CHAPTER 8
Stevie
OCTOBER
Shane and I walk out of Penn Station and we’re carried through the street on a never-ending current of chaos. Urgent horns shout from taxis and people scurry past us. I’ve never been to the city without my parents and a small flutter makes its way from my stomach up through my throat. I take a deep breath of exhaust-filled air. We get to the curb and garbage-can stench smacks me in the face. Shane grabs my hand, his eyes searching for the entrance to the Garden. His fingers lace with mine, tiny shivers dancing their way up my arm. We’ve been rehearsing for the All-State audition every Wednesday, but we’ve also been hanging out on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Sometimes we even hang out with Drew and Ray. Ray is convinced Shane’s into me, clutching her hands to her chest and swaying dramatically every time his name comes up. I usually roll my eyes, because Shane’s never tried to kiss me. But what I haven’t admitted to Ray, or even to myself, is that maybe I want him to.
“C’mon,” Shane says, leading me through the crowd.
Once we’re safely at the entrance, Shane drops my hand, the cold air wrapping around my fingers. Maybe I’m imagining it all, the way we can talk for hours and the way he looks at me, his eyes lingering on my face like he’s trying to memorize my features. I glance at the bright electronic sign flashing Pearl Jam Tonight. Shane stares at it too and then gestures for me to follow him.
We snake our way through the crowd, arriving at the turnstile, the last barrier between us and the show.
“My first show was here,” Shane says once we’re inside. “Green Day.”
“My first concert was the Wiggles with my parents.”
“You saw the Wiggles … live?” Shane hands our tickets to the usher who shines a flashlight on them. “Why would you do that?”
“Great seats,” the usher says, as we make our way down the aisle, closer to the stage.
“I was four!”
“Please don’t ever tell anyone that again.”
I shove Shane’s side playfully and he shoves me back as we shimmy into our row. The show is packed. We’re in a VIP area, a few feet from the stage. Roadies walk on and off the risers, tuning guitars, taking a whack at the drum set, and testing the mics.
“The show should get going soon,” Shane says as he inhales deeply and raises his eyebrows at me. Lighters flick on and off a couple seats down from us, smoke wafting through the air.
“Is this allowed?” I whisper.
“This isn’t the Wiggles.” Shane smirks. “Anything’s allowed.”
The lights dim and the crowd screams, the whole place coming alive. My heart pounds with anticipation. I mouth oh my God, Shane points to the stage, and there he is, right in front of me. Eddie Vedder.
He grips the microphone, and even though he’s older now, the joy of playing music, of being on that stage explodes from his eyes. He barely acknowledges the audience before the band launches into “Rearviewmirror,” one of our top five Pearl Jam songs. Madison Square Garden fills with sound, chords, and drumbeats circling through every seat and soaring up to the rafters. Eddie stands perfectly still except for his right foot tapping the stage as he screams into the microphone. The deep growl I’ve listened to for hours in my bedroom pierces through the music. I’m statue still, my five senses attempting to process the magnitude of it all. I glance at Shane, expecting him to be air drumming, but he’s watching me instead, like I’m the most captivating sight in the arena. He smiles and leans to my ear.
“I couldn’t miss your reaction,” Shane says, his cool breath sending goose bumps down my back. Something hitches in my stomach, my lungs tight, holding in air. Shane’s shoulder brushes mine and when I turn to him our lips are so close, the smell of his mint gum curling into my nose. Music swells around us, the stage lights illuminating the question in his eyes. The agonizing space between us is pure energy, anticipation. An unsure smile breaks free on Shane’s face as he turns to the stage, taking in the band in all their glory. I refocus on the music to still the quiet shaking in my body. But then the floor shifts beneath me, and for a split second it feels like an earthquake.
“Shane?” He’s mesmerized, soaking in each note, and I understand why he wanted to watch me. Witnessing Shane in his element is a window into the truest part of him. Right now, Shane is all feeling, absolute awe beaming from his face. He stands on his toes to get a better look as Matt Cameron goes to town on the drums.
“Shane?” I say in his ear when the floor actually moves. “The floor’s shaking.”
“I know,” he says, gesturing to the crowd jumping in sync with the music. His eyes get wide and he jumps too, fist in the air. I can’t help joining him, completely losing myself in the guitar chords.
Somewhere in the middle of the set, right when they play “Oceans,” Shane takes my hand again. But this time, it’s not to help me through the street. Even when Shane claps, he holds on, clapping both of our hands with his free hand. Shane’s hand fits with mine, like it was made especially for me. We stand like this for the next hour. He doesn’t let go, but he doesn’t look at me either. In the dark, while Shane’s thumb strokes the outside of my hand, I know this is happening and I’m not imagining it. He wants to kiss me, and I can no longer deny it—I want him to kiss me.
They close out the set with “Elderly” into “Free World,” the music swelling with Eddie’s voice. I squeeze Shane’s hand and he finally looks at me, his dimple taking over his cheek. Even his ears smile. I laugh, and he laughs too. As the house lights come on, we’re still laughing until he pulls me close and says in my ear, “That was…”
“I know,” I say.
“Unreal.”
We spill out of the arena with the rest of the crowd, and head for the train. When we board, we find seats in the back section. Shane lets me take the window of a two-seater, and when he sits, I rest my head on his shoulder.
“Top five songs of the night,” I say.
“‘Rearview,’ ‘Go,’ ‘Elderly,’ ‘Corduroy,’ and ‘Do the Evolution,’” Shane says matter-of-factly. “You?”
“Definitely ‘Rearview,’ ‘Why Go,’ ‘Black,’ ‘Corduroy,’ and I gotta say … ‘Footsteps.’”
“Interesting choice with ‘Footsteps.’ Great song but not an obvious pick.”
“Maybe it’s not about the obvious choice,” I say, closing my eyes, my heart beginning to speed.
“What is it for you, then?” he says, his voice raw from all the singing. I’m not sure what we’re talking about anymore, but I answer anyway.
“A song that makes you feel something and maybe understand yourself a little better.”
Shane taps the top of my head and I look at him.
“You know that song is about a murderer.”
I smack him in the stomach without taking my head off his shoulder and he laughs.
“You know what I mean, Shane.”
“I do. I know exactly what you mean.”
We’re quiet for a moment as Shane rests his head on top of mine, his hair smelling like the rain.
“Why is it that when I’m playing my sax or listening to music it feels so, I don’t know…” I say.
“Right?” Shane whispers in my
ear.
“Yeah,” I say. “Why does it feel so right?”
“Because you’re living,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I feel the same way when I’m playing drums, like it’s just me and the set, like time stretches on to infinity.”
It’s not only playing my sax and listening to music. It’s also being here with Shane on this dingy New Jersey Transit train. It’s knowing for the first time since I moved that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
“So you liked the show?” he asks, but he already knows the answer.
“I loved it,” I say. I want to live inside that concert. I know that sounds weird, but I want this feeling with Shane. I want to live inside this feeling forever.
CHAPTER 9
Shane
I’m the first one on the bleachers and it’s just as well. I need to clear my head. The stuffed Aladdin genie grins at me from on top of my drum set.
“How about you tell me how to make a move,” I say to Genie, but he keeps on grinning, his eyes big and mischievous. The sun is high and bright, and soon the stands will be filled with fans eager to see who will be crowned homecoming king and queen. My bet is on Tom Walker and Jenna Reed, although I know Stevie voted for Ray. Genie stares at me and it’s almost like he’s saying, You’d better tell her. Tell Stevie I’m falling for her or tell her about the coin toss? Because now, we’re not just friends. The stakes are way higher, and I can’t push that coin toss out of my mind anymore. I can’t kiss her until she knows, and God, do I want to kiss her. My eyes squint at Genie, but he doesn’t answer.
I grab my drumsticks and take a whack at the snare. The skin vibrates, shooting out a lonely beat. No one’s around so I do it again, and again. I hit the cymbals, then the bass, then back to the snare. Around and around until I’m going faster, speeding through the beats. With each hit my head clears, until it’s completely blank.
I’m so lost in every beat, this solo slowing my mind, that I barely notice when a hand grabs my cymbal, silencing the crash.
“Who are you pissed at?” Drew says, sitting next to me. I’m pissed at myself for not having the guts to make a move. I’m pissed at myself for participating in that careless coin toss. But I’m most pissed at myself for not telling Stevie about it.
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