Where It All Lands

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Where It All Lands Page 24

by Jennie Wexler


  “Just forgive him already,” Ray says. “I would’ve forgiven Drew if he had called me every day. All I got was one weak apology, like he wasn’t sure he wanted us back together. But Shane, he’s the real deal.”

  “I know,” I say, as Shane peels off his jacket and throws it on the back of a chair.

  “So go over there.” Ray nudges my arm. “What are you waiting for?”

  I stand, about to head over to Shane, as Brent and the rest of the football team walk inside, defeat and exhaustion displayed on their faces.

  “Smooth moves out there today, Ray,” Brent yells, popping a handful of nuts into his mouth.

  “Go fuck yourself, Miller,” Ray yells back, giving him the finger.

  They take over a booth close to ours, but Brent doesn’t sit. He spots Shane and narrows his eyes, chewing the nuts like a cow out to pasture. Drew steps in front of Shane but this time it doesn’t stop Brent.

  “Hey, Ringoooo,” Brent says, drawing out the o on purpose. I can smell beer on him as he breezes by our table.

  Shane steps in front of Drew and says, “My name’s Shane.”

  Brent laughs like he’s heard the funniest thing in the world, shoving another handful of nuts in his face. When he talks tiny pieces fly out of his mouth.

  “Oh I’m sorry, Ringoooo.”

  “Brent, chill,” Drew says, but Brent ignores him.

  “That’s not … my name,” Shane says, his voice dropping low. Brent steps to him, a maniacal smile creeping up to his cheeks. Tom closes in on them as a hush falls over the diner, the whole school hoping for a fight.

  “Sorry, Ringo.”

  “Fuck you,” Shane says under his breath. Everyone’s mouths drop open, even Tom’s. Drew stares at Shane in disbelief.

  “What did you just say to me?” Brent’s eyes narrow.

  “Shane, please,” I say, holding out my hand, trying to stop whatever is about to happen.

  Shane’s features soften, his hand reaching for mine, but then Brent laughs again, this time at me. Shane’s hand drops to his side and he takes a deep breath, his eyes going dark.

  “I said … fuck you,” he repeats, louder, angrier. My heart is out of control, slamming against my chest.

  Brent throws another handful of nuts into his mouth and charges Shane, pushing him hard into a booth. Dino rips off his apron and runs full speed through the diner, waving both hands in the air.

  “Enough,” Dino yells. Shane steadies himself and pushes Brent back with all his strength. Brent falls against a chair and crashes to the ground, his head jerking backward.

  “Oh, shit,” Tom says.

  “Oh my God,” Ray says, suddenly standing right next to me. Brent gasps for air and grabs at his throat.

  “Is he…” I say.

  “He’s choking,” Tom yells as the entire football team surrounds him. But no one does anything. They all stand there gawking as Brent claws at his throat, his face turning blood red.

  “Someone do something,” Tom says, helpless. Brent drops the bag of nuts as Dino calls 9-1-1 on his phone.

  “Get out of the way,” Shane yells, pushing through the crowd. He puts his hands on Brent’s shoulders and looks him straight in the eyes. Brent’s frantic, gasping for air, fighting to breathe.

  “I’m going to get behind you,” Shane says, never breaking eye contact with Brent. “You’re going to feel me push on your chest, hard. Don’t fight me.” His voice is steady and sure. Everyone stops talking as Shane gets behind Brent, wraps his arms around his waist, and pushes his fists into his abdomen. Brent’s turning purple, fear pouring from his bloodshot eyes.

  “Come on,” Shane says through his teeth. “Breathe.”

  He squeezes Brent with all his strength, the veins popping in his neck. And then all at once the nuts shoot out of Brent’s mouth, and he pukes all over the floor. He’s gasping for breath, his back heaving up and down fast.

  “You’re okay,” Shane says, his hand on Brent’s shoulder steadying him. “You’re okay.”

  Brent looks at Shane, his eyes wide, still coughing and struggling to catch his breath. Shane stands and holds out his hand. Brent grabs hold and Shane pulls him to his feet. They stare at each other, both of them drenched in sweat.

  “Thanks, man,” Brent says, his voice hoarse and humbled. “That was … well, thanks.”

  “Welcome,” Shane says, running his fingers through his hair. Shane heads for the door as the crowd swarms Brent. A busboy appears with a mop and cleans up the mess.

  “Why aren’t you following him?” Ray asks Drew as he joins us.

  “I think he needs a minute,” Drew says, but I don’t listen. Instead I book it for the door, bursting out of Dino’s to find Shane sitting on the top step, shivering. It’s cold out here, the dark sky littered with clouds. I sit next to Shane, pulling on my purple wool hat and gloves. We don’t say anything as Shane blows warm air into his shaking hands.

  “Holy shit,” he whispers, letting out a long breath. “He’s okay, right?”

  I wish I could unsee it. Brent’s eyes with so much terror in them, knowing he was teetering on that thin tightrope between life and death. But Shane, I wish I could watch Shane over and over. Shane with his steady hands and determined eyes. Shane, saving the life of the one person he hates most in this world. His hair is matted with sweat, sticking to his forehead. I reach out and take hold of his hand. As soon as our fingers connect, warmth spreads from his hand to mine.

  “He’s okay,” I say. “You saved his life.”

  “I’m sorry, Stevie,” he whispers.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Yes, I do.” Shane turns to me, his eyes serious. “You weren’t a bet. You have to know that. God, Stevie, you’re … the girl I put on a pedestal, high above anyone else. I know that’s a lot of pressure, but it’s the only way to describe this feeling. Does that make sense?”

  “I can handle the pressure.” I smile, and I’ve already forgiven him, because I see him that way too.

  “It’s not only the way you look. I mean, that’s what it was that first day. But then after … I can talk to you about anything. And when something happens—even if it’s small—”

  “I have to tell you,” I say, finishing his sentence. “These past couple weeks … It’s the weirdest feeling, to miss someone when they’re right next to you. Every time I would pass you in the hall or see you in class, but everything was so messed up, it just—”

  “Sucked,” Shane says, squeezing my hand and scooting closer to me. “I missed you too.”

  He brushes the hair out of my face, his hand lingering by my chin. His honey eyes are the warmest, safest hug.

  “You’re not a bet. You’re not a coin toss. Being with you shouldn’t have been left up to chance.” Shane tugs on a strand of my hair as his eyes reach into mine.

  Shane kisses me, and I melt into him, soaking in this unfamiliar feeling, finally understanding where I belong.

  CHAPTER 13

  Shane

  DECEMBER

  I know two things. One, I am absolutely one hundred percent in love with my first-ever girlfriend, Stevie Rosenstein. Two, I am sort of, kind of, maybe sure she loves me back. I haven’t told her yet, but it’s getting harder and harder to hold the words back. Her legs scissor between mine as we sink deeper into her bed, my favorite place in the world. That duck is finally gone. Stevie ripped him down the other day and stuffed him in her closet. I was kind of sad to see that yellow guy go. But when we tacked up a Pearl Jam poster in his place, Stevie gestured at the band, excitement brimming from her eyes, and said, “See! Much better.”

  And now, the poster presides over us, which I have to admit is better than the duck, especially as Stevie traces her fingers down the slope of my neck, each hair standing at attention as she goes. I kiss her, and she kisses me, and she smells like fresh strawberries straight from a garden. “Fields of Gold,” one of her favorites, floats through the room. Her hands are down my back and I’m t
hrough her hair. My whole body surges forward and I don’t have any control. I don’t want to be in control. She pulls me closer, and I almost say it.

  I reach for her, my breath heavy, and say, “Is this okay?”

  She says yes and giggles, her deep eyes magnetic.

  “Stop talking,” she whispers, and I love her. I can’t hold the words in, with her body wrapped around mine, a jigsaw puzzle of arms and legs.

  “Stevie, Dad’s home!” her mom yells from downstairs.

  Stevie jumps up from her bed, straightening out her shirt and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “He’s home early,” she says, giddy like a kid about to open Christmas presents, or in Stevie’s case, Chanukah presents. “C’mon!”

  I’ve met Caleb Rosenstein a couple times in passing, either on his way out to a flight or as he walks in from practice, bone tired. It’s always the same firm handshake and the same I’ve-got-my-eye-on-you look. But I’ve never actually talked to him other than the requisite nice-to-see-you platitudes.

  As we reach the living room, Caleb has a giggling Joey in a bear hug and Naomi’s preparing her sold art piece for shipment. The painting depicts a yellow balloon tugging a girl high off the ground. Caleb traces his finger along the lines of the balloon and kisses Naomi. It’s beautifully intricate, and I can’t take my eyes off it, kind of like Stevie herself.

  “Dad!” Stevie says, running to him. He puts Joey down and envelops her in a hug. I can’t deny the pang of jealousy that runs through me. An undercurrent of grief is momentarily brought to the surface, a stubborn lump forming in my throat. I sit in front of the TV on a leather chair, which must be Caleb’s, and long for my own dad, to feel his arms wrapped tightly around me.

  “Hi, Shane,” Caleb says as they sit on the couch. Naomi props her painting against the wall and sits next to Caleb, her hand resting on his knee like Mom used to do with Dad. “What are you guys up to today?”

  Stevie and I exchange a look. I’m not sure if she’s told her parents that we’re together, that we’re more than friends. I told Mom the minute Stevie forgave me. She got so excited she practically launched into a Zumba routine right there in the kitchen.

  “We’re getting ready for the All-State auditions tomorrow,” I say. “Me on drums and Stevie on sax.”

  Caleb hasn’t yet heard Stevie play and she refuses to put herself out there, to ask him to listen. They don’t get it. Just like Drew’s dad doesn’t get it. They have each other and they’re messing it all up.

  Joey hops up from the couch and announces, “I’m gonna go play trains.”

  “Go for it, buddy,” Caleb says, refocusing on Stevie. “You guys hungry?”

  But Stevie sighs and I want to shake her, so she sees what’s right in front of her.

  “Stevie’s really talented,” I say in an effort to help them, to bridge the gap between them.

  “Of course she is,” Caleb says, uncertainty settling around his eyes.

  “Dad.” Stevie folds her arms across her chest and meets his gaze. “You haven’t heard me play in years.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s my audition piece?”

  Caleb stares at her and says, “I don’t … I mean…”

  “Springsteen,” she says. “‘Born to Run.’ Actually, we need to rehearse it one more time before tomorrow.”

  My eyes are on Caleb, Jedi-mind-tricking him into asking to hear Stevie play. One simple question so she knows he cares. To me, it’s so obvious he cares.

  Stevie picks at her cuticle. “I’m sure you’re busy. You just got home, and I bet you have to unpack,” she says staring at the rug.

  “Can I hear it?” Caleb asks, and Stevie snaps her head to him.

  “Do you really want to?” For a flash I see Stevie at five, staring up at her dad, idolizing him with awe.

  “Absolutely,” Caleb says, settling into the couch, eagerly waiting.

  The next thing I know, Stevie’s standing in the living room, her sax clipped to her red neck strap, and she’s wailing through “Born to Run.” Chills prick up on my arm as she flies through the solo. Even Joey runs in, three trains in each hand, and starts shaking his hips to the music. Through the entire piece Stevie focuses on me, like I’m giving her the strength to play. As the song trails off Stevie finally shifts her gaze to her dad, anticipation spilling from her brown eyes.

  Caleb’s hand covers his mouth and I swear tears line the bottom of his eyes. He takes his hand away and a huge smile shoots across his face.

  “Wow,” he says. “Just wow.”

  “For real?” Stevie asks, unhooking her sax and propping it next to Naomi’s painting.

  “You’re fantastic, Stevie girl.” Caleb shakes his head. “I’m sorry I’m not around to … I mean … I’m sorry I haven’t heard you.”

  “Well, now you have.” A triumphant smile erupts on Stevie’s face as she takes my hand in hers. Even if she hasn’t flat out told them we’re together, now it’s plain as day. “We have to go finish practicing. Dad, I’m glad you’re home, even if it’s only for a little while.”

  “Me too,” Caleb says. I would give anything to have that conversation with Dad, anything. And even though this moment may not have fixed it all for Stevie and Caleb, at least they have today.

  CHAPTER 14

  Stevie

  We walk through Rutgers’ student union hand in hand, my insides already in a fist fight, my heart racing. Shane is so cute in a button-down and khakis, his drumsticks peeking out of his back pocket. He even attempted to comb and gel his hair, although it still sticks up all over the place. A sign reading New Jersey All-State Band Auditions points us up a flight of stairs to a hallway lined with folding chairs. I clench the handle of my sax case as we maneuver past a girl holding a trombone. Shane sits on one of the folding chairs, pulling the drumsticks out of his pocket. He taps out a nervous rhythm on the concrete wall.

  “I wish you were first,” Shane says. He’s about to go in, but then there’s over an hour before my audition. At least we can grab lunch after he nails his solo.

  “I’m glad you’re first,” I say. “You can give me the inside scoop. Tell me which judges I need to suck up to.”

  “They’re going to love you,” Shane says. I place my sax case on the folding chair next to him and open it up, checking for my sheet music. “Just like I—”

  “Oh no!” I stare at the open case, shuffling through the sheet music and checking the pockets. “No. No. No!”

  “What?” Shane peers over my shoulder. It’s not here. How is this possible? The one thing I need is not here.

  “My neck strap,” I say, still rummaging through the case, even though I know it’s useless. “It’s not here.”

  “You don’t need it,” Shane says trying to reassure me, but he’s wrong. That neck strap is a part of me. Without it, my sax won’t hang right. It’ll all feel wrong. Shane grabs a spare black neck strap from my case and places it on one of the chairs. “Stevie, look at me.”

  Shane’s confident eyes hold mine as he cups my chin in his hand.

  “Top three reasons you don’t need that neck strap. And only three because we don’t have time for five.”

  “I’m going to skip the audition,” I say, tears pricking my eyes. “I don’t know why I thought I could make it as a sophomore. None of this will matter anyway. I’m sure we’ll move again in a year or so.”

  “One,” Shane says, never breaking his gaze. “You have practiced this song. You know it. I bet you could play it backwards by now.”

  “Shane Murphy,” a woman announces into the hall. She’s holding a clipboard and a pen, scanning the chairs. Shane doesn’t even glance in her direction.

  “Two, it’s just a neck strap. You have a perfectly good spare one. You don’t need the red one.”

  “You need to go. They called your name.” I gesture at the clipboard woman, but Shane ignores me.

  “Three, all you need is you. That
’s it. You got this,” Shane says, kissing me.

  “Shane Murphy?”

  “Right here,” Shane says, then whispers in my ear. “I’ll be right back. Wait for me. Do not bail on this.”

  He heads for the audition room, drumsticks in hand. As Shane disappears behind the double doors, I plop down in a plastic chair and pull the spare black strap over my neck.

  CHAPTER 15

  Shane

  “Shane, so glad to have you back,” one of the judges says, but I don’t look up to see which one. I pace in front of the drum set, not bothering to sit. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I’m ordering an Uber on my phone, punching in the student union address and Stevie’s home address. The neck strap is there, it has to be. If I leave now, I should have enough time to grab it and get back before her audition. Light pours in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a glare on my phone. I squint at the screen as I press the order button, the car only two minutes away.

  “Shane?”

  Three judges stare at me, then glance at each other. The woman on the end with cat-eye glasses taps a pencil on the desk. I’m about to give up the chance to jam with the best musicians in the state, to bang out a prestigious solo and feel Dad watching me play.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go,” I say, backing away from the drum set. The judges eye me, all furrowed brows and confusion. Even though I rationally tell myself to stay, that Stevie can audition with another neck strap, my whole body moves to the door. A frantic and desperate I-can’t-let-her-fail feeling surges through me. We practiced over and over, and she finally got it, then finally got me. Stevie needs to know that not everything in her life will disappear, that she can achieve her goals before they are ripped away from her. She needs to know that people will stick around. Because even if she moves next year, in two years, whenever, I’m not going anywhere. The way I feel about her propels me to the door and I push it open, turning to the judges one last time.

 

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