by Nicola Yoon
“How come?”
“Not a whole lot of Black kids in the Lake Elizabeth school system,” he says with a smile. “Clay and I knew each other from middle school. We met Kevin and Jamal at band tryout freshman year of high school. We said it was a miracle that there were four of us.” The memory of the day is in his eyes. “And before you give me a hard time again, I didn’t pick the name X Machine myself.”
“When did I give you a hard time?”
“Seriously? You don’t remember? When we first met. Your exact words were ‘So the band is named after you?’ ”
“Are you sure?” I ask, even though I remember perfectly. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“You have an evil twin sister?”
“No.”
“Then it was you.”
We grin at each other.
“Clay came up with the name. He said since I was front man and the band was my idea, it was only right. We all thought X Machine sounded like we were from the future.” He drops his head back against the headrest. He swallows once and then twice, like he’s trying to hold down something that wants to come out. “It happened so fast. One minute he was there, and the next he was gone.”
Now I get it. I understand why he says yes to everything and why he tries to live in the moment. It’s because his friend died. He’s not being pretentious, like I thought he was. Like I hoped he was. He’s smart and thoughtful and funny, maybe even a little philosophical.
I need for him to be altogether less…everything.
I need for him to have a secret stash of toenail clippings or nose hairs.
The bus makes a wide left turn. I slide along the seat and my shoulder presses into his. I have to wait for the turn to end before I can pull away again.
“We were planning to move out here after high school anyway. After Clay died, me and the guys decided to seize the day. We dropped out of high school.”
“Wait. You dropped out of high school?”
“Yeah.”
“But aren’t you a senior? You only had one semester to go.”
“Some things can’t wait, Evie.”
“Is that why you broke up with Jess?” I ask. “To move out here and become a rock star?”
“Wow, I’m surprised you remember her name,” he says.
“I have a good memory for names,” I say. I mean, I don’t actually, but it’s better if he thinks I do.
“Jess and I weren’t going to work out. We didn’t fit.”
There’s so much I want to ask about why they didn’t fit, but I definitely should not be delving into his love life. Now’s a good time for a topic switch, I decide.
“How do your parents feel about you dropping out of school?”
“Poorly,” he says. He turns to look at me. “You ever wanted something so bad you couldn’t wait?”
“Yeah,” I say, but I don’t elaborate. The day I rode from school all the way to Santa Monica to try to convince Dad to come home was the most I’ve ever wanted anything.
We spend the rest of the tour mostly lost in our own thoughts. “Sorry we didn’t see any stars,” I say as we’re getting off the bus.
“No worries. Still got something out of it.”
“What?”
“We did the assignment and got to know each other a little.”
Fifi. Right. I kind of lost sight of the reason we were hanging out in the first place.
“We might even become friends,” he says.
“Fifi said we had to get to know each other, not like each other,” I say, teasing.
“Yeah, but you like me. I can tell.”
“Have you ever heard the expression ‘She rolled her eyes so hard she saw her own brain’?”
He slaps his hand to his chest and laughs a loud, wide-open laugh. It’s a great laugh.
“Can we at least agree that you don’t hate me?” he asks.
“I don’t hate you,” I say.
He throws an arm around me and grins. “Well, that’s a start,” he says.
CHAPTER 20
By Act Two
Sophie, “Me,” Cassidy and Martin >
Sophie: Wow, another date?
Me: It. Is. Not. A. Date
Cassidy: Lemme get this straight. The v hot rocker invited u 2 c him play his guitar & sing his songs with his band @ his v first gig in LA?
Martin: Jesus, Cassidy, would it kill you to write the words out? I just had to read that five times
Cassidy: F U
Cassidy: Anyway
Cassidy: How hot is he exactly?
Me: You don’t even like boys
Cassidy: Rockstars r not boys. They’re not even human. They’re a separate species
Martin: Truth
Me: We’re just going out to get to know each other
Cassidy: Rt. So u can have bttr chemistry when ur dirty dancing with each other
Me: BALLROOM DANCING IS NOT THE SAME AS DIRTY DANCING
Cassidy: Come on. It’s sex with clothes on
Martin: Truth
Sophie: Omg, Cassidy
Cassidy: What?
Cassidy: She’s basically the heroine in 1 of her romance books
Martin: She doesn’t read those books anymore
Cassidy: She’ll be in love by the end of act 2
Me: You understand that real life doesn’t have acts, right?
Martin: Truth
CHAPTER 21
Not a Date, Part 2 of 3
THE CLUB WHERE X is playing is a hole in the wall. With no windows. And very dim light. A cave, basically.
I peer into the near darkness from the doorway, wishing for a spelunking helmet, which is not something I’ve ever wished for before. I don’t see X, but our plan was that I’d watch the show and we’d meet up afterward.
So far only a handful of people are here, some at the bar and a few others at the tables in the back. At the front of the room, a small elevated stage is already set up. I spot an electric guitar with an X Machine sticker leaning up against an amp. I can’t believe he’s really going to get up there and sing and play in front of a bunch of strangers. I can’t believe how nervous I am for him.
I look away from the stage, suck in a deep breath and immediately cough that deep breath back out. The air smells like smoke, beer, pee and the cleaning products they use to (unsuccessfully) cover the smell of smoke, beer and pee. I choose a table as far away from the stage as I can find. I don’t want my nervousness to make him nervous. Not that it would. But still, to be safe.
The show’s supposed to start at six, but (by law) rock shows are not allowed to start on time. People trickle in over the next forty minutes until the club is packed. Finally, a short white Mohawked guy dressed all in black leather goes up to the mic. His skin, including his face, is almost entirely covered with tattoos.
“Welcome to Ricky’s Club,” he says in a thick English accent. “I’m Ricky. We got a good show for you tonight. First up, X Machine, all the way from—”
He stops talking and yells backstage. “Where are you lot from, again?”
“Lake Elizabeth,” yells a voice.
“Right,” says Ricky. “Lake Elizabeth.” He looks backstage again. “Where the fuck is that, then?”
“Upstate New York,” says the same voice.
Ricky faces the audience. “There you go,” he says. “Upstate fucking New York.”
I watch the crowd, trying to gauge their enthusiasm. It is tepid.
My nervousness spikes. I really want him to be good. Not just good, but great. As great as he thinks he is. I don’t want this impossible dream to break his heart.
Before he leaves the stage, Ricky announces the band that X Machine is opening for—“hometown favorites Better Daze.” The crowd react
ion is not tepid. Probably half the audience are friends of theirs, but enthusiasm is enthusiasm.
The house lights dim even more and all three guys walk out onstage. I remember a little about them from our LaLaLand tour. Jamal’s the drummer and Kevin’s the bassist. Kevin used to play keys, but he started playing bass after Clay died.
X picks up the electric guitar and walks to the mic. Up there he looks different somehow. Maybe it’s because his dreads are loose around his shoulders. Or maybe it’s the way the stage lights make his brown skin glow slightly blue. His eyes search the crowd. It takes me a second to realize he’s looking for me. I throw my hand into the air and wave.
He waves back and a few people in the audience turn to look at me.
“Hey, everyone,” he says into the mic. His voice is deeper than I’m used to. “We’re X Machine. We’re from Upstate fucking New York. This is our first gig in LA. Thanks for coming out. This song is called ‘Prom.’ ”
In classic rock-and-roll-drummer fashion, Jamal slaps his sticks together and calls the count. “One, two, three, four.”
I expect—and the audience expects—a hard, driving tempo, but that’s not what we get. The song is slow. Too slow.
X’s voice is too melting smooth. He’s basically crooning over the midtempo rhythm. The lyrics are too sweet and earnest—something about corsages and promises.
One of Dad’s favorite sayings is don’t bring a knife to a gunfight. All I can think now is don’t bring a ballad to a rock concert. The audience starts to fidget.
But then they launch into the chorus, and the whole song changes. X’s voice takes on an edge—not angry, but hard. The tempo increases.
I don’t wanna go
I don’t wanna go
I don’t wanna go to prom with you
The rest of the song is pretty much about everything that’s wrong with prom—the tulle, the bow ties, the crappy music, the pressure to make out and move around the bases, the unrealistic expectations that you’ll one day marry your prom date. It’s hilarious and catchy, and by the end everyone is hating on prom right along with them.
“That beginning fake-out always fools people,” X says after the applause dies down. “This next song is called ‘Race Is Stupid.’ ”
This one doesn’t start off slow or crooning. The song is rage set to music and still catchy somehow. I already know the chorus will stay with me:
You don’t get to say
Who I am
Who I can be
You don’t get to tell me
Nothing no more
Nothing no more
Nothing
They play two more songs, and I can’t take my eyes off him. Let’s just say I get why rock stars are a thing. I get why groupies are a thing. Because up there onstage with his guitar, X’s sexy is undeniable. But what really gets me is the way I can see he belongs up there. It’s the way he doesn’t hold anything back.
He pulls the mic in close. “Here’s a brand-new one we started working on last night. The lyrics aren’t all there yet, but it’s got potential. See what you guys think,” he says.
He unstraps his guitar and leans it up against the wall. “This song is called ‘Black Box,’ ” he says, and grips the mic stand with both hands.
The bass and drums kick in before X does. His voice, when it comes, is low and sprawling and full of so much want that it doesn’t matter that he’s mumble-singing some of the lyrics. At the chorus, he grips the mic stand and tilts it forward like he needs more room for his voice to grow, like he needs more room for the feeling he’s trying to give us all to grow.
An idea of what his future will be like rises in my mind. Not a tiny club, but a stadium. Not fifty people, but fifty thousand. Not an unfinished song, but a catalog of hits. In this future, he gets everything he wants. But then I shake my head, because of course, it probably won’t happen that way. Over the last few weeks with the visions, I’ve seen enough heartbreak to know that life almost never turns out the way you think it will.
The song ends and X grips the mic again. “I know it’s weird for you seeing three Black guys up here playing rock and roll. But don’t forget, Black people invented rock and roll.” He winks and flashes the same grin he gave me when we first met, the one that gets him to the front of every line. It works, and people laugh all around me. He waits for the cheers to die down. “We’re X Machine. That was our set,” he says. “Thanks for coming out.”
The club lights go up from dark to slightly less dark.
It’s another twenty minutes of breaking down their equipment and high fives and great shows before he makes his way over to me. He brings Jamal and Kevin with him.
“You the one got our boy doing ballet?” Jamal asks. He’s taller than X, with a baby face and a Mohawk.
“That’s me,” I say.
“Man, I told you it’s not ballet. It’s ballroom,” X groans. I can tell this is a running gag between them.
Jamal gives me a quick hug. “Keep him busy with the dancing,” he says. “Before you, he was killing us with rehearsing all the time.”
“He’s a lot less grumpy now too,” Kevin says, also leaning in for a hug. He’s short, wide and completely bald. In a former life he was a boulder.
“Time for you fools to go,” X says.
Jamal laughs. “Nice to meet you finally, Evie,” he says.
“Keep up the good work,” Kevin adds.
After they leave, X turns back to me. “Hey,” he says. His eyes are glittering, and there’s a kind of energy coursing through him.
I grab my backpack and hug it tight to my chest. “Hey,” I say back. And even at the risk of seeming like a groupie, I have to tell him how great he was. “You were incredible. Better than you said you were. Thanks for inviting me. I’m glad I got to see you play.”
He beams. Which isn’t something I’ve seen him do before, but I like it. I like it so much that I want to make him do it again.
* * *
——
“This place isn’t usually like this,” I say to X when we’re settled into our booth at Surf City Waffle. I’ve never actually been here at night, and it’s…different. The tables are covered with lacey, pale-pink cloths. Rose petals float in small round vases at the center of each table. Actual candles in actual sconces line the walls. Candlelight twinkles. Romantically.
X makes a show of looking around. “So you didn’t bring me here to seduce me?” he asks.
I actually sputter. “What?! No!”
He leans back and belly-laughs with his giant hands resting on his stomach. “Got your goat,” he says.
“Leave my goat alone,” I grumble.
“Don’t make it so easy to catch, then,” he says. His dreads are half in his face.
“Also, you shouldn’t flirt with me. I’m not one of your groupies.”
He does the single-eyebrow-raise thing. “Who says I’m flirting?”
“My flirt-detection meter,” I say.
He leans forward. “Where do you get one of those?”
“Same place I got my bullshit-detection meter,” I say, leaning back into my seat.
Another belly laugh from him. “You’re funny,” he says.
“I bet you flirt with everyone,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Not everyone.”
I persist. “But you flirt a lot, right?”
“I like girls,” he says. He turns the vase centerpiece idly with his long fingers. “I especially like the smart, pretty, snarky, slightly confusing ones.”
“Too bad there aren’t any of those around,” I say.
Then I remind myself that he’s probably had no less than ten thousand girlfriends. I wonder if he’s ever loved any of them, if he’s ever had his heart broken. I know for sure he broke Jess’s hear
t while cycling my bike around studio five.
Like I should’ve done several sentences ago, I change the subject. “What was that last song you played? The one that’s not finished yet?”
Before he can answer, the waitress drops off our food. Chicken and waffles for him. Waffle with berries for me.
He bites into his chicken. “Damn, that’s good.” He devours it in about two minutes flat. “Sorry,” he says, leaning back and wiping his hands. “Being onstage makes me hungry.” He watches me construct the perfect forkful of waffle, strawberry syrup and whipped cream.
I pull my plate in closer. “Don’t even look at my food,” I warn him.
“Don’t worry, I’m good now,” he says, leaning back. “The last song was ‘Black Box.’ ”
“What’s it about?”
“A lot of things. But mostly my pops. We used to be close, but things have been messed up with us since Clay died. I don’t see the world the same way I used to, and now it’s like we can’t understand each other anymore.” His voice is a mixture of regret and confusion and anger.
“What happened?”
“We don’t agree on the direction of my future,” he says, using a deep, imperious voice, like a judge pronouncing a verdict.
I take a guess. “He doesn’t want you to be a musician.”
“He says it’s fine for a hobby.” He picks up his fork, drags it across his plate and then puts it back down. “The messed-up thing is, he’s the one who got me my first guitar. He gave me my first lessons. We even had our own band when I was little.”
“You did?” I picture a younger version of X, which is basically the same as this version of X except shorter and rounder and with smaller hands.
“We called ourselves the WoodsMen. Get it? Because my last name is—”
I interrupt him. “Xavier Woods, I’m not an idiot.”
“My middle name is Darius,” he says, grinning. “I’m telling you so you can yell my full name when you’re yelling at me.”