I try again. Famous violinists. Sexy.
There we go.
I click on a picture but don’t show Josh yet. “You like Joshua Bell, right?” I ask.
“He’s one of my heroes.”
I hold the phone up for him to see. Taking up the full screen is a photo of Joshua Bell in a T-shirt and jeans, holding his violin and bow in front of his midsection, one hand in his pocket. His face is completely unobstructed.
Josh’s expression changes as he takes in the image. “Ohhh.”
I do another search, then another, showing him the results each time. David Garrett, Lindsey Stirling, Ray Chen, Charlie Siem, Vanessa-Mae. All violinists. All unreasonably gorgeous. All totally happy to pose for the camera in a way that actually shows what they look like.
Josh nods. “I get it now.”
I grin triumphantly. “Good.”
Josh goes back to the banana crates with, praise Oprah, a much more casual hold on the violin and bow. CeCe: 1, Josh: 0.
I snap a few more shots and study them on the phone screen. Much better, but he’s still a little too tense.
A mischievous smile creeps onto my lips as another idea strikes me. I do a new Google search. Commit a few of the search results to memory. Swipe back to the camera.
“Hey, Josh?” I say, my finger hovering over the image capture button.
“Hmm?”
“What do you call someone with no body and no nose?”
His eyes narrow. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Nobody knows!”
I wait for it. And …
Yes!
I snap picture after picture as Josh first registers, then reacts to the joke. The transformation is incredible. His body relaxes into laughter, his eyes warm, his smile radiant. I check the snapshots on my phone.
Finally.
“Hey, Josh, why can’t you hear it when a pterodactyl goes to the bathroom? Because the pee is silent!”
When his laughter calms enough that he’s able to breathe again, he says, mock-appalled, “Did you really just dad joke me?”
“Desperate times.” I wink.
Suddenly it’s as if the joking and the photography and the back-and-forth of the afternoon were all threads in a thick rope, binding us together tighter and then tighter without us realizing it, and now we’re tied up in something from which there’s no quick release.
Our eyes are locked. The street sounds and clinking of glasses from a nearby gastropub fade into the background. The last traces of humor leave Josh’s face, replaced by something more intimate, something … delicious. Enticing.
Without breaking our connection, without looking at the phone screen, I snap another few photos. I’ll look at them later. If they capture even half of his intensity in this moment, if people online feel half as warm looking at them as I do right now, he’ll sell a million albums.
Slowly, I lower the phone.
My mouth is dry. My lips part, ever so slightly, of their own accord.
Josh notices. His eyes drift down to my mouth, then back up. He takes a step forward. Just one.
And I launch myself at him.
Laughing, he pulls me close. The moment our lips touch, my thirst is instantly quenched. I melt into him.
Eventually someone walking past whistles at us, and we pull apart, embarrassed. I’d forgotten for a minute we were in public. I’d forgotten there were other people in the world at all. I don’t let go of his hands, though, and he doesn’t let go of my gaze.
“I think we’re probably done with the photo shoot portion of the day,” I whisper, swinging our linked hands between us.
“Thank god.” He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and I let go of one of his hands just so I can mock-punch him. “So if we’re done with photos, what’s next?” he asks. Before I can reply, he tacks on, “Birthday gift–wise, I mean.”
“Right. Birthday gift–wise.” I nod. “Next I start work on your new website.”
Josh wrinkles his nose. “Are you sure you want to do this? It seems like a lot of work.”
“I’m looking forward to it. I’m good at this kind of thing,” I assure him.
Briefly, I hope he’ll ask me more about that. Why am I good at it? In what way? And then I’d have no choice but to tell him, because lying by omission is one thing, but lying by lying is another.
A few times I’ve considered just pulling up my profile page and holding it out for him to see. It shocks me, sometimes, how badly I want him to know my whole story. The experiences I’ve had, the people I’ve met, the additional three thousand followers I’ve gained since starting the Treat Yo’Self posts. I want to tell him about the day, back in middle school, that changed my life—the day my mom got me a phone and I opened my app account.
I still remember my first post:
Hi, I’m CeCe.
I didn’t realize at the time that I was introducing myself to literally nobody, since I didn’t have any followers yet. #fail #Iwasonlytwelve
I want him to understand how, much later, when people finally started to reply, they became my world. They were handles, not names, and avatars, not faces, but they were real. Still are.
I want Josh to meet them. All almost-million of them.
If I were sure he’d like them, I’d introduce them in a heartbeat.
But I’m not sure. And I like what we have. I don’t want to ruin it.
And I don’t have to. Not right now.
“Well, if you’re looking forward to it,” he says, “how can I say no? Happy early birthday, CeCe.” He grins that beautiful, dimpled grin, and kisses me again.
Hello, Cincinnati! I type, sitting at my kitchen table the following Saturday. The weeks have been saturated with school and prom stuff and spending time with Josh and Gabby and keeping my app feed current, and I’ve had zero time to work on my speech. But Josh is on Gabby duty on Saturdays while Marty’s at work, and I did all my homework last night, so I finally have some time to dedicate to the speech. Happy Pride! And thank you for having me! I can’t believe it was only two years ago that I attended my first Pride parade, with my girlfriend, Silv—
Nope. Delete.
Why does literally everything I attempt to commit to paper almost immediately loop back to Silvie? She’s not my girlfriend anymore. Mia’s the one having Silvie’s dad’s chilaquiles for breakfast now, apparently. And, okay, that stings a little, because Silvie’s family was like an extension of my own, and I miss them. But Josh is … well, Josh is the best surprise ever. Things are good between us—really good. We don’t even bicker.
I should be motivated. Excited. Like I was when Silvie and I first accepted the invitation. But that was when I knew what I wanted to talk about. Now, no matter how hard I try, or how long I sit in this chair, the page remains blank, the brightness of the illuminated white screen stinging my eyes.
I wish I could text Josh, see if he has any ideas. But he still knows nothing about the parade or speech or any of it.
So I text Mackenzie instead. SOS. Need ideas for Pride speech. Help?
Mackenzie’s cis and straight, and this isn’t exactly her wheelhouse, so I’m not expecting any major revelations, but she’s also smart and level-headed, and I value her input.
I’m surprised when, a minute later, I get a reply.
Think of the speech like a post, only bigger, she’s written. Stick with what you know.
That’s … actually helpful. Thank you, I text back. Why are you awake? It’s before five a.m. her time.
Early flight to Tokyo, she says.
I don’t bother asking what she’s going there for—I’m sure it’s work. She’s always being flown places for promotional gigs. Fly safe. Xoxoxo
I place the phone down and bring my fingers back to the computer keyboard. Think of it like a post, I repeat to myself. If I were allowing myself to be political, just this once, on the app, and I wanted to tie it to LGBTQIA+ issues, what would I choose to talk about?
Elections i
s the first thing that comes to mind. Then: voting.
Okay. That doesn’t feel too far off base. Maybe there’s something there. Instead of attempting any narrative structure, I keep listing words and phrases. Congress. Local. Canvassing. Supreme Court. Public schools.
When the clock on my laptop screen flips to noon, I finally allow myself to scroll over to my website-designing software. I did the thing; I’ve made some progress on the speech. Now I get to work on something fun.
When I open the email Josh sent me with his bio for the website, I start laughing. Hard.
I’m from Florida. That’s it. That’s all he’s written. It’s adorable.
Words come easily to me now as I craft and mold Josh’s bio into something a bit more … more. As a young child toddling along the Miami shore, Joshua Haim dreamed of his music one day spanning oceans—reaching, and perhaps even creating, a new generation of classical music lovers worldwide. He’ll roll his eyes at my changes, but I know what I’m doing. When you’re a public persona, it’s crucial that the picture you paint of yourself online gives people something to grasp on to, to connect with. Too generic and they’ll click away, forgetting you before they even had a chance to learn your name.
This morning, I could have sworn time had crawled to a stop. Now the hours pass in a blur.
I text Josh some small questions, like whether he wants his email address on the site or not. But mostly I follow my own creative instincts. That, and I spend an inordinate amount of time gazing at the photos I took of him.
They turned out even better than I could have hoped. The ones from later in the day, when he’s relaxed and laughing, are so good I have trouble picking just one for his Spotify and Pandora artist pages. He emanates such joy and confidence in these pictures that I’m certain every single person, guy or girl or enby, will look at him and immediately want to be his friend—or more. Like when you watch the thank-yous at the end of an episode of Saturday Night Live and think how much fun they all seem to be having, and wish you could be a part of it.
The three pictures I took after the laughter had faded, though … those are the ones I can’t stop looking at. Part of me wants to post one on my feed with about a thousand fire and alarm emojis and hashtag it #smoldering #hotguyalert, but I don’t.
I can’t help wondering, though—what would people online think, if I ever did share Josh’s existence with my followers? I haven’t gotten the rainbow tattoo because of the prominent online opinion that bi isn’t as worthy of the rainbow as gay. If I start openly dating a cisgender guy, what would people say then?
I take a break from working to whisk up a coconut and jojoba oil deep conditioner for my hair. But though my laptop is closed, my brain won’t stop whirring. What about the other parts of me that I’ve kept hidden online? I consider as I apply the mixture to my head and cover it with a hot towel and shower cap. The partnership with Treat Yo’Self has been going so well that a couple times I’ve thought about maybe leaning into the personal side of things with my other posts too. What would happen if I spoke from the heart on all the things that matter to me? If I posted photos not just from my neighborhood and city, but in front of the protest wall in my room? Or if I reposted news stories that I thought deserved more attention? My followers stuck with me through the end of #Cevie. Maybe, now that we’ve had time to get to know and like each other, they’d stick with me through this stuff too?
It’s a lot to get my head around, and I haven’t made any decisions either way—if I’m being totally honest with myself, I’ll probably never work up the nerve. I wish I could do the thing that Josh makes seem so simple, and just not care. But I do care. I want to be liked. I want to be included.
By Sunday evening, the laughing photos have been edited and posted to Josh’s new website, along with a bio and contact form, links to buy and download his album, and widgets so visitors can stream some of his tracks from the site for free. It all looks pretty awesome, if I do say so myself.
The only thing left to do is set up his social media.
Mom’s working late, so I order a pizza and share a few bites with Abraham as I create Josh’s app profile. That part is easy enough. The part that has me tripped up is the question of whether to follow him from my own account or not. What if he clicks on my handle and sees everything I’ve been keeping from him? If—when—he finds out, I want to be the one to tell him, in person.
“What do you think, Abe?” I say.
He just gazes back at me with an expression that can only mean More pizza?
Ultimately I decide that the odds of Josh even logging in to his account are pretty much nonexistent, so I click FOLLOW and become his first official fan. I even feel a little tremor of excitement over the notion of being able to say “I knew you when” when Josh inevitably gets rich and famous and has people creating fan accounts for him online.
I text him that night. After many hours inventing new curse words to shout at my website-designing software, I’m pleased to announce you are now the proud owner of your very own official website, Spotify and Pandora artist pages, and social media account. I add a balloon filter over the screen. Want to meet up this week so I can walk you through everything?
Yes! he responds immediately. I have a late orchestra rehearsal tomorrow, but how about we meet on your birthday? Donuts??
* * *
“Happy birthday!” Josh practically shouts as he comes through the door of Holtman’s on Tuesday after school.
“Hey.” I grin, hopping off my stool. “Thanks.”
He comes right over and, without a moment’s hesitation, cradles my face in his hands and kisses me tenderly. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“How has your birthday been so far?”
I shrug. “Silvie met me at my first-period class to say happy birthday and ask if I wanted to eat lunch with her and our GSA friends in the cafeteria, like we used to.”
Josh’s eyes widen, just a touch. “Did you?”
“Yeah. It was okay. Kind of weird. But I was getting sick of library lunches. And she and I are trying to be friends.”
“Should I be jealous?” He says it kind of jokily, but I can tell there’s some measure of concern in there.
I shake my head. “Definitely not.”
He smiles. Holding out his hand, which I grasp, he leads the way up to the counter. “Donuts are on me.” I open my mouth to protest, but he stops me with a hand up. “No arguments.”
“Okay, okay.”
Nikki isn’t working today, so an employee named Anthony helps us. Josh has been back to Holtman’s a couple times with Gabby, so he knows the ordering drill by now. It’s cute how he’s all take-charge about it, proudly making his donut selections and ordering us two lattes.
We sit at a table and I open my laptop, walking him through the features of his website. “Your email address isn’t posted anywhere on here, but people can contact you through this little form, and the message will go right to your email inbox,” I explain. “And then you can reply to them from there. Does that make sense?”
Josh nods. “Thank you again, CeCe,” he says. “I can’t believe you did all of this in two days. Do you know how long it would have taken me? And it wouldn’t have been nearly as good.”
I laugh. “I know.”
“You were right about the photos too. The new ones are so much better.”
“Well, the bar was low.” I roll my eyes. “But I have to admit the new ones are really good. You look like a model.”
Josh’s cheeks go pink—he knows how hot he looks. Good. Everyone should have confidence-boosting photos of themselves.
When I show him how the music-playing widgets work, his eyes widen like he’s witnessing real-life magic. “Cool, huh?” I say, pleased.
“Very,” he says.
“I only included three tracks, sort of as a sampler, because you want people to buy the album, or at least listen to it on the streaming sites.”
“How
did you pick which tracks to use?” he asks.
“Oh. I used ‘Walkin’ After Midnight’ because it’s my mom’s favorite. And the other two are my favorites. But if you want to use other ones instead, it will only take me a couple of minutes to change—”
He shakes his head, cutting me off. “The Mendelssohn and Bartók are my favorites too.”
“Really?”
He studies my face like he’s seeing something new there, and kisses me. He tastes sweet, like sugar and dough and too-good-to-be-true-ness. “For someone who claims to not know much about music,” he says, “you have a good ear.”
I shrug. “I don’t think I’ve even heard of Bartók before. I just know how listening to it makes me feel.”
Josh picks up a piece of donut but doesn’t eat it yet. “How does it make you feel?”
I take a sip of my latte, thinking. “Peaceful? Grounded. Like maybe the state of the world isn’t that bad after all. It gives me a chance to breathe and stop worrying, just for a minute or two.”
Josh is smiling at me again, and it’s like in the photos but better, because he’s right here. I could fall in love with this person.
“Anyway,” I say, clearing my throat and turning back to the computer screen, “you also have this little area for ‘news.’ So if you record another album, or book any gigs or anything, you can post updates here. But it’s not a blog, so you don’t have to constantly keep uploading new content.”
“Okay, that sounds good. I don’t think I’d be able to keep up with a blog.”
I smirk. “You definitely wouldn’t.”
“Ha ha,” Josh fake laughs.
“Actually, speaking of …” I click over to his profile on the app. “This is you. @JoshuaHaimViolin. And look, you already have one follower.” I point to my handle, which is the only one in his followers list.
I hover over the link, suddenly feeling bold. It’s the effect of Josh’s presence. His whole being, just like his music, makes me feel like maybe … I can do this. I can tell—show—him the truth about me. About my life on the app. And it will be okay.
Follow Your Arrow Page 14