Whatever Happens

by Candace Buford

  “Dude, that is foul. I may never smell again.” He held his breath as he bent down to retrieve my tank. He pinched the fabric so that he was barely touching it. After dropping it into his hamper, he kicked the lid closed, containing the funk for the time being. “That shirt’s in time-out. I can wash it later, but it won’t be ready in time for the show.”

  “Can I borrow one of yours?” I clasped my hands together.

  “I’ve got you covered—literally.” He laughed to himself. He ran his fingers through his blond hair as he crossed the room to the black dresser and slid open the middle drawer. At random, he selected a shirt, then knocked the drawer shut. He held the white shirt out to me. “Here you go.”

  I held up the shirt, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the retro band name on the front. “Rush?”

  “What?” He scoffed. “They’re legendary. Their drummer was one of the all-time greats.”

  “I just thought you were more of a The Who guy, that’s all,” I said, flinging the shirt over my bare shoulder. “Any chance I can get a shower, too?”

  “The one at the studio still acting up?”

  “It works when it wants to.” I was lucky our garage studio had a rickety old bathroom attached, but the shower had poor water pressure and bad lighting. I’m not complaining—I was seriously grateful to have the studio as my refuge. But sometimes I wanted to experience the trappings of home—especially on shower and laundry days.

  “Just make it quick.” Alex tossed me a towel, then grabbed his bedroom doorknob. “I’m going to go change my laundry so that I can have my lucky shirt in time for the show.”

  “And we need all the luck we can get today.” I rubbed my hands together, eager to get this day started. “Our first interview and a show at the Orpheum. Can you believe it?”

  Sunset Curve was being interviewed by the music magazine Spin—an honor reserved for the hottest up-and-comers. It wasn’t a cover or anything, just a small feature in some obscure section of the magazine, but none of that mattered to me. We were in. And since we didn’t have any professional photos, they had agreed to take our first official band picture—one where we didn’t have to use a disposable camera perched on a wobbly stack of books, like we did for our demo. This was the big leagues.

  “Hollywood, here we come,” Alex said with a grin.

  Poking my head out of my bedroom door, I made sure the coast was clear before darting down the hallway and taking the stairs to the basement. The splashed concrete floors were cold against my bare feet as I scurried to the washing machine. When I opened the lid, I gasped.

  Everything was pink. Pink.

  “How the heck?” I mumbled to myself as I scooped my clothes into the laundry basket. I dug through the damp pile, searching for the culprit. A single red sock unfurled itself from the bundle of formerly white shirts.

  Idiot.

  I sank to the floor, resting my head against the door to the dryer. I prodded the pile with my finger, taking inventory of the damage. A good chunk of my wardrobe was now drenched in pink—including my go-to Fresh shirt, which I always wore to big shows. My breath escaped in a rush of air.

  How could I wear this tonight?

  Look, I’m not superstitious or anything—I’m a rational human being who knows that there is no actual correlation between my clothing and my good fortune. But I got a kick out of the coincidence of it all, the self-fulfilling prophecy of wearing the same shirt for every big show. Every time I wore it behind my drums, the legend grew more, and my Fresh shirt became luckier.

  I turned the shirt over in my hands, looking at its soft pink color. It really didn’t look half bad. If I was being honest, I’d always had a thing for pink. I just didn’t want all my clothes to be that color.

  I scraped myself off the floor. I didn’t have time to wallow. Today was still going to be great. Tonight, Sunset Curve would become legends.

  With the laundry loaded into the dryer, I turned on the heat and headed upstairs. I’d have just enough time to eat a quick breakfast by the time the cycle ended—that would give Luke plenty of time to take his shower. I’d asked him to make it a short one, but I knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t help himself. The shower at the studio was pretty sad.

  But no matter what faults the studio had, it was still our second home.

  Honestly? Sometimes it felt like my primary home. I probably spent as much time there as I did at my house these days. The studio didn’t have the eerie stillness I felt at home. There was always plenty of noise and music and laughter—the guys made sure of that. And I couldn’t wait to meet up with them later today.

  I swung the door to my bedroom open, and Luke was leaning against my desk. “That shower was hella fast.”

  “I couldn’t shower, dude,” he whispered, gesturing to the door. “Someone else is in the bathroom.”

  I stood still, listening to the floorboards creak in the hallway. We both held our breaths as we heard the bathroom door open and shut down the hall. I turned slowly to Luke, biting down on both lips. There was only one way out of this situation.

  “You’re not gonna love this idea, but you’re gonna do this for me because we are best buds,” I said, squinting as I tilted my head to the side.

  “What?” he asked warily.

  “Go out through the window?” I held my hands up. “It’s either that or I’m grounded for the show tonight.”

  “Alex.” Luke sighed, putting his head in his hand. “The things I do for friendship.”

  He dressed quickly, then held his hand out, which I gladly took. He pulled me closer for a pat on the back. “All right, I’ll see you at the studio in a bit?”

  “Yes. And remember, we’re going to do a quick run-through of our set list, and then we’re heading straight to the magazine offices for the interview and photo shoot, so pack up everything you need for the day.” I paused, blinking in disbelief. I still couldn’t believe the words photo shoot came out of my mouth. True, it wasn’t anything fancy—just a quick shoot in the magazine’s small studio. But everyone had to start somewhere. And this was the start of something big. I could feel it.

  Luke swung his leg over the windowsill, straddling it as he studied where to land in the hedges below.

  “Okay, bro. I’ll catch you later.” He nudged my side with his elbow, but the motion knocked him off balance. He lost purchase on his precarious perch and tumbled to the rosebushes below, hitting the mulch with a muffled thud.

  My jaw dropped as I leaned out the window.

  “Are you okay, dude?” I asked, and it came out more as a hiss than a whisper.

  He scampered to his feet, brushing off the dirt from the front of his shirt. Correction—the front of my shirt.

  “Ow,” he mouthed, rubbing his back. His hands flew to his face, pawing the surface to check for any scratches. We had a photo shoot this afternoon, and he definitely didn’t want to look jacked up for that.

  “I’ll be all right, but—” He poked a finger through a hole in the shirtsleeve of my Rush T-shirt. “I’m sorry, man.”

  “Ugh this is the last time I loan you anything. Remember what happened to my LA Gears?”

  “That wasn’t my fault! Reggie spilled a slushie on them.” He brought a fist up to his mouth, trying to cover his laugh. “Oh, come on. Don’t be mad. You know you love me.”

  “I do. But I don’t like you very much right now.” I turned to look behind me. The floorboards in the hallway creaked again, and I knew my parents would overhear my conversation with Luke if we continued talking across the lawn. I turned my attention back to Luke, who had discovered another hole in the sleeve.

  “Looks like that bush knows Morse code.” He chuckled, making fake SOS beeping sounds.

  “I’ll see you at the studio later.” I shooed him with my hands, hoping he’d disappear without any further noise. I seriously didn’t want my parents to see Luke sneaking out. They might get the wrong idea. Or worse—they might take away my drumsticks.

  Then I
heard the front door squeak as it swung open, and tan slippers stepped over the threshold. My dad walked across the stoop, his mug of coffee steaming as he took a measured sip. My chest caved in—he was honestly the last person I wanted to see right now. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked wordlessly at Luke, who was in one of my shirts just outside my ground-floor window. It was clear he’d just snuck out of my room.

  I could feel the blood drain from my face.

  “Hi, Mr. Mercer.” Luke waved sheepishly from the lawn, awkwardly putting a hand over his shoulder to hide his tattered sleeve.

  Correction—my sleeve.

  “Luke,” my dad grumbled, barely loud enough for me to hear. “It’s a bit early to be talking loudly on the lawn. I see you spent the night.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dad, it seriously isn’t what it looks like.” I hung my head low, embarrassed to be having this conversation.

  Not that my dad would ever take the time to know this, but I wasn’t joking when I told Luke he wasn’t my type. He was kinda messy, and I preferred someone a little cooler and quieter—like Luke Perry from Beverly Hills, 90210. Now that was my kind of guy.

  And I wouldn’t be sneaking the guy I liked out of a window. I hoped one day I could bring someone home through the front door, and he would be welcomed with open arms just like my sister’s college boyfriends were. But that didn’t matter right now.

  “I don’t want to hear it.” My dad held his hand up in my direction. “Whatever y’all do is … that’s your business.”

  “Mr. Mercer, I just crashed for the night while I’m working out some stuff with my parents.”

  “They don’t approve?” His ears perked up, as if he would find vindication in the fact that Luke’s parents didn’t approve of his lifestyle, either.

  That’s what they called it—a lifestyle—as if being gay was a choice I’d made.

  My blood started to boil. And by the look on Luke’s face, he was offended on my behalf. His lips parted as if he was about to say something, but I cut him off before he had a chance to mouth off.

  “It’s okay,” I said, even though it was a lie. I nodded at him, trying to convince him to let it go. I checked my watch and cleared my throat. “You better get going if you wanna catch the eight o’clock bus.”

  “You sure?” He gritted his teeth, setting his jaw tight as he took one last look at my dad’s imposing figure on the stoop. When I nodded, he tramped across my sloped lawn toward the gate leading to the street, clearly peeved at our tense exchange.

  “I meant what I said, Alex.” My dad’s finger shook as he pointed at me. “You do what you want but not under my roof. Understand?”

  I mumbled an acknowledgment, then ducked back in the window, eager to put some distance between me and my dad’s judgmental glare. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.

  Today is still going to be a great day.

  I took an extra-long shower before hiding in my room until my laundry was finished, then dressed quickly—pink shirt and all! My duffel was filled to bursting when I left my bedroom. I had our band folder in it, which included our paperwork for the Orpheum and the interview sheets for the magazine later. I packed an extra pair of clothes, too, just in case I wanted to crash at the studio instead of coming home late again.

  Who was I kidding? I definitely wanted to stay at the studio tonight. I could picture my friends’ faces blushed and bright after crushing our showcase at the Orpheum. I could almost see the celebration we’d have in the studio later. That thought had me smiling when I walked into the living room.

  “Well,” I said with a sigh to the back of my dad’s head. He grunted in response. My mom looked away from the TV long enough to give me a tepid smile. “I’m going to the studio.”

  “Have fun, dear,” Mom said, turning back to her show.

  “Remember we have our showcase at the Orpheum tonight,” I said in a low voice, unsure if they cared. But I swung my bag over my shoulder and set it on the ground. Rummaging through it, I pulled out two tickets from my folder. I heaved myself upward and set them on the coffee table. “I know you said you were busy tonight, but these are for you. In case you change your mind.”

  I wanted my parents to be interested in my life. I wanted them to see me and accept me with open arms. Music was in my soul—as much a part of me as my own two hands. But all they saw was my lifestyle.

  My dad looked up, making brief eye contact with me before turning his gaze down to my pink shirt.

  “That’s what you’re wearing?” he asked gruffly.

  For a moment, my smile faltered, but then I straightened my back, squaring my shoulders proudly. I’d always liked the color pink. It was time I stopped hiding from myself and started living my own life—out of the shadow of my parents’ expectations.

  “I’m ready to rock and roll,” I said with confidence as I scooped my bag off the floor. I grabbed the doorknob, resisting the urge to turn back and look at my parents. I wanted to move forward. And right now, that meant I was moving toward the studio, my drum set, and my band—my chosen family.

  I stuck my head in my parents’ room to find Tía with a towel wrapped around her head, wearing a pleasant change of wardrobe—a giant gray sweatshirt that I think belonged to my dad. She hunched over the Scrabble board between her and my mom, frowning at her letters while my mom slipped her feet into her bubbling foot spa.

  “Okay, I’m heading over to Flynn’s,” I said, with a wave.

  “Have fun, Angel Face,” Mom said as she added more bath salts to her water. “Remember, you’re babysitting Carlos tonight after dinner while your father and I go out. So don’t disappear on me.”

  “Mamá.” I looked at the time on my phone. “It’s only two. I’ll be back in plenty of time.”

  “Good, because your father’s cooking tonight.” She wiggled her eyebrows, then bit her lip to hide her smile.

  “Ay, dios mío.” Tía shook her head. “Good luck with that.”

  “Mom’s been teaching him, so I’m sure it’ll be at least okay-ish.”

  I waved goodbye and made a beeline for the stairs, smiling as I listened to their laughter fill the house. I grabbed my keys off the counter, excited to spend the afternoon with my bestie. Shortly after I’d texted Flynn, she’d answered back, saying I had to come over this afternoon. She had something she wanted to show me.

  But before I made it out the door, I caught sight of my dad sitting hunched over a very large cookbook at the table. He looked above the rim of the book, his eyebrows knitting together.

  “Do you think homemade pasta tastes better than store-bought pasta?”

  “I think all carbs are created equally delicious. Why?” I eyed the book title suspiciously: The Italian Chef’s Master Class. That didn’t sound like anything my dad should be reading. He was more of a beginner in the kitchen. “Are you thinking about making your own noodles tonight?”

  “It says right here in the book that fresh pasta will soak up the flavor, making every bite taste delizioso.” He frowned at the page, scratching his graying hair. “But it also says you need a standing mixer with this weird-looking attachment thingy. Do you know if we have anything like this?”

  He lifted the book, struggling with the hefty weight as he held it up to my face. My eyes crossed as I looked at the list of instructions and at the diagram of the attachment.

  “Um.” I bit my lip, trying to figure out the most diplomatic way to say this. “Have you talked to mom about this?”

  “I didn’t want to disturb her spa day,” he said with a shrug, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your mom deserves a little downtime—she’s been so tired lately. And it’s date night, you know. I want to make it special.”

  I hugged him, squeezing him tight. When he wrapped both his arms around me, I closed the book over his shoulder. He whipped his head around.

  “Hey!”

  “Remember, we’ll love anything you cook tonight—even regular noodles, okay?” I backed away slowly
, making sure he understood that he should definitely not complicate his cooking duties tonight. But as I opened the door, I swear I saw him crack open the cookbook again. I wondered if I’d come home to a plume of flour and gnarly-looking linguine later.

  Once outside, I checked the time on my phone and was distracted by an Instagram notification for Nick. I leaned on one of the front porch’s columns, my thumb hovering over his profile picture. I was prepared to dive in, but I was startled by a loud bang.

  “BOO!” Carlos shouted, stomping his foot again.

  “AHHH!” I screamed, losing my grip on my phone. I fumbled it in the air, my fingers desperately trying to catch it, but it bounced off—straight into the bushes. “Carlos!”

  “Gotcha.” He pumped his fist in the air, his smug smile growing wider.

  Lately, my little brother was super fixated on his two favorite things—his new baseball team and jumping out of corners and scaring the living daylights out of everyone in the house. You’d think I’d wise up to his game and wouldn’t be scared of the scream anymore, but it got me every time.

  Seriously. Every freakin’ time!

  “Oh, I’ll get you back. When you least expect it,” I grumbled as I hopped down the steps, making my way into the landscaped bushes that lined the porch stairs. My long curls snagged on the branches, tugging at my scalp as I pawed the ground for my phone.

  Oh, I’m going to get him back good.

  “You’ll never catch a pro at his own game.” And with that, he shut the front door behind him, a devilish grin on his face. I pitied my dad and his cookbook. They were likely his next scare victims.

  Brushing the dirt off my phone, I started the eight-minute journey to Flynn’s house. I eyed my neighbor’s house across the street. If I cut through Mr. Canneli’s yard, I’d shave the time in half, but he didn’t take kindly to trespassers.

  Trust me, I’d tried.

  I knocked softly on Flynn’s front door, then turned the handle, letting myself inside. The Taylor house was my second home, after all. I didn’t need to knock. I shimmied past an overgrown fern in the entryway, thriving in the bright room. Flynn’s house had so many windows, and her parents filled every frame with plants. Succulents dangled from pots that hung above the window while ferns and spider plants fought for space on various tables scattered around the house.