I took a deep breath. You could almost feel the extra oxygen.
Flynn zoomed onto the second-floor landing, disturbing a hanging plant dangling from the banister.
I think that one is new.
“Hey, weirdo.” She waved her hand, telling me to get upstairs pronto.
“What up, cray cray.”
When I joined her at the top, she pulled me in for a tight hug. “Okay, I have good news and I have great news. Which one do you want first?”
“Uh.” I bit the inside of my tongue, thinking about it. “The good news.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” She grabbed my arm, then tugged me into her room, a decidedly different space than the lush greenery of the rest of the house. Flynn’s room was an explosion of color. Pinks, blues, metallics, glitter, and neons assaulted you as soon as you walked in.
It was one of the many things I loved about Flynn. When we were six, Flynn almost cried over an assignment about our favorite color because she didn’t want to choose.
“The good news is that I have perfected our debut Double Trouble song.” She kicked her leg in the air as if she couldn’t contain her joy.
I approached with caution, as I did with all things Double Trouble—the band we’d been saying we were going to form since the dawn of time. Between homework and auditioning for the Los Feliz Performing Arts music program and now my latest drama with Carrie, our band plans had fallen to the wayside. But every now and then, Flynn could always be trusted to revive the fantasy.
“Okay, stand here.” She gripped my shoulders and scooted me to the edge of her room. She looked me squarely in the face, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “You’re going to drool when you hear this. It could be Double Trouble’s first hit!”
I grinned, intrigued. Flynn was a talented lyricist, so whatever she had cooked up for the band’s first song was going to be music gold.
But the name! Seriously, we could not settle for Double Trouble. We were going to have to come up with something better before we actually made a real attempt at performing.
“Are we still opposed to Gruesome Twosome?” I asked, raising my eyebrow and laughing.
“Just watch!” She slid on a pair of retro shades from her back pocket as she walked to the makeshift DJ booth on her desk. She slipped on the sunglasses, switched on her old-school keyboard, and pressed play on her laptop. Familiar opening chords filled the room.
She raised her hands in the air, wiggling her fingers as she brought them down slowly. Pointing her toe to the ground, she bobbed her hips to the beat, her silver bike shorts shimmering. I had to hand it to her—Flynn knew how to drum up drama.
“I can’t with ‘Final Countdown’ right now,” I said, trying not to laugh through her routine.
“It’s a total classic.” She held her hand up as the music reached a crescendo. She rounded the corner of her desk, her fingers poised over her electric piano. “Here we go. REMIX!”
“Oh, snap!” I shouted, jumping over to meet Flynn by her desk. I was always down for an impromptu dance party. In fact, we broke out in random dances almost every day. Spurred on by my excitement, Flynn returned her fingers to the piano keys and rolled into her next verse.
I looked at the DJ program running on her desktop—all the sound bars were running wild as the remix played on. She’d worked hard on this rap, and that wasn’t all she’d been practicing. Her skills on the piano had also caught my attention.
“Flynn! You’re playing the piano,” I said, my jaw hanging wide open. I pointed to the keyboard, where she’d competently lumbered through the notes.
“Girl, please. I was hoping you’d take the keys.”
“But you’ve been practicing, and you’re getting kinda good. Well, better anyway.” Admittedly, piano playing wasn’t Flynn’s strong suit. Rapping was where she really shined. She could turn a phrase at the snap of her fingers, but really all types of music had a place in her heart. In some ways, she reminded me of my mom in her ability to pick up any instrument and figure it out.
I wished I could do that. My piano and singing audition had gotten me into one of the most competitive music programs on the West Coast. But sometimes I felt like I was still discovering the piano, even though I had been playing since I was four years old.
“I’ll never catch up to your skills, though.” Flynn lowered the volume on her computer and leaned on the edge of her desk.
“Maybe we could get some straps on that keyboard, so that you can play standing up.” I was being facetious, but Flynn obviously didn’t see it that way. She gasped.
“Now you’re talking. A keytar! The eighties and nineties are making a comeback. It’ll be the best. What do you think?”
“I think it sounds awesome.” I plopped down on the edge of her bed with a sigh. “But can we work on the name?”
“The Dynamic Duo?” Her hands flew above her head. “Ooooh! The Witchy Sissies?”
“We’ll keep brainstorming,” I said, deadpan.
“Look, I know it still needs some work, but the point is: It’s the countdown to starting our throwback-musical-girl-gang band. One, two, three—you and me. What do you say?”
I squinted, thinking about her countdown, and then my gaze grew distant, blurring as I thought about the untitled song Mom and I were working on. Just like my mom, who stopped everything the moment lyrics grabbed her attention, I needed to find a pen. I darted across the room, sliding Flynn’s desk drawer open in search of something to write with.
“Uh, can I help you?” She knelt down so that I could see the confusion on her face.
“Do you have paper?” I asked, gripping a purple gel pen in my hands. “I think I just found a piece of a song, and it’s all thanks to you!”
Ugh, why didn’t I bring my notebook?
I could have kicked myself for leaving my freewriting journal in my room. It was where I wrote all my ideas—my daydreams and tiny musings, basically whatever came into my head. Everything was an ingredient for a song. I just didn’t expect a eureka moment so soon after my writing session with Mom.
“Ahh! I love it when genius strikes.” Flynn slid a notepad off her bookshelf and handed it to me. “Hurry, write it down.”
The words poured out of me and onto the page. I eyed the paper, envisioning where it fit in the song. Smiling, I looked up at Flynn. “I think I just found the pre-chorus.”
She leaned over my shoulder, pursing her lips as she looked at my scribbles.
“The first verse is about how everything moves so fast when you’re chasing your dreams. And how you’ve got to keep pushing and never look back.” I smiled, thinking about singing it with my mom this morning.
“That sounds ahh-mazing.” She snapped her fingers, her orange nail polish glinting in the sunlight. “Can’t wait to hear the rest of it.”
“You will soon. It’s almost finished.” I searched my brain, just in case the song’s chorus was hiding somewhere up there. I shook my head—it wasn’t ready to hop on the page yet. “Sorry, I kinda blew up your surprise.”
“No worries.” Flynn twiddled her fingers in front of her face. “But now it’s time for that great news, huh?”
Flynn skipped over to the bed and sat next to me, practically vibrating with energy. If her elaborate Double Trouble rap routine was only the good surprise, I could only imagine what her great surprise was.
“So, I went shopping this morning at my mom’s store.” She flipped her long braids over her shoulder, showing off a new pair of earrings—neon-yellow lightning bolts.
“I hope you realize how lucky you are.” I sighed, looking around Flynn’s room. Not that she needed more stuff. Seriously, this place was packed to the brim with clothes and accessories. But when your mom owns one of the funkiest boutiques on Melrose Avenue, the premiere clothier to the eclectic customer, it’s basically your God-given right to shop.
“Well, you’re about to luck out, too, because I saw the most fire dress that had Julie Molina’s quinceañera wr
itten all over it.” She clasped her hands together and brought the bundle of fingers to her face. “It came in on consignment, and I just couldn’t let my mom put it on display—not before you had a chance to take a look at it.”
“It’s not a poufy pink dress, right?” I asked, scrunching my face up. There was nothing wrong with the color pink, but I wanted to do something different with my outfit—wear something off the beaten path. “I don’t want to look like a cupcake.”
“Girl, bye.” She waved dismissively. “I know your taste like the back of my hand.”
“That’s true.” I looked around the room, searching for a mound of tulle hiding behind one of Flynn’s garment racks. “Can I see it?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” She sprang from the bed and opened her bedroom door. Leaning out she yelled into the hallway, “Mom, we’re ready! Bring it up, pretty please with a cherry on top.”
“Okay,” I heard Misha’s voice reply from somewhere deep in the house. The stairs creaked as she made her way to the second floor.
All of a sudden, my heart rate fluttered and my pulse quickened. Every time I tried on a dress, I hoped it would be the right one, but it never was. The dresses were always missing that extra edge, that special something that made it as unique as I was. Could Flynn and her mom really have found the one? Anticipation and a little apprehension flooded my veins. I grabbed Flynn’s hand, bouncing on the balls of my feet. She squeezed my fingers, her smile growing wider.
“Thanks for this. Carrie and I were supposed to hit up a couple dress shops this weekend, but then she—”
“Flaked!” Flynn interjected, pursing her lips. She wasn’t the biggest fan of Carrie’s, and it showed every time I mentioned her name. And with the way Carrie had been treating me lately, maybe Flynn was onto something. “You’ll forget all about her mean-girl ways once you lay your eyes on this dress.”
“Knock, knock,” said a singsongy voice from the other side of the door. Flynn’s mom shoved it open with a tap of her foot, tan moccasins with beaded fringe—the queen of eclectic fashion. “There’s my second child.”
In one hand she lugged an enormous white garment bag, which must have been the mystery dress, and in the other hand she had a plate of snacks with foil over the top.
“Hi, Misha,” I said with a wave. It always felt weird calling an adult by their first name, but Flynn’s parents didn’t like formalities or titles. Call me Misha for goodness’ sake, she used to say, and it stuck. I grabbed the plate from her and set it on Flynn’s nightstand. As soon as I did, Misha scooped me up in her arms.
“Uh! This is so exciting. You girls are becoming women.” She clutched her chest, her shoulder-length dreads grazing the straps of her green tie-dyed dress. Misha wore a lot of tie-dye—not in rainbow colors. That wasn’t her color palette—or at least that’s what she’d told me several times. She was of the earth and wore her trusted greens and browns mostly.
Yeah, Flynn’s parents were kinda out there.
She set the garment bag on the edge of the bed and started unzipping it slowly. Her grin widened as she parted the fabric, revealing a truly amazing two-piece dress. My hand flew over my mouth, and I gasped.
“Do you like it?” Misha raised both of her eyebrows, nodding expectantly.
“Like it? I love it.” I ran my fingers along the top part of the dress—a bustier bedazzled in white pearls and black sequins. The bottom half consisted of a beautiful cascading tulle skirt—not too poufy, with layers upon layers of purple and gold. Unlike Flynn, I did have a favorite color, and it was purple. I imagined myself in this dress, and thought I might look like a dahlia, my mom’s favorite flower, which was quickly becoming my favorite, too. “It’s perfect.”
“Told ya.” Flynn nodded proudly. “It gives off major Selena vibes.”
“Oh my gosh, you’re totally right.” I gripped my chest, seeing Selena written all over the bustier. She was one of my all-time faves. Only Trevor Wilson competed with her for the top spot in my heart.
Flynn was at the top of that list, too.
My best friend was incredible. I threw my arm around her shoulders, feeling immensely lucky to have her in my corner—especially in light of Carrie’s current cold shoulder treatment. My heart blazed with pride, and I squeezed Flynn tighter.
“You were right.” I wiped a teary eye with the back of my hand. “The nineties are totally making a comeback.”
Flynn shimmied out of my arms and her nostrils flared. She frowned and looked over her shoulder.
“Wait.” She sniffed the air again, her gaze zeroing in on the plate of snacks I’d set on her nightstand. Flynn raised a skeptical eyebrow, her nostrils still wiggling. “What’s under that foil?”
I was still ticked off by the time I got off the bus in Los Feliz. I waved to the driver as he closed the door, then watched the bus lumber down the street. I worried about Alex sometimes. He was one of the brightest lights I’d seen, and I didn’t want his parents’ judgmental weirdness to snuff that out.
One of these days, I’m going to give his dad a piece of my mind.
Thinking about Alex’s family got me thinking about my own, and about the dysfunction that had ripped us apart. I hoped that didn’t happen to Alex, too.
The walk to the studio was uphill, through the winding roads of Los Feliz. It was a workout, which kinda sucked—I was still dog-tired from our late-night concert. But getting my blood pumping woke me up a bit.
My keys rattled against the studio door as I unlocked it for the day. I loved this time of the morning, when the light was dim, fresh with the promise of emerging brightness. The sun bounced off the vaulted beams, bringing the converted garage alive. The whole space was painted in a soft gray, probably to make the ceiling look higher than it was. It sure was bigger than any part of my squat house with low ceilings.
That still didn’t keep me from missing home.
I opened the door to the bathroom in the back corner, pulling the dangling chain to turn on the lights. The fluorescent bulb flickered to life, providing a dim sphere of light in the otherwise dank confines of the narrow room. Turning the knob on the shower, I held my fingers under the water, waiting for it to warm up enough to jump in. After a few minutes it warmed slightly, and from my experience, this was as good as it would get. I pulled Alex’s borrowed shirt over my head, steeling myself for yet another cold shower, then stepped in.
After my quick rinse off, I dried my hair with a towel and strolled across the studio, kicking an empty can of soda underneath the weathered couch—my current bed, or nest as Reggie called it. I plopped down, debating whether or not I should nap until the boys came for practice.
But that chilly shower had woken me up, and I was feeling the pull of my music.
These quiet hours were usually when my writing flourished. I unlatched my acoustic guitar case, taking a moment to run my fingers over the polished wood before taking my guitar out. I opened my notebook—I wanted to play around with some new lyrics, but the pages flipped to an older song.
“Unsaid Emily.”
It was the song I’d written for my mom. I’m not sure why I wrote it—it’s not like she would ever hear it. She and I hadn’t talked in months—not since I left home last winter. I ran my fingers over my messy chicken scratch, across the turmoil waging war on the page. I’d opened my notebook to this song so many times, it had a permanent crease in the binding to this spread. Scribbles in the margins and tons of scratch outs littered the page. And they all boiled down to one thing:
How can I talk to my mom again?
I still didn’t know the answer to that question. Maybe that’s why I didn’t know what to do about Alex’s situation—because I still hadn’t figured out how to deal with my own estrangement. I wasn’t sure where to even begin. There was so much hurt between me and my mom—such a feeling of betrayal. I closed my eyes, remembering the last time we spoke. We’d said some awful things to each other.
She’d slammed her hands on the
kitchen table and shoved out her chair, her cheeks heating with a burning blush. She was angry with me about missing school to take an extra shift at the diner. I’d reasoned that I’d needed the money to buy a new guitar—it wasn’t like she would give me the money. She never believed in my passion. She never thought it would go anywhere.
Or at least that’s what I’d thought.
My mom had stormed into the living room, exasperated. That’s it, she’d said. You’re grounded. And then she stormed off to my room to grab my guitar.
I lost it. I’m not proud of my behavior. I still cringe when I remember the words I said, I hate you! Tears burned my eyes as I hastily packed a bag. And I remember thinking: What are you doing? I’d had a whole speech planned, something that might bring her to my way of thinking. Something that might bring us closer together. But all that was thrown out the window in a moment of hot, flared tempers. That regret was written all over the page.
I truly meant what I wrote. If I could rewind time to go back to the exact moment of our breakdown, I would. I’d find another way to ask my mom to give me a chance—to let me try to make a career out of music. Was there room for forgiveness? I got out my guitar and strummed the notes that corresponded with the words, singing the words under my breath.
My voice hitched, and I paused my playing. At the same time, the barn door to the studio swung open, catching me unaware. Bobby walked in, lugging his guitar case onto the side table, crushing the fast-food wrappers littered there in the process.
Okay, maybe I need to do some cleaning.
His eyebrows quirked up when he saw me sitting on the couch, hunched over my guitar.
“You okay, dude?” he asked, crossing the room in a few short strides.
Whatever Happens Page 4