More Than Maybe

by Erin Hahn

  It’s a tangled web we weave at the Greenly house, and all threads lead to Zack. The only one not impressed with him is our cat, and that’s because she only tolerates humans on principle.

  I grab another two slices of pizza, one for each hand, and head for the door to the basement. “Everyone downstairs?”

  “Yeah.”

  I hesitate at the top of the basement stairs. It’s not that I don’t love hanging with Cullen and Zack … it’s fine, but … together, they can be a lot. Usually, Zack’s like me, quieter and pretty nerdy when it comes to music and the internet and the BBC Sherlock Holmes fandom. But I would be lying if I said things didn’t change after Cullen and Zack started throwing around the L-word and losing their collective virginities.

  They’ve officially crossed over into something decidedly apart from me. I’m thrilled for them but also completely left behind.

  Like, the two people in the world who know everything there is to know about me love each other, and I can’t be sure at any given moment they aren’t discussing me. I’ve gone from one meddling brother to two.

  I’m still hovering, undecided, when my dad pops his bleached-blond head around the wall. My dad’s pushing fifty, but like Paul Rudd, you can’t really tell. He can’t either, to be honest. He still wears enough metal in his ears to set off the detector in the airport, and I come by my preference for leather jackets honestly. In the right light, you could almost imagine my dad onstage cussing out the patriarchy. You could just as easily see him carving a coffee table out of a single piece of driftwood. He’s a versatile fella in his early retirement.

  “Oy! You coming down?”

  “You watching The Eighties on CNN again?” I counter. Because of course he is.

  “Fine, fine. I left my ale on the counter. Be a lad and toss it down?”

  Mum points to the unopened bottle on the island. I exchange my slices for the beer, and, staring my dad right in the eye, I shake it once aggressively before throwing it down.

  “Ungrateful lad, pain in my arse,” he complains after deftly catching the bottle in midair.

  “I learned from the best!” I close the door behind me and turn to my snickering mum.

  “Oh, he’s gonna make you pay for that one.”

  “Probably,” I admit, feeling tired. My family is a lot.

  I head up to my bedroom, closing the door behind me before plopping on my bed and opening my laptop while taking a bite of pizza. My clock shows it’s nearly ten. I’ve waited long enough. It’s been up for at least an hour, so I won’t look like a completely overeager idiot. Probably.

  Behind the Music

  By Vada Carsewell

  I didn’t choose the thug life; the thug life chose me. Well, okay, probably not. I’m a white girl from nowhere Michigan. But on Friday night, LBJayz struck hard and fast, and whatever they’re selling, I’m buying. Forever. Front man Carlos “El Burro” Dominguez oozes star power, and his vocals burned in only the best possible way. “Fat Chopper” spins a dizzying backbeat that somehow manages to be both the good kind of fuck-you and the sensual awakening we all need.

  Am I making sense? I don’t even know, man. I’m a purist, born and raised on vitamin D milk and Pink Floyd, but I feel a conversion coming …

  My eyes drink in her words, and I’m grinning ear to ear. She’s incredible. I’ve been reading Vada’s Behind the Music blog religiously for two years, and it sounds just like her. It’s biting and real and brilliant. I don’t think many people realize she’s only eighteen. I’ve seen her blog referenced by top reviewers in the music industry. Of course, no one wants to give her or Phil credit; they’re out of a little college town dive bar. But they definitely have something. I always retweet her article like a fanboy, but she probably thinks it’s Cullen. I’m too self-conscious to tell her what a fan I am. At least publicly.

  L8RSK8R comments:

  Well, milk does a body good … No.

  Pink Floyd, eh? I think my dad once played … God.

  What’s the best kind of fuck you could imagine? Pathetic, Greenly.

  Great review. You’ve convinced me!

  I groan, shutting my laptop, and check my watch. I could go downstairs. Chances are good Zack’s still around. Instead, I move to my keyboard in the corner of the room and carefully plug in my headphones. No point in letting anyone else know I’m tooling around on this thing.

  Or that I’ve been tooling around on it for two years. Or three. Give or take.

  Ever since the Great Greenly Showdown of 2017, as far as anyone knows, I don’t play. I don’t sing. I don’t write. I don’t so much as fiddle around on the keys. The beautiful Steinway my parents bought me when I was eight sits out of tune in the front room, covered in a generous layer of time. I will go out of my way to cut through the dining room to avoid seeing it. It hurts deep down in my soul to see it dusty.

  As long as I live under my parents’ roof, and under the eye of my former music producer dad, that’s how things have to be. Me, playing my cheap Casio-knockoff keyboard in my room, whisper-humming under my breath behind a locked door.

  I’ve unlocked my door to my mum holding my laundry and studying me suspiciously on more than one occasion, but I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m watching porn.

  Her knowing the truth would be worse.

  If they got wind of me playing again, it would mean lessons and YouTube channels and flying into London to meet with a “friend” of my dad’s. It would mean Lasik surgery. Again. And personal training and kale diets and expensive haircuts. It would be months away from my mum because her job won’t let her travel. It would be forgoing college altogether.

  It would mean singing someone else’s songs.

  Because even if they say you can write your own stuff, they don’t mean it. They want you to sing whatever radio-friendly pop music they push in-house, and after you’ve been sucked dry and become too much of a liability, only then will they release you to write your own lyrics with an indie label for a tenth of the money.

  Not that money matters. It’s all of it. I don’t need it. I like writing music. I like singing the songs I write. But I also like being me. Just me. Not “son of former punk rock icon Charlie Greenly.” Not “Luke Greenly, Performer.”

  Just Luke.

  Except, I can’t stop.

  I play a soft melody that’s been dancing around in my consciousness. It’s been there for a while. Slowly easing its way to the surface. I’m not ready to let it take over yet, though. I suspect it’s going to carry me someplace I shouldn’t go.

  Soon, though.

  Maybe.

  4

  VADA

  High school is not my favorite. More like, it’s item number one on my Things I Have to Do Before I Start the Rest of My Life list, except it takes four long years to accomplish. I’ve had a raging case of senioritis for the last three. I did get to drop Spanish after convincing my guidance counselor that, one, I have no need for the language credit, and two, my sad attempt at a C is bringing down my entire average. In lieu of Español, I chose dance and body movement.

  I know, I know, the grungy bartender girl likes to dance? It’s weird. But you know how some people feel music in their minds or hearts or whatever? They play an instrument or sing, or they write. Well, I’ve always felt music in my blood. It moves me. As a little girl, I studied ballet and lyrical, but I grew out of the pink tights and black leotards. I didn’t love performing to someone else’s song choice, and I never cared for the rigidity of repetitive barre exercises for hours and hours. I needed to feel the melody. My toes twitched, and my abs would contract without my permission. I couldn’t wait for the moment my teacher would allow us to dance our own interpretations of the music.

  I’d been eyeing this class for a while. It never fit in my schedule, but I was also afraid it might suck. Or, worse, I might suck. Because while I love to dance, I’m not prima ballerina material. But there is a certain freedom that comes with the last semester of your senior year. I
can comfortably say fuck all to self-consciousness. Who cares if I look ridiculous? Next fall, I won’t even know these people. I barely know them now.

  There are three separate high schools in this town, and each one is ginormous. Mine alone houses thousands of students, built around a courtyard easily the size of a football field. After sophomore year, I stopped seeing a lot of my classmates. Our classes were held in opposite wings, we parked in different lots, and I’m not an athlete, so I never grew close to a team.

  It sounds lonelier than it is. But I’d rather lose myself in a sea of strangers than find myself one-on-one with an acquaintance. One-on-one requires a level of commitment I’m not sure I’m capable of. It took Meg an entire year to crack my shell. Of course, now she can’t get rid of me.

  I’ve been attending Madame Marcel’s body movement class since January, and I’m in heaven most of the time. But I can handle the eight counts she instructs us to follow for the first half of the period if it gets me to improvised movement, or IM, the second half.

  “Before we move on to IM,” she says, huffing slightly, a flush to her cheeks, “I want to talk to you about the end-of-the-year spring showcase.” She motions with a grace borne out of decades of practice, and we all sit around her turned-out feet in silence. I stretch out my legs, wrapping my fingers along the inner arch of my foot and pressing my torso against my knee. This isn’t the first we’ve heard of the showcase.

  “I know it seems like there’s plenty of time, but let me assure you,” she continues, pinning us with her gaze, “it is the highlight of the performing arts department’s year. There are choral and band performers who have been working years toward this night. So, I ask that you be diligent and take this seriously, even if you do not plan to dance professionally after high school.”

  I switch legs. While I don’t plan to make a career of dancing, I take this seriously. I’ve been considering music for weeks. I need the perfect song.

  “Our senior composers have been given an assignment to observe the dancers and write something inspired by the body’s movement. This year, I’ve requested they take it a step further. We’d like the movement and the composition students to collaborate. You will act as muses to their creations. Therefore, the composition students will be attending today’s class to observe you. They will be given the opportunity, if inspired, to choose a dancer to partner with. Together, you will create a piece that speaks to both of you.”

  I straighten, not bothering to hide my grimace.

  “If a match isn’t in the cards, that’s okay. Creativity is best not forced. If you aren’t chosen, or if you are but don’t feel comfortable collaborating, just say the word and you are welcome to proceed with your own performance piece. But we are hoping you will all reach outside your comfort zones and give collaboration a try.”

  No, thanks. I’m happy to take the out that’s offered. Not to say anyone would want to work with me, but if they did, I can’t even imagine a scenario in which I’d want to collaborate. I’m far too particular about my music. My shoulders sink comfortably back to their rightful place. No reason to get all hyped up over a “suggested assignment.”

  “Our piano composition director, Mr. Leonard, will be stopping in with his class sometime in the next thirty minutes, and we will see if we can make this senior showcase the best yet!”

  Puh.

  I stretch my arms over my head, impatient to move on to improvisation. Madame Marcel claps her hands, jarring us up to standing, and we make our way to the corner of the spacious, mirrored room. “I want to start with some across-the-floor movement. Wherever the music takes you, dear ones.”

  I shake my hands at my sides, rocking my neck back and forth and closing my eyes. Despite the unwelcome collaboration news, this is my favorite part of my day. I’ve been looking forward to this ever since underperforming on the pop quiz in AP bio second period. I’m not here for the spring showcase. I’m here for the daily release. Rolling my shoulders, I imagine the tension sloughing off my back, shimmering to the ground, and slipping across the polished wood-planked floor and out the fucking door.

  Behind me, I feel a rush of air and the low murmur of movement. I’m sure it’s the composer kids, but I refuse to open my eyes. Let them be the awkward ones. This is my home court, and I claim the advantage.

  The room falls silent, and I can imagine them settling in cross-legged against the mirrors facing us. My hands fidget, tugging at the fitted tank and yoga pants uniform we all wear for class. Baggy attire is forbidden. Madame likes to see exactly the way our bodies are bending and make corrections when necessary.

  My eyes have stopped spasming in protest to open. But the first piano chords of Madame’s playlist are starting up, and I need to be able to see so I don’t hurt anyone. I open my eyes but refuse to look at the seated observers. Madame’s preferred dance posture of raised chin and lowered shoulders is convenient. I manage to look practiced and graceful rather than nervous.

  Jet’s “Look What You’ve Done” plays. It’s a trudging march of a song. The cadence swings in a low militaristic drumbeat and swirls along the constant piano. I hardly notice the vocals, already lost to the rhythm.

  It’s my turn, and I let the cool detachment of the last verse push through my veins and pump into my fingertips. I drag my pointed toes along the floor, reluctant, while my limbs stretch to the four corners, spinning my body across the length of the room. As I near the end, I extend one leg in a flourish, stepping out of my turn abruptly.

  By the next pass, one of my favorite bands is playing, and it’s far more difficult to ignore the lyrics. Sleeping At Last’s “Earth,” and we’re given over to our bodies.

  “To the floor, dancers!” Madame calls. “Free movement.”

  It’s all the instruction I need. I find my usual shaded corner in the back of the room, where the mirrors are too crowded to decipher and the sun streams in through the windows. I’m greeted by my shadow, and that’s where my eyes are drawn.

  Hello, old friend.

  Instantly, the world is forgotten, and all I know is the way the beams of light crisscross my outstretched limbs.

  My fingers twine with stardust, filtering the point where light and darkness kiss, and I turn underneath on the balls of my feet, springing to a plié in second position, my knees bent over my toes, my thighs dipping so deeply my palms trace the floor. I swing them up wildly as the tempo picks up for the crescendo of the song. Lunging to the side, my fingers grasp the sunshine once more, and my shadow scrambles to keep up as I spin, shaking off my melancholy.

  My dad and his hurtful acts can’t find me here. Worries about my future, about college and plan B and my mom and Phil and and and …

  I am ready, I am over, I am untouchable and gracelessly graceful.

  I am un-hurtable here.

  As I twirl and stretch and drag and tumble in my small corner, my thoughts dissipate and dissolve. It’s the part I love best—when I become the music and nothing else.

  The song ends, and a switch is flicked off in my soul. When I’m finally cognizant of the glare of halogen lighting, I see my sunbeams have been swallowed by gray clouds. My classmates are gathering up their things, and the composers, if they were ever really there, are gone.

  I find my small pile of belongings and cross to the doorway that swings into the ladies’ locker room.

  “Miss Carsewell!”

  I stop at the door and spin to face Madame. She is waving a torn piece of lined notebook paper in the air. I gulp. I had assumed I wouldn’t be chosen. I’m steeling myself to turn down whoever it is when she places the slip into my hands.

  In a bold slash of black ink, spelled in capital letters, reads my name followed by another. I swallow.

  Luke Greenly.

  Luke was here? My Luke? Well, not my Luke, obviously. But the Luke I know? He saw me? Oh my god, he saw me. Holy hell, he saw me spazzing across the floor in my spandex and he picked me? He wants to write a song with me?

  My
knees bend, but I catch myself, stepping one foot back and steadying my grip on the paper. Madame waits for my answer. I was so ready to say no, but …

  I hadn’t counted on Luke Greenly. I had no idea he was in the senior composition class. This shouldn’t change things. I barely know him. I’m still too picky about my music, and I’m still only here for my own therapy. I shouldn’t say yes. I need to stick with my plan.

  My mouth spits out a “Yes!” before I can register it. “Yeah. I’ll do it.”

  Madame’s face lights up. “Excellent! I’ll let Mr. Leonard know. Do you know this student, or would you like me to get his contact information for you?”

  “No! I mean—” I shake my head, trying to get my words and brain to match up. “I mean, yes. I know him. I’ll work it out. Thanks.”

  5

  LUKE

  I never should’ve signed up for that senior composition class.

  6

  VADA

  Dance is the last period of the day, so even though I hear the end-of-day bell ring out and the girls’ softball team starts to arrive, I take my time in the locker room. I run a slow brush through my hair, detangling it completely, and with it, my nerves about Luke’s request. I reapply my ChapStick and spritz on some fruity body spray. I don’t have to be at work for another hour, but there’s no point in stopping home to an empty house. After repacking my bag and zipping my puffy winter coat, I deposit a few singles into the vending machine near the entrance, and when my favorite purple Gatorade loudly fumbles down, I grab it, cracking the cap and gulping half down in one go.

  I’m feeling more myself as I exit the building but am quickly thrown again by the sight of Luke—my new partner, Luke!—leaning against the outer wall, his ever-present longboard propped against his leg. He’s got earbuds in, and his head bobs along with some unnamed music.