by Erin Hahn
The song changes, and thankyouchrist it’s something with angry guitars and a twitchy backbeat. I pull back, ever so casually and point to my headphones like Oh, hey, got to go where the music leads, and hopefully not like Sweet bollocks, I want to make you scream my name.
If only Zack could read my thoughts right now, he’d know I was the furthest thing from a monk.
Vada nods and starts another painfully slow groove on her own, and I slam my eyes shut for posterity because I know logically there is nothing overtly provocative about how she is moving or how we are dancing. It’s three years of longing turning my stomach. I knew it would be like this if I ever got close enough to smell her scent and feel her soft skin.
I need to get my shit in order. This is a school project. I close my eyes, turning my headphones up louder and losing myself in the next few songs until I can feel myself slipping into that distracted, centered place. My head slips side to side on my neck, and my hands rise above me, mimicking the movement. I turn before opening my eyes, taking in everything fresh. The view through my glasses is jarring. So clear and focused instead of the molded, colored shapes on the back of my lids.
Groups of people are in circles, taking turns in the spotlight, almost like you would see at a wedding. A lot of people dance alone, eyes shut and bodies feeling the music. Couples are making out. No surprise there. The music blocking everything out makes you feel like you’re invisible. It’s a false sense of privacy, but I get it and can’t bring myself to be annoyed by those taking advantage.
Slowly, I spin to where Vada was last. This time I’m prepared. I brought her here to do something weird and experimental, but also to study her. Allow myself to be inspired by her. The song I am listening to ends, and I pull out my toggle, muting the music but keeping on the noise-cancelling headphones so the rustles of bodies and smacks of kissing don’t interfere. I watch her and listen to my mind.
I’ve always been able to do it—compose. Create. I assumed everyone could until I was ten and realized Cullen couldn’t. I’d always thought Cullen and I could do everything the same. Until I didn’t. Until I could make songs in my brain and he couldn’t find a girl attractive.
Turns out sharing 50 percent of our DNA doesn’t mean much.
Vada sees me, and I nod. She seems to understand and scrolls through her stations, finding one that works for her, and turns her back to me.
It’s not as voyeuristic as you might think, I swear. I’m past that. I can compartmentalize like a painter working with a nude model.
God, don’t think of her nude.
It starts with a backbeat. I work mostly with piano, but like a rapper or spoken-word artist, I need something concrete to hit against. (I don’t know why, I just do.) It’s not long before I find myself moving along with her. Not touching. Not even close. My eyes are already closing, and I’m humming, but no one can hear me. I can imagine what is moving her, and I want to write that. I want to be the one who moves her. There are words, but self-preservation takes over, and I only have the energy to create the melody.
One day, the words will come. Hopefully, I’ll be ready for them.
8
VADA
This feels like home. Well, okay, if I’m being really honest with myself (and I am only because no one can see or hear me and therefore this place feels like a magical portal), home was when Luke Greenly held me between his long, pale, strangely muscular arms.
But the rest of the night is close enough. I found a station specializing in jam bands, and there are songs on here I haven’t heard since my mom used to play Dispatch while she cleaned our scuzzy bathroom in that tiny studio apartment right after the divorce. Phil would love it. The man seriously digs Guster. He told me once he tried to grow dreads but instead ended up shaving his head when he couldn’t handle the smell of beeswax.
Heaven, that’s what this is.
Luke is watching me dance. I can feel his eyes on me, and it feels fucking fantastic. Behind those serious black frames, his eyes glint with something I’ve never seen before, and it makes me feel stupid powerful and sexy. It also makes me feel like I want to feel him up in the bathroom—or let him feel me up, but I already gave that particular thought a firm no. This is a project. For school.
But I am so very tempted. Why are his lips so perfect? And his shoulders so broad? And why do I love glasses so much? It’s not like a Clark Kent thing, is it? Do I have a nerd fetish? I don’t even know. I just know all I want to do right now is kiss him, spring showcase and Madame whatever-her-name-is be damned.
Before I’m ready, because I don’t think I will ever be ready, the lights come up and the music stops, and the night is over.
“Hungry?” Luke asks as we shuffle toward the exit to turn in our headphones.
“Starving,” I say, realizing I am.
He grins. “If you’re up for a bit of a walk, there’s a diner near here that makes the best grilled cheese on the planet.”
We head back out into the cold, but since my blood is still buzzing with the feel of Luke’s gaze, I’m not uncomfortable. I leave my scarf loose around my neck, and the wind carries the ends, twining them with Luke’s fingers and dancing them across his chest in a way that makes me jealous.
Be cool, hormones.
Within a few minutes, we’re entering a brightly lit classic dive of a diner where the servers go by waitress and still wear aprons over their frocks.
“This okay?”
I take in a lungful of grease and nod. “This is perfect.”
We sit down, and Luke flips his mug up for coffee like a grown-up. I bite my lip, feeling flighty and adult.
I skim the menu but already know I’m getting whatever grilled cheese they have because ever since Luke mentioned it, it’s all my taste buds want. Well, that and, “I’ll have an Oreo shake, please,” I add when the server comes for our drink order.
“They’re big,” she says skeptically, eyeing me up and down.
“Excellent,” I say.
We order after the drinks arrive, and I groan when the ice cream hits my lips. “So fucking good.”
Luke smirks over his steaming cup of black coffee.
“So,” I start. “Did you like it? Do you feel the creative juices flowing or whatever? Or just weird?”
He shakes his head. “Zero weirdness. Opposite of weirdness, actually. Totally inspiring. How about for you, though? I had to, uh, watch you. Was that rude? Or weird? Exhibitionist? Do I need to apologize?”
I snort, dipping my straw in the shake. “Um, no. You don’t. It was cool. I could lose myself in the music and ignore it most of the time. A little awkward because I feel like I dance like a dork, but”—I shrug, flushing a little—“you picked me, so that’s on you.”
His teeth flash. “I did. And you don’t dance like a dork. It’s very … erm … not dorky.”
“Good.”
“Is there any genre of music you can’t stand? Anything I need to steer clear of?”
I slowly shake my head. “I mean, not really. I’m pretty eclectic in my tastes. Unless you’re a closet Stevie Nicks fan.”
He makes a face. “Not really, no. She sounds like my grandma after smoking for a hundred years.”
“Cheers, Luke,” I say around a mouthful of whipped cream. “I think we’re gonna get along marvelously.”
“Nothing else?” he prompts.
“You’re really worried about this, huh? Seriously.” I shrug, stirring the last dredges of whipped cream into my shake. “I’ve never done anything like this before, and likely never will again. I have no experience to work from here, so follow your heart or whatever, and we’ll be good.”
“Follow my heart? Aren’t you a little worried I might make a mess of things and you’ll be left dancing to something resembling the Bee Gees?”
I swallow wrong and spend the next thirty seconds hacking until my eyes are streaming and I need to blow my nose on the condensation-shredded napkins. Way to play it cool, Vada. “Okay, fine
,” I concede when I can breathe. “I’d prefer to avoid disco.” I start to tick off on my fingers. “See also: ’90s hip-hop, stadium hits, and ska.”
He slumps back on his seat, theatrically screwing up his face behind his lenses, which unfortunately does nothing to make him less stupid-good-looking. “Ah, no, there I have to draw the line. No ska? No ska?” He raises his voice, and I shush him, giggling. Where is this impulse to giggle all the time coming from?
“I’m sorry. I can’t handle it. It’s the horns.”
“You don’t like horns?”
“In moderation, I love them. But there’s something about ska that makes everything feel greasy and dirty.”
He raises a brow. “Do tell.”
“It’s like … day-old, tepid pizza slices and flat pop.”
“Interesting. Do you do this word association thing with all music?”
I grin. “Honestly, I have no idea. Try me.”
“Opera.”
“Blue velvet and icicles. Hot chocolate. Lace cuffs. Fillet.”
“Okay, too easy. Singers and songwriters of the ’70s.”
I press my lips together. “Scrambled eggs, moccasins, and espresso.”
“Two thousands’ screamo.”
“Black licorice, bondage pants, the smell of Sharpies, and broken glass.”
He settles back, his arms folding across his chest. “Bluegrass.”
“Dusty denim, carrot cake, strawberry Kool-Aid, and sunshine yellow.”
“Eighties hip-hop.”
For a minute, I’m stumped. “Gold chains…” He smirks, and I hold up a finger. “Silence, peasant.” I close my eyes, milking it, and roll my neck on my shoulders. “Gold chains, Dr. Pepper, miniskirt, Adidas.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” he says, smiling. “How is it possible you are right?”
I spread my hands in an “I just am” gesture and pretend to flip my hair, even though it’s in a knot on the top of my head.
The server returns with our food just in time to distract me from the things that Luke’s sparkling eyes are doing to my insides.
“Okay, extra credit,” he says, swallowing a bite of cheeseburger. “Grilled cheese is what genre?”
“Psh,” I say. “Sixties beach party, obviously.”
“You think they ate grilled cheese on the beach?”
I shake my head, swallowing the melty deliciousness that is buttered Texas toast and American cheese. “Of course not. That’s not how it works. The actual paraphernalia is irrelevant. It’s the feeling you get, Greenly. Like, the aesthetic or whatever. It’s not rocket science. Just your gut. Try one.”
“Fine. Give it to me.”
I feel the smile pulling on my lips. “Punk rock.”
He groans. “I walked into that one, didn’t I?” He takes a sip of coffee, wipes his hands on his napkin, and straightens. “Punk rock, to me,” he clarifies, and I wave him to go on, “is blackout curtains, sawdust, worn trainer bottoms, warm beer, and cold concrete.”
I narrow my eyes, tilting my head to the side. “Is that punk rock or your dad?” I immediately move to apologize, but he surprises me.
“Both. Naturally. Can’t have one without the other, I’m afraid.”
“Fair enough.”
“Did I pass the test?”
“With flying colors,” I say, feeling unsettled. I hadn’t expected Luke to reveal so much. Maybe he didn’t mean to, but he has.
“Now,” he says, picking up his burger, “if we were talking about my brother, we’d have to go with his all-time favorite glam rock and call it: rainbow, glitter, nachos, and Zack.”
“Too easy,” I agree. “Was Zack your friend first or Cullen’s—?”
“Soul mate?” he offers.
I feel my cheeks heat, but I don’t know why. “Sure.”
“Mine first. By like two months.”
“And how’s that?”
“Sharing my best friend with my twin?”
I nod.
He releases a long sigh. “Usually a nonissue. Zack is good at compartmentalizing. When he’s with me, he’s my best friend. When he’s with Cullen, he’s my best friend. He’s just also in love with my brother. Thank God it was returned, or it would have been very uncomfortable.”
“Do you ever worry about that?”
“About them breaking up?” He shrugs. “Not really. I can’t see a world where they wouldn’t be together, honestly.”
“So, it’s not odd for you at all, ever?”
“Oh, it’s definitely odd at times—like when they, uh, you know.” He coughs. “Consummated things.”
I snort. “I forget you’re British until you say something like ‘consummate’ instead of ‘sex.’”
“Yeah. Well. That got weird. Not that they meant it to, but they both wanted to talk about it to me since I am both the twin and the best friend.”
“Together?” I gasp.
“No! God, no. Not at the same time. I don’t think they even know they did it, which is sort of the issue. They confide in me and live in denial that they both might be doing it.”
“Maybe they need to find a new person.”
“Probably,” he agrees, dragging a french fry through ketchup. “I imagine they will next year when I leave for college.”
“Who do you confide in?”
He screws up his face, making his glasses bob on the bridge of his nose. He nudges them with a knuckle. “Yeah. That’s the issue. Zack. I mean, it’s not like I have a whole lot of secrets.” His ears turn pink at the tops, and he clears his throat. “But if I do, I have to tell someone not in my family because it usually has something to do with them, and that means Zack. And Zack doesn’t like to keep secrets from Cull since they have this whole ‘always tell the truth’ policy.”
“Yikes.”
“Right.”
“So…”
“So, I guess I’m the odd one out, and maybe I should make some new friends, but I’m eighteen and moving away, and honestly”—he scratches at his hair, ruffling it and pulling it behind his ear—“I’m a bit of an introvert. God,” he says, looking at the ceiling. “I sound pathetic, don’t I? I’m a third wheel.”
“Not totally,” I say. “I mean. If you’re an introvert, you’re a high-functioning one who danced in front of hundreds of strangers. Besides, I get it. Alone in a crowd, remember?”
“Yes! Exactly that,” he insists excitedly. “I don’t need to be locked up away from everyone, but I don’t need to talk to them.”
“But you’re talking to me just fine,” I offer.
“Well, you’re different.”
“How so?” I should stop prying, but I can’t seem to help myself. I’m not usually this nosy. I leave that to Meg.
“You’re … Vada,” he says simply.
“It’s true.”
“I don’t know.” He laughs, and the sound makes me want to cuddle into my jacket. It’s coaxing and rich. “I’ve never felt different around you. Maybe it’s the hair. I’m predisposed to favor gingers.”
Goodness, I’ve never been so happy to have red hair.
The server chooses that moment to interrupt and drops off our check. I glance at my phone, and I grow a little sad. It’s getting late. “We should head home.”
“Yeah. Let me take this on our way out.”
Luke pays, patently ignoring the bills I’m holding out to him, and I tuck them back into my pocket, vowing to buy him something when the mood strikes. We’re quiet on the way home. Which feels right.
He passes me his phone, and I play music from his collection of playlists and try to not think too much about how much every song makes me hyperaware of his warm body near mine, or the way his soothing voice croons under his breath, or how his long fingers tap on the steering wheel.
Or how very much I want to kiss him. Still. Even after leaving the club and sitting under the harsh halogen lights of the diner. Even when the magic of Other fades, I’m still vibrating with interest in the cool li
ght of reality.
I’m taut as a bow by the time he pulls into my drive, minutes early. I can see my mom’s shadow as she peeks out from behind the curtains and know she’s watching, so before my limbs get any ideas and try to wrap themselves around every inch of Luke or anything, I reach for the handle.
“Thanks for coming tonight, Vada,” he says.
I settle back into my seat for a moment to look at him. “I had a blast. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“Always,” he says, then shakes his head. “Er, I mean, anytime.”
I huff out a nervous laugh and immediately lunge out of the car, trotting up to the door. When I make it, I spin and give a wave. He waves back, his lips moving, but I can’t make out what he’s saying in the dim light. And then he reverses, headed home.
I’m suddenly wrung out and haven’t forgotten it’s a school night, so I kiss my mom good night and head upstairs to my room. It’s so quiet after the loud ringing of music, my ears feel almost tender. My feet sinking into the soft carpet, the old floors beneath creaking ever so slightly, is extra soothing. I pull on warm pajamas, brush my teeth, and wipe away my makeup. I fold myself into bed and pick up my phone. Before I can change my mind, I shoot off a text. It’s probably too much, but I’m feeling a lot and, well, fuck it. It’s just a song.
Of course, nothing is ever “just a song” with me, and I get the feeling nothing is ever “just a song” for him either, but, whatever. Too late.
VADA
YouTube: Led Zeppelin “Thank You”
When I wake up the next morning, his single-line response is there.
LUKE
“There would still be you and me.”
Are you there, God? It’s me, Smitten.
9
LUKE
The morning after the silent dance party is a drudge to get through. It wouldn’t have been so terrible, but I stayed awake thinking about Vada’s text long after the rest of my house rumbled with my dad’s leaf blower snores. I knew the song she referenced without even listening to it, though I can’t tell you when I last heard it. Zeppelin isn’t played with any real regularity around our house, but my dad taught us to pay due respect to the legends.