by Erin Hahn
And those zillion people speculate about who the song was about in the first place.
And your ex-girlfriends hate you.
And you’re nominated for the prom court even though you weren’t planning on going unless …
Unless the one girl—the girl who the song is about and who is the only one not speculating so clearly she doesn’t care—unless maybe she wants to go to the prom. But she probably doesn’t, and how the hell do you ask someone you secretly (and very creepily, let’s face it) wrote a viral love song about after watching her dance (again, so creepy, God)?
“Oh, hey, sorry about the stalker vibes, but I really do actually like you, and now that I’m low-key locked into this prom thing, do you wanna go with me?”
So, you do the only thing you can, and you deny, deny, deny.
There’s a knock at the door, and I don’t bother to look up from the geo trig homework I’m not finishing. “Yeah.”
“Can I come in?” Cullen says.
“Nah,” I say into my textbook.
My twin releases a long, dramatic sigh that lasts about thirty seconds longer than it should. I feel my bed compress with his weight. Wanker.
“You can’t ignore me forever.”
“Four hundred seventy thousand hits says I can.”
He flops back. “Look, I said I’m sorry.”
“Somehow this feels bigger than ‘I’m sorry.’”
“What else can I say?”
“It’s not about what you can say, Cull. There’s nothing you can say now. It’s about what you shouldn’t have done in the first place.”
“My intentions were honorable.”
I sit up, tossing my pencil down on the comforter and chucking my graphing calculator at his head. He ducks easily. “They weren’t your intentions to have, honorable as you think they were. It was never my intention for that song to be heard by anyone, ever. Christ, Cullen, it was a rough draft at best!”
“So, that’s the problem? That it wasn’t a clean cut?”
“Among other very major, far more important things, such as my pride and my private business, yeah! You don’t even like Zack seeing you without showering first.”
“So, this is about a girl.”
I throw my hands in the air and lift up my heavy textbook, ready to throw it.
“This stopped being about a girl the second you uploaded it to the internet. You don’t tell a girl you have a crush on her with four hundred and seventy thousand likes.” I fully intend on throwing the numbers in his face every chance I get.
“But you would have with a song?”
I slump, the book falling with a bounce on my mattress. “I don’t know. Maybe I would have eventually. With the right girl. But now I can’t. I can’t tell her that song was for her. No girl in her right mind wants that kind of pressure.”
“But you said yourself, the right girl might be okay with it.”
I shake my head. “I’ll never know. This isn’t anything I wanted. I’m not like you and Dad. I don’t want to sing. I don’t want to perform. I don’t care about the media attention, and I’m not playing that song ever again.”
“That’s so stupid. What a waste.”
“Fortunately for me, I’m too busy worrying about what four hundred and seventy thousand other people are saying about me to care if I’m not meeting the expectations of my twin brother.”
“If you’d just play your music instead of hoarding it and building it up like something precious, this never would have happened.”
I get up and walk to the door, opening it, suddenly exhausted. “No. If you’d respected my privacy, this never would have happened. Please leave.”
* * *
Things are worse by dinner. Much worse.
Apparently, my dad’s bored with his retirement and decided to venture into real estate. He’d been approached ages ago about opening a nightclub in downtown Ann Arbor. At the time, he turned it down, saying he was happy to be a house husband.
It seems home reno shows and upcycling wood pallets have lost their luster.
While this is the first Cull and I are hearing about it, I’m getting the sense things have been in the works for a while. At least, long enough that the so-called partners have acquired an interest in dad’s quasi-fame. And mine.
“They only mentioned that since you two have had quite a lot of recent success with The Grass Is Greenly, maybe you could talk up the club? Like a regular marketing spot,” Dad is saying. Cull mutters under his breath something that sounds like, “Only a daft idiot…”
“I had no idea you were even into that kind of thing anymore, Dad. I thought you gave it up when we left Britain,” I say, my brain racing as my stomach squirms uncomfortably at the gleam in his eyes.
“I wasn’t, but this time they really seem to have their ducks in a row, and I’m taking a larger percentage, so I won’t be at the mercy of the Man.”
“What will you call it?” Mum asks.
“Not sure, but I’m liking the Bad Apple.”
Very original, Dad.
“Oh, I like it,” she says. Clearly, they’ve talked about this already. She’s taking this way too calmly. I can’t get past the queasy clench in my gut when I think of Phil and the Loud Lizard, though. Phil’s place has been around forever, but it’s no secret that it’s a dive. It’s not like we pack in crowds worthy of Pearl Jam these days. From what I can tell, it’s a miracle Phil’s in the black most nights.
Could he survive my dad?
The investors are smart to recruit him. Even though we know he’s a big old nerd who’d rather craft a bench out of driftwood and falls asleep before ten thirty most nights, he’s still got a lot of credibility in the industry. Not to mention, so many of the guys who were around during the decade he was actively making music are gone. Like, gone gone.
Rock and roll isn’t for the faint of heart. Neither is heroin.
It makes perfect sense to sign on my dad. What’s shady as fuck to me is the whole “and could you sign your kids on, too?”
Particularly this week.
“You didn’t tell them we would do it, did you?” I ask.
My dad looks up from his rice noodles. “Do what?”
“The marketing spot, the mentions or whatever, on the podcast.”
He puts down his fork and takes a sip of water. “Why wouldn’t you do it?”
Because of Phil, I think. And Vada and Ben and Kazi and my job. But that would be pretty douchey to say to my dad, so instead I say, “Well, we need to talk about it. We have a pretty, um, strict policy on marketing.”
“You don’t have a problem giving the Loud Lizard a shout-out,” my dad says slowly.
“Well, yeah.” I look to Cullen for help, but he’s playing with the food on his plate. “That’s a deal we worked out with Phil. In exchange for recording there.”
“You can record at my club, then. Anytime you want. I’ll have a custom sound booth made for your podcast or whatever else you might want to use it for.” His tone is far too casual to fool me.
I stab at a shrimp. “What else would we use it for? We don’t need to build a whole new studio for our podcast. It’s not that popular.”
“Well, after last week—” my dad starts, and I raise a hand cutting him off.
“That was a fluke. Once they realize I’m not going to be playing any other songs or declaring my love for kittens or Cullen’s not running for Senate, they’ll die down.”
“What do you mean, you won’t be playing any other songs? ‘Break for You’ is a hit.”
I want to scream. “That’s not even the name!” I insist. “It doesn’t have a name because it’s not a real song.”
My mum puts down her fork with a clink, as if making sure her hands are clear if she needs to move. Cullen finally raises his head, his eyes narrowed, but I can’t tell at who. This is not the first or even thousandth time we’ve had this conversation.
I lower my voice. “Nothing’s changed, Dad, just because
my daft brother posted a song on the internet.”
“I beg to differ,” my dad says, his eyes clouded over. “Explain to me. You are writing lyrics, yes? That was your song, wasn’t it?”
“Well, yeah,” I start, “but—”
“And you composed that incredible melody as well? I’ve never heard it before.”
“I did, but—”
“But nothing. I refuse to allow you to deny your gift. This stage fright you have is a phase. All musicians go through it. The bloody miracle in your case is your brother helped you out. You get to skip right over the years of toiling for name recognition and playing in dingy clubs and shoot right for the top. I’ve already fielded three calls from agents looking to represent you. Not to mention Eddie over at Abbey Road is ready to cut an album yesterday.”
For a full minute, we sit in silence. I can’t speak. An adequate response escapes me. Finally, it’s Cullen who says in an even tone, “Dad, you didn’t make any promises, did you?”
“Well, sure I did!” My dad blusters as he looks at me. “I said you were in the middle of your senior year, but I’d book a ticket after graduation, and we’d hear Eddie out. Maybe arrange for some collaborators.”
And looking at my dad, at the gleam in his gray-blue eyes, at the ruddiness in his cheeks, everything he passed down to me, for the first time, I see him as Charlie Greenly. As the former punk rock icon. As the man who found his worth in the music industry. I don’t see him as my dad, because as much as he might think it is, this isn’t about him being my dad. This is about me being his legacy.
And I don’t want it.
My brother looks at me, stricken. I can read his face perfectly. He finally, finally understands. That, somehow, is enough to propel me to say what I’ve needed to for a long time.
“Dad,” I say. My voice is firm. I’m tall in my seat. Not as tall as Cullen, but taller than our father. “I don’t want to go to England. I don’t want to meet with producers or collaborators. I don’t want to sing. This isn’t stage fright. This is a rejection of all that goes along with being a singer. I love music. I want to make it and write it and share it. But I don’t want to perform it. Ever.”
My dad shakes his head, the light reflecting off his white-blond hair, the hints of silver more apparent to me than before. “You’ll change your mind,” he says. “And by then, it will be too late.”
* * *
The following night, I arrive to work fifteen minutes ahead of my scheduled start. I didn’t bother stopping home, boarding straight from Zack’s house after school. As of this morning, my dad was giving me the silent treatment, and anyway, it’s Zack and Cullen’s three-and-a-half-year anniversary, whatever that means. When I left, they were baking rainbow sprinkle cupcakes together.
“I come bearing gifts!” I say, holding out a Tupperware with half a dozen cupcakes inside to Ben and Kazi at the bar. Ben takes one immediately, and I pull out another, dropping it on a cocktail napkin for Kazi.
“Everyone else in the back?”
Ben nods, wiping frosting from his beard. “Vada’s in with Phil, but the door’s shut. I wouldn’t go in.”
“What? Why? Did something happen?”
Kazi jerks his thumb to a guy at the end of the bar who is slumped on his stool and shouting at the TV. “Marcus,” he says.
“Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Vada’s dad,” Ben says in a low tone. “He’s been here all afternoon getting sloshed and cussing out Phil.”
“What? Why?”
Ben fiddles with his sleeve, unrolling and rolling it again. “I’m not a psychologist, but I would guess it has something to do with jealousy and Vada’s near hero worship, however warranted, of Phil. Also, about her mom. And Phil?”
“Oh, Jesus,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“But isn’t he remarried?”
Kazi nods. “Yeah. His wife is gorgeous.” He makes a face. “I don’t know why I said that. Not that it makes a difference. In his mind, dude peaked in high school.”
“Apparently, Marcus and Phil were in a band together,” Ben adds. “Marcus was the lead singer and got the girl. Then he blew it, became an insurance salesman, and has resented Phil ever since.”
I consider them both shrewdly. It seems Vada’s dad is common knowledge around this place. Right up there with mixing pitchers of margaritas and hitting the ice machine in the top-left corner when it’s sticking. I decide to forgo clocking in for now, since I’m technically early, and hop behind the bar, prompting Ben to count out his tips early. I grab a rag and start busing tables and wiping down anything sticky, a never-ending job around the bar. After Ben clears out and waves goodbye, I slide into his spot.
Kazi is taking care of a few people, and Marcus raises a finger for a refill, so I meander over. I can see where Vada gets her coloring. “What’re you having?”
Marcus shuts one eye, appraising me. “Did you have a beard before?”
“Nope,” I say cheerfully, not bothering to explain.
“Another Jack Daniel’s,” he says dismissively.
“On your tab?” I ask.
He straightens. “My daughter works here. Vada. Family doesn’t pay.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you knew Vada. I do, too. She’s one in a million. Can I start a tab for you? All I need is your debit card.”
Marcus’s smarmy smile slips. “My drinks are free.”
“I’m new,” I say, holding out my hand. “Luke Greenly. And no one ever told me drinks were free for family. So, I’ll just get your tab started.”
“My name is Marcus Carsewell; Vada Carsewell is my daughter.”
My grin is blinding. “I don’t recall Vada having a father.”
“Not having a…” Marcus shakes his head, his fist hitting the bar. “What are you talking about? Of course she has a father. I’m her father. Marcus. Marcus Carsewell.”
I keep my hand out for the payment. “That’s strange,” I say, tipping my head to the side. “See, Vada and I were talking about college, and I remember her telling me that she couldn’t afford to pay for school because the man she called Dad said she wasn’t his daughter. That he already had two kids. So, you can understand my confusion. You couldn’t possibly be her dad. She’s doesn’t have one.”
Marcus blinks.
“That about sums it up,” Phil says, startling me from behind. “You should probably hit the road, Marcus. I called you an Uber, and it’s almost here.”
Marcus slides off his stool, wobbling a little. He takes in Phil’s imposing figure and, with measured movements, slides his wallet into his back pocket without bothering to leave so much as a tip. “You think you’re all high and mighty with your disgusting bar and your snot-nosed bartenders, but I know you, Phil. And I haven’t forgotten how you couldn’t hack it playing professionally.”
“That’s true,” Phil says dryly. “And believe me, I’m so grateful you’re here to remind me of how far I’ve fallen. Take care, Marc. This one’s on the house. Don’t come back, or I’ll call the police.”
“You can’t call the police on me! My daughter works here.”
“Debatable!” I say.
Kazi jumps in front of the bar. “I think I see the Uber driver, Mr. Carsewell,” he says in a placating voice. He leads Marcus through the tables of curious spectators and out onto the street.
“Vada okay?” I ask as soon as the door closes behind them.
Phil pats my shoulder. “Yeah, she’s good. Annoyed as hell and has broken a few glass bottles out back, but she’s back to herself and sweeping them up. Afraid the raccoons will get cut up if she leaves a mess.”
“I had no idea what a proper dick her dad was,” I say, feeling sick. “I mean, I guessed, but he far exceeded my expectations.”
“And you’ve exceeded mine. You handled him like a pro.”
“He didn’t pay,” I grumble.
“He never has. I could call the police if I really wanted to, but I think you
scared him away plenty, and this way, Vada doesn’t have to see her dad in handcuffs.”
“He really shows up just to get free booze?”
“I suspect it’s his asshole way of seeing his daughter, but yeah, at least once a month, he shows up here and drinks himself to the floor, berates his daughter, berates me, and then we kick him out.”
I stop short. “What do you mean, ‘berates his daughter’? What did he say to her today?”
“Nothing. He didn’t get the chance. She came in only minutes before you did, and I was about to kick him to the curb when I saw you were handing him his balls.”
I slouch back against the counter, relieved. “Right. Good. I’m glad.”
“Me, too,” Phil says. “Did I see rainbow cupcakes by the register?”
“My brother’s anniversary. Want one?”
“I already snuck one, actually. But you could bring one back to Vada, and while you’re at it, tell her the coast is clear and I expect her back to work.”
“Ten-four, boss.”
* * *
A minute later, juggling two cupcakes on a beverage napkin, I nearly smack right into Vada, leaving Phil’s office.
“For me?” she asks. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold, and she smells like the color green and fresh air.
“Well, one is. I was hoping to share. I’m a little early for my shift.”
Vada backs into the office, holding the door for me. I place the cupcakes on Phil’s desk, and she moves around to our boss’s chair and sits, folding a jean-clad leg underneath her.
I take the seat across from her, passing a lurid, multihued dessert across the desk.
“I didn’t know you bake,” she says. She picks at the rainbow wrapper and frowns. “Ah, wait. Cullen?”
“And Zack. It’s their anniversary.”
Her fingers pause midway to her mouth. “They baked them together?”
I nod, peeling my wrapper away. “I know. They’re one of those disgusting couples.”
“They are. Disgusting and adorable. How do you stand being around them?”
I raise the bit of cupcake I haven’t already stuffed in my mouth. “This helps.”