by Erin Hahn
Meg walks to the mic, sans wings. Her rainbow-striped hair is tucked behind her ears, and she perches on a small stool, folds her hands in her lap, resting on her white denim skirt. She doesn’t play an instrument. Her voice is enough. While Meg is on the small side, her range is ginormous.
Her eyes find me, and she gives a light wave. Ben is highlighted in the blue light upstage, holding his violin. This evening, Ben and his violin are wearing their serious faces. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him since the latest Marcus incident, and now I wish I had taken the opportunity to clear the air so he wasn’t looking at me in that pitiful way.
I’m fine, I want to say. Whatever you’re thinking about me, don’t. I don’t want it.
It’s a lie, but I still wish I’d done it.
“We’re trying out a new song tonight,” Meg says. “Jesus laid it on my heart, and I haven’t been able to shake it since. I think it must be meant especially for one of you. It’s called ‘Rescue,’ and I’d love it if you’d follow along on the screens behind me.” That’s the thing about Meg. She talks about Jesus like he’s her broski. Like he’s been texting her brain all week with his playlist. Like he’s her Luke, actually.
I never know how to take it. It’s this club she and my mom are in, where they have meetups with Jesus, and I get the feeling they are talking about me. It’s unnerving and, frankly, embarrassing.
This feels like a setup. Does God do setups? Objectively, he built the world, so he’s probably cool with premeditation.
Damn it, Meg.
* * *
The following night, I’ve exchanged the darkened theater— where I’m pretty sure I left my pride in a puddle on the sticky floor alongside the discarded popcorn kernels—for the mall.
The contrast is just as jarring and surreal as one would imagine.
After my sort-of come to Jesus, I talked to Meg, trying unsuccessfully to unpack all that had happened. Mostly what it comes down to is—I don’t love the whole “God wants to be your father” thing. Probably because father is synonymous with selfish asshole to me, and the only thing my “father” has ever inspired in me is distrust and loneliness and rejection.
It’s more than a single night of pretty singing can cure.
But I’m willing to try. Or at least try to try. Feel what I’m feeling. Search what I’m searching. Keep an open mind or whatever. Which Meg is over the moon about.
Then I told her about asking Luke to be my wedding date, and she insisted on coming shopping with me, because according to her, asking a boy to be your wedding date is like Big League Chew big. And since we were already headed to the mall, my mom tagged along so she could find herself a dress. We found the prettiest ivory lace cocktail dress that is going to knock Phil on his butt when he sees her. Mom ran it to the car, promising to meet Meg and me in Macy’s after she called her fiancé.
“So, how does it feel to know, definitively, your mom and boss are borking?” Meg asks in a hushed voice after double-checking my mom isn’t anywhere near us. “I mean, we knew, but now we know know about the borking.”
I shoot my best friend a look across the rack of dresses. “Meg.”
“Probably while you’re at work,” she continues casually, holding out a fire-engine red minidress and replacing it just as fast, all the while wrinkling her nose. “Nice of you to cover those closing shifts,” she says.
I make a face. “Stop it.”
“Oh, come on. You must have thought about it.”
I flick through more gowns, each floating up in a cloud of pastel tulle. “Honestly, I haven’t. As far as I know, she hasn’t dated anyone since my dad left when I was ten, except for Phil. That’s a long time to be alone. So, if there’s borking”—I wince at the mental picture—“good for them. In fact, if they aren’t, Phil needs to work on his romantic-stylze. But they must be because I’ve never seen my mom so glow-y”—I stifle a shudder—“and if that’s Phil’s doing, well, great. Furthermore, using terms like borking isn’t doing you any favors if you’re hoping to dispel any of those homeschooler clichés.”
Meg raises a brow and bounces on her toes, causing her fairy wings to flutter behind her.
“Whatever,” I say, hiding my grin. “You get what I mean.”
“Are you going to be a bridesmaid?”
I move on to another rack of metallic dresses. “Maid of honor. But it’s a super-small wedding. Like, courthouse small. Last I heard, Phil was trying to talk my mom into eloping. It was supercute, actually. He said he’d been waiting since he was seventeen and didn’t want to wait another week.”
“Phil said that?”
I nod, plucking out a glittery gold number.
“Phil Phil?”
“I know, it’s weird. But sweet. I even saw him eating a salad with his Big Mac the other day. Like, what? Who is he, even?”
“Smitten is who he is. Ooooooh. Vada.” Meg’s voice turns reverent. “That one. You have to try it on.”
I hold the dress under my chin. It’s a glittery golden strapless dress with a full-out tulle princess skirt that ends at the knees. “I don’t know. It’s a lot.”
“It’s your mom’s wedding. Isn’t it supposed to be a lot?”
“Yeah, but even this is like extra a lot.”
“Just try it on. If you want, we’ll grab some less flashy ones so you can compare.”
After pulling another half dozen dresses, we smush into a tiny dressing room, and Meg perches on a stool in the corner, holding our purses.
I should try on the others, but I’m too curious about the gold one. The thing is, I haven’t had much opportunity to wear dresses before. No one’s ever asked me to a school dance, and all my good friends are either homeschoolers or work at the bar. But I’ve never been against the practice. Just, you know, no reason to be all dressed up with no place to go.
But this wedding is going to be magic. By default. My two favorite people in the world are in love.
And having Luke as a date feels like magic.
And this dress looks like magic.
Its shimmery gold glints pull out the red in my hair and set it on fire. I’ve always been a little self-conscious about my extra pale, freckly skin, but somehow my shoulders look creamy instead of transparent. The cut gives me curves, enhancing what little is there in a way I never realized I could like. I swish side to side, and the full skirt sways around my knees. Even the terrible halogen lighting of the dressing room somehow makes the little sparkles on the tulle glitter and dance. Magic. Pure magic.
“You look like Cinderella.”
“I’m getting it.”
“Duh,” Meg says.
“Vada?” I hear my mom’s voice. “You girls in here?”
Meg dangles her arm out the top. “This one, Mary!”
I unlatch the door and step out to the three-way mirror. My mom gasps, clasping her hands together under her chin. “Oh, Vada. Oh my word. You are lovely. That dress is perfect.”
“You think?” I ask. This is something new, too. Dress shopping with my mom. Hot tears prick in the corners of my eyes when she nods wordlessly. She shakes her head after a minute, sniffing.
“I absolutely think. I can’t believe I made anything as beautiful as you.”
I turn back to the mirror, not sure how to respond. Not uncomfortable or anything. Just very loved.
“Luke is going to fall over when he sees you.”
“Oh,” I say, pleased, a split second before my brain catches on her words. “No. Wait. Who?”
My mom’s reflection rolls her eyes. “Seriously. Vada. You think I didn’t know?”
“Um.”
“Girl, I knew the second he turned up at our door fifteen whole minutes early for your study date. You two are stupid for each other.”
Meg snickers loudly, and I shoot her a glare. “What?” she says. “She’s right.”
“Not to mention,” my mom adds slyly, “I heard all about how he saved your behind at the club and told off your father
.”
“Ah,” I say, smoothing the tulle at my waist, comprehension dawning. “Phil.”
She doesn’t deny it. “He says Luke’s a good kid.”
“He’s the best, Mom.”
She nods. “He’d better be.”
I turn back to my reflection. “I don’t even want to take it off. Can I just wear it out of here? And for the rest of the day?”
“Don’t you work tonight?” Meg points out. “That dress will make quite a stir at the bar.”
I huff an affected sigh. “Fine. I’ll take it off. In a minute. Take a picture.” My eyes flicker to my mom. “I want to send it to Luke!”
Meg pulls out her phone but pauses. “Isn’t that bad luck?”
“I’m not the one getting married,” I say lightly.
“Not yet,” she mutters. She shakes her head at her theatrics. “Smile!”
I make my most ridiculous supermodel pose, and Meg takes several shots, sending them to me immediately after.
“I’m going to put these back,” she says, gesturing to the pile of untouched dresses.
“Thanks, Meg.”
She flings her arms around my neck and noisily kisses my cheek. “I’m so glad you’re doing this. You’re going to have a fabulous time, I can already tell.”
Meg walks out, and I spend another minute spinning in my dress. My mom watches, her eyes sparkling, radiating sunshine.
“Did you tell Phil next Saturday is a go?”
She nods. “Yep. He’s closing the club for a ‘private party,’” she says, making air quotes. “First time ever.”
“Wow,” I tease, “he must really be serious about you.”
She shrugs, sort of bashful. Adorable. “Guess so.”
“Have I told you lately that I’m super happy for you?”
My mom pulls me close, kissing my forehead. “Thanks, baby. I’m happy for me, too. For both of us, even.” She leaves me to change, and I turn to the mirror one final time, ogling my dress.
It doesn’t even need to be altered. I could probably get away with wearing my Converse, honestly.
Or, like, new Converse. Or flats. Pretty, glittery flats. That’s probably better. I can clean up for a night. It won’t kill me.
I hang the dress back up on the hanger and slide back into my jeans and hoodie. Picking up my phone, I scroll through the photos Meg sent, and I can’t keep the smile off my face. I look equal parts ridiculous and glamorous. Perfect. I choose the goofiest one and send it to Luke.
VADA
No backing out now.
LUKE
…
LUKE
…
I chew my lip, ready to jump out of my skin. What if he is trying to think of a way to back out? Or what if I read that last text wrong. What if he wasn’t saying yes? I scroll back, my heart in my throat. I mean. He said, “Duh.” And sent the link to “I’m with You.” That seems like a yes. But oh my gosh. This. This is why you don’t broach important topics via text like a freaking coward, Vada.
I glance at my screen. We’re still at the gray dots. An eternity lives in those gray dots. I’m not being dramatic. It’s fact. There is a universe of possibilities in those three little blinking dots, and I feel like throwing up.
LUKE
I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m speechless, Vada. That’s how incredible you look.
LUKE
Cullen just asked if I was having a stroke. I might be.
My eyes well, and I giggle. Again with the giggling!
VADA
Oh no. Can you feel your face? I hear that’s a warning sign.
LUKE
I don’t know. Maybe?
VADA
So, I should definitely buy this one?
LUKE
Definitely. I’ll just have to stare at your picture three full minutes every hour until I can look at you and still function properly.
VADA
I really like you, Luke Greenly. You know that?
I’m headed out with Meg and my mom, shopping bag happily in hand, when my phone chimes again.
LUKE
YouTube: Counting Crows “Anna Begins”
My hand covers my mouth, and I wordlessly pass the phone over to Meg, who squeals in a way I’m not physically or emotionally capable of. My mom raises an eyebrow.
“Vada. Think,” my best friend gushes. “Did you ever tell him about this song? In all that sexting you do? Ever?”
“It’s not sexting,” I insist, glancing at my mom, who is smirking, of all things. Meg makes a face. “No, never,” I say.
Meg shakes her head and whistles low.
“Maybe it should be sexting. Up your game a little. Dude sends you Adam Duritz, you’d be silly not to have his babies.”
I smack her arm, feeling my face flame. “Okay, that’s enough, you weirdo.”
“I’m just saying. That song has been your adorable Achilles’ heel since the second grade. You used to make me listen to it on repeat and perform it in your front yard for your neighbors as they drove by. People would stop, thinking we were selling lemonade.”
“I remember.”
“And it’s not, like, a cute song for kids to perform. We sounded like deranged potheads. Isn’t that your first tattoo? ‘Anna Begins’ lyrics?”
“Okay, okay. Settle down. I’m not getting a tattoo. What is it with you and tattoos?”
She barrels on, “And of the bajillion songs in the world he could have sent, he picked that one. It’s fate.”
“We don’t believe in fate.”
“True. But wouldn’t it be fun if we did?” With that, she flounces off after my mom, her wings flapping behind her. I glance at my phone again, Luke’s last text still lit, and I write back before I lose my nerve.
VADA
Damn. Now you’ve officially done it. Just when I thought you couldn’t be sexier, you send me Duritz.
LUKE
You know Adam Duritz.
VADA
*fans self*
LUKE
Interesting. And what if I told you I might know how to play “Long December” on the piano?
VADA
I thought you didn’t perform in front of others.
LUKE
I might make an exception.
VADA
*fans self again*
LUKE
*runs off to practice on nerdy—I mean super cool—keyboard*
I click off my phone and see my mom and Meg waiting for me at the exit. When I catch up, Meg rolls her eyes at me.
“Kids and their sexting these days.”
I press my lips together to keep the smile from seeping out. Sexting is a bit of a reach, but Luke is definitely flirting with me. This time I’m sure of it.
And I’ve decided that I really, really like it.
25
LUKE
“Think, Luke, think.”
I’m sitting in a quiet, darkened classroom outfitted with better acoustics than my bedroom and far away from my brother’s secret recording skills. I still owe Vada a song. The absolute final final deadline for my portion is Friday—truthfully, I should’ve given Vada something earlier—and I’ve never written under deadline before. I’ve gone from refusing to write, to forcing it, and it’s absolute shite.
I start over at the beginning and try again. This may be for Vada, but it’s an expression of both of us. Not together, but it could be. It’s an anthem—about how we can ignore the rest of the world, parents and work and relationship expectations. We’re eighteen. On the verge of the rest of our lives. I can just see Vada onstage, with a back glow of soft light, looking as if she’s about to take flight, because she is. I am, too. It might not look the way my dad wants it to, but I’m finally walking toward the future I want.
That’s where I’m getting hung up. It’s easy to believe Vada can do this. She’s brilliant. She can do anything. It’s far more difficult to see myself as the kind of person who can shake free from my family and accomplish my dr
eams the way I want. I considered not adding lyrics. Composing only the melody. Lots of people do that. A million composers don’t sing a word of their own.
But that felt like a cop-out. A concession. I can sing, and I have the words I want to say. Words I want Vada to hear and that I hope will inspire her. Anyway, my voice is just another instrument. Playing it over piano adds depth to the track as it weaves over and under the bass line. Honestly, a drumbeat would be perfection on this. For me, and for Vada.
I’ve never played around with it before, but I have the software. Or Cullen does, and I’m using his laptop. Am I still taking advantage of his guilty conscience every chance I get?
Too fucking right I am.
I scroll through his software, looking for the drum tracks, picking a speed that fits the melody in my brain. It takes a few tries, but I lay it over, starting with the chorus, and the result gives me chills. I’m on the right track.
Over the heavy bass line, I layer on a cymbal track, and want to cry at how right it feels.
Drums. Who knew?
This, this will move Vada. It’s like the bass line is my heartbeat, achingly patient and consistent. My vocals are strained, but not in a bad way. In a slightly mad way. Because that’s how I feel. How she makes me feel. Off balance and slightly mad.
And devoted. Dedicated. Over the moon for the girl.
Yeah. This is good. Really, really good.
* * *
When I finally walk through the door that night, my parents are waiting in the kitchen for me. I halt at the sight of them, still holding my longboard.
“Am I late?” I ask.
My mom smiles reassuringly. “Not really. Though we did text wondering when you’d finally make an appearance. We ate without you. I was just putting it away.” She holds out a stack of Tupperware and a fork. I drop my stuff, grabbing them and sitting down at the island to dig in.
“After you’re done, we’re all gonna take a little drive. I want to show you the warehouse we’re remodeling for the Bad Apple.” I guess he’s talking to me again.
I choke on my bite. “You’re still doing that?”
My dad stares at me, dumbfounded. “What d’you mean? Damn right I am. Invested money and everything. Used your college fund, didn’t I?”