“We’ll make it,” he tells me, finally getting to the car.
“I know.” But I don’t, exactly. I won’t get in that much trouble, but I would like to be allowed to do this again.
The music from Trip’s stereo fills the quiet, until at 11:31 we slide up to the curb in front of my house.
“What did I tell you?” He is obnoxiously—and endearingly— victorious.
“I wasn’t worried in the slightest,” I scoff.
“You were.”
“Was not. I knew right where we were. All part of my evil plan to get you to help me with my songs, even though you’re not in the ba—” I clamp my lips shut.
“Ah, yes. Well.” He clears his throat and looks away from me, toward the house. “Next time you can just ask.”
I put my hand on his arm. “I only meant—”
“It’s cool.” He opens his door, gets out. I climb out too, to meet him at the front of his car and give him a thanks and I’m sorry hug.
“This really was fun,” I say into his chest.
His arms tighten around me. “It was.”
The Hansel and Gretel song floats back into my head. Around me his hug stays and stays. Warm and strong and safe and happy. Comfortable, and right, with a glimmer of . . . what? I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. Mainly I’m glad, in spite of the changes, that Trip isn’t evaporating like Lish did. It makes me want to hold on to this even more—the importance of tonight.
Finally he breaks the hug, backing up a little. “Good luck tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Could be a disaster. We’ll see.”
“It’ll be great. Just make sure to tell me all about how bad they are. Deal?” His fingers point into a gun.
I point mine back. “Deal. And, hey, thanks for tonight. It was really terrific.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” His face is full of—something. But then it’s not. “Well, good night, Charlotte.”
“Good night, Trip.”
And though it’s chilly, and I need to go in, for some reason I don’t want tonight to be over. So I stand there in the yard, watching as he gets into the car, then pulls slowly from the curb and away down my street. I keep standing there another minute, until the warm-strong feeling of his hug dissipates from my shoulders. And only then do I go inside, humming, tucked safe in my pockets were my Hansel and Gretel crumbs.
In the morning, the good feeling of my evening with Trip is replaced by overwhelming anxiety about auditions. Oliver’s nervousness when I finally get to his house isn’t reassuring, either.
“Do you think we should have snacks or something?” he says as soon as he opens the door.
“Don’t we usually?” I say, pushing past. “At least chips or something? Some cheese?” I drop my bag on the chaise by the front door and move into the kitchen, to his refrigerator, start pulling out half-empty containers of prepared foods that his mom gets from Alon’s and Whole Foods. There’s almost a whole platter of some kind of artichoke-covered toasts that will do fine, I think, and a thing of macaroni salad. In the freezer are some Trader Joe’s samosas I can heat up. But I also know, from experience, that we could just have a jar of peanut butter with a spoon in it.
“They all respond?” Oliver wants to know. He’s pushing his hair back over and over. Am I supposed to notice his outfit or not? Because he does look cool in that sweater-vest and holey T-shirt, but maybe he doesn’t want to seem like he’s trying.
“Every one.” I take out plates and serving spoons.
“Cool.”
I move him out of the way to get the paper cups from an upper cabinet.
“It’ll be fine,” I say, though my hands are sweaty. “Gimme that bottle of Slice.”
Just as he opens the refrigerator again, there are footsteps outside and we both look up. It’s like someone’s caught us at something.
“You greet them,” I tell him, after he doesn’t move.
“Right.”
Watching him go, the feeling of new people washes through me. Getting up and going over to Oliver’s on a weekend is so automatic, I didn’t consider my outfit much today. And now I wish I had. At least a little. Because this isn’t going to be the normal gang. This is us trying to convince other people to be with us, and it’s stupid I didn’t think about it before. Now all I can do is smooth down my hair, tug the tails of my rumply button-down into some variation of straightness.
But it’s just Abe coming in.
“’Sup,” he says to me, taking one of the samosas before they go into the oven.
I can relax, a little. “What’s up?”
He shrugs. “Whatever, man. Last night a DJ saved my life.”
“Okay.” I half laugh, half roll my eyes. You never know when Abe is serious or joking, or even what he really means. Except for when he is seriously serious, and then he’s so intense it’s almost frightening. But that doesn’t happen very often.
Oliver rakes his hands up and down on his skinny, dark-jeaned thighs, looking things over in the kitchen.
“Where were you and Whitney last night, man?” Abe asks him, reaching for another samosa and shoving it in his mouth.
Oliver shrugs, awkward. “Had to cancel for some thing with my dad.”
“Gotcha.”
Abe and I swap glances. You can tell what Oliver’s not saying is that, because he forgot his dad’s event, Whitney had a huge fit and so tonight he’s going to have to make it up to her by doing it in some park somewhere, probably seeing a chick film after that. But rather than acknowledge any of this, I slide the tray of samosas into the oven, reach behind Oliver for a bowl for the macaroni salad. Abe coughs and pours himself a soda.
“I think we’re good with the food,” I say.
“Awesome.” But Oliver’s hardly registering. He gestures toward the staircase and Abe and I follow him into his teenage-boy lair: the rec room downstairs.
They turn on the PS3 and get into the war game they’ve been working on for a while. Abe lives two doors down from Oliver, and because of this—and because he doesn’t have his own practice room—he leaves his drums set up at Oliver’s and basically has an open-door policy here at the Drake house. If this were Tekken I’d be able to jump in and take the loser’s place, but when Abe gets shot down I know to keep my mouth shut: this is a serious game, and they can be driven almost to tears over it. I watch, and remind them where bonus packs and hidden snipers are, but my anxiousness about the new guys makes me keep getting up to see if there’s anyone at the door. Good thing I’m checking, because it’s only during a small pause while the game loads between levels that I even hear the doorbell.
“Got it,” I tell them, though they haven’t budged.
At the door are three guys, apparently all having arrived in the same old Saturn that’s parked crookedly in front of Oliver’s house.
“Howdy,” the mohawked redhead says, lifting a black bass case covered with band and bumper stickers.
“Uh—hi. I’m Charlotte.” I open the door wider. They’re down the stairs before I can call Oliver and Abe up.
In the rec room, the boys all shake hands, like their dads would. The mohawk redhead kid is Eli. The other two are Sam and Sam, which is convenient, but also weirdly annoying. Immediately upon dropping their own cases, the two Sams sink into the futon to watch the game, which Abe starts up again. Eli plugs in his bass. None of them really talk. I want to ask questions, but since Oliver’s focused on the game too, I’m not going to say anything. I wish we’d set up the food down here, though. Maybe I could bring it down without looking too June Cleaver about it.
“There’s food,” Oliver finally says, once Eli is set up and tuned.
Eli nods, but then waits politely for Oliver to take the lead back up the stairs. Neither of the Sams moves from the couch.
I follow Eli and Oliver to the main floor. I’m trying to pay attention to everything I see and feel, to tell Trip about it in the notebook later, but mostly I just wish he were here to see it himself. He would
have a thing or two to say about this Eli guy, at least. I pour myself a glass of Slice just to have something to do.
The doorbell rings again, and it’s this giant relief. Eli is peering deep into Oliver’s refrigerator, looking for more than what I’ve already set out. I go to the door without saying anything.
“Am I at the right place?” the boy at the door wants to know, holding up a small slip of paper covered with tiny, antlike handwriting. He is the absolute perfect kind of cute: meaning, cute in a secret way—the way only odd girls like me notice. Glasses. Hooked nose. Close-cut black hair. Sunny hazel eyes. Bonyish wrists. Against my will, my nervous habit kicks in—my jaw going around its hinges in a circle a few times before I clamp my teeth together to stop it.
“I’m sorry.” He straightens his glasses, looks at me. The slip of paper trembles just slightly between his fingers. “I’m Fabian. There’s an audition? For a synth?”
He shifts a heavy-looking backpack into my view, and there’s a portable amp in his hand. Behind him I see his car—small, white, hybrid-looking.
“I’m, um, Charlotte.” I open the door wider. “Oliver’s inside.” I’m not his girlfriend, if you were wondering, I stop myself from adding.
“Nice to meet you, Charlotte,” Fabian says, coming in. But just past the threshold, he pauses. “Is this a shoes-on or shoes-off house?”
He is so incredibly sincere. My jaw stretches itself to pop: once, twice. I force myself to quit it.
“Um. Either?” Mrs. Drake has never said anything about a rule. “Whatever makes you the most comfortable, I guess.”
He looks up through his mod spectacles. “On, then,” he says.
Fortunately my face is hidden as I shut the door behind him. He’s stopped in the foyer, waiting for me to show him the way in, but now I’m kind of stuck behind him. We shuffle left, then right, both laugh a little. Which is when Eli comes around the corner, a plate heaped with five different new things, and goes, “Hey, man, you here too? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I am, and no we haven’t,” Fabian says. He is shy and friendly in a way that is just perfect.
I stretch a hand toward the kitchen. “We have food, if you want.”
“Thanks.” He nods, not budging.
“Or you can just go down.” I motion to the rec room.
Fabian finally moves. I follow him down the stairs, shaking my head and reminding myself that I’m supposed to be running things today.
“All right, man!” one of the Sams says, seeing Fabian coming down the thickly carpeted stairs. “I didn’t know you were gonna be here.”
Fabian lifts the amp in a kind of greeting to both the Sams.
“So, we’re just going to”—Oliver rubs his hands together, looks at me—“try some things out, I guess.”
I think, again, how much I wish Trip were here. If for no other reason than to wink at me or something. Stick out his tongue and remind me to loosen up.
“How should we do this?” Eli says, already wiping his plate clean with his finger.
“Well, we just wanted—” I start.
At the same time, one Sam asks, “Together or individual?”
I’m not sure what he’s getting at, and I’m not sure my face doesn’t show it.
Abe butts in, absolutely out of character. “It’d be decent to do a song or two with each of you on bass. So we can, you know, get a sense. Fabian, you should just play the whole time for consistency.” He clears his throat and nods at Oliver, who, after a second, nods back. Oliver doesn’t know what to think of Abe speaking up, either.
The Sams glance at Eli and Fabian, and they all nod together. Quickly they decide on some song I don’t recognize the name of—not one of ours, anyway. I don’t think Oliver knows it that well either, because he has to ask Eli what key it’ll be in.
I sit in the ivory leather recliner to watch, knees tucked up under my chin. Oliver hasn’t told them my part in this at all, which is annoying but maybe also makes me that much more interesting. Here I am, the lone girl who is obviously important but who also is clearly not some ho-bag attached to Oliver’s hip. I’m like a mystery. I hope.
The curly-haired Sam plays with them first. He and Oliver start together ably, simply. Fabian barely looks at anyone while he plays, staring down at his keyboard instead. Out of his synthesizer come some piano chords I feel like I should know. Next to them, Oliver’s own chord changes are a little stumbly, but it’s nothing too awkward and his voice sounds good. They stop and it’s fine. Abe nods; Oliver nods back. So much nodding. The next Sam steps up. It’s mostly the same thing, though Fabian’s added a windlike layer of sound. At the end of it, Fabian smiles a little at the straight-haired Sam, who shrugs. He doesn’t seem to care, but I like that Fabian is acknowledging him.
Eli steps up. “One two three, hit me,” he counts off like James Brown. Within the first few measures, it’s like all of us have straightened up a little, even Abe. Eli’s playing is fierce, but so is his entire demeanor. He’s biting his lip almost hard enough to draw blood, and his ferocious jerking arms and elbows are wiry and sharp.
Fabian responds to Eli’s energy too: adding new things, looking happily over at Eli with eyebrows up. It’s like Eli somehow brings out both what Abe is doing on the drums and what Oliver’s doing on guitar. On top of that he gives Fabian a foundation to pile all that pretty, complicated synth stuff onto.
They drag it out in this crazy jam for at least two minutes past the end of the song.
“All right, then,” Oliver says when they finish. The two Sams pick up the video game controls without saying anything.
We switch to one of Oliver’s racing games for a while. When Abe destroys me in our final lap and it’s my turn out, I run upstairs to bring the rest of the food down. As soon as I do, Eli grabs a plastic fork and finishes off the macaroni salad, straight from the bowl. It’s like he already knows he’s going to be able to make himself comfortable here.
It’s nearly five thirty when they all finally leave. Abe, Oliver, and I wave good-bye to them from the front door and then head back in to discuss how things went. It’s pretty clear who the new members are going to be, but we do have to make it official. I’m glad Fabian was so good, for a couple of reasons. And whether I like to admit it or not, it’s actually really interesting how the sound is going to change with these new guys. Though Trip killed on guitar, its absence feels okay. I think even Trip would think so, and I wonder if there’s a way for me to invite him to a rehearsal.
“You think they can do it?” Oliver asks. We are back in the kitchen. Abe’s sitting on the counter while Oliver and I load the dishwasher together.
“In time, you mean?” Abe asks.
Oliver nods. “In time.”
I picture the way Fabian just went with Eli, improvising all this remarkable stuff over Abe’s rhythm and Oliver’s chords.
“They’ve obviously played together before,” I say.
“Right?” Oliver is excited.
“Eli is boss.”
Abe. “So let’s tell them they’re in,” I say, putting the last plate into the rack. We grin at each other, huge.
“I think we should practice every day next week, if they can,” Oliver says. Abe nods from the counter. “Spider?”
I picture Lish and Bronwyn and their new lives, Trip taking karate classes, Jilly in her college seminars. I don’t care who I used to be. Right now, meeting eyes with Oliver, glancing at Abe, all three of us are electric with the possibility of the new sound that just came out of that rec room.
“I’m yours. As much as you need.”
Sunday afternoon Oliver texts.
1st practice tmrw @ 4:30. They can only do 3 days but it’s ok. I sent the MP3s.
I picture Fabian, Eli listening to “Disappear,” to “For Your Face.” To everything else I’ve written, have given up to Oliver’s voice. I picture their hands—okay, Fabian’s hand—against his earbud, holding the sound in tight.
You sen
t them r songs? Already?
How else will they know what to play?
I chew on the ragged end of my thumbnail before I type: Right.
U have new stuff? he sends next.
New stuff?
For the dance. I thought?????
Of course. I’m lying. Maybe.
Cool.
How many? I write.
Abe thinks we need 5 at least.
I sit up straight. Tell Abe to write them then.
:P Urs are better.
I feel a weird tingle in the back of my throat. Praise from Oliver always feels like this—like some kind of victory. Even though it’s dumb.
Whitney still off limits as material? I can’t help teasing him.
Shut up.
See u in the morning.
When I drop my phone to the floor, the numbers of my bedside clock are all I see. It’s 3:50. There’s homework to do, reading to catch up on, notes to memorize—none of which I did yesterday because I was at auditions the whole afternoon, and then I had to write in the notebook to Trip, since he wasn’t answering his phone. Now there are, at least, three songs to write (Oliver won’t expect all five tomorrow), on top of that. Though I’m not sure I have anything very poetic to say beyond “Apparently it’s going to be okay” and “New guy, you are so cute”—for Oliver, for the new band, and for (eeek) Fabian, I need to get over my writer’s block. I open up my photo albums, grab a pen. Ready or not, there’s work to be done.
Chapter Four
In the morning, I shove the sheets of legal notebook paper into Oliver’s hand as he rounds the corner from the parking lot to the main building. We are in a stream of students, moving toward class.
Oliver doesn’t even look down. “Cool,” he says. Whitney is there, in the hook of his arm. She’s making sure I see it, which doesn’t even make sense anymore.
“No, I mean—” I start. But then I realize Eli is there, right behind Oliver, between Abe and a couple of other guys. From Oliver’s face, I know this is not the time to discuss any of it. I picture my trash can at home, overflowing with all the lines that were no way good enough. I wish I could tell him how hard it was, since I had to do them so fast. But obviously he can’t hear it right now. I think the songs are all right. I think they are, but it would be better if Oliver could just even look at them for a second, nod or something in approval. It’d be better if I’d shown Trip first.
Being Friends with Boys Page 5