by Leila Sales
“Me.”
“Oh.” I frowned around his room for a moment, then put on “Born Slippy NUXX.”
“I do like this song,” Char said. “What tipped you off?”
I pointed to the Trainspotting poster taped to his wall.
“Great movie,” he said. “Great sound track. Okay, let me have a turn. Pass me my laptop, will you?”
So I did, and then when “Born Slippy NUXX” was over, he put on an upbeat song. “This is ‘Quarter to Three’ that I was telling you about,” he said. “It’s good, right? I found it on some oldies compilation. It’s only, like, two and a half minutes long. You can play something once it’s through.”
I started searching through my music collection again.
“You know, you can sit down,” Char said.
“Where?” I asked, looking around in case he had hidden a couch somewhere in this twenty-square-foot room.
“Here.” He patted the bed beside him.
I hesitated, then picked up my laptop, carried it over, and sat down next to him. I thought it might feel different because it was a boy’s bed, or because it was Char’s bed, but it just felt like a bed.
“Hey,” Char said abruptly, looking over my shoulder at the thousands and thousands of songs on my computer, “do you want to DJ at Start? I mean for real, not just because I’m dealing with a Pippa crisis. You could have, like, a half-hour guest DJ slot every Thursday, and you could play whatever you wanted. Except for ‘Girls and Boys.’ Okay, fine, you could sometimes play ‘Girls and Boys’ if you really wanted to.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m totally serious,” Char said. “I saw you on Thursday, and you’re a natural. Plus,” he said with a grin, “I’m your teacher.”
“But don’t you need, like, permission? From Pete or someone? Can you just do that?”
“Hell yeah, I can do that.” Char leaned back on his elbows. “I’m the DJ. It’s my night. I can do whatever I want.”
I thought about it for a moment. I thought about how tired I had been, waking up Friday morning after only a couple hours of sleep. I thought about how my back hurt from standing and my ears rang. But I also thought about how exciting it had been. How powerful I had felt, knowing that I alone had the ability to make people dance, the ability to make them happy.
“You’re smiling again,” Char noted. “You can’t make me like you that way, now that I know your tricks.”
“Char,” I said, “I would love to DJ at Start.”
“Then it’s settled,” he said. “You only have four days until your first gig, so you better start practicing.” He nudged me with his shoulder and nodded toward my computer.
I played a Cat Power song, and Char said, “This is good. It’s kind of sad, but I like it.” And then he played a song that I didn’t recognize, and he said, “I can’t believe you’ve never heard Big Audio Dynamite. You’ll love them.” And then I played a song, and he played a song, and we kept going like that for the rest of the afternoon, just playing each other music that we liked. The sun was streaming in through his curtainless windows, and his bed was soft and comfortable, and I would pinpoint this day, afterward, as one of the last times that things were as perfect as they seemed, before everything came tumbling down.
8
When I agreed to DJ at Start, I forgot one important thing: my parents.
It’s not that I was going to ask for their permission to walk alone down abandoned streets to DJ a warehouse dance party at one a.m. on a weeknight. I didn’t feel like that was any of their business. However, I did need permission to stay at my mom’s house on Thursday night. And not just this Thursday night. Every Thursday night.
I asked my mom first, since I figured she would be an easier sell than my dad.
“Why?” she asked.
It was later on Sunday, after my magical afternoon at Char’s. Alex and Neil were in their pajamas, watching half an hour of educational television before bedtime. My mom was in the study she shares with Steve, clicking away on her computer.
“I just want to spend more time with you,” I said.
You know how manipulative you are. You always know. I love my mother fiercely, and some days I even love spending time with her, but in no way did I have so powerful an urge to spend more time with her that I would request to change the custody schedule that we all agreed on when I was a kid.
Plus, time with my mom is never just time with my mom. It invariably means time with Steve, Alex, Neil, Bone, and Chew-Toy, as well. We had exactly seven minutes left in this one-on-one conversation before she would go into the family room, snap off the television, and send my little brother and sister to bed. Otherwise they might accidentally be exposed to more than half an hour of television, which would presumably turn their brains to Silly Putty on the spot.
I knew that getting more quality time with my mom was not my goal. But she did not know that. I saw her cheeks glow as she raised her eyes from her computer to look at me. “But then your father only gets you Wednesdays and Fridays,” she said. “I’m not sure that’s fair.”
My mother is very, very into fairness. Like, to the point where she will kennel Bone while Chew-Toy gets fed dinner and vice versa. She doesn’t think it’s fair for one dog to eat some of the other dog’s kibble. She also lets Alex stay up exactly twenty minutes later than Neil, because Alex is two years older than Neil, and that is fair; however, she will not let Alex watch any more television in her extra twenty minutes because that is not fair. Whenever Steve denies them dessert, and Alex wails, “That’s not fair!” I can practically see Mom’s brain whirring, trying to determine whether Alex is or is not correct.
“I’m sure Dad will understand,” I told my mother, even though 1) I was not at all sure of this, and 2) that completely did not address her question.
But Mom said, “Well, it’s all right with me if it’s all right with him. We’ll be glad to have you around more often, sweetie.”
And that’s the thing about my mother and fairness. She really wants to be fair to everybody. But if she can’t be fair to one person, then she wants that person to be my father.
My parents separated when I was four years old, and Mom blames the dissolution of their marriage entirely on Dad. At her lake house last summer, I guess she felt that I was now old enough to understand what went wrong between them—which is reprehensible, by the way. You are never old enough to hear details about your parents’ marital problems.
Regardless, Mom told me, “We weren’t happy together. We both knew we weren’t happy, but he was the one who brought it to that breaking point. I was so ambitious, and he was so … well, he was content with what he’d already done. He was happy to rest on his laurels. When I wanted to create more, build more, start BOO OIL, have more kids, renovate the house, he wouldn’t get behind it. He wouldn’t get behind me. I would have done anything to make our marriage work. But your dad has never liked anything that requires work. I’m telling you, never fall for a music man. It only ends in heartbreak.”
Her whole story made it sound to me like Dad had done her a favor. Why would she have wanted to stay with him if they were that unhappy? But that is not how my mother sees it.
So even though Mom got Steve, and two adorable new kids, and two adorable new dogs, and a way bigger house, and a lake house, too, even so, she has never felt fully compensated for the way my dad treated her twelve years ago.
And I think that’s why she didn’t protest now, when I told her that I wanted to spend more time with her. Instead she said, “Just check with your father, and then I’ll tell the rest of the family the happy news.”
So later that night, after I knew he would be home from work, I closed myself into my bedroom to call Dad.
“Elise!” he answered. “Good to hear from you, honey. How was your weekend?”
“It was fine,” I said. “Hey, have you heard of a band called Big Audio Dynamite?”
“Sure,” he replied. “That was Mick Jone
s’s band after the Clash. Good stuff. Why?”
“I heard one of their songs today,” I said. “I liked it.” That was about all I felt like telling my dad about my afternoon at Char’s apartment. Then I took a deep breath. “Daddy,” I began, which is not something I’ve regularly called my father since I was Alex’s age, “would you mind if I started staying at Mom’s house on Thursday nights?”
There was a brief moment of silence on Dad’s end of the line.
“Maybe I could switch it for another night at your house? Like Tuesdays?” But even as I said this, I knew it wouldn’t work. Dad has to work at the store until closing every night of the week except Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. That’s why those are my nights with him. The rest of the time he comes home so late, and sleeps so late, that I could stay with him and never see him at all. And my parents are not okay with that, especially not since I cut myself. After that, I haven’t been allowed to stay at either parent’s house if there aren’t going to be adults home at a reasonable hour. I don’t understand that rule, since the time when I cut myself was the middle of the afternoon, but whatever.
As predicted, Dad said, “No, Tuesdays wouldn’t work, I have to be at the store until late.”
There was another pause.
“It’s just that there’s this new extracurricular activity I want to do,” I tried to explain. I stared out my bedroom window. “But it’s on Mom’s side of town, so—”
“Was this your mother’s suggestion?” Dad broke in.
“That I stay with her on Thursdays?” I asked, surprised. “No. She had nothing to do with it. It was my idea.”
“Oh,” my father said. “Well, if it was your idea, then that’s fine.”
“Really?” I squealed.
“This is what you want?” he asked.
“Yes! Thank you so much, Daddy. I’ll see you Wednesday. Love you!”
And that is how I got a weekly guest DJ slot at Start. It wasn’t pretty. But that’s how I did it.
* * *
There are some people who want to win at whatever they do, even if the things they do are not the sort of things one wins at.
I am one of those people.
When we had a gardening section in fifth grade science class, I wanted to be the best gardener. When I learned how to do embroidery at day camp, I wanted to be the best at embroidering. And I realized, during my second time playing music at Start, that I didn’t just want to be a DJ. I wanted to be the best DJ.
I played a half-hour set. Char was very encouraging—he helped me plug in my laptop, and adjusted the monitors for me, and reassured me that he wouldn’t leave the dance floor, not even to use the bathroom, so he would be right there if I needed him. And it went okay. I only tried to beat match twice, and both times the songs overlapped in a jarring, earsplitting way. The second time Char even climbed up to the DJ booth to help me, which was mortifying, so the rest of the time I focused on simply playing one song after another without leaving any moments of silence. I tried to read the crowd, like Char had told me, but all I could read was that the crowd did not like “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This).” It seemed like half the room filed outside to smoke when I played it. I couldn’t tell why. I had heard Char play that same song two weeks earlier, and everyone had danced.
Char relieved me at one thirty, full of compliments and encouragement. Then I packed up my computer and found Vicky, who was smoking outside, near Mel.
“Hey, lady,” she called when she saw me. “You were awesome up there.”
“I was all right.”
Vicky shook out her long, thick brown hair. “Please. Give up the false modesty and just take a compliment.”
With all the words I would use to describe myself, falsely modest had never been among them. “Thank you,” I said. “But I could do better. Char is better.”
“But you’ve been doing this for, what, a week?”
“Two weeks.”
“Right, and he’s been doing it for years. Cut yourself some slack. Anyway, Char’s a dick. Don’t aspire to be like him.”
I didn’t think Char was a dick, considering that he was not only teaching me how to DJ, but also letting me play at his party. But I could guess why Vicky might think so. “You mean because of Pippa?” I asked.
“Because of lots of things.” She exhaled a ring of smoke, and we both watched it swirl up into the night sky.
“Where is Pippa, by the way?” I asked. I hoped the answer was not “passed out on a bench” again.
“Manchester,” Vicky replied.
“Oh, cool. Will she be back for Start next week? I want her to see me play. I swear I’ll be better at it next time.”
“You were fine at it this time,” Vicky reminded me. “And, no, I don’t think she’ll be back next week.”
The way Vicky said that did not sound good.
“Her parents thought she was partying too hard,” Vicky explained, crushing her cigarette butt under the heel of her gray suede boot. “Her mom freaked out because she had given Pippa, like, two hundred dollars to buy a new winter coat, and then she somehow found out that Pippa spent all the money on alcohol and basically froze all winter long. So they made her take off the rest of the semester and go back home where they can ‘keep an eye on her’ or something.”
I wondered if Pippa felt about this the same way I felt about my parents’ stupid rule that I couldn’t stay in a house at night without an adult. As if that was going to help me. As if they knew exactly what my problem was and they were going to fix it.
“Do you think Pippa parties too much?” I asked Vicky. “I mean, you’re her best friend. You would know. They’re three thousand miles away.”
Vicky shrugged. “We’re eighteen. Everyone parties too much.”
But that wasn’t really an answer.
“What are you going to do without her?” I asked.
Vicky’s hand reached toward her pocket, as if for another cigarette, then she shook her head and clasped her hands instead. “I have no idea,” she said. “Homework?”
“Yeah…” I said doubtfully.
“I could clean my room,” Vicky suggested. “That would take a while.”
“Another great plan, sure.”
“Shopping!” Vicky announced. “I will go shopping. For every day that Pippa is away, I will buy something new to make me happy in her absence.”
“How many days could you keep that up for?” I asked. “Without going broke, I mean.”
“I think … two. Maybe three, if I’m buying, like, socks. It’s fine. This is what credit cards are for. Do you want to go shopping with me?”
“Um,” I said, at the same time that Mel said, “Yes.”
We both turned around to look at him. He stood a few feet away, blocking the doorway with his bulk. “Oh, how rude of me,” Vicky said. “Mel, darling, do you want to go shopping with me?”
Mel snorted. “Thank you, Vicks, but I have all the dangly earrings and studded belts that I need for this season. I was answering on Elise’s behalf. Just in case you weren’t sure, Elise, the correct answer is yes.” I opened my mouth, but he just waggled his finger and admonished, “Remember, honey, fixing up and looking sharp is not optional.”
“I thought you said it was optional,” I reminded him.
Mel sighed. “For the love of God, will you just respect the wisdom of your elders for once?”
“Fine.” I turned back to Vicky. “Yes.”
“Excellent. Let’s do Sunday!” Vicky jumped up and down a little. “You ready to go back in?”
Mel began to edge the door open for us, but I said, “I’m leaving, actually. I’m tired, and I have to wake up so early tomorrow. See you Sunday, Vicky!”
And I walked home.
I hadn’t lied to Vicky—I was tired, and I did have to wake up so early, but that wasn’t why I left early. I left because I wasn’t ready to be done DJing yet. I wanted to keep doing it and doing it and never stop until I had mastered it all. When
I got home, I stayed awake in my bedroom, my headphones on, practicing with my DJ equipment for hours, until the sunlight began to seep through the dark, wiping away the stars, and turning the sky from black to navy to gold.
9
Teachers do not talk to me very often. They talk to troublemakers. They talk to Chuck Boening all the goddamn time. But the last time a teacher said, “Elise, may I speak with you?” it was eighth grade and my social studies teacher wanted to know if he could submit my essay on Hitler Youth to a Facing History and Ourselves writing contest. (For the record, I said yes. For the record, I got an honorable mention. Also for the record, the principal announced this award during the next assembly, and no one looked up from their cell phones for long enough to acknowledge that this had happened, except for two boys whose names I didn’t even know, who hollered, “Boo!” and then got kicked out of the assembly.)
So you can understand why I was surprised when Ms. Wu pulled me aside after math class on Friday. I tried to figure out if there was some sort of Facing History and Ourselves math essay contest that she wanted me to compete in, and if I could come up with a gentle way to tell her, “Absolutely not.”
But that wasn’t what she asked. What she asked was, “Elise, is everything all right?”
I blinked at her. She was sitting behind her desk, and I was standing next to her. My math class had already filed out, so we only had a few minutes before the next group of students arrived.
“Do you want to sit down?” Ms. Wu asked, pulling a chair up next to her.
“No, thank you.”
Ms. Wu pressed on. “Elise, I wanted to talk to you because lately you’ve seemed a little … off. Less engaged than you used to be. Maybe even exhausted. Is there anything you want to talk about? Any problems at home?”
This woman. This horrifying woman. With her muted sweaters and her sensible heels. All those times I had eaten lunch in her classroom, watching videos of Mandelbrot sets on her computer, she was secretly, insidiously, monitoring me.
Any problems at home? Please. Sally has parents who won’t let her read any books with sex in them, and everybody knows that Emily Wallace’s mother made her get a boob job when she was a freshman; meanwhile, my dad buys me DJ equipment, and my mom wants only for me to be an educated member of a working democracy—yet I get asked if I have any problems at home?