by Sasha Dawn
I wish I could keep brainstorming with the twins—it’s fun even if it’s not particularly practical—but before long, they’re off to voice lessons. For a while, I attempt to decipher the clues about Vagabonds. When I’m thoroughly confused, and half-convinced all the clues mean absolutely nothing, I log into Lyrically and play around with my piece, strictly for the distraction. But lately, the distraction seems to be whether or not the mysterious poet is online.
I find myself checking the Friends bar to see if Dylan’s there.
On the fifteenth glance, I see his name pop up.
I wait. Maybe he’ll approach me first.
Ten minutes later—and only because I’m afraid that if I don’t make a move, he’ll log off—I cave.
Me: I have now found three moons.
Me: All yours, I presume.
Dylan: . . .
Me: Are you ready to collab?
Dylan: You don’t need me.
Me: That’s for me to decide, isn’t it?
Me: Have you listened to the song with the lyrics you wrote?
Me: It’s all so perfect.
Dylan: What would you say if I told you
Dylan: that the moons aren’t mine?
Dylan: That they’re yours?
Me: You just don’t want to work with me.
Me: Why not?
Dylan: I already told you.
Dylan: You don’t need me.
Me: Wow, thanks.
Me: That’s just great.
Me: Awesome end to this awesome day.
Dylan: You have more bad days than anyone I know.
Dylan: Do you even try to have a decent time?
Dylan: You’re only here on this planet once, u know.
Me: I’m trying.
Me: It’s just hard.
Dylan: Tell me all about it.
And, God knows why, but I find myself again relaying the details of my day. Actually, a lot of good happened . . . until Mom hit me with her plan.
And Dylan listens. He offers feedback and consoles me as if he knows me, as if he’s known me forever, as if he completely understands how it feels to be wrung out and stretched between two families. He also pulls no punches.
Dylan: Maybe some of this would improve if you aimed for a more positive attitude.
Me: I know my attitude sucks from time to time.
Me: My sister tells me that.
Dylan: You’re a pessimist.
Me: I am not.
But I wonder if Dylan has a point. If so many people are telling me the same thing, maybe I should think about it.
Dylan: You see the dark in things when you have lots of light.
Me: I’m a realist. There’s a difference.
Dylan: Then I’m sure the realist in you knows that this situation could be a lot worse.
Dylan: These are some classic first-world problems, after all.
I can’t argue with that. Yes, it’s awful that Mom and Dad are on opposite ends of the earth when it comes to everything that matters. But I have two parents who do a lot for me. That’s more than plenty of people have.
Dylan and I talk until it’s nearly one in the morning. And even with his brutal honesty throwing me off balance, I don’t want to get off line.
Dylan: Good talking to you
Dylan: But I have to go.
Dylan: I have to get up early.
Me: This was nice.
Me: Thanks for talking things through with me.
Dylan: :)
Me: It’s been a long time since I’ve talked like this to anyone.
Dylan: . . .
Me: I appreciate it.
Dylan: . . .
When no words follow, I feel like maybe I’ve been too touchy-feely. Maybe some of this (most of this?) could have been left unsaid. Maybe I should’ve just vented a little and then refocused on what this site is all about: music.
I scroll up. God. The whole conversation is about me and my family dramas. Same as last night.
This guy is never going to want to talk to me again.
I begin to type an apology when . . .
Dylan: Want to meet?
Relief, and maybe a little excitement, rushes through me . . . followed by the familiar twinge of panic.
Me: Just for a coffee or something?
Dylan: Why not?
Me: The Factory?
Dylan: Sure.
Me: Then again . . .
Me: There’s something comforting in this.
Me: The screen between us.
Me: Something that keeps us anonymous.
Dylan: If u want, we won’t even talk face to face.
Dylan: We’ll message thru Lyrically.
Me: And we’ll happen to both be at the coffee shop at the same time.
Dylan: If we’re comfortable, we’ll meet face to face.
Dylan: If we’re not, we won’t.
Dylan: Tomorrow after school?
Me: I have a callback.
Me: But I usually get a coffee before.
Dylan: So . . . ?
Me: Sounds good.
It occurs to me as we’re finalizing plans and saying goodnight that maybe this is not such a wise idea. He’s already managed to leave moons at my school and my home. He obviously knows more about me than I know about him. He knows what I look like. I won’t know if he’s at the next table, or across the room, or even sitting in his bedroom in Englewood.
And if he wants to meet, it’s probably because he’s interested in discussing more than music. I don’t do the dating thing, I think to say. But I can’t type the words because suddenly, I don’t know if they’re 100 percent true.
Because despite my better judgment, despite all my worries, I’m finding myself looking forward to this. And if we hit it off in person the way we have online . . . maybe . . .
Eesh. I need to chill out. It’s just coffee. Just half an hour. It’s not a date.
Unless we want it to be.
Chapter 19
Wednesday, May 3
“Order for Madelynn.”
I roll my eyes, get my coffee, and look for a place to sit.
The place is crowded—it always is—but I manage to snag a stool next to my favorite spot. I scan the space for anyone who looks like what I imagine Dylan Thomas might look like: maybe tall, lanky, Buddy Holly glasses. And I don’t know why, but I keep picturing him wearing some sort of hat. Not a cap, a hat.
No one in the place fits the description in my head.
Not many of us are here alone, and while Dylan didn’t say he’d be alone, I assumed if he’s going to hold a conversation with me on Lyrically while he’s here, he wouldn’t come with someone else.
There’s a guy in a Bears jersey on the other side of the room. He’s on his phone. Maybe that guy is Dylan.
I pop in my earbuds and scroll through my Vagabonds playlist. I tap on the One-Hundred-Foot Cliff album and hit shuffle. “Traveling” fills my ears.
Me: Are you here?
I stare at the screen for a bit and sip my mocha roast.
When nothing pops up, I go to Instagram and post a picture of my coffee cup: Sifting through shades of caramel and cocoa. Breathe. #Todayisagoodday.
I check Lyrically again, but Dylan still hasn’t replied to me.
I start to type another message, but then delete it all.
If he changed his mind and didn’t have the courtesy to tell me so I didn’t have to come all the way out here, he doesn’t deserve to hear from me.
When I look up from the screen, it’s directly into the deadpan stare of a man a couple of tables away.
I scroll through my pictures. Quickly. It’s him. The one who was waiting outside of Counter Offer.
He’s alone.
His laptop is open.
He’s staring right at me.
And he doesn’t look away fast enough.
I shift my gaze away, discreetly aim my phone in his direction, and snap a pic. I hope it wasn’t obvious. But I don’t like t
he way he’s looking at me.
I send the picture to Hayley.
Me: This guy’s making me uncomfortable.
I pack up my things and, coffee in hand, head out the door.
I keep looking over my shoulder on my way to the L stop. But he doesn’t follow.
Luckily, a train is already hurtling toward the stop. I board under the hypnotic tones of Vagabonds.
Hayley: Answer your phone!
Me: Sorry. It’s on silent.
Hayley: Are you ok?
Me: Yeah.
Hayley: Who’s the guy?
Me: I don’t know.
Me: Just some guy looking at me.
Hayley: Maybe he saw you in a production and was trying to place you???
Me: Oh. Maybe.
Me: But is it the same guy I texted you before?
Me: The last time wasn’t even in this neighborhood.
Hayley: Do you feel safe?
Me: I do now.
Hayley: Text me when you get to the studio.
Hayley: I’ll try to meet you there after your callback.
Me: It’s ok.
Me: You don’t have to.
Me: I know you’re in the middle of stuff.
Hayley: Text Ella.
Hayley: Someone should be there.
Me: Mom has enough to worry about.
Me: I’ll be fine.
But as the train rolls away, I see him on the platform, waiting for the next train.
Chapter 20
The Weekes twins and I emerge from the dance studio on Webster after a grueling callback audition and step out into another downpour. No sign of the coffee shop lurker. I allow myself to exhale.
“No matter what happens,” McKenna says as we huddle under an awning, “friends.”
“Friends,” I say.
Brendon puts an arm around me, and the other around his sister. McKenna completes the circle by looping her arm through mine, and for a second, we’re standing there in a group huddle. “And no matter what happens,” he says, “we’re gonna rock New York.”
I love this. They get me. I get them. And I’m not sure—because I’ve never really had real friends—but I think this is what friendship is supposed to be like.
A horn beeps—it’s their mom—and Brendon turns to me. “You okay, Madelaine?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Girl,” Brendon calls over his shoulder. “You’re fabulous!”
“So are you!” I tent myself under my backpack, but before I can head toward the L, I see my mom coming up the sidewalk toward me. “Hayley texted me,” she calls out, waving from under her red umbrella. “She said you seemed like you could use some company for the trip home.”
I’m torn between being annoyed that Hayley went behind my back and being grateful that Mom is here.
Mom’s umbrella is obviously a more effective shelter than my backpack, so I duck under it with her. The moment she puts her arm around me, I feel a rush of nostalgia. This is what life was like before the divorce, before the hired car, before Mom started filling out applications and sitting behind a desk for minimum wage: just Mom waiting on the curb, and the two of us—or three of us, if Hayley was tagging along—strolling home.
I didn’t know until right now how much I’ve missed Mom’s part in all this.
“Cookies?” she asks.
I try to exercise willpower and say no, but warm cookies with Mom on a rainy day like today . . . heaven. I grin.
We’re about to head toward the Mrs. Fields on Devon when suddenly, I hear “Maddy.”
I turn toward my father’s voice. He’s looking at me through the lowered window of Giorgio’s car.
I glance at Mom, then back at Dad.
“Hop in,” he says. “There’s no reason for you to walk in the rain.”
“I didn’t know you were coming today,” I stammer.
“I always send a car in this weather, and I have a little time this evening so I thought—”
A nest of butterflies stirs in my gut, and my head gets light and fuzzy.
I have to choose between my parents right now, if only temporarily.
“Go ahead,” Mom says.
Relieved to be let off the hook, I take a step off the curb, but much to my surprise, Mom’s tagging along, in stride with me.
“Your father and I are adults,” she says when she catches the question in my expression. “There’s no reason we shouldn’t be able to be in the same place at the same time.”
To my knowledge, they haven’t been within fifty yards of each other since my eleventh birthday party, and that was disastrous. My heart starts galloping.
Mom tucks an arm around me, and together, we approach the car.
“Hi, Jesse,” Mom says.
Dad’s jaw sets. Tat tat tatatatat. The rain patters in fat drops against the umbrella.
Mom tries again: “Can you believe this rain?”
He looks at me instead of her, and smiles. “How about some shopping? For New York?”
“We didn’t say today, did we? Mom came to get me.”
“Well, she’s not usually here this time of day, is she?” Dad asks.
“She is right here,” Mom says. “Jesse—”
Dad keeps talking, but to me: “Our agreement says I’m able to exercise visitation any day of the week before five. It’s ten till.” He’s still smiling. “Get in.”
“For crying out loud, Jesse,” Mom says.
“Dad, could we—”
“If we don’t go today, we don’t go,” Dad says. “I have a full week.”
“Could we maybe do it after dinner? Mom and I were going to—”
“Can’t,” Dad says. “I have a dinner meeting at seven, and I’m heading out of town tomorrow.”
Horns blare as cars cut around the limousine.
“So if we’re going to go,” Dad says, “we’ve gotta shake a tail feather, Maddy.”
It’s technically before five; it’s his right . . . I look to Mom, who’s already shaking her head in defeat. “Can we get cookies later?” I ask. “After dinner?”
She gives me a hug and kisses my cheek—I let her this time—and turns to go the moment Giorgio steps out of the car to open the door for me.
She keeps the umbrella firmly positioned over my head, although she’s already stepped away.
Maybe it’s just the rain on her face, but I think she’s about to spout some waterworks of her own.
“Mom?”
“Just go,” she says.
I keep an eye on her as I back into the car. Even as I’m sitting down, I know I should run to her, if only to thank her for coming to get me, to remind her that I love her, but Giorgio’s out in the rain holding the door open for me, and Dad has barely two hours, and I did tell him I wanted to go shopping.
A sense of ickiness rushes through me, and I feel for a moment as if I’m going to be sick. Mom came all this way. And now she’s alone. But what was I supposed to do?
“So, where to first?” Dad asks.
I shrug and open my text thread with Hayley.
Me: Ugh. Parent drama.
Hayley: What now?
Hayley: Did Ella meet you?
Me: Yeah.
Me: You didn’t tell her everything, did you?
Hayley: No, but I think she should know.
Me: Ended up with a more immediate problem.
Me: Dad showed up too.
Me: And he flat-out ignored Mom.
Me: Pretended she wasn’t even there.
Hayley: He did that? Why?
Me: I’ve been trying to tell you.
Me: Since you went to college, things have gotten ten times worse.
Me: and Dad and I didn’t exactly have plans
Me: and Mom and I didn’t exactly have plans
Me: but they both showed up
Me: and I had to choose.
Hayley: They really need to grow up.
Me: #thingsthatwillnevercometopass
Hayley:
Sigh
Hayley: Did you tell them about the guy?
Me: Didn’t want to worry them.
Hayley: But this dude you keep seeing is seriously creepy.
Me: I know!
Me: But what am I supposed to do about it?
Hayley: What if he’s Dylan?
Me: No.
Hayley: You have to stop talking to this Dylan guy.
Me: You don’t really think it was him, do you?
Hayley: It would make sense.
I think about it. He’s been at or near two places I’ve found moons—the Factory and Saint Mary’s.
“Maddy.”
“Huh?” I look up from my phone.
“Are you going to pout all night? If so, I’ll just take you home.”
“I’m not pouting. It’s just that . . .” I consider telling Dad about my suspicion that I’m being followed. But that reminds me about how Mom came to meet me, and about how now she’s walking back to the L stop in the rain all alone while I’m riding in a hired car. I don’t like the way that makes me feel, and now that I think about it, I’m sort of worried about my mother.
But I know Dad won’t get it. He’ll just give me some bullshit rationalization about how Mom gets what she deserves, and how she shouldn’t have come anyway because he has parental rights until five.
“I don’t know why she continues to put you in this position,” Dad says.
I could try to explain things from Mom’s point of view, but I know it won’t do any good. So I just shrug again.
“You need clothes for New York, am I right?” Dad asks.
I nod half-heartedly. I don’t really need anything.
“Well, I don’t see your mother ponying up to buy them.” He shakes his head, as if he’s utterly disgusted with my mom.
Defensiveness rises in my chest. “She works hard.”
“If that’s the case, why isn’t she at work right now?”
“I didn’t ask.” It’s not a lie. I didn’t.
His phone rings. He raises a finger to tell me we’re going to be finishing the conversation in a minute. The second he shifts in his seat and angles away from me, I know it’s Miss Karissa calling.
“Hello? Yeah. Yeah, I told you I would.” His eyes meet mine for a split second before he turns away again. “I have Maddy with me now. Okay, but it’s going to have to wait until I get home. Well . . . if that’s what Jennica wants to do, we’ll make it happen.”
The words stab at my heart. For the past three years, I’ve been begging him to pay for performing arts high school to no avail. But sure . . . if that’s what Jennica wants, he’ll make it happen. I roll my eyes and pop in my earbuds.