“Yeah?” She stops singing, but her eyes are glued to the stage.
“It’s kind of serious.”
That gets her attention. She turns away from the stage to face me. “Oh God. Okay. Tell me.”
“I did something . . . bad.”
“Bad?” She blinks. “Like cheating on a test bad?”
“It has nothing to do with school. It’s . . . worse. A lot worse.”
The sound of applause surrounds us as Greg and his band end the song and exit the stage. The crowd around us cheers. This is it. A true test of our friendship. I’m determined to do whatever it takes to fix things. Even if it means cutting Strand out of my life for good. I’m going to tell Annie that I will always choose her.
“Tell me,” Annie urges over the thundering noise. “Whatever it is, I can help you fix it.”
“Don’t.” I hang my head. “Don’t be nice to me. Not when I’m about to tell you this.”
“Tell me what? You’re making me nervous . . .”
“On my birthday . . . after school . . .” I take a gulp of air and concentrate on forming the words, ignoring Annie’s pitiful, puppy-dog stare. “I kissed him.”
“Huh?”
“I kissed him,” I say loudly as the applause fades. “I kissed Strand.”
It’s the strangest thing, because immediately after I say his name, the bald man is calling it out onstage. For a second I think there’s an echo in the club, but then I see Strand up there, sitting on a stool, armed with his acoustic guitar and his trademark Pixies shirt.
My entire world comes to a screeching halt. Strand is on the stage. Alone. Without us.
“You kissed him?” Annie asks, and I brace myself for the aftershock.
But something isn’t right.
Annie’s face. She should be livid, but she’s smiling. A toothy, genuine smile.
“I’m impressed!” she says.
Impressed? No. She’s supposed to be pissed.
“Why is Strand onstage?” I ask, jarred out of my confession.
He leans into the microphone, and I forget to wonder why Annie’s smiling the way she is when she should be flying into a jealous rage.
“I wrote this song for a girl,” he says, and the sound of his voice amplified by the mic makes me shiver. The girls in the audience are already losing it, whistling and clapping, and the lights cast a glow around Strand so he looks like a living, breathing angel. “Her name is Victoria.”
Strand starts to play his song, and I forget everything I planned to say.
What. Is going. On.
I look at Annie, and her face is marinara red.
“Surprise!” she sings out. I’m too stunned to respond.
With the new guitar accompaniment, his song has taken form. It’s real now. Strand’s voice is deep and rich and almost flawless, but I hear the way it shakes when he sustains a note. I know him well enough now to realize that, behind his air of confidence, he’s nervous. He ends the first verse, breathing heavily into the mic.
Strand’s eyes have found us in the crowd and I’m momentarily mute.
“This is all for me?” I ask Annie, not able to look away from him. “You’re not mad I kissed him?”
“Mad?” she repeats. “Why would I be mad?”
“Because I thought . . . you guys had that date at Artie’s . . .” I trail off.
“You saw us at Artie’s?”
“I kinda followed you . . .”
“God, Vi.” She nudges her shoulder against mine. “I was helping him with this. The music arrangement. Besides, why would I date Strand? It was so obvious you two were into each other.”
“No it wasn’t . . . ,” I start to say, but Annie isn’t having it.
“We could all tell,” Krina chimes in, leaning across Annie. “I can attest to that.”
“And we were getting tired of the Ross-and-Rachel-ness of it all,” Annie says.
I have the urge to deny it again, but I realize that I don’t have to. I don’t have to deny it to Annie or to myself, because I am unanchored. Nothing is holding me back from what I want now.
There is a beautiful boy onstage, playing a song for me, and it’s not happening in my daydreams, it’s happening in real life. In between the chorus and the second verse, still strumming, Strand presses his face closer to the mic and says, “Everyone please welcome to the stage, Miss Victoria Cruz.”
All around me, heads pivot. Murmurs ripple through the crowd as they wonder who could possibly be good enough to merit this introduction. Onstage, Strand is still strumming, still waiting.
“Go get some!” Krina yells. Annie shakes me so hard my teeth chatter.
I could leave. Clam up. Bolt out of here. Spend the night in my room, hidden under the covers. Instead, I zero in on Strand, who’s looking at me like I’m the only person in this giant, sweaty room. He’s opening up to me by doing something that scares him. I owe it to him, to myself, to do the same. I push my way onto the stage.
It’s not my most graceful of moves. I have to throw my leg over the top like I’m mounting a horse and hoist myself onto my knees. I don’t care. A smirk-free smile spreads over Strand’s face when I stand next to him.
The scariness of this moment fails to register, because everything is happening so quickly. I sing without thinking. Strand is singing it with me, and we’re sharing the mic with our faces almost touching. It’s not just his song anymore; it belongs to us, to everyone listening.
I look out into the crowd, made up mostly of strangers, but in this moment we’re all connected. They’re a part of this experience. From the perspective of the stage, I dimly register everything going on around me. I notice some grungy college kids in the middle of the crowd bobbing their heads to the music. I see a teary-eyed girl in the front row smiling up at us. I see Levi quietly exiting the club while Beth hurries after him. I see Annie and Krina kissing.
It doesn’t register all at once, only in pieces. Annie and Krina are kissing. Annie and Krina. Together.
My voice carries on as I process what this means. Why Annie was so reluctant to reveal her mystery crush to me. All the time she and Krina spend together, all the inside jokes between them that I didn’t quite understand. All along I had spun a story in my head to distance myself from Strand, to invent new barriers between us, instead of seeing the truth. I’ve been blind this whole time. Missing everything in front of me.
Then there’s me. No lipstick, no hairspray, no chicken cutlets. Just me.
Strand has given me the spotlight and I’m soaking it in, letting it fill me until it practically reflects out of my pores. He’s not singing anymore, he’s pulling away, slinking into the background of the song like he’s taken off my training wheels. I feel like I’m soaring, like I’m on the craziest of drugs. I’m putting myself back together again, Humpty Dumpty–style, after being broken these last few weeks. I never want the song to end, but inevitably it does, all too soon.
It’s only when I sing the last note that I see my parents, Jorge and Gloria Cruz, standing awkwardly in the back of the room.
Dad came straight from work, still wearing his company polo. Mom is wearing a faux leather coat that I know she carefully chose to match the venue. We lock eyes, and they’re clapping hard, both of them crying. For once in my life, I made them cry in a good way. I think.
I swear, as the stage dims and the curtains close, that there is an expression close to pride on each of their faces. I begin to wonder whether anything that took place tonight is real or if I’ll be yanked back into normal life by my alarm.
Strand and I are ushered to the side of the stage, where it’s dark and hidden away from the crowd chanting for an encore.
I look at him, and he looks back at me. Without the music, I suddenly turn shy.
“Hey,” he says. He takes me by the hands and links his fingers through mine.
“Hey.” I press my palms into his. I don’t care that mine are sweaty, because his are sweaty too. My stomach is full of
butterflies on hyperdrive. There’s no soft fluttering of wings—they’re pinging around in every direction.
He looks at me, the playful smirk returning. “If I kiss you now, do we have to pretend it never happened?”
“No.” I crack a smile.
“Are you going to run away?”
“Not likely.”
“Are you going to laugh? You have a tendency to do that sometimes.”
“Only if it’s funny.”
He smoothes my hair off my forehead and his hand trails down to my cheek. Then he leans into me so we’re nose to nose and I get a close-up view of his midwinter-sky eyes.
“I’m glad you’re not secretly dating Annie,” I whisper.
“What?” He pauses, his lips close.
“Never mind,” I say, not wanting to waste any more time. “Go ahead.”
When he kisses me, it’s tender and passionate in all the right ways, and nothing about it is funny.
Chapter Fifty-Five
“SEA CALLS ME HOME”
—JULIA HOLTER
Strand and I didn’t win the Battle of the Boroughs. Greg did. But three weeks later Strand and I are making out in my room, and it feels almost as good as winning the Battle of the Boroughs.
Matty barges in every ten seconds because he possibly has a bigger crush on Strand than I do.
“Are you guys kissing?” he asks accusingly as we jump apart.
“Yes,” says Strand.
“No,” I correct him. “We’re doing homework. Very important homework.”
Matty glares at us. “Strand, you said you were going to teach me a new chord today.”
“Tell you what, buddy.” Strand sits up, face flushed, hair more disheveled than normal. “Go to your room and count to two hundred. When you’re finished, I’ll teach you the chord.”
“Swear?”
“Swear.”
Matty gives a drawn-out sigh and leaves my room, mumbling, “One Mississippi, two Mississippi . . .” on his way out.
I wait for Matty’s voice to disappear before launching myself at Strand to resume our session.
“Strand!” Mom calls from the kitchen. Exasperated, I flop down beside him.
“Yes?” Strand calls back.
“Do you want to stay for dinner tonight?”
“Sure. . . . Thanks, Gloria!”
“You’re going to get sick of my family,” I warn him. This is the third night in a row he’s stayed for dinner.
“Or you’ll get sick of me,” he says, fingering a lock of my hair. I’m wearing it down today, even though it’s the size of a small country.
“Not gonna happen.”
“Good. Because I’m pretty happy with you.”
“Um, pretty happy?” I lay my head against his shoulder. “You should be ecstatic. . . . I’m kind of awesome.”
“No arguments here. I wanted to ask you out when I first saw you.”
“Liar. I couldn’t even speak.”
“I can have that effect on a woman.”
I pinch his arm and he jerks away, laughing. “Don’t be an ass!”
“Sorry,” he says, but his eyes glint. “And then when you auditioned in person, and you were so adorably nervous.”
“An adorable train wreck, you mean.”
“I think the final nail in the coffin for me was when you pulled out your chicken cutlets.”
“And you realized I had no boobs?”
“Your boobs are perfect.”
“They’re small.”
“Stop it. You’re doing it again.”
I feign a syrupy smile. “I mean . . . thank you for the compliment, Strand.”
“I meant it.”
“Well, I’m happy you like them.”
“I love them. I love you.”
Record scratch.
At first I wonder if he really said it or if I misheard it. It’s so soon. I dated Levi for months and it never came close to love. And this is Strand. Strand doesn’t fall in love. But when I raise my head to look at him, he has his serious face on.
“I have for a while,” he says in my ear.
The beautiful thing about being with Strand is that I never have to wonder what he’s thinking or feeling, because he tells me. No games, no overanalysis necessary on my part.
“I love you, too,” I say, and he pulls me in for a soft kiss, one that warms my entire body. Strand is absurdly good at this whole kissing thing. Like, he’s a better kisser than Annie is a violinist.
“So . . .” The familiar smirk returns to his face and he nods toward my breasts. “Do I get to touch them now?”
I elbow him hard in the ribs. “Pervert.”
* * *
“Cashew milk,” Strand advises my dad at dinner. “It’s the best for ice cream.”
“Cashew milk,” Dad repeats to himself. He takes a slow sip of soda, ruminating on this nugget of wisdom.
“There’s a place in the East Village that makes awesome cashew ice cream. You should go, Jorge.”
“We can take a family trip,” Mom suggests. “That’d be fun. Right, Ria?”
I nod, trying not to laugh at the ridiculous picture of my family strolling among the pierced, tattooed students in the East Village. “Sure.”
“How did you find this ice cream place?” Dad asks him.
“My sister’s in the neighborhood,” Strand replies. “She goes to NYU.”
“Good for her,” Mom says, smiling.
“Yeah. She loves it. She even invited Victoria to come visit and check out the school.”
Strand clearly doesn’t get the bomb he just dropped. My parents freeze for a fraction of a second. All of time stands still, except for me, chewing on a spaghetti noodle and staring with interest at the tomato sauce staining my napkin.
Mom gains her composure back first. “I didn’t know you were interested in NYU, Victoria.”
I try to interpret her tone. It’s icy but not completely closed off. An iciness that could maybe, potentially thaw at some point in the distant future.
“I’m not,” I say cautiously. “I mean, I don’t know much about it. But . . . it doesn’t hurt to have options?”
This statement is met with silence. A grim silence that not even Strand tries to puncture. The truth is, NYU is only one of the many schools I’m considering. Annie has been helping me research colleges based on their music programs. So far, the list is made up of schools that my parents would deem “not good enough.”
The idea of college doesn’t seem so hellish or foreboding when I think about studying something I actually enjoy. It’s scary in an exhilarating way. Just like the way auditioning for the band was scary, and singing in the Battle. I’m slowly learning that the scary things in life might be the things worth chasing.
“I guess it’s reasonable to have some safety schools,” Mom says. She misses the point entirely. She is a hundred miles away from the point.
“I’m going to Harvard,” Matty chimes in with his mouth full. Matty is eating the spaghetti tonight without complaints because Strand complimented it. Strand gives him a thumbs-up, and he beams.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Dad reminds him.
“Gloria, can you please pass the salt?” Strand asks my mom.
It’s only when the conversation moves on that I can breathe normally again. The topic rolls around to music, and how much Matty has learned on the guitar. Mom wants to know how long Strand has been playing, and Dad wants to hear him play Creedence.
“Only if Victoria sings along,” Strand says.
He really is doing the most tonight. I’m going to kill him.
“I just don’t understand why you never sang for us before,” Mom says to me. Ever since the Battle, she’s held this over my head.
“You never asked,” I try to say, but she talks right over me.
“I mean, I only carried you for nine months, birthed you, raised you . . . and then you sing for everyone else but your own mother?”
I make a
face at Strand, a See what you started? face, and he doesn’t look at all apologetic. It figures. Why am I to blame for having a decent voice? And why would I sing for them when they weren’t the slightest bit supportive about it?
“You know,” Mom muses, “it might not be a complete waste of time.”
“What?” I ask.
“Singing. That band you were in. Do people pay you to perform?”
“In theory,” Strand says.
“Think about it, Victoria,” Mom says. “You can put some of that extra money toward Harvard.”
Sometimes, right when I think my family is close to getting it, I realize they are still incredibly hopeless.
Dad is uncharacteristically quiet as Mom yammers on about how competitive scholarships are, and how money from our gigs can help pay for Harvard’s room and board. His face is blank, and he’s twirling his spaghetti around his fork without actually eating anything. Matty interrupts to ask about dessert.
“Here’s the thing.” Strand puts his fork down and clears his throat. “I think Victoria has something really special. I’ve never heard a voice like hers before.”
I turn into a puddle of embarrassment and pride. No one has ever complimented my singing to my parents. My strong work ethic? Yes. My ability to run a five-and-a-half-minute mile? Sure. Never my voice. When someone else talks about it, the idea of me singing takes a stronger form. It feels real, like something I can touch.
“She has a beautiful voice, Strand,” Mom agrees. “But singing is a hobby, not a career.”
I know what Strand’s doing. He wants me to bring my family into our world, help them understand, but his charm can only go so far. They will never deviate from the plan. They think the key to life is staying in my lane and working hard, and for me to actually pursue a singing career means swerving out of my lane and off a bridge.
When I walk him to the front door to say good night, I tell him this. I tick off the reasons why my family is a lost cause. He doesn’t know them as well as I do, they’re stubborn, and they’ll never embrace what I want no matter how hard he tries to convince them.
“I think they’ll come around,” he says, so confidently that I would almost believe him if I didn’t have sixteen years of evidence to back myself up.
The Victoria in My Head Page 28