The Sound of Us

by Julie Hammerle

  She raises her eyebrows. “You mean that you kissed Seth?”

  “You knew?”

  “I knew. He told me when we were at my parents’ house. But you didn’t know I liked him when it happened.” She shrugs.

  “You and Norman are cute together.”

  She smirks. “So are you and Jack.”

  I shake my head. “That’s nothing. Purely musical.”

  She squints. “You sure?”

  “Positive,” I tell her, trying to convince myself. It’s how it has to be. He just broke up with his girlfriend. Even if we both go to Krause for college, we still have one year left of high school. Plus, he really did a number on me. I need some time.

  “In any case,” she says, “I’m taking back what I said about percussionists being at the bottom of the barrel.” She raises her hand above her head to indicate that she now believes drummers are indeed hot and date-able.

  “And what about tenors who are shorter than you?” I ask, pointing to Norman.

  “Nothing was ever set in stone.” She winks.

  My sister catches my eye from across the room and taps on her watch. It’s time to go. All of us campers file out of the building, heading to our cars. The night is warm with that just-rained smell; and though my hair is frizzing from the humidity, I don’t care. I link arms with Kendra as we skip across the street and down a few blocks toward my sister’s car, talking about all the stuff we’ll need to buy for our dorm room next year, if we both end up at Krause. About halfway back to the car, someone taps on my shoulder and I halt. Kendra almost falls flat on her face, she leans forward so fast. I turn around and there’s Jack.

  “Hey.” His hands are in his pockets.

  Kendra takes the hint and runs ahead of us, toward Finley, leaving me and Jack alone to sort things out. He falls into step beside me. “Word is you’re still thinking about coming here next year.”

  “I am, but not for voice. Maybe piano or composition.” I swat at a low-hanging branch, which spits little droplets of water at me in retaliation.

  “Seriously? That’s cool.”

  “I mean, nothing’s for sure, of course. I might not get in. But I hope I do. I’m planning on rooming with Kendra.”

  “I was worried,” he says, “that you were leaving and never coming back.” Jack gives me a side-glance. When I don’t respond, he clears his throat. “About us.”

  “What about us?” I ask. Like there’s an “us.”

  “I’m just gonna say it. I’m done beating around the bush. I miss you, Kiki. I miss you like Bobby Krakow misses Dana every time she goes on a mission with Ethan. I miss you like I miss Project Earth at the end of every season. I miss you like shirts miss Tromboner Dave.” He grins, but I say nothing. “What? No response?”

  “No response.” It’s too late for this, I think. I’m leaving in two minutes. I’m going back to Chicago with no phone and no internet. Even if Jack and I end up at school here, it won’t be for another thirteen months. A lot can happen in a year.

  We walk past a bench where there’s a couple canoodling in a desperate embrace, and I avert my eyes. Jack rambles on about his plans for the rest of the summer, so I ask him, “Are you going to do any drumming?”

  “Most definitely,” Jack says. “You’re not going to believe this, but I actually talked to one of the percussion professors about double-majoring in music.”

  “I believe it.”

  “Life’s too short, right?” He points to my red dress.

  “It’s definitely too short.”

  “In the spirit of life being too short…” he says, “…would you like to hang out tonight, like, just the two of us…or something?” He shakes his head. “No, not ‘or something.’ God, it’s hard for me to not be a jackass. Full disclosure, I want to hang out with you. Just you. Only you. Possibly for a very long time.”

  I file what he just said away. He wants to hang out with me. Only me. It’s what I wanted to hear all summer long. It’s what I wish he had been able to tell me weeks ago. Maybe it’s enough to know that. Maybe it has to be, for now.

  I buy some time as we cross a street, narrowly escaping an SUV packed with college students blaring rap music out its open windows. “I’m still quite grounded,” I say. “I’m going home with my sister, like, right now.”

  “Boo. I hoped you weren’t leaving until tomorrow.”

  I shake my head. The car is only a block away. We stop near a mailbox on the corner.

  “I thought we’d get to hang out.”

  I shrug. “Sorry.” I’m kind of enjoying having the upper hand against Jack for once, making him squirm. That feels nice.

  Jack, distracted, keeps looking at the mailbox. Finally he turns to me, frowning. “Damn it,” he says, shoulders dropping.

  “We can hang out for the next fifty feet or so.” I point ahead to the end of the block.

  Jack shuffles along behind me.

  “Any other big plans for the rest of summer?” I ask.

  “Not really.”

  “Sounds fascinating.”

  “Why, what are you doing?”

  “Well, I hear there’s a Project Earth marathon on TV, like all week next week in honor of Calliope Pfeiffer…so I’m hoping I can coerce my parents into giving me my TV back by then.”

  “Good luck with that,” Jack says.

  “I’ll need it.” I stop when we’re almost at my sister’s car. Jack and I look at each other for a few seconds, two people who have been playing friends for so long.

  “Well, I guess this is it,” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  We stand there for a moment, Jack looking down to the end of the block, me looking at the side of Jack’s face. A big part of me wants to lean in and kiss him right now, to end the summer on that note, but I don’t. It’s sweeter this way, more agonizing. For the next year, I plan on writing song after song about not kissing Jack. If I can’t have the guy, the torment of not having him is the next best thing.

  “I don’t have your phone number,” he says.

  “I don’t have a phone.”

  “But still. In case you talk your parents into giving it back along with your television…”

  I find a pen in my purse and grab one of the receipts, the one onto which I’d written, “Congratulations. You’re finally a man.” I scribble my email address and my phone number, hand the paper to Jack, and ask for nothing in return. If he wants to contact me, he can contact me. I’m done making the first move.

  From the back pocket of his khakis, he pulls out his wallet. As he opens it to deposit my info, an errant piece of paper flutters to the ground. Reflexively, I reach down to grab it. As I hand it back to Jack, I notice it’s a photograph, so I turn it around to take a closer look. I figure it’d be a niece or nephew or something. Nope. It’s the picture of me that used to be one half of the photo of me and TroyTrent, the photo I noticed was missing on my last day at Krause. I hand it to Jack without a word. Our hands brush as he takes back the photograph.

  We stand there for another moment, each of us waiting. We’re at the end of something right now, and the beginning of something else. This could be it for us, for Jack and me. It’s possible that both of us won’t wind up at Krause next year. We might actually never see each other again. This goodbye tonight could be goodbye forever. That thought doesn’t sadden me, exactly. It excites me, the anguish of it all. It means songs to write. Many, many songs to write. I’m writing one now, in fact, about this moment.

  “So…have a great summer,” I tell him. “Wear sunscreen, golf well, all that nonsense.” I could open the car door to leave at this point, but I wait. For something.

  There’s this scene at the end of the Project Earth season three finale where Dana is inside her house and Bobby Krakow is standing on her front stoop. She knows he’s there, hesitating, trying to decide whether to knock. She could open the door and put an end to it, but she doesn’t. She makes him work for it.

  I do what Dana did. I put
the onus on Jack. My happiness is not dependent upon his place in my life. If he wants to be a part of it, great. He can call me, text me, put in the effort. If not, it is what it is. I will not be sitting around waiting for him. I might write songs about him, but I won’t wait for him.

  As we say goodbye tonight, we’ve once again hit a seventh chord and we’re anticipating the resolution. I wait for him to give us one. Will our song end in a major key, or minor? Will he leaved the chord unresolved, ending the summer on a question mark or with an ellipsis?

  In the end, he chuffs my shoulder before turning away and saying, “See you next year.”

  He’s a few yards away when I give in slightly. “I hope so,” I yell.

  He turns around. “You do?”

  “Yeah.” Everything in my body relaxes. “I do.”

  He grins. “Assuming you don’t get your phone back, let’s make a plan to meet. The first day of school. Basement. Eight o’clock. Bring some music, whatever you want to play.”

  A massive smile invades my face. I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to. “It’s a date.” I slam my palm over my mouth. “I mean—”

  Jack laughs, but his eyes are all business. “Kiki,” he says, “it’s a date.”

  About the Author

  Julie Hammerle is the author of A Place for Us, which will be published by Entangled Teen in the fall of 2016. Before settling down to write “for real,” she studied opera, taught Latin, and held her real estate license for one hot minute. Currently, she writes about TV on her blog Hammervision, ropes people into conversations about Game of Thrones, and makes excuses to avoid the gym. Her favorite YA-centric TV shows include 90210 (original spice), Felicity, and Freaks and Geeks. Her iPod reads like a 1997 Lilith Fair set list. She lives in Chicago with her husband, two kids, and a dog. They named the dog Indiana.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you first and foremost to my brilliant agent, Beth Phelan, for believing in me and Kiki and for crushing on Jack almost as much as I do. To Kate Brauning and everyone at Entangled Teen, thank you for your support and guidance and for helping me shape my manuscript into the book it is today.

  I want to acknowledge those folks who helped me sort through early, probably terrible drafts of this manuscript, namely Sarah Terez Rosenblum, Molly Backes, and my wonderful classmates at Story Studio Chicago. I send much love and appreciation, as well, to Bethany Robison, Wally Hasselbring, and Heidi VonderHeide.

  I’d be remiss not to mention all those folks who identify as “TV Twitter.” If you’re wondering whether or not this refers to you, IT DOES. You have provided me with an endless source of entertainment, inspiration, and friendship over the past several years. I am proud to call myself one of you, even if you’re shaking your head right now and thinking, “No, you’re not.”

  Thank you, Dianne Martin, who saw something writerly in me even when I was busy studying to be a Latin teacher. Thank you to Dave McGurgan, who found my blog back in 2006 and helped me realize a dream I didn’t even know I had by paying me to write about television. Thanks to Jimmy Greenfield for all his support and for letting John and me play around in ChicagoNow’s yard for the past, whoa, six years now.

  Thank you to the wonderful music and voice teachers in my life – Michael Crisci, Margie Shiel, Diana O’Connor, Irene Gut, and Mark Gilgallon. Your encouragement and instruction has meant so much to me, both as a singer and as a person. I swear I learned more inside a music room than I ever learned inside a regular classroom.

  To my girls, my suitemates -- Karleigh Koster, Ann, Riegle, and Theresa Patrick. To this day, I still can’t believe three women as amazing as you deigned to befriend me. I adore you. I miss you. I think about each of you often. This book may be the closest we’ll ever get to realizing our Dumpster dreams.

  Much love to Grant Meachum, Brian Peterson, Nick Shannon, and all the other Unit Six guys. There are too many of you to name, and I probably kissed all of you at one time or another. You’re welcome for that. All the heart emojis forever.

  I have to send gobs of love to Butler University and Indianapolis itself. The Chicago snob in me was hell-bent against going to school in Indiana; but as soon as I turned onto 46th Street and saw the majestic Butler campus looming in the distance, it was love at first sight.

  This book never would’ve made it if not for the important inanimate objects in my life. Thank you to my library of America’s Test Kitchen cookbooks and my slow cooker. You kept my family fed while I was on deadline. Thank you to my softest pants, for providing comfort in my time of need. And thank you ever so much to my couch, for all the support.

  I’m pinging love across the country and the globe to my Hammerle clan – Steve, Debi, JJ, Scott, and Courtney. Thank you for being so kind and supportive and for welcoming me so readily into your family.

  Thanks to Joe, Heidi, and JD. I adore you all and you’re the best neighbors on the planet. I so enjoy spending time with you people, that I’d like to think we’d hang out even if we weren’t bound by blood.

  Elin, my girl, this book is as old as you are. You don’t remember this, but I worked on it whenever you were napping at my house. Thank you for napping. And thank you for hanging with Augs and me so much during the first two years of your life.

  I have to thank Mom and Dad again, because it’s impossible to thank them enough for everything – from babysitting to helping with house stuff to providing general support and encouragement. I love you both and I’m so proud to be your daughter.

  Thank you to my furry best friend, Indy, for not barking every single time I sat down to write.

  Thank you, my Augie, for inspiring me to turn off NCIS and get to work, and, my Trixie, for being my future target audience. You are literally the greatest people I know. I’m not even exaggerating, Chris Traeger-style.

  All the love and thanks forever to John (one of my top three favorite humans on the planet, along with Augie and Trix), for supporting me even when this was a pipe dream, for being a great first reader, and for always being a wonderful partner and father to our kids.

  And finally, thank you, Ryan Seacrest. I wouldn’t be here without you.

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