Even If the Sky Falls

by Mia Garcia

  We pause for a moment and I close my eyes, concentrating on the sound of the different bands swimming all around me. It feels like the sounds shouldn’t mix—different beats, one fast, one slow, different instruments, each louder than the other, meeting each other in street corners and alleyways, talking to each other like old friends. It shouldn’t work, it shouldn’t—but it does, it totally does.

  “Drinks!” Electric Blue comes back, offering me a half cup of beer. “I have a friend who works at the bar, and I sneaked this out for free, but I can get you some water if you want it.”

  “No, this is great, thank you.”

  “Salud!” he says, and we touch cups.

  He pushes Danny out of the way as he sidles up beside me. Danny feigns annoyance before he goes back to people watching.

  “They didn’t bother you, did they?” he asks me.

  “Excuse me?” Danny shouts. “How do you know she didn’t bother us?”

  Blue smiles, looking back at me. “I doubt that.”

  Yep. Permanent blush.

  “I have a weird question,” I say because his eyes, the feel of his skin against mine as he sits next to me is intoxicating. The tiny little hairs on my body leap up, itching to be closer, and I need to think of something else.

  “Perfect day for it.”

  “Okay, well, maybe not weird, but I kinda wondered how, like—how did Domínguez—”

  “End up with the accordion?” he finishes for me.

  “Yeah, it feels like he should be catching a football somewhere.”

  “Probably, if his feet were as coordinated as his hands, but they ain’t.” He drinks the last of his beer and turns to give me his full attention. “Now, it would be safe to say that, like most teens, you had a period of . . . growth. Whether it was awkward or not, that’s up to the individual.”

  “Very awkward.”

  “Me too. Same with Danny and probably Taj, had we known him back then.”

  “Hey, man! I was never awkward.”

  “You play a buzok, my friend, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.” He turns back to me. “Like I was saying, we found solace in our friendship and our playing of ridiculous instruments. Because we were, and still are, pretty damn broke. And not like broke in a romantic way, just broke broke—so we played the instruments that we could get. Danny got the fiddle from his uncle, I got my guitar from a pawnshop as a birthday present, and Domínguez found the accordion in his mom’s attic. So we made the best of what we got and here we are.”

  “Right, but what about the—” I point to my own arms that are devoid of any strength.

  “The muscles? Growth spurt and a refusal to continue to get beat up over his love of the accordion. You aren’t going to pick on a kid twice your size even if you think the accordion is funny, right?”

  “Right.”

  He settles back on the wall, watching the crowds as they go by.

  “So where are you from?”

  Here it is. Where am I from? Why are you here? Where are your parents? How old are you anyway? Oh God—I close my eyes and pretend not to have heard the question, but I know he’s waiting for me to answer. I stare out at the sea of masked revelers and put myself in their place, protected from the world by a cheap plastic disguise. If they can do it, I can too. I brush my shoulder against his again, and the little hairs along my arms stand on end again. I savor the feeling and take a deep breath.

  “Around.”

  He laughs. “Around, all right. I like Around, hear it’s a nice town full of scoundrels and hippies. What’s your name?”

  I laugh and make it a game. “What’s in a name?”

  “Not much, people tend to use them to refer to one another . . . or maybe that was a trick question and your name is really Rose . . . is your name Rose? Do you smell as sweet?”

  His face inches closer.

  “No, though that is a good guess.”

  “I try.”

  A group of papier-mâché oysters stop in front of us, offering a strand of pearlescent green beads. Before I can reply yes or no, one of them drapes it around my neck and runs away.

  “Thank you!” I shout after them, marveling at their paper-shaping talents.

  “Suits you,” Electric Blue says, fiddling with the beads—be cool—before he takes another swig from the already empty cup. “Okay, okay. So, no name. No place to call home. You’re a real girl, right, not a figment of my imagination?”

  I choke on my beer at the implication that he would ever imagine me.

  “I have a name and”—I pause—“a home; I just don’t want to think of either tonight, if that makes sense.”

  “Complicated?”

  I swirl the beer in my cup, barely half gone. “So complicated thinking of it just a little causes it all to come crashing down, you know? I thought maybe . . . maybe New Orleans could drown it out, at least the parts I don’t like.”

  I take a last sip, sticking out my tongue. Never really liked the taste of beer—I’m usually ready to throw it out after one mouthful.

  He looks at me then, a slow nod. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah—feels like, every time you think about it you’re just like that, straight in the deep end, drowning.” He reaches over for my cup and tosses both in a nearby trash can that’s minutes away from overflowing. “How about a deal?”

  “Deal?”

  He jumps up to face me, excitement in his eyes. “Just for tonight. No real names, no baggage—unless we want to—no ‘I’ll text you later’ or promises to call. Just two people—”

  “Two people?” Taj interjects. “What are we, chopped liver?”

  “Fine, just SOME PEOPLE in the general vicinity enjoying New Orleans and their company together for one night and nothing else. You can leave at any time—and vice versa, should you turn out to be a crazy sociopath, have unsavory intentions toward my person, or should you just be very, very boring. How about that?”

  He holds out his hand, offering up a night of peace and freedom. I shake on it.

  “But for serious, what should I call you, Sunshine? I can’t be yelling out ‘hey you’ or ‘hey girl’ or ‘hey fairy girl’ in this crowd—it might be funny for the first minute until I get slapped in the face or something.”

  “Why would you get slapped in the face?”

  “It would be a misunderstanding, obviously.”

  “Obviously.” I tuck a hair behind my ear. “You could call me Sunshine if you want.” I like the way it sounds coming out of his mouth. “I like that.”

  He considers this. “Maybe.” Suddenly his eyes still on mine. “But only sometimes. Sometimes Sunshine and sometimes . . . Lila.”

  “Why Lila?”

  “Um.” He clears his throat. “Means ‘night’ in Arabic. Figured sometimes sunshine, sometimes night.” He shrugs his shoulders, his eyes finding mine, lingering. “Too silly?”

  “No.” My breath catches. “Not too silly.”

  He beams. “Fantastic! My name is—”

  “Miles,” I finish for him.

  “Miles?” He feels the name out on his tongue. “Like Miles Davis?”

  “Um, yeah, and Miles Kane. Both of them actually. The way you play reminds me of them. I mean, I’ve only seen you play once, but it made me think of this recording my dad has of Miles Davis, but, like, I have a really good friend who’s into British music, and she used to show these videos of Miles Kane and . . .” Now I’m babbling. “Um . . . yeah, like Miles Davis. Cool?”

  He’s trying not to laugh. I can tell.

  “Cool.”

  I smile and forget that my hand is still warm in his, up until Taj and Danny interject once more.

  “How come we don’t get fancy code names?”

  Miles lets go, and for a moment my hand feels cold and alone. I shrug away the thought and put it back in my pocket.

  “You’ve already been introduced.”

  “I think we should get f
ancy code names, and backstories, don’t you, Taj?”

  Taj puffs out his chest. “Absolutely; I’d like to be Denis.”

  “Denis?” Danny says. “What? No, man. Pick something decent like Clark Kent or Conan.”

  “Fine, I’ll be Kent.”

  “Nah, man. Clark Kent. You can’t just be Kent—shit’s too white.”

  “Man, you white,” Taj shouts.

  “Exactly, I should know.”

  They continue on like this for a bit, and I swear my heart grows lighter by the minute. I look up to see Miles staring at me, a soft smile on his lips, like he’d planned this all along. He reaches his hand out to me, and for a moment I see all the possibilities waiting. I take it.

  “Let’s go, Midsummer Boys. The night awaits.”

  Shakespeare on the Roof

  “MAN, WHERE ARE WE GOING?” DANNY YELLS OVER THE WAVES of sound that flow around us.

  “Gotta find a prime spot before the parade starts.” I feel the tug of Miles’s hand pulling me along; to my left Danny keeps the crowd from tearing us apart and setting me adrift at sea. Taj takes the rear. If the night is truly awaiting, we are going to be so late.

  I push against the people around me, still in a bit of shock. How does New Orleans have this much energy? Above us the electricity flows in a web of cables that cut across the sky and swing back and forth with the wind. Should I get lost, I wonder if the pattern above me will be just as useful as the stars were to those sailing across the seas?

  After what feels like an eternity of weaves and sharp turns and wings getting snagged, Miles stops and I collide into his back. “Sorry!” I push myself away and try not to think of how close we were and how good it felt. His body is firm and warm, and I wonder if I could stage another collision just to bump into him again. I force the edges of my mouth not to form a smile and look down at the ground. It’s still there, good.

  “Why did we stop? What’s the plan?” Oh God I sound lame. Just go with the flow, Jules. “Not that there needs to be one for everything, you know?”

  The corner of Miles’s mouth quirks. “Relax, I have a strategy.”

  Taj rolls his eyes.

  “What’s your plan then?” Miles retorts.

  “It’s Mid-Summer!” Taj motions around him as if we’d somehow walked through all these people and missed that fact. “Go where the mood takes you. Not everything has to have an itinerary, maestro.”

  Miles claps Taj on the shoulder. “All right, does your going where the mood takes you include getting some sustenance?”

  As if on cue my stomach grumbles, thankfully drowned out by the sounds around us.

  “It does now,” Taj replies.

  SEVERAL BUMPS AND close calls where wings snagged on strangers’ costumes and we’re leaning over the rooftop of one of the buildings along Oak, looking down at the street below, then out to the burning sunset. There have been several fires in New Orleans history—what we stand on now is built over the ashes of one of its previous incarnations. I wonder if at some point the people who lived here could not bear to watch the sun set, as it lit the sky on fire.

  Miles nudges my shoulder, motioning to where the night has taken us. “Not bad, eh?”

  Not bad? “It’s amazing.” I can see everyone and everything. Two more baby floats pass by as I watch. One’s a crazy-looking octopus painted in fluorescent colors—I have a feeling it’s made to really shine later in the night—and I can’t figure out the second float, but it looks like someone took a lot of paper flowers, threw glitter on them, and set them on wheels.

  A man with a glitter tartan looks up from the flower float. Finding my eyes, he smiles and winks. Charming.

  “How did you get them to let us up here?”

  Taj plops down behind me. “You know how it is. Some smooth talking. Promises you don’t intend to keep.”

  Danny weaves around Taj, rustling his hair before jumping away from his swinging hand. “Or a friend of my mom’s owns the building.”

  “Ah.”

  “Come on.” Danny motions to the bundles of lumpy paper bags we’d scavenged before coming up, and we pile around them. “Let’s eat before it starts.”

  There’s a particularly oil-soaked bag right in the middle of the others that I don’t recognize. Must have come from Danny, who’d disappeared for twenty minutes before we reunited. Taj leans down and tears it open. “Café Beignet or Du Monde?” he asks Danny.

  “Beignets?” I’ve been dying to try beignets—fried dough is one of my favorite things in the world—but hadn’t had the chance. Another one of Tavis’s promises not delivered and number one on my list of things to do in New Orleans. “We are going to have beignets?” I perk up, ready to tear into whichever bag holds those delicious little treats. I hadn’t noticed any of the boys stopping to buy them, and I have no idea how they managed to sneak it by me.

  “Hell yeah.” Danny wags his eyebrows then turns to Taj. “Neither. Too far. These are from the local joint a couple of blocks away.”

  We begin to break into the bags, arranging the food in front of us. Along with the beignet there are some deli-meat-type sandwiches called mufa-something or other.

  “But just to be clear, if I had, I would’ve gotten Café Beignet,” Danny says.

  Taj checks his head in mock disgust. “Why are we even friends, man?”

  “Aww.” Danny takes Taj down with a giant hug.

  “Hey, man, be cool!” Taj shouts from the ground. “Be. Cool.”

  There’s an ache in my stomach. Watching Danny and Taj joke around makes me miss Kara and Em so much. For a moment I try to forget how much I’ve screwed up my friendships as Taj pushes Danny off him, straightening his shirt and pretending to be mad as hell. I watch Miles smile at his friends, chuckling; when he catches me watching the grin gets even bigger. He gestures toward his friends as if to say, “What can you do?”

  “How many shifts did you have to promise for all of this?” Miles asks as he takes the Bottom hat off and tosses it down next to him.

  “Just one,” Danny replies, then pauses, “on Saturday.”

  “Ouch.” Miles pats Danny on the shoulder. “A great sacrifice.”

  Indeed, but looking around at the awesome spread I kinda think it is worth it. “Thanks, Danny. These look amazing.”

  “It’s so beautiful it’s making me cry,” Taj jokes, holding back fake tears as he basks in the glory of our feast.

  “Thank you so much, really; you didn’t have to bring me along and feed me.”

  “You’re welcome!” Taj says as Miles hits his shoulder.

  “Don’t worry about it. My mama always said you can learn a lot from a person by breaking bread together,” Miles says.

  “You can? How?”

  “Actually I have no idea. But she’s really big on the idea, and my mama is never wrong. So, who’s going to dive in first?”

  No one makes the first move, and I don’t know why. This has to be the most delicious array of delicacies I’ve seen in a long time. I break the trance and dive for a beignet before the sugar becomes an oil-soaked glob. I open my mouth to take a bite of the delicious goodness, and a puff of powder shoots up into my lungs, making me cough for a solid minute.

  Danny pats me on the back, offering me water. “Rookie mistake. Don’t breathe in before taking a bite, you’ll have sugar in your lungs for days.”

  After my embarrassing first try I finally get it right, and when I bite through the mountain of sugar into the crisp skin of the beignet I am automatically in love.

  “I could eat these until I die.”

  “Not a bad way to go,” Miles says as he watches me lick the remainder of the sugar from my fingers. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the beignets or me. The blush in my cheeks says the latter.

  IT’S LESS THAN an hour till the parade starts. I am stuffed as I help the boys gather all our garbage, shoving it into a plastic bag before anything gets carried off by the wind. I can still taste the delicious sugar on
my lips when Miles asks, “Salty or sweet?”

  “Hmm?”

  He motions to where moments before our feast was laid out for us. “Salty or sweet?”

  “Sweet.” My tongue darts out, licking the side of my mouth, a bit of sugar still stuck to my lips.

  Miles’s gaze lingers. “Yeah, me too.” He looks away, a playful smirk on his face. “I can down at least a dozen beignets if no one stops me. What’s your favorite sweet?”

  “Oh, I’m really bad at favorites.” I trace the silhouette of his face as the lights from below play across his skin. I turn away before he catches me staring.

  “That’s what people say at first. Then before you know it they’re going on and on about pecan pie.” Sticking his hands in his pockets—looking ever the rogue—Miles leans over the edge and grins at me. “Or should I say peeee-can pie.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not kidding, I have a hard time picking just a few of my favorite things.”

  He chuckles, singing, “‘Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens,’” before shrugging. “My mom loves musicals.” He taps a finger against his temples. “Pretty much have them all memorized.” At the edge of the building the world below bustles with life. “We’ve got time to kill, Lila. We can sit around and enjoy the silence, or we can get to know each other.” He whistles, calling over Danny and Taj.

  They trudge over. “Hey, man. I told you we don’t answer to whistles,” Taj says.

  “You literally just did,” Miles points out.

  “To tell you it’s the last time.”

  “Whatever.” Miles waves away the argument. “Favorite dessert. Go.”

  Taj licks his lips. “Fried bananas with a scoop of ice cream. My dad learned to make it when we lived in DC. There was this little Thai shop a couple blocks away.”

  “Peach cobbler,” Danny chimes in. “The way my gran used to make it, with tons of sugar.”

  “See?” Miles turns back, waiting for me to join in, amusement in his eyes. “Not that hard. Let’s try it again. Favorite dessert?”

  Taj hops up and down. “Oh yesss, we playing Questions, Questions?”

  “Questions, Questions?”

  “Just like it sounds,” Taj says. “Helps pass time.”