“Stepping out of shadows or pushing them away?”
“Good…”
She tucks a lock of traffic-cone-orange hair behind her ear. When I met her four years ago, her hair was yellow—and I don’t mean blonde, I mean corn-on-the-cob yellow. The following year, it was pink, then blue, which earned her the nickname of Skittles.
Long after my song comes to an end, the notes keep swirling in the air like dust motes. Silver and gold. Shiny. Cheerful. Hopeful.
“You should make your mother listen to it,” she says.
I tense up. What if Mom asks me why I wrote it? I’m not ready to have my dreams ground up like food waste in our InSinkErator.
“Ask her what the music makes her feel. It might help you with the lyrics.” Lynn checks the wall clock mounted over the shelves that sag from the weight of binders filled with sheet music and dusty rows of CDs. “You better go before Steffi marches up here to claim you.”
I smile, because Steffi’s done that quite often. Lynn and I get lost in music and forget how much time has passed. Thus, the clock. There was no clock my first year. Steffi nailed it to the wall after my repeated tardiness.
“See you next Friday.” I grab my bag and denim jacket from the chaise and dash down to the basement.
Transforming the cluttered gray space into a dance studio was my mother’s wedding present to Lynn and Steffi. She lined the walls with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, hung heavy beige drapes to conceal electrical wiring and pipes, screwed a barre into the mirror, and covered the cement floor with hardwood planks. But it’s the lighting that really makes the place spectacular, the mix of large, color-changing stage lights and tiny spotlights scattered like faraway constellations.
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me,” Steffi says, her torso folded over one stretched-out leg.
“Never.”
“Did Skittles wear you out?” She unhooks her foot from the barre.
“She tried. Only you ever succeed.”
Her large dark eyes, which are the same shade as her buzzed hair, crinkle with a grin.
“Try not to kill me too much,” I add.
She laughs. “Why? Do you have a hot date tonight?”
“Yes.” When her eyes spark with intrigue, I add, “With Mom and the TV.”
“You lead an exciting life.”
I’m aware my Friday night could be a tad more exciting, but once I make it big, I’ll be out on the road or at parties all the time. The thought catches me by such surprise that I drop my bag and jacket on the floor instead of on the bench.
Where’s this confidence when I need it?
8
Even Lawyers Have Pinterest Boards
When I get home, Mom’s sitting at the round table, sipping a glass of wine while flipping through a fabric sampler. She runs her fingers over a piece of violet raw silk. “Hey, baby. How were your lessons?”
“Great.” I grab an ice-cold bottle of water from the fridge, then walk over to her and sit, stubbing my toe against the fossilized tree-trunk base. I always stub my toe against it even though we’ve had the same table for over ten years now. “Why didn’t you tell me Mr. Mansion’s son goes to my school?”
“Mr. Mansion?”
“Jeff Dylan.”
“Oh.” She runs the tip of her finger down the stem of her glass. “Jeff didn’t want me talking about his family.”
“Why? He’s an entertainment lawyer, not a movie star.”
“Does that mean he’s not allowed privacy?”
I frown. “I just meant that a heads-up would’ve been nice.”
She returns her attention to the fabric sampler.
“Does he represent anyone famous in the music industry?” I ask, before guzzling down some water.
“I didn’t ask.”
“I bet he does.” Considering his new mansion, he must have some serious heavyweights in his roster of clients.
“Angie…”
Even though Mom doesn’t finish her sentence, she doesn’t have to. I understand her the same way she understands me—she doesn’t want me to pester him or his son. Not that I ever would. Even though a connection would be nice, I’d rather make my own way in the world.
“So? Does he have a clue about what he wants?”
“Believe it or not, he doesn’t just have a clue. He has an entire Pinterest board.”
“Whoa. Does he have good taste?”
She slides her tablet between us, taps in her security code, and brings up the Pinterest app. She types his name, and his home decor board materializes.
I scroll through it, surprised. “Is he really going to put a swing over his swimming pool?”
“His daughter would like him to.”
“What’s his budget?”
“He can afford to put a swing over the pool, and he can afford me.” Mom runs her index finger against a taupe velvet that matches the color of her skinny jeans. Like Mona, Mom has great taste in fashion.
As she tips her wineglass to her mouth, I almost tell her about the contest, but chicken out. Instead, I remind her of my phone’s dire state.
“I thought…” She leans back in her chair and shoots me the strangest look. “Didn’t you just get a new phone?”
“It wasn’t that new.”
She frowns. “It’s still in the box.”
“What box?”
“Over there.” She points to the white marble console table by our front door that looks like a roll of toilet paper flew off the holder and unspooled—but prettier. On top of it lies a small box.
I stride over to the table and pick up the box. “Where did you get this?”
“It was in our mailbox.”
Ten’s face pops into my mind. Did he get me a new phone?
“Next time, please warn me before making such a big purchase, okay?” she says.
“I didn’t buy it.”
“Then where did it come from?”
“I, uh, have no clue.” I pause. “Actually, maybe I do.”
Her eyebrows almost converge on her forehead. “Okay…”
“I should go set it up.” I head up the stairs and into my bedroom to get out of Mom’s line of sight while I check the accuracy of my hunch. I dig the phone out of the box, plug my chip inside it, then power it on. After I finish setting it up, I stroke the pristine screen that feels like velvet under my thumb.
ME: Did you get me a phone?
A couple of seconds later, a message pops up: Who’s this?
ME: Angie.
BEAST: I owed you one, didn’t I?
ME: You owed me a new screen. Not a new phone!!
BEAST: Costs the same.
ME: No it doesn’t.
Pulse drumming, I text: I can’t accept it.
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. But then the word Beast flashes on my screen. I bite my lip. Texting him is one thing, but talking to him … that’s something else. I suck in some courage and answer.
“Did you take it out of the box?” he asks.
Shoot. I hadn’t thought about that.
“I’ll pay you back, then, but it’s going to take me a couple of months to get you the whole amount. My allowance—”
“Angie, keep the phone. And keep your money.”
“But—”
“Look, someone gave it to me, but I already had one. I didn’t need it. You did.”
I bite my lower lip. “I don’t like owing people.”
“Consider it a thank-you gift for not pressing charges.”
“Charges! I would never.” I fold my legs underneath me and sink onto my comforter. “Maybe your little sister wants a new phone.”
“My little sister’s phone is brand-new.”
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek so hard I almost draw blood. “Well, thanks.” I hesitate to hang up, but decide to be courteous. After all, he gave me a brand-new phone. And my mom’s working for his dad. “Where did you live before here?”
A pause. Then: “New York.�
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“You liked it there?”
“I did. Better than here.”
“Why?”
“Because New York isn’t obsessed with country music.”
Why am I talking with him again? Right. The phone …
I think of Rae, of her telling me that she tried to talk Ten into hanging out with her over the weekend, but he acted about as excited as her grandma during Sunday Mass, and she’s always dozing off.
“Do you have a girlfriend back in New York?” I blurt out, then wince.
“No.” After a beat, he asks, “What’s with the cross-examination?”
“I’m just trying to figure you out … You’re not exactly forthcoming. But then you patch up my knees and give me a phone, so”—I drum my fingers against the wrinkled white duvet cover—“so I assume you’re not completely insensitive.” I look at Mona’s poster, which hangs next to my full-length mirror. “Mom took me to New York when I was little. It was very … overwhelming. And loud. I was completely terrified of getting hit by a cab.”
“Did you?”
“Nope.” I smile. “I’ve only gotten hit once, and that was in my home state, by an SUV.”
I hear the sound of springs. I wonder if he’s lying on his bed. I wonder what his room looks like. Is it a disaster zone, or has Mom finished decorating it?
“What does your father do?” he asks.
What made him think of my father?
I tuck my hair behind my ears, but my willful strands rush straight back around my jaw. “He was the lead guitarist of the Derelicts.”
“Was?”
“Passed away when I was three. Car crash.”
“Shit,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.” I’m about to ask if he’s heard of the Derelicts when I remember he hates music. “What about your mom? What does she do?”
“My mother’s dead, too.”
I gasp softly. “Oh. I’m sorry, Ten.”
“It’s fine. She died a long time ago. Heart cancer.”
“Heart cancer?”
“Did I say cancer? I meant heart attack. She had a bad heart.”
I’m a little stumped at how detached he sounds about her death, but then assume he wasn’t very close to her. Unless aloofness is his way of coping with loss. “So it’s just you, your dad, and your little sister?”
“Yeah.”
“How old is your sister?”
“Twelve.” A breath whooshes through the phone. “You ask a lot of questions, Angie.”
My spine jams up tight. “I was just trying to be friendly.”
“Is that the only reason you’re interested in my home life?”
I bristle, because I wasn’t the only one asking questions. “You think I’m trying to suck up to you because your dad’s an entertainment lawyer? Get over yourself.”
Instead of acting mature, I hang up, feeling a strong urge to toss the phone he gave me at the wall.
So much for trying to be courteous.
9
Defrosting More than Freezers
I spend all of Saturday attempting to come up with lyrics.
I thought it would be easy matching words to my melody, but it’s not. I toss my notebook aside and listen to my Discover Weekly selection from Spotify for inspiration. When that doesn’t help, I put on running shoes and sprint out the front door. I don’t run far or long, just far and long enough to get rid of my writer’s block.
Dad apparently used to go on runs when he was working through his music. It’s one of the few things Mom has told me about him.
When I get home, I forgo a shower and make a beeline to the piano. I play the melody, stopping and starting a hundred times to scribble down new lyrics, and then I rearrange the chords until the little black dots are swimming around on the staffs.
“Angie, I’m home!” Mom yells.
The sky outside has turned an electric shade of blue.
I massage my temples and get up from the bench. Stretching my arms over my head, I walk to the kitchen, where Mom slides two brown paper bags onto the emerald granite island.
As I help her put the groceries away, I ask, “What are we having for dinner?”
“Butternut mac ’n’ cheese. Want to help make it?”
“No. But I’ll watch and play DJ.”
“Why don’t you ever want to cook?”
“Because I suck at it, Mom. I either burn everything or measure things wrong. Remember when you asked me to make glazed carrots for Thanksgiving, and I added a quarter cup of salt instead of sugar?”
She smiles. “Still don’t understand how you could add that much salt without thinking it was too much seasoning.”
“My point exactly.” I scroll through my phone for my current playlist and synchronize it with the kitchen’s wireless speakers. As music spills into the room, I fill a glass with soda water and settle on one of the cowhide barstools tucked underneath the island.
Mom peels the squash, slices it in half, scoops the mushy insides into the InSinkErator, and then dices the hard flesh. As she fills a large pot with water, thyme, and other stuff, I toy with the idea of playing her my song.
Before I can cop out, I say, “I wrote a song today.”
I don’t mention the Mona Stone contest. I’ll have to bring it up soon but don’t feel brave enough today.
She glides the cubed squash into the simmering broth. “Can I hear it?”
I nod, and she trails me out into the living room and takes a seat on our cream-colored couch. I roll my head, and my neck cracks, and then I stretch my fingers and place them on the keys, which are still warm. I don’t peek at Mom while I perform my song, scared of what I might see on her face.
I don’t look her way once I’m done either.
At least not for a long moment.
When her silence becomes too oppressive, I rub my clammy hands on my leggings and spin around. “What did you think?”
“I thought it was”—she runs a finger over one of the decorative patches on her army-green blouse—“good.” She offers me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I feel like she’s trying to be polite, which is weird, because she’s my mom. She doesn’t need to be polite; she needs to be honest.
I look up at the cove lighting, which is buzzing. Or maybe the buzzing’s inside my head.
“I—I need to go check on the pasta,” she says. If she’s trying to destroy my drive, she’s doing an awesome job.
I turn back toward the piano. “Do you mind if I keep practicing? I need to work on the chorus.”
“Sure. Take your time.”
I punch a couple of keys as the floorboards creak beneath her retreating footfalls.
I play my song again, and the notes color my bleak mood.
What does my mother know about music anyway? Nothing. My father was the one who understood harmonies. He might not have gushed about my musical prowess, but at least he would’ve offered constructive advice, unlike Mom’s total disinterest.
As I run through my song again, I create a note on my phone and dictate the lyrics. When I finish, the silence sounds louder than my song. I stop playing and scroll through what I wrote, change a word here and there, and then I take it from the top and match the new lyrics to the chorus’s melody. I make a few adjustments, then play the entire song again, singing the lyrics softly.
Like my fingers, my heart holds incredibly still, because this time everything fits. I close my eyes briefly, relishing this tiny, perfect moment. I wish I weren’t savoring it alone, but it beats sharing it with someone who detests music.
On legs that feel like fragments of clouds, I drift back into the kitchen, sit on the barstool, and sip my soda water that’s no longer chilled or bubbly.
Mom’s stabbing at our freezer with a metal pick. A huge slab of ice cracks off and thuds at her feet. She wipes her flushed brow on her forearm, then crouches, scoops up the ice, and chucks it into the sink. “Dinner’ll be ready in thirty minutes.”
For once,
I’m not hungry, but I don’t tell her that. I simply watch her hack at our poor freezer again.
Guilt swarms me, because I think my music did that. Made her stressed and angry. “Do I sound like Dad? Is that why you hate it?”
She flinches. Even her arm that’s suspended in midair shudders. “Can you set the table?”
She can’t even answer me. Heaving a sigh, I do as I’m told.
She rinses the icepick, then sets it on the drying rack and wipes her hands on her jeans. Although she didn’t use it on me, my heart hurts as though it’s been de-iced too.
We eat in silence. At some point, she tucks a lock of hair that’s escaped from my ponytail behind my ear. I think it’s her way of apologizing for not being more supportive. And I forgive her because I love her.
That’s how love works. If you can’t forgive someone, then you don’t love them enough.
10
The Voice
On Monday, I don’t say hi to Ten during calc. I don’t even glance his way. Or at least I try not to. But as he jots something down in his notebook, the sun bounces off his bracelet and blinds me. When he rests his forearms on the desk, I catch the inscription on his bracelet: I ROCK.
Seriously, I rock?
He’s obviously not referring to music considering his distaste for it. How big is this guy’s ego?
Class drags by. The only thing remotely interesting about it is Mrs. Dabbs’s outfit—she wears all green today, which lends her a startling resemblance to a tulip. Where does she get her style cues from? House & Garden?
As we study derivatives, I stretch my neck from side to side. Every Sunday, before our usual dumpling and spring roll feast at Golden Dragon, Mom and I go to a power yoga class. Yesterday’s was particularly strenuous, but at least it took my mind off the chorus I can’t nail and the infuriating boy with the stupid bracelet.
“No questions for me today?” he asks as I gather my things after class.
I eye him. “Nope. I know all I need to know about you.”
He inclines his head to the side as though he doesn’t quite believe me.
“I’m going to get my old phone fixed, so—”
“Angie, please stop with the phone. I don’t want it back.” He lines up his books before sticking them into his backpack.
Not Another Love Song Page 4