by Brenda Benny
I try to act as cool as possible. Only, my right hand has escaped from its cage and is now moving in a type of incomprehensible sign language in front of me. “Oh, I don’t know. How about The Daily Grind over on Broadway? I can pick you up around two.”
“No!” She jumps slightly, knocking the table with her knee. The brown-haired girl quickly reaches out to prevent any of their coffees from spilling. “I mean – it’s okay – I have some stuff to do before that, so I can just meet you there.”
Holy shit! Did she just say yes? I reign in my hand and shrug with purposeful casualness, but can’t seem to stop grinning. “Cool! Well then, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Spinning around quickly before she can change her mind, I head back to the stage. Finnegan is giving me the inquisitive eyebrows, wondering how it went. I try to return an understated look of success, but my face probably resembles the subtlety of a fireworks display. We pack up our equipment, and by that time, the girls have disappeared.
The waiting for Sunday afternoon is more unbearable than the time we had tickets to see Willie Weeks play with Clapton. My unfinished history assignment fills some of this void. But the rest of the time is spent between practicing the concerto we’re working on, and occasional licks on my bass guitar. Thankfully, this is a place that I can easily get lost.
My bedroom is in the loft of our house. This was probably a tactical decision by my dads, since I’ve been playing music up here for years – some of it pretty awful when I was younger. A short set of stairs descends from my door to a narrow passageway with railings on each side, suspended above the open living room. As a kid, I constructed elaborate barricades there, as though it were a drawbridge over the moat below. I also pretended that my room, with its light green walls and ceiling, was really a tree house. My parents would find branches that I’d brought in and stuck out of bookshelves and drawers and stuff, along with old bird nests, seashells, and various kinds of vines ripped from the neighbour’s garden. I got into trouble with the vines fiasco, but it was nothing compared with the time I started a little construction project up here with a hammer, some nails, and pieces of spare wood from our first of many kitchen renovations. I think they instituted a ban on me ever watching the Swiss Family Robinson movie again – and completely regretted allowing me to see it in the first place. That’s when they decided to build me a real tree house in our backyard.
These days, the tree house is a little cramped for me, seeing as how my limbs have practically doubled in length. But I can still see it from my bedroom window while I play music, sitting on the side of my bed.
I’ve picked up the bass to trip through some of my favourite blues riffs – Duck Dunn and Willie Dixon – when Hayden opens the door without knocking.
“Maxwell! Keep it down in here! Who do you think you are? Some kind of rock star?” His voice roars like an angry father figure. It’s an Oscar-worthy performance, as usual.
I actually met Hayden on a rainy afternoon in the tree house just after my tenth birthday. I’d been balancing a stack of comics and my brand new CD player up the ladder when I popped my head through the hole. There he was, reading comics from my collection. And, just like now, he wasn’t the least bit concerned with my surprised reaction.
My fingers move across the frets like racing spiders in a Red Hot Chili Peppers riff. He waits patiently for me to finish, a bored expression on his face.
“So how did the show go yesterday with Finnegan? Any producers eager to sign you and the Leprechaun to a recording contract?” He’s obviously joking.
“No recording contracts, but I made an extra $50.” I open the hatch before dropping the bomb. “And it just so happens that I’ll need that extra money for my date this afternoon.”
He stops leafing through the stack of recent photos I’ve taken down on the beach, and his right eyebrow bunches up like an inchworm.
“Really? Poor, unwitting soul. I didn’t realize there was a genus of ‘coffeehouse groupies’.”
“Not a groupie,” I clarify. “I asked out Serena.”
He stares at me, his amused expression gone blank.
“Huh,” he comments, long and drawn out.
“I’m meeting her at The Grind this afternoon, in – ” I look over at the iPod dock radio. “Shit! Twenty minutes!”
I jump up and begin unplugging, turning knobs and stashing away my bass. I brush by Hayden in my tornado of activity, and he pulls back with a look of disgust.
“Good god, Max! Are you planning to shower? Or are you going to drag her back to your cave once she passes out from your manly aroma?”
I give my pits the sniff test. Change of shirt is definitely in order. I pull off the ripe one, begin riffling though a pile on my dresser, and after smelling two or three of them, make my final choice. Turning back to Hayden, I discover him looking resolutely up at the ceiling.
“What? Do I need to change my pants too?”
“No!” he answers with hands held up. “Pants can stay on. But you might want to check out that curly mess of hair.”
Hayden is rolling his eyes, clearly confounded by my ineptitude with grooming. Why I consider Hayden’s opinion should matter is a good question – but I hear girls talk about him in the hallways at school – being gay doesn’t change their opinion of him being hot.
“Okay. Thanks. Better brush my teeth too, I suppose,” I say with a grin, rolling on some deodorant.
“That’s some confidence, coming from the guy who took three years to ask for this date. Moving at that speed, I estimate consummation of this as yet non-existent relationship at” – he checks his fancy silver watch, looking decidedly disappointed – “twenty-five years of age.”
“Whatever, man.” I’m already headed out the door and down to the hall’s landing when I call over my shoulder, “Hey, thanks again for the grooming lesson! You can hang here or let yourself out whenever you want.”
Driving over the speed limit is not something I do regularly – especially since, on a novice license, I am more than one infraction-free year away from getting my real license. But this date thing requires throwing all caution to the wind, which today is blowing yellow fall leaves along the sidewalks.
When I arrive, ten minutes late after some shoddy attempts at parallel parking, Serena is sitting by a window, looking out onto the street.
“Hey, hi! Sorry I’m late. Lost track of time.”
She mashes her lips together and looks down at the table.
“Oh, I mean, not that I wasn’t thinking about meeting you. I mean, I was. A lot. I just was playing music, and then Hayden showed up, and…”
“It’s okay.” She nods, looking more relaxed now. “I haven’t been waiting all that long.” She motions towards the counter. “Are you going to get something?”
I see that she’s already bought herself coffee. Crap! I’d meant to do that.
“Oh, yeah. Sure. Can I get you something else? Would you like a muffin, or a – I don’t know – something else, anyway?”
She lets out a small laugh. “First time at a coffeehouse?” She jokes, and then shakes her head in response. “No, I’m good, thanks.”
I get a coffee and a muffin as fast as I can order them and sit down opposite her. Her eyes dart from side to side. The conversations all around us only amplifies my realization that I have no idea what to say to her – at least, not without sounding like an idiot, anyway.
She finally speaks first. “So are you Max or Don Juan today?”
I have to laugh at that. I make a point of looking over each shoulder, and relax a little. “I think Max came today.”
Serena takes a sip of her coffee. I notice that her hands are small and delicate looking, with fingers that taper at their tips. She’s twisted her black hair up into a knot kind-of-thing at the back of her head. I don’t know what makes people beautiful, but whatever it is – good bone structure, wide dark eyes, smooth skin – she has it.
“What type of music do you play that mak
es you late for coffee?” she asks.
I’m chewing a piece of my blueberry muffin, and struggle to swallow quickly before answering her. “Mostly blues. A lot of jazz too, but we do so much of that in Stage Band. What about you? What sort of music do you listen to when you’re not singing Arias?”
This is good. Talking about music seems easy. At least we have that in common.
“I like a lot of jazz and contemporary R&B. Stuff like Amy Winehouse and Alicia Keys. I think Molly Johnson’s cool, too. I met her a few times at concerts. Backstage and stuff.” She looks down at the table and shrugs when she says this last part.
This is just what I imagine her listening to. I’ve also fantasized about her singing some killer scat riff with my double bass – like Esperanza Spalding. Okay, well – I’ve fantasized about a lot more than that, too.
“So, I guess you’re applying to one of the big schools? Like, Indiana or Michigan?”
She chews on the inside of her cheek. Her only response is the shrug of her shoulders.
“I guess you probably have a lot of places to choose from,” I suggest.
“I’m not so sure about that,” she mutters, staring into her half-empty coffee cup. “We’ll see.”
Serena has always struck me as humble about her talent. But I’ve liked her for a long time, and I know that she hasn’t been acting like herself this year. She’d been really outgoing during freshman and sophomore year – invited to all the parties of the older “in” crowd. She was always smiling at people. Not those fake “Aren’t I such a nice person that I’m smiling at you” type of smiles. She was more like a permanent sunbeam in the drab grey of Vancouver at this time of year. I’m not a complete idiot – I mean, I know it has to do with her mom dying. And I’d do anything to get that smile to light up her face again, like it had at the Hallowe’en party.
“I was thinking this whole post-secondary education thing gets blown way out of proportion, anyway. I mean, who needs to do things like get a job, or buy a house, or a car? I was considering setting up residence in my back yard tree house and living off the neighbour’s garden for a while.”
It’s started. The corners of her mouth are inching their way up. She eyes the empty plate where my muffin sat moments ago. “I imagine you’d need quite a bit to sustain you. What would you do when they noticed their kale and carrots were disappearing at such an alarming rate?”
I drum my fingers against my coffee cup. “Well, of course, first I’d watch them blame it on the rabbits – I’d have used my lucky rabbit’s foot to leave a false trail.”
“Of course.” Her lips twitch further upwards.
“And then, after they began to run out of supplies, I’d just move on down the block to the next one, and repeat. You know, there’s a fairly untapped market in backyard garden pillaging in this fair city of ours.”
Bingo! I’ve found the smile I’ve been searching for. And, man, it’s hard not to stare at the unbelievably kissable colour of her lips.
“You are one weird rock star, Max.”
I feel like a rock star right about now. “I don’t think there are many that would disagree with you, there.”
When I finally blink back up, away from her mouth, I find her eyes lingering on mine for a beat. As they shift away, I’d swear we just shared something. But I’m probably reading too much into this. Maybe she’s just trying to decide how crazy I am.
Both of us are finished our coffee. I get up to grab glasses of water and bring them back to our table, trying to delay her from leaving. I’m not sure how this date is going – or if this even is a date – but I know that I want to go out with her again. Despite my lack of practice coming onto girls, I give it my best try.
“So, what was the last good show you were at?”
Her face darkens slightly and she looks off to the side. “Well, I was at your show.”
I let out a snort. “Not sure that qualifies as the sort of ‘show’ I’m talking about,” I say. “See, I happen to know there is an amazing blues singer coming to a bar in Gastown in two weeks. I know the guys who are doing the sound there, and I don’t think we’d have any trouble getting in. Would you like to go with me?”
This is the real test. Today is only coffee. You can meet your grandma somewhere for coffee. You wouldn’t necessarily ask her out to a dimly lit bar, hoping to at least hold her hand.
She fidgets with her glass, drawing lines with her finger through the condensation on the outside. “How would we get there and back?”
I definitely don’t have Serena Santos figured out yet. I‘m asking her out on a late-night date to a bar – and this is what she wants to know? “Um, well, I would drive us.”
I can’t tell if she is chewing the inside of her cheek or counting under her breath, but she seems a little nervous all of a sudden.
“Are you okay?”
Just then a voice erupts from behind me. “Hola, Chispa! What a nice surprise to see you here.”
I twist around in my chair, startled to see a slim, older man, wearing khaki pants and a blue button down shirt.
“Hi, Dad.” Serena looks apologetic. Did she plan to meet her dad here? Maybe he’s supposed to rescue her from this alleged date with me.
“And who is this?” he asks.
“Oh, this is Max. From school.”
I start to stand from my seat but he motions for me to stay, reaching out his other hand to shake mine.
“Pleasure to meet you, Max. Are you two working on something for school?”
I look to Serena for guidance, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to say.
“We’re just grabbing a coffee,” she answers.
His gaze shifts from Serena to rest upon me like a heavy hand gripping my shoulder.
“I was just telling Serena about a great blues singer that’s coming to town in two weeks,” I blurt out. I have no idea why I’ve said this. Serena looks alarmed.
“A concert?” He looks to his daughter, scratching the dark hair of his closely trimmed beard with one hand. “That sounds very intriguing.”
“I was trying to convince her to come – to go with me.” My verbal diarrhea continues to pour out. I sound like I’m asking for his permission.
He smiles at Serena, but there’s definitely some discomfort there. He looks worried or cautious, and I speculate it’s probably about me. I’m not surprised – he doesn’t even know me. Maybe he’s here to check up on her? We’re both waiting for her reply. The colour seems to be draining from her face, and it hits me that this whole situation might be embarrassing for her.
“What kind of car do you drive?” she asks unexpectedly.
What kind of car? This matters? I didn’t think Serena was the type of person who judged people that way.
“Uh. Well, it’s not mine. I usually drive the Range Rover, though. My dad is extremely particular about his BMW, and I’m terrified of putting a scratch on it.”
It looks like she’s clenching her jaw for a moment, but then it’s gone, and her reply comes out all breathy. “Okay, yes. I’ll go.”
“Great!” I practically shout.
I look to her dad, whose eyes have gone wide. He leans closer to her and squeezes her shoulder, in a gesture that appears protective.
“It sounds like it will be a good time.” He then looks to me, seriously. “You are a good driver, Max?”
It’s not a question: it’s a warning.
“Very careful,” I reply, equally serious.
He nods. “See you at home later, Chispa?” He leans down to give her a soft kiss on both her cheeks. Oh, man. Is it weird to be jealous of her dad’s lips?
“Bye, Dad.” She glances at him as he walks towards the exit before her gaze falls to her half-empty glass.
I’m a little stunned by the whole interaction that’s just transpired. I’ve met her dad; we negotiated some strange medieval suitor request; and now, I will be going out with Serena to a concert in two weeks. We have another date planned! Don’t we
? Or did she just agree to this because her dad was here, and it was awkward?
“I should probably get going,” she finally says. “I’ve still got some prep to do for this week’s vocal challenge. Vanessa’s really been on me about getting our harmonies right. I’ve got to meet her and Emily before dinner tonight.”
It’s hard for me to understand why Serena hangs out with Vanessa. I just don’t see them as having very similar qualities.
“So, you’re good friends with Vanessa, hey?”
“Yeah. Well, we’ve known each other since fifth grade. We were lucky enough to get into the program together after auditions. I didn’t know anyone else that got accepted at the time, so it felt like just the two of us at the beginning. Why?”
“Nothing.” I wasn’t going to say anything, and then change my mind. “It’s just that she strikes me as very… driven.” I decide that is the best substitute I can come up with for bitch. “The two of you seem like very different personalities, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Serena’s eyebrows have moved into a perplexed formation. I may have overstepped my bounds here – and it wasn’t the first time I’d put my foot in my mouth with her. I pick up the glasses from the table and return them to the counter.
Once we’re outside, we stop and look at each other, like we’re unsure of what to do next. I want to hold her hand; I want to reach out and touch her cheek; I want to kiss her. Can she sense any of this?
Her foot brushes along the sidewalk close to mine.
“How are you getting to Vanessa’s? Do you need a ride?” I ask, eagerly hoping to spend a few more minutes with her.
She casts her eyes down at the sidewalk where her foot still moves like she’s revving her engine to take off. “Thanks, but no, I’m covered. Vanessa is picking me up.”
I look up and down the street, briefly, and don’t see Vanessa’s canary yellow Prius in sight. “All right. So. Thanks for meeting me for coffee. I’ll see you around? Maybe at lunch sometime this week?”
The urge to reach out and touch her is unbearable.
“Yeah, sure. That sounds good.” She’s looking up and down the street now, too.