He twists around in the driver’s seat, putting the car in reverse, and I take a deep breath, determined for this first date to go well.
“Where are you from?” I ask. “I mean, originally.”
“Originally? Here.” He points down. “Seattle.”
“A native?”
“Can’t beat the weather.” He grins. “Rain with a side of rain.”
The back of my jeans squeak against the seat. We can’t talk about the weather. Any discussions that involve temperature, the relative moisture in the air, or the seven-day forecast have to be early warning signs of a date about to go belly-up. My mouth suddenly feels dry. The silence goes on for an extra beat.
“I—”
“Where—”
We both speak at once.
I look down at my hands. Both of our laughs seem to balance on a nervous edge, like a gymnast fighting to stay on the balance beam.
“Go ahead,” I murmur.
He clears his throat. “How about you? Native or transplant?” Transplant. That word will only ever mean one thing to me. I swallow it down. Not tonight. Tonight I’m normal.
I pick at a loose stitch on my jeans. “My family moved from Eugene, Oregon, when I was five,” I say. “I don’t remember much about it. Except this one time when my dad took me riding around Hendricks Park in this little sidecar that he rented. He attached it to his bike.” More tight lips and I’m now thoroughly uncomfortable. “I don’t know what made me think of that. I guess for a five-year-old it was pretty cool,” I say.
Levi navigates the twists and turns through my neighborhood. “And what about now? What’s your thing?”
“My thing?”
“Sure. Miniature Stella apparently most enjoyed being pedaled around in sidecars. The Current Stella’s thing…?” He glances at me sidelong. “Or is it still sidecars? Because if it is, no judgment here.” The shadow of his sly grin plays at the corners of his mouth.
I frown. “I—” Swimming sits at the tip of my tongue, but it’s not true anymore. “I don’t really have a thing.”
“I reject that out of hand, Cross,” he says, thumping the steering wheel. “Everyone has a thing.”
I shrug. “Not everyone, apparently. I guess I’m in the market.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”
“Okay, fine, what are you into then?” I fold my arms across my chest.
“Music.” He turns serious, his eyes trained out the front windshield. “Music is my thing.” The roads are slick, reflecting the pale, yellow glow of the streetlamps. The muscles on his forearm ripple as he twists his grip on the wheel.
“All right, what’s your favorite AHD song?” I ask, resting my elbow on the console. Music’s at least one thing we have in common.
“‘Made-Up Moniker,’” he responds without hesitating.
I nod slowly as if considering his choice on its merits. “Interesting. That’s…interesting.”
“What?” He chuckles. “What’s wrong with ‘Made-Up Moniker’?”
“Nothing.” I’m not impressed and I make no effort to hide it. “It’s just that, well, no one’s favorite song is ‘Made-Up Moniker,’ that’s all.”
“Not true. Didn’t I just tell you that it’s mine?”
I watch my green eyes in the side-view mirror. “Sure. That’s what you told me.”
“Okay, then, smarty-pants, what’s yours?”
“Easy,” I say, folding my arms. “‘Pragmatic.’”
He guffaws. “What? No. That’s so cliché. That’s everyone’s favorite.”
“It’s everyone’s favorite because it’s the best,” I point out. “I’m not going to change what I like just because a lot of other people like it, too. That’s way too arbitrary, and besides, if I picked something different, then what I’d really be telling you is my second favorite.” I pause. “So what’s your real favorite?”
I’m not just messing with him. Something I’ve never understood is why people stop liking something just because it gets popular. I mean, if everyone on the planet started liking Action Hero Disco, would I stop liking them? No. Why? Because they’re good. It’s simple logic, really.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “‘Pragmatic.’ You’re right. But don’t count that against my otherwise mysterious and dangerously moody persona.”
He winks, clicking a button on his steering wheel twice, and ‘Pragmatic’ starts playing. He opens the window and I turn the volume up and we’re both singing out loud now, at the top of our lungs, and I’m holding my hair back against the cold wind and we’re screaming, “If you’re such a pragmatist, then what the hell you want with this? Oh, oh, oh, oh.”
Stoplights flash red and car headlights whiz by. The Tahoe speeds toward the backdrop of tall buildings downtown where the Space Needle looms, an alien green, hovering over the city like a real UFO.
Beside me, Levi’s voice layers beneath mine. “My behavior’s not erratic, you’re just being melodramatic. Stop trying, trying, trying, to be so pragmatic. Oh, oh, oh, oh.” The me who’s afraid of karaoke, the me who barely lets out a woot-woot at high school football games, the me who’s questioning and rational and methodical sloughs off and blows away like a silk scarf out the window.
I raise my voice, tilting my head back and clamping my eyes shut to try to outdo Levi in our loud, off-key competition. “Baby, if you’re such a pragmatist, then let me be your catalyst.” As the last word slips out, I realize that I’m the only one singing. My hand slaps over my mouth and I peek over at Levi, who’s staring at me intently, skin crinkled at the corners of his eyes.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice muffled through my fingers. “Got carried away.”
The light turns green and Levi pushes down on the accelerator, eyes returning to the road.
I’m blushing. I know that I am, but inside the dark cabin of Levi’s car, our faces are streaked with shadows and I pray he can’t see the way my skin gets blotchy when I’m mortified.
“Okay. You’re killing me. What are you thinking? I couldn’t have been that bad, could I?” His eyes stay focused on the road, and I find myself wishing he’d look at me.
“I’m thinking about melodies.”
“Melodies?”
“Yep. And how one wrong note in a good melody can make you feel off, but the right one, once you find it, can make you feel complete again.”
Why do I get the sense he’s not just talking about music? My insides glow, lighting up until I swear my skin must be translucent.
We ride the rest of the way mostly in silence, with Levi occasionally asking me questions about my family and about Brynn and Henry, and me finding myself surprised that I want to answer him with complete honesty. Levi hums snippets of AHD songs and eventually his hand crosses the center console and finds its way onto my thigh, where I watch it, not sure whether to hold it or let it be. Instead I do nothing and fold mine in my lap, breathing in the night air until I’m filled to the brim with it.
The parking lot’s crammed with cars that navigate around each other, backing up and lurching forward and honking until the space between me and Levi is eaten up by one, long, blaring horn. Stuffing my fingers in my ears, I jut my chin to the left in the direction where I think I see a spot a half-dozen rows back. The dirt lot crumbles beneath the tires as he threads us between the other cars, searching for spots until we find one big enough to fit.
“Ticket, please?” I hold my hand out and Levi digs a perforated ticket out of his jean pocket.
A tiny thrill gurgles up in the back of my throat. Two months ago, I was on my deathbed—literally—and now here I am, a regular teenager going to the best concert in the world with the hottest guy ever.
Levi takes my hand as we walk to the front entrance, and it’s so natural that I hardly even notice until we’re halfway there. Our fingers are intertwined, his thumb brushing gently against mine. He doesn’t let go even when we hand our tickets over to the bouncer and he stamps our hands with an inky blot
ch of UNDER 21.
“We’re in!” I squeal. The concert venue is an old aluminum-roofed warehouse, floors slick with dust. Levi’s hand is still cold against mine, and he cranes his neck around.
“First thing’s first—we stake out our spot. Then I’ll grab drinks.” Blue, pink, and green strobe lights flash across his face from the stage. The opening act has begun to warm up the audience—not that I require any warming.
We snake through the crowd, with Levi leading me through spilled beer and sweaty T-shirts so that I don’t get left behind. People have already started dancing, bumping into my shoulders and sending me stumbling. More than a couple times, I’m saved from falling by Levi’s firm grip. Eventually he tows me to the side of the crowd, tucked back from the stage where there’s a short rail.
“Look, you can sit on it to see better,” he says into my ear.
I smile and he gives me a boost up onto the rail so that my feet dangle over the concrete floor.
“Lick your hand.”
“Huh?”
Levi wraps his fingers around my wrist, flattens his tongue over the back of my hand, and then rubs at the stamp until the ink disappears. “There.” He grins.
“Hey!” I wipe off the saliva, but I’m giggling. “Did you seriously just lick me?”
Levi licks his own hand and erases the underage stamp from his skin. “Trust me. It’ll be worth it.” For my part, I try not to look nervous. “Guard our spot with your life, Cross.” He nudges me. “I’m going in search of sustenance.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” I salute as he leaves and notice him laughing as he melts into the crowd. Almost at once, the ache starts up again. I have to clutch my chest it’s so real. A gnawing in the hollow underneath my ribs, it burrows into my back and starts running up against my spine.
I knead the spot closest to the pain with the nubs of my fingers and wonder if I’m imagining it. But then, of course I’m imagining it. What else is pain but convincing fiction? A bunch of nerves snapping and zapping at each other, telling your brain there’s something there when, in reality, there’s not. It’s Sick Kid 101.
I settle onto my rail to watch the stage. The band opener consists of a boy and a girl, both equally gaunt, with matching black hair that parts down the middle and slides down to their chins. They look at each other while they shout into their microphones and pick noisy melodies out of their guitar strings. The panic eases and is replaced by excitement. Maybe I’d just been scared Levi would get lost in here and I wouldn’t be able to find him for the rest of the night. That’s silly, though, since I’m staying in one spot. I drum my fingers on the cold metal rail, thankful to be perched a head above the ruckus below. A few screeches come from a microphone and then there’s a tug at the bottom of my jeans. I look down and there’s a guy in a blue baseball cap. For a split second, I think that it’s Henry, but of course, it’s not, since I ditched Henry to come here with Levi. With a pinch of guilt, I lean down so that I can hear what he’s saying.
“What’s your name?” he yells.
I scrunch up my nose. “My name?”
He’s a tall string bean of a boy with a baggy shirt and a tuft of brown hair growing out of his chin.
When he nods I can just make out his eyes, glazed over, like those of a taxidermied fox.
“Stella,” I shout back. I should have lied.
The boy’s grin is soupy on his angular face. “Joshhhh,” he slurs. He wobbles to the side before grabbing the railing to right himself.
“Great. Nice to meet you, Josh,” I say curtly. I press my lips together into a tight line and try sitting back up, but Josh pulls on my pant leg again and I’m forced to lean forward, my eyes scouting the throngs of people, looking for Levi.
“Wanna dance?” asks my new friend, his breath rotten and sweet all at once, stinking of beer. I don’t want to dance. Considering he can barely stand up straight, he shouldn’t want to dance either.
“Not this time,” I say, scooting an inch down the rail. I clutch my purse in my lap, tucking it close to my torso. He follows.
“Come on,” he insists. Tug, tug, tug on my jeans. I don’t like the sensation of his fingers pawing at my leg. They feel clumsy. “Just one…dance.”
“Maybe you should go find a glass of water.” I trust this guy as much I would a thin sheet of ice over a lake. I pull back my shoulders and try to look grown-up, self-assured. Only I know that he must have chosen to pursue me the same way a lion chooses to pick off an injured gazelle from the herd. “Okay, seriously, dude. I’m good.”
“You’re really pretty.” His words feel grimy and mucus-coated. I slide out from underneath him, but he catches my wrist. “Come dance,” he repeats, tugging at my sweater. “It’ll be fun.”
I shake my head, rigid, wishing he wouldn’t touch me.
“Come on,” Josh whines, but this time he yanks down on my hand and a rush of wind flies up in my face right before I hit the ground.
Pain drives up through my right knee like an iron rod. Blinding white pain. His lumpish fingers—fingers that could not be counted on to successfully drunk dial at this point—clasp at my sweater and as he pulls at me, I crawl to a standing position. “Stop,” I yell, hoarse.
At this, other people around me finally take notice. I wedge my elbows between my torso and his. Onlookers crowd in on us. I’m surrounded. The crowd crushes in on me. My heartbeat skyrockets and I start to gulp in air as if through a straw. People are shouting. The noise tickles my ears.
Somebody pushes me from behind and I lunge back into Josh, whose sour smell overwhelms me even more.
“What do you think you’re doing?” There’s a break in the mass of bodies. Levi shoves two cups into the hands of a stranger. He’s not talking to me. He’s talking to Josh, who now appears to have the mobility of a slug.
“I didn’t do nothing, man,” Josh replies, all tongue.
“Bullshit, I saw you.”
I squirm backward, away from him. There’s a sickening thwap of skin on skin. Josh stumbles, clutching his jaw and crossing his feet one over the other in a wobbly grapevine.
“Dude!” Josh yells, bringing his fingertips away from his lip to reveal a bright patch of fresh, shiny blood. For a tense second, I think Josh is going to take a swing. Levi edges around toward me and as he does, Josh apparently thinks better of it.
By the time Levi’s hand has found its way around my waist, Josh is already stumbling away.
Levi pulls me close to his side and guides us to a clear spot on the floor. He looks at me hungrily. “You okay?”
I swipe at my bottom lashes, praying I don’t have smudged eyeliner. “I’m fine.” My voice is high and squeaky and Levi chuckles. “Freak,” I mutter as anger wells up inside me.
The ache in my chest subsides and my heart rate slows to a steady beat the longer Levi stays with his thumb latched onto my belt loop.
He stares over his shoulder in the direction that Josh went, hovering protectively over me before a visible quiver runs through him and he seems to shake something off. He returns his attention to me.
“Do we need to go home?” Levi searches my face.
His concern wraps around me and I feel cared for, like something that’s precious and rare. An ostrich egg or Swarovski crystal. And my anger dissipates.
“No way,” I insist, though I can already feel the soreness creeping into my kneecap. “We’re here to see Action Hero Disco. Hello!” I put extra pep into my voice. I don’t want to be the wimp who forced him to waste his money.
He gives me a long look but says nothing and instead smiles and helps me back to my perch. He grabs another two beers to make up for the ones we lost, and when he returns Action Hero Disco is onstage and I can’t believe I’m breathing the same air. I don’t know how else to describe the fact that they are right there. I could walk up to the front and touch Jordan Montegro’s shin. Sure, I might get tackled by security, but still, it could happen.
I try hard not to feel self-conscious.
There’s the urge to hold this tiny space in time, to keep it for myself. And I can sense the hot flush of pleasure rising in my cheeks. I want to pull back because it feels private.
For these moments, it’s as if the transplant never happened. I feel nothing but the vibration of the speakers that mixes with the beer, which is followed promptly by two more beers. Together, they form a subtle buzz in the center of my skull. Without concentrating too hard, I can convince myself that I’m not sick. Never have been.
By the time they play “Pragmatic,” Levi and I are singing every word. My throat becomes woolen and stick-scratchy. I take swigs from my beer to soothe the burn. I don’t mention to Levi that they’re my first. By the end of the night my insides are as warm and gooey as freshly baked cookies and my mind is tingling and I think that if this is my life now, it should never have to end.
“I should probably go inside.” My arms are freezing, with puckered skin and little hairs that won’t lie down. The first hint that October will transition us into the cool months of winter and summer has passed. We’re both sticky with sweat from the concert. I lean my head against the rest. The car engine’s off and there’s darkness surrounding us, cut with shards of light from streetlamps. We’re both that kind of happy-exhausted that comes when every limb hangs loose from the socket and your entire body could melt into whatever surface on which it’s currently located.
I smile deliriously up at the ceiling, so delightfully tired I feel silly. “That was by far the best concert I’ve ever been to.” I rub my throat. “I think I lost my voice, though.”
“High praise,” Levi says. “What other concerts were we up against?”
I lower the direction of my gaze and nuzzle into the headrest. “Okay, so, that was my first. But don’t let that detract from the significance of my statement.” Before I got sick, my parents would never have let me go out alone. I savor the leftover hum. The music had been so loud that it sent every particle in me vibrating in unison with a thousand other bodies.
Alive Page 9