Sun Poisoned (The Sunshine Series)

by Rae, Nikki

  I follow Myles into the kitchen and sit down at the counter. “Yeah.” He smiles before turning to the cabinet behind him. “You?”

  “I’m okay.” It’s mostly true.

  “Kona or Columbian? “ Myles asks.

  “I’ll go with whatever will preemptively prevent a migraine.”

  Myles glances at me over his shoulder. “Okay,” he says, taking a brightly colored can out and setting to work making it.

  “You sure you’re okay?” I ask. I was excited when he invited me over this morning, but after our talk last night, I was worried that he was upset.

  He turns on the coffee maker and sits down on the stool next to me. “Yes,” he says, wrapping an arm around my waist. His lips brush my forehead. “Thank you.”

  “Good.” I try for nonchalance as he stands again to retrieve our caffeine filled cups. When he sits down, he slides a mug in my direction. “Because practice today is going to be enough of a nightmare.” I take a sip of my drink, basking in the warmth of my body waking up.

  “It can’t be that stressful playing with your friends,” Myles says, possibly noting the glare that’s forming on my face as he says the words. “You love your piano,” he defends his previous statement.

  “I do,” I say. “I love it more than anything.”

  He smiles. “My only competition.”

  “And it’s good competition,” I add.

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Boo and Trei play via notes and rests and technical-everything,” I say. “And I…don’t.”

  Don’t is an understatement. Unless if by don’t I mean writing down everything I hear or want to hear as short and long lines, then placing the lyrics on top of them to make it easier to understand. Also, sometimes I’ll write things like, “play louder here” or “pretend the piano is a drum here.” It would drive anyone insane.

  I sigh. I know it’s a long shot, but I ask anyway. “So do you want to come?”

  Myles raises his eyebrows. “Why?”

  I shove him playfully. “You can read sheet music,” I say. “Please help Boo not strangle me today.”

  “Why would he do that?” He laughs. “You’ve covered songs before—and really well—without any help from me.”

  “Most of the songs we’ve done before more or less resembled the real versions. You know, instrument wise. We either slowed them down or sped them up. This time, we’re replacing guitars with piano and strings and changing everything around. I know exactly how I want everything to sound in here.”

  I shove my fist into my temple for emphasis.

  “But Boo and Trei know how to play the right way. It’s like I’m speaking German and they only have one of those shitty English to German dictionaries you pick up at airports and they’re only getting half of what I’m saying.” I realize I’m rambling, almost ranting now.

  “And you want me to help?”

  “Yes.” I sigh. “You made me that present with all of my songs in it, written with sheet music.” I smile. “You can be my translator.”

  Myles sips his coffee and smiles again. “How are we going to explain this to Boo and Trei?”

  I shrug. “What needs explaining? You learned it at your old school. The end.”

  “Right.” he says, still smiling. “I learned to sight read at my old school.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” he says simply.

  “Okay. Let’s go then.”

  I hook my arm through his, suddenly excited to rehearse in the basement.

  Boo and Trei are already waiting when we get down to the practice room. They’re sitting side by side on the rug, studying torn out pieces of paper with all of our combined scribbles on them.

  “Hey guys.”

  “Hey,” they say in unison, without looking up.

  When Boo finally does, noticing Myles, he says politely, “Get out.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” I say, glancing at Myles, who doesn’t seem bothered at all.

  “No, Sophie,” Boo says. “No boyfriends while we’re in rehearsal mode.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

  Trei rolls her eyes before turning her attention to her violin case so she can tune her instrument.

  “I know,” I say. “But listen, Myles is here to help us practice.” Myles follows me into the room, sitting in a chair against the wall.

  “What do you mean, help us?” Boo asks.

  “Myles can read sheet music,” I say as I bend down to fish a notebook out of my bag. “So I’m going to tell him how I want to play it, then he’s going to write it down in a language you freaks can understand.”

  “You read music, Myles?” Trei asks, taking her chin away from her violin.

  Myles nods. “Yeah.” I hand the notebook and a pen to him and he opens it like he’s been doing this his whole life. “I used to do this a lot when I went to my old school.”

  “Where was that anyway?” Boo interrupts.

  “It was here in New York,” he answers without hesitation.

  “Okay,” I steal the conversation back, taking a seat behind the piano. “What do you want me to do?” I ask Myles.

  He opens the spiral notebook to a clean page, balancing it on his knee. “Just do what you guys normally do, I guess. I’ll figure it out.” He smiles.

  “Ugh,” Boo starts, “try not to get too distracted, Romeo. We’ve got work to do.”

  I stick my tongue out at Boo before turning my attention to Trei. “What song do you want to start with?”

  “Idioteque,” she answers immediately.

  “Oh great, so I have to use the guitar first,” Boo mock complains.

  “Are you going to bitch all day or are we going to start?” I shoot back with a smile.

  Boo stands, straps an acoustic guitar to his back, strumming it once to make sure it’s in tune. “Do it,” he dares, narrowing his eyes at me.

  “Well, I thought we could start the song out with guitar,” I explain to Myles before turning back to Boo. “Can you make it sound like this?” I ask as I play the first cord.

  Boo rolls his eyes. “Yeah. If you give me all day, I can maybe find that one specific cord and then try to make it resemble how you want it to sound.”

  “Play the rest of Boo’s part,” Myles’ voice comes from behind us. I pass him a glance, and he smiles before returning his attention back to the page.

  I play the next cord. And the next. They’re a series of short bursts, and they sound ridiculous played so slowly, but I do this through the whole song.

  When Boo’s section of the song is over, Myles says, “Okay. Now play Trei’s part.” He pauses. “You can play it at the normal speed if you want.”

  So I do.

  A series of sharp, quick sounds, a few cords thrown in every once in a while for the long violin riffs I know Trei likes. Myles scribbles away.

  “There,” he says to himself once the room has gone silent. Myles tears out some sheets, hands them to Boo and Trei. “That should be close.”

  “So we just play this,” Trei says, staring at the symbols on the page that I only barely understand. “And it’ll sound like how Sophie’s trying to describe it?”

  Myles nods, absolutely proud of himself and not trying to hide any of it. “It should.”

  And it happens.

  Boo starts slowly strumming the few chords Myles outlined for him, short, high pitched beats.

  “Like this, Right, Sophie?” Myles points at Boo as he starts to get more comfortable with the notes, letting them guide his fingers on the frets.

  “Uh huh,” barely leaves my mouth before Myles motions for Trei to come in.

  She follows the same notes Boo plays, then layers over them with long, lower sweeps.

  “And then your part happens about now?” Myles has to raise his voice in order for me to hear him, but I do, and then I start playing. I fill in the rest of the notes that Boo and Trei can’t capture.

  I close my eyes and let the music go on for too long befor
e singing the first verse.

  We never discussed how we would sing it, or when or how we would add in percussion, but Boo backs me up with slightly higher vocals over my low ones, and we switch, me high, him low, without even having to signal each other. By the second verse, I add in my own percussion by hitting the microphone with my open palm. One glance at my band-mates to make sure they’re cool with it. One, two nods from them, and so I do it again.

  This is really happening.

  Again and again.

  The lyrics change.

  Then, magically, we all stop at the same time right when I sing, here I’m alive, everything all the time.

  And we start back up.

  When the song begins to fade and get slower, we follow each other, making the notes softer until my voice stops, then the guitar, then the strings, until the last few notes are the first four cords I had originally played when the piano started. All mine.

  We’ve just practiced a song without any problems.

  “Holy fuck,” Boo says when the song is finally over.

  I snap out of my own little secret world with his words, and I glance around. Boo is chugging a water bottle, Trei is smiling widely, and Myles is laughing.

  “We should have done this forever ago,” Boo says after a huge gulp.

  “Yeah,” Trei says. “You were holding out on us, Myles!”

  Myles sheepishly smiles, “Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t think it would work that well.”

  Like hell he didn’t.

  “Do you guys want to play another one then?” I ask, already coming down from my piano high and craving more. Now.

  Boo and Trei glance at one another before nodding and saying, “Karma Police,” at the same time.

  We do this the same way, song in and song out. It’s easier when Boo is back at the drums, because I can just tap out his beat. It’s mainly the violin and guitar-heavy songs Myles really helps us with. It’s five o’clock and our rehearsal time is up, but we have a full set list for the Radiohead show in front of us in sheet music form.

  “Okay,” Boo says as we’re packing up. My head is still buzzing and warm. “We have to get going. We’re supposed to meet our dad in an hour and we’re already late.”

  “Thanks so much, Myles,” Trei says, snapping her violin in its case. “We owe you.”

  “Big time,” Boo agrees.

  Myles waves a hand in front of him. “It’s no problem.”

  Boo takes the sheets of paper in his hands and kisses them dramatically. “I’m going to frame each and every one of these.”

  Trei slaps him playfully on the arm. “We’ll see you when we get back from New Jersey?” Trei asks me. “So we can practice again?”

  “Sure,” I answer, aware for the first time that maybe I’m supposed to be a part of the conversation.

  They head out the door and up the stairs, which means Myles and I are now alone in the rehearsal room.

  He sits down next to me on the bench, smiling. “So,” he says.

  “That was awesome,” I blurt out. “You were amazing.”

  “No, I think it was mostly you.”

  I make a “psh” sound, nudging him in the knee.

  “I’m serious.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” I say, looking at him for a second before returning my fingers to the black and white keys in front of me. I don’t push down enough to make sound.

  “I can think of something,” Myles says, his hands coming to rest lightly on top of mine.

  I glance at him through the corner of my eye, instinct urging me to be scared, but my brain willing itself to not be at the same time. “Our time’s up,” I say.

  “We have time for one more song,” Myles says. “I promise.”

  “Really?”

  Myles nods.

  I shrug, trying to feign nonchalance when I’m really kind of nervous.

  “What song?” I ask, stalling.

  Myles’ lips graze the temple closest to him. “Any one you want.”

  “Okay.” I shrug out of his reach. “But you can’t do that. It’s distracting.”

  “Distracting?” Myles asks innocently, kissing my head now.

  I laugh. “Yes.”

  “Okay.” He stops, inching away to give me room.

  I start playing the only song I can think of at the moment, which is “High And Dry” by—shocker—Radiohead.

  I begin with just slow chords, keeping my voice light and soft for the most part, half because I like how it sounds, and half because I’m shy all of a sudden. Unlike when I usually play, tuning things out and only caring about the music, I find it almost impossible not to be aware of everything. The red and white stripes on the walls are blaring, demanding to be seen. The keys beneath my hands are like mirrors, reflecting back a dozen refracted images of my face. Myles’ hair brushes my shoulder as he leans in closer, and that’s almost enough to make me slip up, but I regain control.

  Eventually, I close my eyes. Evenly, like slipping into a lukewarm bath, the music drags me in and covers me, finally letting me into its world.

  By the last part of the song, my voice is full and loud, bouncing off the walls, matching the notes I play with my hands.

  I almost forget who is sitting next to me by the time it’s over, but he starts clapping.

  Mock-bowing, I try to regain my composure and pray that the heat I feel in my cheeks is just heat and not blushing.

  “That was amazing,” Myles notes.

  “Thanks,” I say, even if I don’t exactly believe him. He looks like he wants to add more, but I interrupt before he has the chance to say any other nice things about my music playing abilities. “You ready to go now?” I ask.

  Myles smiles, nodding and standing up as I follow him out the door.

  We head up the flight of stairs, Myles stopping when I continue up the second set. “What?” I ask.

  “Where are you going?” Myles asks

  “Why are you so 1800s?” I ask. “I’m walking you to your door. Deal with it.” I smile, then turn on my heel to continue up the stairs.

  Myles catches up to me in seconds. “Actually, it’s more 1600s than 1800s.”

  I understand he’s trying to joke, but the meaning can’t be missed. I’m reminded, whether or not it was done intentionally, that Myles is way, way older than me.

  But I only care for a minute.

  He flashes a smile in my direction, placing a hand on the small of my back. In an instant, the strangeness of our relationship is forgotten.

  “So,” I say when we’re at his door. Neither of us moves away from each other. I know that I don’t want to go home yet, but I feel stupid asking to be invited in.

  “So,” Myles says back, leaning against the wall. “Here we are. You have successfully walked me to my door.” He doesn’t so much as inch his hand toward the keys hanging on his belt loop.

  “I guess I did.” I smile. “I just wanted to thank you,” I say. “You know, for helping me out today, and patiently listening to us bicker and practice.” I laugh.

  “It wasn’t bad,” he says. “I had fun.”

  I laugh again, but I’m not sure why.

  “Are you okay?” Myles asks suddenly, slightly squinting his eyes like he’s focusing on something hidden behind mine.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Why?”

  “You seem…nervous.”

  I stare at my hands. “Yeah.” There’s no use in trying to hide it.

  “Would you like to come in?” he asks, thank God.

  I nod as he unlocks the door.

  Once we’re inside, Myles motions for me to sit down on the couch in the living room.

  “You hungry?” he asks just as Malakhi, who was sleeping on the couch, perks his head up in my direction.

  I nod again, only now realizing how hungry I am.

  Malakhi trots over to me, resting his huge head on my knee as I pet him.

  Myles smiles at the cuteness of his dog before asking, “Grilled cheese
okay?”

  “Sure.”

  He disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes, the sounds of the stove turning on and plates and cups clinking together ease my mind. Malakhi leaves my side to see what Myles is doing, possibly so he can get some food out of the deal, and without him here to pat, I’m not sure what I should do with my hands. I finally settle for smoothing my dress around my knees.

  We don’t talk much as we eat, and my uneasiness doesn’t really subside much when we’re done.

  I have no clue why I’m so nervous. Nothing has changed. It’s just Myles. He’s sweet and he’s not expecting me to do anything unless I want to.

  Then why does it suddenly feel like something in me has changed?

  Why do I find myself suddenly wanting. Wanting something to happen?

  “I never got to say how much I like your hair,” Myles says, tearing me away from my thoughts.

  I inspect a section of it between my fingers. It’s still shiny and the magenta, pink, and red are still vibrant. “Thanks,” I say.

  Now I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’m here, but I don’t exactly know why I wanted to be in the first place.

  So without much thinking at all, I lean my head against Myles’ chest, and his arm wraps around my shoulder without any hesitation. It feels natural; simple.

  “So what do you want to do?” he asks.

  I shrug. I’m actually pretty content with this. Not thinking about the weird crap going on, still riding my music high, happy in the arms of my boyfriend. I could just do this for the rest of the night.

  Myles places his hand on the side of my throat. I'm taken a little off guard, but I'm not uncomfortable. My hand automatically grasps onto his wrist anyway.

  “Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t move away, and I don’t exactly want him to. “I just want to. . .” he says, the palm of his hand pressing into the steady, thudding, rhythm in my neck. “I forget what it feels like sometimes,” he says into my ear.

  I swallow. “Having a pulse?”

  Myles nods. “Only,” the slight pressure on my neck lets up and his fingers trail lightly over my skin. “Sometimes when I'm with you, like this,” he indicates what he means by lightly squeezing my knee where his other hand rests. “I…kind of have one too.”