by Ash Parsons
As the last chord fades into silence, I don’t hit Stop, just keep filming as Ty stands there, statue still, waiting in the moment, like the fading note will magic something for him as the song ends.
The he drops his head, floppy dark blond hair curtain-falling into his eyes.
That’s when I stop.
Ty returns the guitar to its stand. “We should put it online. Just for us. So I can refine it later.” Ty falls onto the sofa near my feet. “I’ll set it for private.”
I watch the video play.
“It’s really good, Ty.” Now I’m smiling.
He’s good, and he’s pure, and he’s Shu’s kid brother.
But he’s his own person, only a year younger than me. Sixteen, only just. His birthday fell when I was ignoring him, ignoring everyone.
“Put it online,” Ty says, lifting his head, looking at me. “I just don’t want her version to be what everyone thinks of as ‘Orpheus’s Last Lyric.’” He shakes his head. “Not that mine is, but hers . . .”
“I get it, Ty. I really do. Let’s post it.”
Ty sits up. I give him my phone and scoot beside him, watching as he logs in to his YouTube account and loads it.
“It’s not like I have any followers or anything,” Ty says. “I’m on there as BikeRTy. Just a few people will see it, maybe. I mostly post dirt track videos.” He shrugs.
“Ty, it’s cool. I need it to be there, too.”
“Okay.”
It doesn’t matter who sees it. Or who doesn’t. We know we did it. That’s all.
I finally feel good about something.
16
DESPERATE OR WANTING
I get some Oreos, and Ty changes out the disc for some superhero movie. All bashes and crashes and cities being destroyed.
I’m not really watching. It’s late and I close my eyes. My head must loll sideways on the back of the couch, because I jerk it up, feeling for an instant like I’m falling.
“So graceful,” Ty teases. Then he slides closer and guides my head onto his shoulder. “Here.”
I stay there. It’s not uncomfortable, and it’s easy to just slip into and out of sleeping, opening and closing my eyes as the movie goes on without me.
I don’t realize that we’re both sleeping until we topple sideways on the sofa.
I land on Ty’s side, along his ribs and arms, as his head whumps onto the sofa cushion.
“Whoops,” I say.
Ty shifts, rolling fully onto his back on the sofa. He gently pulls his arm out from under me as he moves slightly away. Hair is sticking up on one side of his head.
He smiles and suddenly looks bashful. That smile, all innocence and open heart. His eyes when they find mine look like Joshua’s, the same shape, the same color, but no shifting shadows inside, no sleepless smudges beneath. Ty’s eyes smile at me, and I see the emotion in them like it’s words written on the page.
His fingers brush softly up my arm.
I feel my breath catch.
This is not the Ty I remember.
But I’m not the same girl who grew up with him, but never really saw him. Who left when everything changed.
And that’s when he changed. Grew up.
It’s a time-stop moment. A breath-hold moment, the time stretch, two points coming together—the paper folding back on itself—
The moment before, and the moment after.
I am almost frozen as well, except I’m breathing faster than I was. Without closing my eyes, I move my face closer to his.
My fingers slide over his cheek and through the sandy hair behind his ear before pulling behind the curve of his neck.
With my eyes open, I watch as he obeys my hand, lifting his lips to mine.
We look at each other.
His lips are chapped and hesitant. They meet mine, but slowly, like a butterfly landing.
It makes me angry. I do not want to be kissed gently.
It’s not wrong, that I’m kissing him, but it’s not romance. It may not ever be simple when we kiss, but it isn’t impure. And it’s not this fragile thing, either.
So I press my lips hard, feeling his give. I open my mouth and press in—my teeth click against his.
He’s still frozen, except now he’s kissing me back.
My tongue sweeps into his mouth as I reposition myself over him, lifting to be able to reach him better.
Ty’s hands grab my upper arms, closing and urging, so I straddle him. Pull with the hand behind his head. Our teeth click again, but he’s doing what I want.
He sits up under me, arms reaching around my back. I keep my hold on his head, pulling his mouth into mine as he strokes a hand up my back and into my hair.
His lips are trying to go soft again, his hands slowing.
I make an impatient sound, so he can hear, and press my firm lips into his too-soft ones.
He’s a fire under my skin, a roar of noise and urge. Nothing else matters. Not who I am, not who he was, and not—
I freeze, still pressed to him but motionless, my brain a storm of confusion and anxiety.
I pull back, because what do I even know about what I want?
What about Ty? Here I am, mauling him, because I don’t want to feel.
What does he want?
“Rox?” Ty looks up at me, hands still on my back and under my hair. Then they lift slightly.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
He watches my face for a moment, and I don’t know what to do with my eyes. Don’t know what to do with how they fill with tears.
“I’m okay, too.” Ty’s words, wry, but true.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, uselessly, brushing my index finger under my eyelashes. He’s searching my eyes like he’s looking for something there.
“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “I’m not.”
He leans in slowly, and this time I close my eyes. When we kiss again, it’s good, hungry and slow, but not soft, and not demanding, just wanting.
Maybe we can be this for each other, together becoming something, anything, other than who we are when we are alone.
We kiss and touch, gently, for a long while, and then we stop, not moving past this first step, this first place of more-than-friends.
Ty lifts his head from my shoulder and smiles up at me. He yawns and then nudges me off the sofa onto the floor. Ty reaches over me to snag the blanket and throws it over us. He stretches again and gets his pillow.
We huddle together, sharing the pillow and blanket.
We stare into each other’s eyes, shy, like a glance could speak.
“I guess that wasn’t a good idea?” Ty says, but his expression says differently.
“I don’t know that it was an idea at all,” I answer, giving us absolution in truth.
Ty smiles at me, that open-sky smile.
“Let’s make a deal.” He smooths light fingers over my hair. “Let’s not think about any of it.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Sure. Make it a trend.”
Ty doesn’t laugh. “I’m serious.” He drops his hand off me and rolls onto his back. “Can we just not think about it? Just . . . I don’t know, enjoy it?”
I can’t tell if he is trying to hold on to what happened and is afraid of me killing it.
Or if he’s afraid of judging himself.
“Okay,” I say. “Hey. Yeah. Let’s not think about it.” I touch his forearm.
“Good.” He doesn’t open his eyes as he lifts the arm, an invitation for me to rest against his chest. “Let’s get some sleep, then. I’m wiped.”
“Good plan,” I say. But I can’t put my head there, on his chest, like how I used to—
I push his arm down and curl next to him, putting my chin on the top of his shoulder. I drape an arm over his, across his
stomach, and squeeze.
We fall asleep with the blanket over us and the TV on.
If Livie comes home, I don’t hear her. And under the blanket, if she saw me at all, she’d just see a girl, not me.
Which is true, in a way.
In the morning, even though we made a deal, I can’t help thinking about it. Ty’s holding on to me, with us like spoons. His arm is wrapped around my middle.
It’s hot and too bright in the room. I creep out from under his arm and try to sweep the chip bits back into the empty bag, gather the trash, and look around for a trash can.
“Hey.” Tyler watches me from the floor. His face is open and relaxed.
I slip a smile on, but it feels rigid.
The corners of his mouth drop slightly when he sees it.
“Hey,” I say. “Morning.” I wave a hand at the windows where the sun shines in, like a cop’s flashlight.
“You hungry?” Ty stands. “I could make toaster waffles. Or there’s cereal.”
He looks older, looks my age, until he smiles.
“Yeah, but I should get home. Grandma might worry.”
Ty’s eyes cut to me. But he doesn’t call me on it. How Grandma generally can’t keep track of a cat, much less me.
How Grandma let me leave school and go on tour with my boyfriend.
“Okay,” he says.
We pull our shoes on in silence. I peg the legs of my tac pants over my Docs.
Ty reaches into the coat closet and hands me the spare helmet.
“Ty, I’m sorry—” I start.
“No harm, no foul. I’m not thinking about it,” he says. Even though he doesn’t look into my eyes. Even though I can see how hard he’s gripping his helmet.
He yanks the back door open. We walk down the porch steps and climb onto the dirt bike.
He jumps on the starter, revving with his wrist while the bike is out of gear. I climb on and grab on to his stomach, clutching tight as he drops into gear, the rear tire sliding and leaving a streak on the driveway.
The bike shoots around the front of the house, where the driveway curves in a semicircle to the front door.
It’s then we see the black limousine.
And Artie, impatiently waving off the chauffer’s hand as she climbs out. Her hair perfect, her suit severe, her stilettos red-soled.
She hears us when we see her. Ty skids to a stop, throwing out both legs to hold us.
Artie says something into the phone clamped to her head and turns to us. She stalks over, and it’s like a strange dream—how she’s here—unannounced—and for a split second I think, They’ve found him. Joshua’s alive. Of course he is, since I just made out with his little brother, this isn’t real, it’s fan fiction, and so of course now they find him—he was in a coma and now—
The voice in my head jabbers incessantly, even though I know it’s not true—even though I can see that Artie is frowning, even though I can see that she’s furious.
I still feel it, the chattering voice inside me feels it, like a punch in the chest, the zombie death of that stupid, irrational hope.
“Cut that thing off!” Artie yells at Ty.
Ty cuts the engine and pulls his helmet off. I take mine off too.
Artie isn’t surprised it’s me. Just stabs a finger at both of us, each phrase its own separate statement.
“What,” she says, through gritted teeth. “The hell. Were you. Thinking.”
17
THE JOSHUA BLACKBIRD EXPERIENCE
Someone found Ty’s version of “Orpheus’s Last Lyric.”
Then over a million more people found it. In about two hours, Ty’s YouTube video had gone viral.
Since she’d negotiated the tribute artist deal, and since Artie was the executor of the Joshua Blackbird Estate, and just because she was Artie, she was pissed.
Unless Ty was willing to record his version for the tribute album. If he’d get into a studio tomorrow, the day after, but it better be soon or so help me . . .
“Do you think anyone will even buy the album I put together? Not with Joshua’s brother’s version out there!”
Artie paces in Livie’s dream mansion.
Livie sits on the sofa, chewing on her nails. Livie and I for once exchange the same shell-shocked expressions.
Déjà vu. This is how it started with Joshua, more or less.
Ty looks as shocked as we do, but he doesn’t look as scared. Instead he cuts one of those sky-wide smiles at me. I see knowledge in his glance. An emotion I can’t name.
Satisfaction, a we did it! exultation in his gaze. No matter what happens next, no matter that Artie is trying to shove him on a life-changing roller coaster, all he sees is the message got out. Joshua’s words, as much as we could understand them.
I can’t help but smile back at him for the collusion of this accident, this fated song.
Ty’s tribute.
“What are you two idiots smiling about?” Artie snaps. “You should have called me. Forget that—you should have picked up the phone when I called you!”
It’s then I see the tribute album in a sympathetic light. Artie’s coping mechanism. I had the Internet, the Birdies, and the fics.
Ty had working on the song. Trying to find a sound for it, his brother’s words and his own grief.
Artie had putting the tribute album together.
Artie falls into a chair. “You should have told me,” she says to Ty. “I let Speed’s tribute band on. And your version is actually good.”
“I didn’t think anyone would care,” Ty says.
Artie starts to laugh, a gentle, jagged sound. “You idiot,” she says, but her voice is soft. “You’re the little brother of the biggest pop star on the planet. Of course everyone cares. And you can sing.” Artie waves her hand generously. “I mean, your voice isn’t bad.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You know what I’m saying.”
The inevitable silence every time we think of Joshua and his perfect, inimitable voice. Like he’s a silent ghost watching us. Hearing his voice in our heads, every memory that cuts.
“Sorry,” Artie finally says. “That was rude of me.”
“It’s okay,” Ty says.
Ty actually wants to do it, and I can’t ask him, here in front of the others, if what he wants is the tribute album or something more, because to ask pollutes what Artie is positioning, selling, as a pure motive.
A tribute to his dead brother, the tragic star Joshua Blackbird.
Selling the story.
And I can’t help remembering Ty visiting the tour all those times. Visiting during recording the albums. Before Livie came to pick him up and took Ty with her, back home to their new McMansion, and wouldn’t let him come visit again.
I remember Ty’s face all those times. Glowing with hero worship for his big brother, one thing that never changed.
Ty always looked up to Shu, who looked after him in return.
Then when Joshua became famous, it was as if the whole world saw what Ty already knew: he had the coolest brother there ever was.
Now Ty has his own chance to feel the burn of the spotlight.
By the time Artie leaves, she’s booked time in an Atlanta recording studio for Ty to record “Orpheus’s Last Lyric.”
Ty and I stand in the driveway by the dirt bike, watching as the limousine pulls through the gates, past the few Birdies who stand looking up at the house.
Ty gets on the bike and picks up his helmet.
“How do you feel about it?” I ask.
Ty hands me the spare helmet. It felt like a thing that could be mine, before. Now it just feels like something for someone.
Anyone.
“What are we talking about?” Ty studies the face mask of his helmet as if he will find a diamond lodged in the p
rotective plate.
For a split second, I’m confused. The hesitation is damning.
“That’s what I thought.” Ty pulls his helmet on, and I can’t see his full expression now, except for his eyes, which won’t look at me.
“Ty, wait, I was asking about the song, not last night. You said we shouldn’t even think—”
The high rev of the dirt bike engine startles me into silence.
Ty still doesn’t look at me. He gestures at the bike seat behind him.
I climb on, and I don’t know what to do with my hands. I place them at his hips, then lift one to his shoulder.
Ty grabs my floating-for-purchase hand and pulls it around him. He reaches for my other hand and pulls it to the first, leaving his hands over mine, for just a moment.
I’m pressed against his back. He’s pulled my hands so tight, I’m hugging him.
He revs the engine, and I squeeze so he knows I’m ready.
He takes off down the driveway, slowing only enough to dart out the opening gate.
A few Birdies scream at him.
Have they seen the video?
If the song keeps blowing up, what will happen? What does Ty want to happen?
We fly through the residential streets and back roads, Ty taking a slightly different route back to Grandma’s.
I promise myself I’ll think about why he wanted to take a longer drive later.
But then we’re there, at my house, and Ty rides up the driveway, skidding to a stop at the top, catching us on his leg.
The front door is open behind the screen. Because it’s nearing lunchtime, Grandma thinks it’s time to air the house. It’s something she always did back when we lived in a tin box on blocks, prop open the door and let out the heat.
Before I can climb off, Ty squeezes my hands again. Then he lets go and leans forward, away from me, putting his hands on the handlebars.
I get off the bike and turn to him. “Ty—”
“We made a deal, Roxy,” he says. “Sorry I couldn’t stick to it.”
Then he revs the engine and accelerates down the driveway, like a rocket leaving the orbit of a planet it hates.
It’s been fifteen hours, but I walk back in like it’s been five minutes.