by Mimi Cross
“Here—” I slide the CD in question across the glass countertop. “Check it out.”
Again that smile, the halfway one.
I watch her as she pretends to examine the cover, read the lyrics. What’s up with her?
“Good lyrics, right?”
“Definitely. I need a copy. Please.”
Maybe it’s just this: Me, being at work. Her being a customer, instead of my sister’s babysitter, instead of a potential someone for me, instead of the almost desperate person she was the other day.
“Ah—sure.”
She follows me slowly down the steps. She is, I think, wrapped up in the music. The song that’s playing now shudders through the speakers with anxiety-inducing beauty.
Pulling a CD from a box near the front door, I say, “We’ve had the advance copy for a week, but the delivery just came in today. You’re lucky.”
“I’m not.” Her tone is sharp.
Suddenly, I remember how at school everyone calls Cate That Lucky Girl.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
But she’s talking over me, and I think, maybe, she is high.
“Not lucky. And not prepared. Luck meets preparedness, that’s the definition of success, and I was neither. Not lucky. Not ready. All those people listening . . . watching. And I just sat there, immobile, the notes reverberating inside my skull. They weren’t even the wrong notes! I didn’t even make a mistake. I just—stopped playing.”
“Hang on—”
“Did you hear about it? Because I’m sure Laurel told Dee, and Dee probably told the world. She hates me. So, did you? About my concert?”
“I didn’t.”
“And, now, I’m supposed to play again. A different kind of show maybe, but—I must be an idiot. Why would I want to get back onstage? Ever? I can’t—I don’t even have a guitar at this point. Still, I’ve got these bad-poem songlike things—” She sounds like she’s about to cry.
“Hey—” I start to reach for her.
“And there’s this guy, he’s in a band in the city . . .”
I let my arm drop. She keeps talking. But all I can hear now is her telling that guy, “Text me your address.”
“He said he’d help me, but he’s the only songwriter I know. What if he can’t? All the new stuff I’ve got—I’ve never played songs before, not songs with words, with lyrics. I can’t—”
“Hold up. You told me you didn’t play anymore.”
“Because I didn’t. I wasn’t. Playing. Not when we had that conversation. I quit. And I still quit, classical. But I can’t stop making music completely, that’d be like . . . dying or something.”
“Cate. You do realize I’ve never heard you play.”
“I know. It’s weird, in a way, that you haven’t. That Bryn hasn’t. Kimmy has.”
“Kimmy?”
“The few times your mom dropped her at my house, for whatever reason. Too much going on at your house, I guess. Kimmy always made me play for her.”
“What about me, will you play for me? Because if you have songs, I want to hear them.”
Cate looks up into my face, and there’s something there in her eyes, some expression I’ve never seen. Like clouds clearing. She looks younger all of a sudden, looks . . . so hopeful.
But suddenly her eyes fill with tears. Almost frantically, she looks around—
“Hey. It’s all right,” I reassure her. “I mean obviously it’s not all right, all the stuff that’s going on with you, but—”
A sob bursts through her lips.
And this time, I do reach out to her. My hand firm on her elbow, I guide her back up the stairs, past the glass case, through a door that opens into a small office. I watch her take in the walls plastered with promo posters, the green-velvet couch with ornately carved armrests shoved into the far end of the room, which isn’t far at all, because the space is tiny.
When I release her, she sinks down onto the couch cushions. I sit across from her on a swiveling chair. On the desk behind me, a laptop screen glows cyber yellow, the word “MELT” fading in and out, dissolving and re-forming in a sea of psychedelic swirls.
I pick up a box of tissues from the desk, hold it out to her. “Want a glass of water?”
She shakes her head, takes a tissue. I murmur something about crying, how it’s natural.
“You know all about it, huh?” She sounds like a bitchy girl with a cold.
“I know what it’s like to be sad, Cate.”
“Sad? No, it isn’t just—I’m not—I lost—” The last word lodges in her throat. At the same time, it seems to fill the room. Her chest hitches convulsively. I roll my chair closer.
Smoothing her hair back from her face, I say, “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. Things are going to be bad, for a while.”
She swipes at her eyes. I offer the tissues.
Then I lean over, reaching into the corner where an old acoustic stands like it’s waiting, and offer her that.
“Play me those ‘bad-poem songlike things,’ Cate. I’ll listen. And I’ll tell you the truth.”
SEX
CATE
And he does tell me the truth. Somehow his mere presence, just him sitting there, listening, tells me the truth. David listens to song after song and, miraculously, as I play them for him, I know which songs work and which don’t. It’s uncanny.
“You must be my muse,” I start to say, but then my heart plummets. Cal. Cal was my muse. “How can I thank you?” I ask instead.
He smiles his most beautiful David Bennet smile ever—is it possible to have more than one muse in a lifetime?—then offers to take me home.
At first we talk about the songs. “Cate, those songs are good, really good.”
But when we’re on Chapel, he reaches over and takes my hand, entwining our fingers.
I feel the pull all the way down in my pelvis.
“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” I blurt. Then feel like an idiot. He’s only holding my hand—I mean, that’s not nothing, but . . .
“I don’t.” David watches the road. His other hand is relaxed on the wheel.
But I’d heard that there was someone, a senior named Trish. Heard she and David had this thing, some epic on-off endless fling. Everybody knows her. I’ve seen her in the halls.
I feel weird but ask him: “So you broke off with Trish?”
“Tammy. Although we weren’t really—” He shakes his head, then kind of laughs. “I think you may have been there.”
And I do remember Tammy, slapping her hand against the glass. But in my mind’s eye I see the other girl, crouched in front of her locker last week, face crumpled and tear-streaked.
“But—weren’t you going out with Trish?”
David shifts slightly in his seat. “Before Tammy. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Not for the first time, I wonder if David knows just how wobbly I am. Does he know I do drugs? Okay, one drug, but still, does he know?
I wobble now, thinking of the few boys I dated, back at my old school. Wishing I could say “No, but I had a boyfriend.”
I think suddenly of Cal, wobble some more.
But the truth is, I’ve never had a boyfriend, not really. The boys from my old school? I was way too wobbly for them. And way too busy. I had my guitar.
“Cate, what are you thinking?”
I’m thinking, I wobble. I’m not like Trish, or Tammy. I’m thinking that I have trouble with words—finding the right ones—especially around you. Also, till not too long ago, I spent most of my waking hours with a guitar in my hands. Do you know what OCD is? Perfectionism?
I’m thinking that despite my songs and your praise, I’m still not ready to play out on my own. And that date that I can’t seem to cancel is soon, so I’m screwed.
I’m thinking I might be done playing classical guitar.
I’m a songwriter now, because playing my songs in f
ront of you made them real.
I’m a songwriter now. I am a writer.
“I—I’m thinking a lot of things.” I have songs. Someone’s heard them. David’s heard them—he works in a music store, he knows music—he says they’re good!
“Okay, well . . . tell me one thing. I want to get to know you better.”
“Seems like you want to get to know a lot of girls. Or, I mean, it seems like you do know a lot of girls.” Oh—I sound nasty, and petty, and jealous, not flirty at all, like I’d wanted to.
David runs a long-fingered hand through his hair, but as soon as he pulls his hand away, the hair flops right back down, falling into his eyes. I imagine that’s what happens with girls. No sooner does he get tired of one than another fills her place.
“There’s nothing wrong with getting to know people,” he says, his brow creasing.
“But you sleep with them all!” The words spill out in sort of a wail. Can I die now?
The furrow along his brow vanishes. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Well, jeez, I mean, I’m not judging but—”
“I think you are. There’s nothing wrong with having sex.”
“Having sex,” I say flatly.
“Making love, whatever you want to call it. I’ve heard the rumor that the two are different, but . . .” He glances at me. “Whatever you call it, there’s nothing wrong with it.”
God, I’m so embarrassed—and angry, too, although I’m not exactly sure why. But then I know why. It’s because what David is saying is true. There isn’t anything wrong with having sex, I really don’t think so, but I haven’t slept with anyone yet. Despite that, I’m very sure there’s a difference between having sex and making love. Very sure that there are a lot of . . . things that are supposed to happen right along with sex, in the same way words can be flat but loaded.
My face feels hot and I know it’s because I’m talking about sex like I’ve had it, and I haven’t, but I would have, I think. If I hadn’t moved, hadn’t left my old school . . . if I had kept seeing one of those boys. I went to parties where couples slipped off, and I thought about one boy in particular. Not because what we had was so special, but because I was—I am—curious. He was nice, and nice-looking, and he made me laugh. So I guess that means that, eventually, I might have been happy to “have sex” with him—it definitely wouldn’t have been making love—so I . . . am a hypocrite.
“Cate. We all make mistakes.” It takes me a second to realize David’s talking about himself. “Some mistakes are fun. They don’t feel like mistakes at the time, you know? Others, well, maybe not so much. Not so fun. Sometimes, people get hurt. And, sometimes, people who are hurt, hurt you back. They lash out.”
“As in, they gossip?”
“For one thing. Yeah. Maybe. Why, what have you heard?”
“Plenty,” I say. And all of a sudden I’m laughing. “Lots and lots of stories.”
“Stories? About me?”
Oh my god, does he really not know? Suddenly, I feel like the biggest jerk. “Well, um—”
“Kidding. I know the stories you’re talking about, but believe it or not, most of them aren’t true. I haven’t ‘dated every girl in the senior class.’ I haven’t slept with all of them, either. But, yes, I’ve dated a few people—okay, a lot of people—and, well, things went where they went. It was never a big deal.”
Trish crying in the hallway that one day, crouching next to her locker like something had burst inside her—that was never a big deal? Huh. And Tammy? The way she walks around looking like a thundercloud. Everyone knows that’s about David. Was that also “never a big deal”?
But maybe he’s not trying to convince me. Maybe he’s trying to convince himself.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “You seem so . . . nice.”
“I am.” He shrugs. “I’m nice, but I’m not going to stay with someone if it doesn’t feel right, if it doesn’t feel good. Even if they cry.” He scowls. “And especially not if they slap me.”
In front of my house, he kills the engine, rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I don’t know. But it’s . . . something. It’s like . . . I’m wondering lately, where have I been? That’s why I broke up with Tammy, and why . . .” His eyes rove over my face. “I think I’ve been an idiot.”
“Does this have to do with what happened in Canada?”
I know it’s not possible, but it feels like the air in the car has grown colder.
Now David squeezes the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white.
“I don’t want to talk about Canada.”
The tight tone, the hard expression on his face—it’s as if a door has closed.
David looks different all of a sudden. Not the old David or the new one. For the first time, I see his resemblance to his father, a man who, for some reason, I’ve never liked.
I open the passenger door, but I don’t get out.
Then David says good night—that’s it, two words—and I do.
The driveway is slick with slushy snow. I half walk, half slide toward the house.
I’m nearly at the front door when David gets out of the Porsche. “Hey, Cate.”
“You following me?” I call out. I’d intended my tone to be light, but my voice sounds as if I’m being strangled. My emotions have me in a chokehold. Still, I walk back to the car.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I don’t know . . .” He glances at the maples that line the drive, no leaves to keep the slushy snow out, but big branches that hang over us and block the lion’s share. “Didn’t mean to freeze you out. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
I’m not okay. But I wasn’t okay before. Now I wonder . . . he took my hand earlier, would he take more, if I offered?
David obviously views sex as a form of entertainment, and I’m curious. Would it be more entertaining than the bump of ketamine I’d been planning to do once I got inside?
Maybe David can help me forget, just for a little while, the reasons I even do K.
A few fat flakes catch on David’s eyelashes. They’re my excuse. I reach up— and gently wipe them away.
“I’m okay,” I lie, letting my fingers trail over his cheekbone, the line of his jaw.
He catches my hand, his expression unreadable.
I move closer. “Your skin’s freezing.”
“So is your hand.” He releases it.
David’s hair is wet from the snow and the sleet. Now I slip my fingers up the back of his neck, finding a layer of dry silkiness.
He closes his eyes—
Only to open them an instant later. “Cate,” he says. And I’m reminded of that day, when he made my name sound like something special. Now it sounds like disappointment. His eyes say, “Anything you want.” But his words say something different, even as he dips his head and I think he’s going to kiss me.
“I’m just wondering if this is a good idea. You seem . . . I don’t know.”
The thing is, even as he’s saying all this, one of his hands moves to the back of my neck. The other slips inside my coat. Now his fingers find my waist, the bottom edge of my sweater. He draws me against him, holding me tightly.
“Mmm . . .” My voice is muffled against his chest, and his arms around me feel so good. Couldn’t I just tell him? I want to turn this night over to my body, get the hell out of my head. Couldn’t I just ask him? Can I do that with you?
But people don’t say those things—do they?
My mother . . . maybe she had the right idea. “I just wanted to get out.”
Could I ever ask David if he’s felt that way?
But in the end I just go for it. I loop my arms around his neck.
Then I tilt my face up— for a kiss.
DRUGS
DAVID
Cate lifts her lips— I step back.
She follows, rising up on tiptoe— leaning into me.
It’s an awkward dance, and in ano
ther step or two, I’m up against the Porsche.
“Cate. You need to stop.”
“Why?”
What she does next can’t really be described as kissing me, more like devouring my mouth. Her lips are warm and soft, and the feeling I get as our tongues twine is liquid, goes all the way down to my toes. But this is not a first kiss, maybe not a kiss at all. Still my body responds, which might be the worst thing about this. I pull away.
“Cate, I know where you’re at, but you’re going to feel differently later. We can do this some other time, if it’s right. I like you a lot, but—”
“But?” She slides her hands under my coat, my sweater, my shirt, lifts her own shirt a little so that I feel the smooth skin of her stomach as she presses against me.
I start to push her away—
But my hands catch somehow, my thumbs drilling her hip bones.
Her eyes darken, her cheeks pink. She laughs—a giddy high-pitched sound that isn’t really a laugh but revved-up nerves or something. Is she high?
She tips her face up—
It’s hard to put her off, when it’s the exact opposite of what I want. But this isn’t how I’d imagined things. Not with Cate.
I grab her shoulders, spinning her around so our positions are reversed, and it’s her against the car. She smiles, and it’s a smile I’ve never seen on Cate’s sweet-sixteen face.
The air, which I’d magically become numb to, suddenly feels cold again.
“Don’t you get it?” My voice comes out rough. I don’t mean it to, but damn.
“Um—” She bites her lower lip a little. “Guess I don’t.”
But I see the realization cross her face. See the moment she becomes aware that I’d only been trying to give her a hug.
I blow out a breath. “Listen, I know something about what you’re going through. I was a kid when my brother . . . killed himself. Later, like I told you, I chased his ghost. But when I stopped . . . I started chasing other things. Not at first. At first it was easy to get to that place, where it all went away. But then it got harder, became work, until I was chasing the dragon.”
“What does that mean?”