It took me less than fifteen minutes to get to Thomas Street by cab. There was hardly any traffic. I hummed the Who’s “My Generation” to myself the whole way. A glorious new phase of my summer employment was about to begin. Mrs. Abrahmson would finally invite me inside the hallowed sanctuary of her apartment. She would show me her tambourine, and we would analyze her husband’s best Zep bootlegs….
But none of that happened.
Mrs. Abrahmson simply opened the door—iPhone against her cheek—handed over the dogs, and shut me back out with a smirk, as if to say, Don’t screw up again.
That was it.
When I got to the dog run, Emma was nowhere to be seen, either.
I sat down on the bench and checked my watch. It was a little past 12:30.
The dogs settled into a heap at my feet and abruptly began to snore. I peered into the brown paper bag my mom had handed me on the way out the door: a tuna sandwich, soy chips, and a Poland Spring.
I should have been hungry. I hadn’t eaten yet. I should have been a lot of things: worried, freaked out, sorrowful, upset, bothered, angry, curious. But I was none of the above. I was an empty glass. Even my old pal Jim Forbes had disappeared. Maybe there was nothing left to say.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It’s a Joke of a Life
My mood only got progressively stranger, my metaphorical glass as empty as could be, until I shambled home from the midday dog walk.
Then, well…everything changed.
Emma was in my bed. When I trudged up the stairs and opened my bedroom door, I found her there—stretched leisurely out on top of the covers, barefoot, in a flowery spaghetti-strap sundress. Her head was propped up against my pillows…and what do you think she was doing? Well, well, well. That Emma Wood. Reading my stolen copy of Diary of My Life on the Lam, by Gabriel Stern.
She glanced up from the pages.
Neither of us spoke.
“I read the whole thing,” she blurted out.
For whatever reason, that lit the fuse. Ka-boom. It wasn’t just a laugh attack. It was a breakdown. It hurt. I understood what the term “sidesplitting” meant now. It came in waves. Just when I thought I was getting a grip, I’d look at her lying there, and the hysterics would start all over again. We must have laughed for two straight minutes.
“Good lord,” she gasped once it was over. “Listen, Hen, let’s make a pact, all right? Let’s not talk about this diary right now.” She tossed it onto my nightstand. It bounced off the clock radio and fell to the floor, facedown.
A final giggle escaped my lips. I nodded and took another deep breath. “Deal.”
She heaved a shaky sigh of relief. “Good man.”
“Emma, do you think I’ve changed since Sarah came back and disappeared again?” I asked suddenly. That wasn’t how I planned on starting a new conversation. But the question popped out of my mouth, so we were forced to work with it.
“Why? Did your dad say something? He told me I should come up here and make myself at home.”
I shook my head. “No, no. It’s just…”
“That’s what’s bothering you?” Emma asked.
“Actually, what’s really bothering me is that Bartholomew Savage quit our band.”
She looked puzzled. “Because you’ve changed?”
“Among other reasons, I guess,” I muttered.
“Oh, well. That’s too bad. He’s cute.”
I pursed my lips, annoyed. We weren’t here to discuss Bartholomew Savage’s effect on Emma’s libido. This was my room. If she was going to invite herself in and read my stolen merchandise without permission, then she was not allowed to talk about anybody who was cooler, younger, and better looking than me.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll change his mind. You just got unlucky with the crowd last night. If they’d let all his friends in, he wouldn’t be so upset. You guys sounded amazing. That’s the important thing. Really.”
“Thanks.” Maybe she was right. Only now I wasn’t so sure that Bartholomew Savage would return. And we needed him back. No label would ever sign a bass and guitar duo, would they? Of course not. I hadn’t been thinking straight. I’d just been high on the recording. Finding a replacement would be impossible. Drummers in New York were like cabdrivers: only one out of every hundred was competent, English speaking, or drug free. We couldn’t afford to lose him.
“Have a seat, Hen,” Emma said gently, slapping the mattress.
I crawled onto the bed and stretched out beside her, staring at the ceiling.
She nudged me with her elbow. “Come on. What’s really bothering you?”
I lifted my shoulders a little but was thinking: Nothing ever works out the way I see it in my head. Mrs. Abrahmson had slammed the door in my face yet again. Our drummer hated my guts. Petra would kick me out of the band way before she kicked out Bartholomew Savage. She’d probably kick me out today, in fact. Anxiety crept over me; I felt a sudden compulsion to give our demo to Emma’s dad today, this afternoon, now.
But why? Did I really, truly believe deep down that he could get Dawson’s Freak a recording contract? For the past few weeks, I’d based every move I’d made on the absurd premise that becoming a rock star would bring Sarah back and make my family normal again (or close enough). It wasn’t laughable—it was psychotic. I was slipping deeper and deeper into the abyss, and I knew it.
“Can I tell you something?” Emma murmured. “When I left the dog run yesterday, I noticed another dog walker on her way in—a girl with a bunch of little puppies. She was our age, kind of an indie-rock chick, and she had a Steal Your Parents’ Money pin on her hat. I was thinking: What’s her story? Is she in a band, too? Is she a wannabe artist? A fauxhemian? Is she writing a memoir about how she’s the actual unsung mystery genius behind that slogan?”
“Everybody’s the actual unsung mystery genius behind that slogan,” I mumbled.
“I know. But it’s like, everybody wants to be famous—but nobody has that thing that is gonna push them over the top…that aura, that drive, whatever. And when I saw you guys last night—even though nobody was there, even though you might not have been happy with how it went—I just saw that you had it. And this girl didn’t. I could just tell. Don’t ask me how. But something big will happen to you sooner or later, Hen. I’m not just saying that. I’m not being sarcastic, either. I haven’t had a single beer. I really believe it.”
I tried to muster a smile. I felt like crying all of a sudden. Emma was a bottomless pit of goodwill. How could she volunteer at a homeless shelter—a job she’d gotten solely for my benefit, no less—deal with her insane father, listen to my messed-up ramblings…and still manage to be so sweet?
“I didn’t say it was going to be easy,” she teased.
“I know,” I said. “But it’s funny. Something weird happened to me just now. Mrs. Abrahmson told me that she named her dogs after members of Led Zeppelin and the Who. Mrs. Abrahmson. And I was, like, whoa—this is a sign, an omen that amazing things are on the horizon, that there’s this connection, that my family will finally tell me—” I stopped midsentence. I didn’t even know what I was trying to say.
Emma laughed. “You think that’s something new?”
“What do you mean?”
“Hen, you see signs and omens in everything. That’s the way you are.”
“Is that bad?” I asked nervously.
“It’s cute.”
I wasn’t sure if I liked that adjective. It was the second time she’d used it.
She patted my knee. “You see these connections, and you believe in them, and that’s what makes them real.”
Her fingers stayed put. I watched them there, comfortably nestled in the folds of my corduroys.
My thoughts drifted, billowed by Emma’s closeness. I thought about that letter she’d written Petra. I thought about Hen Birnbaum’s Super-Awesome Nineties Nostalgia Mix!!! I thought about how she’d found the stolen manuscript because she knew exactly where t
o look, and how she was sure we’d have a blast going to that stupid Journey concert with her parents, because we would. “The Age of Aquarius” hummed quietly in my brain.
I tilted my head slightly. Her eyes were closed. A soft, inviting smile played on her lips.
That dress!
My pulse quickened. Was it? Yes…it was. The same dress from my dream. My God. Was the Unseen Hand tapping my shoulder? It had to be.
There was a connection between reality and my dream life.
This was real. Nothing had ever felt more real. Here we were, alone in my room, side by side on my bed, joined together…. Gabriel was right.
Indescribable warmth washed over me.
Gabriel was right.
I felt it: that 100 percent certainty he knew I’d have if we’d made eye contact while I was onstage. Only now there was no wall of make-believe between us. Her eyes were closed, but that was even better. I wanted to kiss her. I had to. She was waiting for it; I could tell. That smile! It was no accident, either. We’d only joked with the troglodytes to mask the truth. It was destiny. I needed to forget about all the crap in my life—not only everything that was going on with Sarah and my parents and Petra and the band…I needed to forget every preconceived notion I ever had about Emma.
Now was the time. This moment. Now, before it got too late or too weird or impossible, just like Gabriel said it would. She wanted me to.
Look at her lying there, waiting! She’s my best friend…
I leaned over. I closed my eyes. My lips pressed softly against hers. They melted against mine. She kissed me back—
“Hen, stop,” she breathed.
My heart galloped. I could barely hear her.
“Stop.” She pulled away. “Stop. Stop.”
And then it was over. Just like that.
The kiss lasted five seconds, ten at most. No time at all. But it was enough. CAUTION: POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS. I’d done it. I’d broken the tape, the seal protecting the one taboo that had been alluded to and avoided and joked about and danced around for our entire lives. Today. Here. Now.
The problem was, Emma did something I never, ever imagined she would do.
She started sobbing.
No, no, no. This was all wrong.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her lips were trembling. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Who was I kidding? I hadn’t just imagined this exact scenario in a few dreams; I envisioned it a thousand times awake. Really, if I were honest with myself, I thought about it almost every day; I just buried it on autopilot. And it was always perfect. It always transcended any comparison with a scene from a book or a film or a song I’d enshrined in my private pantheon—because it was better, something timeless, something (if a comparison had to be made) along the lines of Jimmy Stewart smooching with Donna Reed in It’s a Wonderful Life.
So what was going on? Frank Capra would not approve. But then, this was another movie entirely: It’s a Joke of a Life, starring Henry Birnbaum—written, directed, and produced by the same.
“Emma, I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
She shook her head and sniffed, clumsily scooting to the foot of the bed.
“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice quavering.
“Emma, I didn’t mean—”
“No, no, no, I’m just confused,” she cut in. “That’s all. It’s Gabriel’s diary. It’s everything. I get so bugged out and I don’t even know—”
“No, no, it’s my fault!” I cried. “I had this dream. I mean…” I hesitated, teetering on the brink of saying: I don’t even like you that way. But that was worse than a dopey, pitiful lie; it was evil. I was just looking for an excuse: anything to take back what I’d done, anything to erase the moment. What was I thinking? Emma wasn’t attracted to me! Dreams or no dreams, there was no destiny involved. She put her hand on my knee because she’s my best friend. At most, she’d been making a joke. A joke!
I’d never felt more disgusting. I was covered in slime. I’d forced my sloppy lips on hers—upon the lips of Emma Wood, my neighbor, my pal, my sort-of sister! Eww. Forget shame, forget travesty, forget apocalypse…there isn’t a word for it. If the Unseen Hand were present, it was giving me the finger.
“It’s not you, Hen.” Emma sniffled, avoiding my eyes. “It’s me. Really. I always cry for no reason when I’m confused.” She wiped her nose and glanced back at me, trying to smile. “Nothing happened.”
My mouth opened, but no words would come. Nothing happened? Did she really mean that? And the worst part: She’d used the same moronic cliché that she ridiculed the night Petra broke up with me. “It’s not you; it’s me.” The excuse that belonged in heinous pop songs written by fools. Meaningless. Beyond meaningless.
She bolted for the door.
“Emma, wait!” I shouted.
“Nothing happened!” she called back, scrambling down the stairs. Her footsteps echoed through the house, faster and faster—
Before I could shout her name again, the front door slammed.
PART III
The Surprise Twist That I Probably Should Have Seen Coming
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Perfect Timing
Didn’t I say I was entitled to a little self-pity every now and then? Good. Now how about a little Behind the Music style melodrama to go with it?
Jim Forbes, take it away. (Cue deafening orchestral soundtrack here) “Hen Birnbaum: A walking tragedy. A cripple, to whom the bully’s rule of the playground no longer applied. The proverbial arm had been hacked off. Only a bloody stump remained for that day and that long, long night: a fitting tribute to the Emma kiss-but-not-a-kiss. Forget rap rock bottom. Not even I, Jim Forbes himself, could do the poor wretch any justice.”
There you have it.
Some details: I couldn’t sleep (big shocker). I told Mom and Dad I had the stomach flu, and then switched the diagnosis to food poisoning (grosser and more incapacitating, so they’d leave me alone). I emailed Mrs. Abrahmson to say that I couldn’t walk or feed her dogs anymore (good riddance). I left Gabriel a voice mail letting him know I was taking a break from bass lessons (at midnight, when I knew he’d be asleep). I sat at my computer in a daze, waiting for Emma to email or text or call. (She didn’t.) I left only to use the bathroom.
Saddest of all, somehow: Mom placed a little bowl of plain rice and a thermos of ginger ale outside my door, along with a note:
Stay hydrated. And please, please put your dirty clothes in the hamper if you feel up to it. Love you, Mom.
Tragic, right? And the kicker—
Sarah updated her Facebook news feed again.
Sarah Birnbaum is doing her happy dance.
Sarah Birnbaum can’t wait to get back to her gardening.
Sarah Birnbaum is thrilled that her friend Karl decided to buy a second home.
Sarah Birnbaum is equally thrilled that Karl and Madeline are coming to New York City to visit.
Sarah Birnbaum is grateful that Henry has been wonderful enough not to mention any of this to Mom and Dad. She’ll thank him with a big hug tomorrow.
Sarah Birnbaum is now friends with Rich Hussein Barry and Tony Cox
Sarah Birnbaum promises to visit Rich Hussein Barry and Tony Cox in LA as soon as she saves enough money.
Amazing stuff. The prodigal daughter, on her way home again. Just in time to witness how my joke of a life had finally gone kaput.
And I still didn’t know why she’d disappeared and come back and disappeared again.
But, at the very least, I had a hunch she’d tell me now. She’d settled whatever mysterious business needed settling. She’d gone public with herself again. She wouldn’t have friended those guys Tony and Rich if she still had something to hide. Mom and Dad were off the hook.
I checked out the Facebook profiles of Tony and Rich on the off chance that they could put the final pieces of the puzzle in place. But like Sarah, they hadn’t uploaded any photos or filled in any vital stats. They were nonentities. Blank pages. F
acebook friends in the truest sense: All they offered was connection itself. With whom or with what was anybody’s guess.
Oh, and I almost forgot: at some point during the long miserable night, Petra sent me an email, too.
Hey, sweetie,
Sorry I got so pissed at you this morning. I was just stressed. So you know, I straightened everything out with Bartholomew. Don’t worry. He’s still in the band. I paid Sid the $60 myself and apologized for you. Victor isn’t getting fired. I don’t know if the Bimbo Lounge will invite us back anytime soon, but their loss, right?
BTW, Bartholomew wants to change our name back to PETRA. He thinks it’s stupid to label ourselves as a nineties nostalgia band. It’s too limiting. I sort of agree. We’re more than that. What do you think?
Also…there’s been something I’ve been meaning to tell you. It’s been bumming me out all summer. I should probably tell you in person, but I’ve been blowing it off because I feel so guilty about it. Argh.
I hooked up with George Monroe the night I broke up with you.
I’m sorry. I don’t know what our deal will be when he gets back, but whatever happens, I want you to know: You’re still in the band if you want to be.
You should know, too, Hen: I didn’t break up with you because you aren’t a good enough bass player. I broke up with you because you were never all that into me. I think you tried to pretend like you were for my sake, because you’re such a sweetie, but you could never fake it in front of Emma.
She’s totally in love with you. You know that, right?
xoxo
Petra
Wow. Heavy, huh? Part of it made me smile. (George Monroe, you sly dog! I did deserve a gold star.) Most of it made me want to pull a Sarah Birnbaum and disappear for a long, long time—maybe never to return. The band could survive without me. (Their loss, but…) If only Petra knew the truth about Emma. It might have even been funny, if it weren’t.
At ten in the morning, there was a knock on my door.
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