by Lindy Zart
He looks at me. “I'm not that smart.”
I laugh shakily. “Clearly I'm not either.”
“You're the one I miss,” he quietly tells me. “Every day I miss you.”
“Me too.”
He smiles faintly; the darkness around us doing nothing to mask his sorrow. It is bright, illuminated, all of him aglow with it. It is beautiful, in a tragic sort of way. I open my mouth to tell him good night just as three forms heading down the street silence me.
“Really, guys?” Grayson calls out, sounding exasperated.
“Who are they?”
“You know how it is, Grayson. You can't pick when inspiration is gonna hit—it picks you,” one of the beings says back, the voice male and young.
“Aidan's band members,” he says, shaking his head.
“What? Aidan is in a band? When did this happen?”
Grayson is trying to scowl, but laughs instead. “About six months ago. He's trying to keep it a secret for now, until they're good enough for the public to hear, or so he says. They practice in the basement at night, when they think everyone in the neighborhood is asleep and won't hear them.”
“Are they any good?”
“They're not bad. As far as being good? They can be, in time.”
A blonde tags behind the three males and I recognize her as the teenager that stopped at Aidan's house a few weeks ago. “Look. They even have groupies already.”
“That's Alicia. She's kind of Aidan's girlfriend.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Kind of?”
“They hold hands, but don't really talk or anything.”
The four teens pause near us. The boys have similar graphic tees on, messy hair, and ripped jeans. Alicia is wearing a tight red top and skinny jeans.
Grayson says, “This is Ryan. He plays electric guitar.”
A boy almost as tall as Grayson nods, his hair pale blond and in his eyes.
“Steve. He's lead singer.”
The shortest of the three reaches out a hand to me and I shake it. He has dark hair and a baby face.
“Hello, Steve,” I tell him with a smile.
“One day I will have a Lily too,” he vows, squeezing my hand.
I blink, trying to pull my hand away.
His grip tightens as he says, “She will be beauty and butterflies and sonnets.”
“Okay, pal.” Grayson claps him on the shoulder with one hand and tries to get him to release my hand with the other.
“I will write music for her and tattoo her on my body,” he continues, reaching for my other hand.
Grayson moves in front of me, effectively halting any further hand holding. “That's enough, Robert Frost.”
“Who's Robert Frost?” Alicia asks, moving closer. Her eyes are large and dark as she scrutinizes me. I watch her in return, wondering what she is thinking as she takes in my appearance.
“Famous poet,” Grayson answers.
“And you are?” I ask the last boy. He is standing apart from us, his eyes not meeting anyone's.
“Bentley is the talent.”
His face lifts and I am struck by the emotion in his eyes. His expression so reminds me of a younger Grayson my heartbeats trip.
“I'm the lead singer,” Steve argues.
Grayson ignores him, continuing with, “He writes all the music and he sings background vocals only because he's too shy to sing lead.”
“I'm good too,” Steve grumbles, a pout on his adolescent face.
“You are,” Grayson agrees.
“Let me guess; Aidan plays the drums?”
He smirks. “You got it. He likes to make noise.”
“I like your hair,” Alicia tells me.
I touch my messy ponytail. “Oh. Thanks.”
She nods as though coming to some kind of decision. “I think rocker chicks should have darker hair. It's sexier. I'm going to dye my hair black.”
“I'm not a rocker chick—” I begin, but Alicia has moved on, walking toward the house, the boys following her.
Grayson raises an eyebrow. “Want to have your eardrums violated?”
“That doesn't sound good.”
“It isn't good.” He waits expectantly and I nod in affirmation.
“Your dad is okay with this?” I ask as we enter the house and veer to the left and down the steps to the finished basement. I have been in the house periodically since Grayson moved out, but it has never felt the same. It's always felt like something monumental was missing—and it was.
“Nothing can wake my dad up once he falls asleep, not even this.”
The basement is cooler than the main level of the house, sparsely furnished with worn burgundy furniture that used to be upstairs when we were kids. It is one large room with a small bathroom off the end of it. The walls are white; the floor is covered in neutral carpeting. In the far corner of the room band equipment is set up and is currently being tweaked by its owners.
“He must sleep in his bed now instead of on the couch?”
Grayson looks back at me, the twist of his lips a mockery of a smile. “Yeah. Only took my mom to move out for him to sleep in their bed.”
I turn my gaze from his. I shouldn't have brought it up. He hasn't gotten over it yet and maybe he never will. Are the bad memories braided into his soul, never to unravel and give him peace?
“Lily! What are you doing here?” Aidan stomps down the stairs, wearing a black tee shirt and loose jeans, the strands of his hair sticking up haphazardly. Sadly, I think this is on purpose. He's grinning and tenderness waves over me. So many times this kid has made me smile when all I wanted to do was cry.
“I'm going to watch the famous band before they're famous.”
“Sweet.” He ducks his head, shoving at Grayson's shoulder. “What up, bro?”
“Never talk like that again.”
“It's all about image. You know that.”
“Yes, and talking like that gives off the image of a reprobate.”
Aidan laughs, shrugging. “It is what it is.”
I haven't seen the two of them stand beside one another in a long time. Aidan is shorter and will probably be bulkier with muscles than Grayson, but I can see more of a resemblance between them now. Their coloring is nothing alike, but the shape of their eyes is the same and their mouths too.
“What's the name of your band?” I ask Aidan.
His face lights up. “Have you ever heard of a platypire?”
I shift my eyes to Grayson.
He stares balefully back, arms crossed, one eyebrow lifted.
With a weak smile, I say, “I don't think so. What is it?”
Voice loud with animation, he tells me, “It's a mix between a bat and a platypus. I found a site online one day that had them on it. One was named Eddie. And then I thought, why not have our band called that?”
“Called what?” I'm scared to know, the faintness of my voice evidence of this.
His fist pumps into the air as he hollers, “Eddie and the Platypires!”
The room erupts in whoops and shouts of, “Eddie and the Platypires!”
I look at Grayson, feeling extremely old and uncool. He slowly shakes his head, wiping a hand over his face. At least I am not the only one.
“We're getting shirts made up next week,” Ryan announces, sitting down on the couch with his guitar on his lap. “You can have one.”
“Thanks?”
“Okay, guys, practice time,” Aidan announces. “Bentley, is the song you were working on last week done?”
Bentley nods, the backpack strap sliding down his arm. His face reddens as all eyes turn to him, making his red hair more vibrant. He turns his back to us as he searches inside the yellow bag. Grayson plops down in a recliner and throws his legs over the side of it, his hands behind his head. His lips are curved up, like he is positive he is about to be entertained. The shy boy hands out pieces of paper, moving to the back of the room as his work is digested by his band members.
A cacophony of instrum
ents erupt around me and I cringe, wondering how their father can sleep through this on a weekly basis. They start out slow and stumbling, but as the boys continue, a rhythm forms.
The beat is slow; Steve's voice low as he sings, “I get dressed, I brush my hair, and I eat my cereal. I think of you. I walk to school, I see my friends, I endure the day. I think of you. When I'm happy, I think of you. When I'm sad, I think of you. When nothing makes sense, I think of you...”
I look at Bentley. He casts a furtive glance at Alicia and it all makes sense. She is unaware; sitting on the couch, her eyes riveted to the cell phone in her hands.
“Do you think of me?” Steve screeches, causing me to jump. “Do you think of me? Do you think of me?”
Things happen simultaneously as chaos takes over the show—Alicia drops her phone to stare open-mouthed at the band—Grayson rears back in surprise—Aidan slams his drumsticks down and storms for Steve—Bentley rushes past me and up the stairs, knocking me off balance. Grayson jumps up and steadies me at the same time Aidan reaches Steve.
“That's not how the song goes and you know it!” Aidan shoves the shorter, husky boy.
“It's stupid the way he wrote it and you know it!” Steve shouts back.
“It's not stupid. You're just jealous!”
Ryan jumps in. “You two need to chill.”
“Don't tell me to chill!” Red-faced, Steve whirls around to glare at his band member.
“What is going on?” I whisper, wide-eyed.
“I wish I could say I don't know, but I do.” His tone is grim, and before I can ask what Grayson means by that, he is in the middle of the boys, telling them to knock it off and take a breather. They actually listen to him, going to separate parts of the room to scowl at one another.
“I'm going home. This is too much drama for me,” Alicia announces, flouncing across the room. Her footsteps sound loud in the silence of the basement.
“Spill. What's pissing you all off?” He points at Ryan. “Let's start with you. Anything you'd like to share?”
He scratches the side of his head and shrugs. “I'd like more guitar solos.”
Grayson stares at him for a moment before turning away. “All right. Steve?”
Steve doesn't say anything.
“I'll answer for Steve. He's jealous of Bentley because Bentley can write music and sing better than he can,” Aidan says angrily.
“He's in love with your girlfriend,” Steve acidly informs him.
Grayson's brother blinks. “Oh.” His lips twist as he straightens, saying heatedly, “It doesn't matter. He's still better than you and that's why you do that to his songs. You never sing them right. Almost all of them you disrespect that way. You need to grow up.”
“You know what? I quit!”
“Good! You're a drama queen anyway!” Aidan yells as Steve pounds across the floor.
“So, um, I'm kind of tired,” Ryan says, rubbing the top of his head. “Are we having practice next week then?”
Aidan moodily watches him, not responding.
“Guess not. See ya.” Ryan's exit is a much quieter, slower one than Steve's was.
When only three of us remain, Grayson turns to his brother. “Your friends are idiots.”
“They aren't my friends,” he grumbles.
“I think Bentley is,” I tell him, moving to rub his tense back.
He allows my mothering, heaving a long sigh. “Yeah. I guess he is—or was. Dude likes my girl. How are we supposed to be friends now, with me knowing that?” He looks and sounds miserable.
I have no answer to that, and when I look at Grayson, he shrugs in a completely unhelpful way. “I guess you...just...crap, I don't know.” I blow out a noisy breath. “Cookies sound good right now. Let's bake cookies.”
“What? You're funny.” Aidan laughs, shaking his head as he crosses the room. Pausing by the stairs, he says, “You know what? That's actually a great idea. I think we should bake cookies. You in, Grayson?”
Glancing at Grayson, I find his eyes locked on me; his eyebrows lowered and a frown pulling his mouth down. I quickly looking away, my face heating up. It was an impulsive, stupid, sentimental suggestion. Why would he ever want to do something so childish and mundane? I have to stop trying to get the past back. It will never be mine to have again.
“Never mind,” I mumble, beginning to move toward the stairs. “It was a silly thought. Plus it's late.”
“I'm in.”
I stop walking.
He ambles over to me, his arm brushing mine, causing shivers to race up it as he walks past. “I could go for some cookies.” His lips lift in a quick smile. “Chocolate chip, to be exact. Only I doubt Dad has any of the ingredients necessary.” He gives me a pointed look.
Clearly I did not think this through. Grayson, in my apartment? Yearning and fear struggle within me, causing my pulse to pick up. “Um...” is all I can think to say.
“Great. Let's go.”
Frazzled and apprehensive, my departure from the Lee house is not graceful, but Grayson and Aidan don't comment—not even when I trip down the porch steps. Grayson is probably used to women acting flustered around him. I glance at him as we walk, and every time I do, he is watching me with a small smile on his lips. I don't know what I'm doing. I want to ask him what he's doing. But that smile destroys all logic. He actually looks happy, closer to the person I remember than the person I have seen since his reappearance in Fennimore. I can't take that away. I don't want to.
I TRY NOT TO WATCH as Grayson scrutinizes my apartment, busying myself with getting the ingredients needed to make chocolate chip cookies out. I am making a double batch, not forgetting the non-date at the nursing home tomorrow with Stone and his grandfather. Somehow I know Grayson wouldn't like it if he knew about my upcoming plans, but his thoughts on what I do are irrelevant. Still, I feel duplicitous, which is extremely irritating. I am not doing anything wrong and yet I feel like I am.
Aidan has himself plopped on the couch in the living room, remote control in hand. He comes to my place on a regular basis, so he doesn't care about his surroundings—he sees them all the time. His brother, on the other hand, is all over the place, and it's making me nervous.
This was a terrible idea. What if he finds something of him here that I don't want him to see? What is he thinking as his eyes take in the walls of photographs and my simplistic decorating? Unable to stand it any longer, I take the cookie making necessities from the kitchen counter and set them on the table in the small dining area where I can get a clear view of him. Only he is no longer within eyesight.
“Where's Grayson?” I blurt, dropping the bag of flour on the table, a poof of white floating up from the opened bag.
Aidan shrugs, not looking away from 'Pawn Stars'. “Dunno. Maybe he's in the bathroom?”
Glancing down the short hallway, I see the bathroom door is open. My feet move in accordance with my heartbeat—fast. When I get to the only bedroom in the apartment; my bedroom, I forcefully stop as I am hit with the sight of him. Seeing him on my powder blue bedspread makes my body heat up as desire crashes into me. All of his clothes are on; there is nothing sexual at all about his pose, and yet my mouth goes dry. It is his sheer masculinity; the way the bed is completely swallowed up by his long form. Propped up with pillows I rest my head on every night, he holds a framed photograph in his hands. His expression is hard to read, but the way he is staring at the picture speaks of an intensity I don't know how to take.
I want the impression of him to remain just as it is on my pillow and blanket so that I can sink into it as I sleep and be closer to him—an impossible request. I take a step into the room, feeling like an intruder in my own bedroom.
“This was a good day, wasn't it?”
Slowly nodding, I answer, “Yes.”
“We had a lot of those.” His eyes flicker to me and away.
“We did.” I miss what we used to have, even just the friendship. I know we can never go back to what we used to be; w
hat we used to have, but I miss it anyway.
He sets the photograph down on the bed. I immediately pick it up. It is a picture of us; taken when I was fourteen and he was fifteen. We are bundled up for winter; he in black and yellow; me in pink and gray. Grayson is baby-faced, his hair a lighter shade of blond than it is now and shaggy around his smiling face. He was just beginning to transform into the man before me.
My face is flushed and my eyes are bright. Our arms are around each other; best friends and happy with cheeks pink from the cold. My nose is unattractively red. The sky is gray behind us and the ground white beneath our boots. School was canceled for the day due to snow and we spent it sledding.
“I haven't gone sledding since the last time we went together,” I murmur, touching his face in the photograph with my fingertip. I look up, blushing when I see his eyes are locked on me, dark and secretive.
“Me either. There isn't a lot of snow in California.” A smile briefly takes over one side of his mouth.
Setting the framed photograph back on my nightstand, I tell him, “Maybe you'll get lucky and it will snow in October before you leave.” A lump, hard and large, forms in my throat at the thought of him being gone once more. I hurriedly think of something else to say, settling on, “What do you like most about California?”
He shrugs. “It's warm. You know me and sunshine. We have a history.” A faint smile catches his lips and holds for a brief moment.
I nod. Yes. I remember that phone conversation from years gone by. He wanted to be somewhere where the sun shone. I guess he got that in California.
“I imagine there are all kinds of people around you a lot of the time. That has to be strange.”
“It is. Not being a people person makes it hard too. I mean, what kind of a performer is anti-social? It's absurd.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“You're going to anyway, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
He lifts an eyebrow in expectation.
“Why are you so socially inept?”
“Gee, thanks. Build me up some more, please. I was feeling a little down.”
I wave my hand around. “I didn't mean it like that. It's just that...when you were younger, I understood why you kept to yourself, but now...why? You're not shy. You know how to talk to people. Why the distance, the aloofness?”