by Anna Hecker
So I text him: just a link to the mix, and nothing else.
It’s not like I have anything else to say.
It’s not like I have anything left to lose.
CHAPTER 15
Two days, thirteen hours, and eight minutes after I text Derek the link to my mix, my phone rings.
At first I ignore it. I’m finishing up my shift at the gym, and ever since Grandpa Lou died, the only calls I’ve gotten are wrong numbers. But then I glance at the screen and a bomb goes off in my chest.
“Mira.” Derek’s voice turns me liquid. “We have to talk about your mix.”
My throat goes dry. “Is it bad?”
“No. Mira, no. It’s good.”
My body starts to vibrate. “Oh. Wow. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. Can you come to Brooklyn? I’m taking you to dinner tonight.”
I almost drop the phone. Ten days of silence, and now this?
“Mira? Are you still there?”
“Tonight?” I croak.
“Yeah, as soon as possible. You already have plans?”
Play it cool, I tell myself. Tell him you already have plans.
“Not really,” I hear myself say.
“Great.” He gives me the name of the pizza place. “See you soon,” he says, and hangs up without saying goodbye.
I leap up, run to the locker room, and stare at myself in the mirror. The girl gazing back at me does not look ready to go have dinner in Brooklyn with a guy who looks like Derek. Her Gym Rat polo hangs like forgotten laundry from her shoulders, her hair’s an oversized cumulus cloud, and her face looks bare and surprised.
I can’t meet up with Derek looking like this. I weave through the rows of weight machines, knocking on the door to the rear office.
“Mir-Bear!” Mom looks up from her computer and rubs the creases from her forehead. “Is everything okay?”
I nod, and my voice comes out very small. “I kind of have this thing tonight and I was wondering if maybe, if you have time, you could do my makeup?”
Her face brightens. “Really? Oh, how fun!”
Within seconds she’s unloading pounds of cosmetics from her locker, spreading them across the vanity before taking my chin in her hand and turning my face one way and then another, examining it in the light.
“So tell me about this ‘thing’ you have.” She can’t stop smiling. “Is it formal? Trendy? Boho?”
“Not formal. You really don’t need to go crazy. I just want to look a little more …” my voice ebbs.
“A little more what?” She opens an eye shadow palette, frowns, and closes it with a plasticky snap.
“Pretty, I guess.” I twist the edge of my tank top.
“Oh, Mir-Bear. You’re always pretty.” Mom’s eyes narrow, and a sly grin creeps across her face. “Wait a minute. Is this ‘thing’ a date?”
“That’s none of your business,” I mutter.
“Of course it’s my business. I’m your mother!” She reaches for an eye pencil, her voice brimming with delight. “Who is he? Do we know him? Is he cute?”
“Mom,” I say. “It’s not a date. We’re just getting pizza. That’s all.”
“Sounds like a date to me,” she chirps, pressing me onto a stool and going at my face with an assortment of pencils, tubes, and brushes. “Can you at least tell me his name? Does he go to your school?”
“Derek,” I say, eyes still shut. “And … no.”
“Well, we’d love to meet him.” Mom brushes something cool along my lids. “Maybe you can bring him by?”
I squirm under the feathery touch of her brush. “Maybe sometime,” I say, meaning never. Dad would have a heart attack if the first-ever boy I brought home was a tattooed college student.
She finishes my lids and tells me to open my eyes.
“What do you think?” she asks, spinning me so I face the mirror.
I look at my reflection and gasp. Mom lined my eyes in subtle shades of brown and curled my lashes. I barely look like I’m wearing makeup; instead I just look older, more sophisticated. Almost like I belong with Derek.
“It’s perfect,” I breathe.
“You should let me do this more often.” Mom smoothes styling gel into my hair, gathering it into a thick French braid that circles the back of my head—one of the styles Aunt Shonda taught her when Britt and I were little. “So pretty,” she sighs, and I have to agree. Now I look older and almost elegant.
“Thanks,” I say, scooting off of the stool and grabbing my bag.
“My pleasure.” Mom gives me her biggest, toothiest grin. “Have fun tonight. And be safe!”
“I will,” I promise. But my heart is already beating dangerously fast, and safety is the last thing on my mind.
CHAPTER 16
The pizza place where I meet Derek isn’t like the ones in Coletown. A waitress with huge black spirals in her ears leads me through a dimly lit room and into a multilevel backyard, where Derek’s waiting for me at a wrought iron table under an arbor dripping with vines. He’s even better looking than I remembered, his multi-colored arms loose and sinewy in a black T-shirt, his face all sharp lines and ice-blue eyes.
As soon as he sees me he leaps to his feet, comes around the side of the table, and kisses me lightly on the cheek. Goose bumps rise on my skin and I force myself not to melt into a giant puddle of girl on the floor.
I remind myself to play it cool. I just need to pretend I go out to dinner with handsome older guys every night of the week; that my experience with them doesn’t begin and end with awkwardly groping Peter Singh in a practice room at summer camp.
“You look nice,” he says, resting his hand on the small of my back and setting off a tiny fire there. “I like your hair.”
“Thanks.” I touch the braid self-consciously.
“So your mix.” Derek leans forward as I open my menu, his fingernails drumming in 7/8 time on the tabletop.
“Yes?” My pulse thumps along.
“It’s really good.” His smile is quick and light. I lean into his words, barely conscious of the waitress setting a glass of water by my elbow. “You know how to set a mood with music. It built kind of slow but once it did—damn!”
I reach for my water, grateful to have something to do with my hands. I take a long sip.
“Plus you have this look….”
He trails off. I raise an eyebrow.
“I mean, I hope it’s okay for me to say this, but you’re fucking hot.”
I choke. Not figuratively. Literally. Water shoots from my nose and dribbles down my chin; my eyes burn as I double over, spluttering and hacking. The waitress hands me a stack of napkins, rolls her eyes, and flounces off again. Derek comes around the side of the table and pats me gently on the back as I dab at the wet spot on the front of my T-shirt. So much for playing it cool.
“It went down the wrong pipe,” I explain, my voice strained. Nobody has ever called me “hot” before—not even Peter. Britt has always been the hot one: the one with the looks, the style, the cool clothes.
The waitress returns and looks at me like I’m a drowned cat as Derek places our order. “You don’t have dietary restrictions, do you?” he asks me as she’s walking away.
I shake my head.
“A girl after my own heart.” He smiles, leaning back in his chair. “Half the people I know are vegan or gluten-free or can’t even look at a peanut without bursting into flames.”
“My parents are paleo,” I volunteer. “So I basically live off carbs and cheese.”
“You rebel, you.” His eyes crease at the corners when he smiles. I notice myself noticing this, reach for my water again, and then think better of it. I don’t trust my body to do what I tell it to.
“So I found something I think you might like,” he says, raising an eyebrow.
“Found something? That I might like?” Derek barely knows me. How can he guess what I’ll like?
“I do some work with this crew, the Pax Collective,” he says. “Th
ey’re putting on this festival in a couple weeks, the Pax Summerfest….”
“Wait.” The name jogs something. “Shay was talking about that. I think she’s playing there?”
Derek shrugs. “I thought you might be interested.”
“Interested?” My tongue feels thick.
“In DJing,” he explains. “For the silent disco. It pays a hundred dollars, plus a ticket and a plus-one.”
“A hundred dollars?” I nearly choke again.
“Pretty sweet, right?” Derek’s eyes twinkle.
“To DJ? In front of people? At a festival?”
“That’s the general idea.” He cocks his head, smiling. “You down?”
“Seriously?” A volcano of excitement builds inside me. Even without Windham, I’ll get to play music in front of people this summer. Sure, it’s not the music I imagined, but it’s better than nothing—and I’ll make money too. I can’t wait to tell Crow and Nicky I landed an actual paying gig. “I mean, yes.”
“Good,” he sits back, smiling. “So I’ll tell them you’re in.” He gets out his phone and I watch, my jaw hanging open, as he punches words into the screen.
“So what is the silent disco, anyway?” I ask when he’s done.
He puts his phone back in his pocket. “Exactly what it sounds like. They broadcast your set through headphones instead of speakers. It means two DJs can go on at the same time and they can put it closer to a big sound system without worrying about noise bleed. Plus it’s hilarious—everyone looks like they’re dancing to nothing.”
He continues to describe the silent disco and the festival with its multiple stages and forests and campgrounds, until our waitress sets a thin-crust pizza between us. It looks like a piece of modern art with swirls of mozzarella, shavings of ham, and artichokes that brown and curl at the edges.
“Do you really think I’m ready?” I ask.
“Absolutely.” He reaches out and puts a hand on my wrist, sending little lightning bolts up my arm. “I wouldn’t recommend you if I didn’t.”
“But you’ve only heard me play once.”
He shrugs. “I heard your mix. You know what you’re doing. Besides, it’s the silent disco at like five in the afternoon on the first day. It’s not like you’re headlining the main stage.”
“And they really pay a hundred dollars?” I’ve never been paid for a jazz gig before. The competitions cost money to enter; Grandpa Lou was usually the one who picked up the tab.
“Really.” Derek grabs a slice of pizza and closes his eyes. “Damn, this stuff is the best.”
A hundred dollars is more than I make in a whole day at The Gym Rat. It’s enough to put gas in the LeSabre for a month, as long as I don’t drive too far from Coletown.
A smile bubbles out of me, growing slow but giddy across my face as I reach for a slice of pizza. Sweetness, salt, and grease explode in my mouth.
“So good, right?” Derek looks up, smiling.
“So good,” I say. I don’t know if it’s the ham or the artichokes or the festival or the fact that Derek called me hot, but it tastes like the best pizza I’ve ever had.
“So when is this festival, anyway?” I ask, taking another bite.
“Over the long weekend.” Derek grins at me across the table, his eyes sparkling. “The Fourth of July.”
CHAPTER 17
“No.” The slice drops from my hand, splattering cheese-sidedown on my plate. The Fourth of July is Visitors’ Weekend—the only time this summer I can see Crow and Nicky, and visit camp.
Derek looks up, startled. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do it.” Disappointment floods my stomach, sticky and rank.
“Why not?” His face darkens. “I just told them you can.”
“I have … a thing.” I don’t know how to tell him about Visitors’ Weekend. Being into jazz is one thing; being into summer camp is a whole other.
“So cancel it.” His voice is matter-of-fact.
“I don’t know if I can.” My fingers curl around my napkin, crumpling it into a ball. Suddenly I’m angry at Windham Music Camp all over again. First they wouldn’t let me come this summer; now they’re taking away my first-ever paying gig, too. “I didn’t realize when this was. I should have asked.”
I watch the darkness concentrate in his face, then disappear as suddenly as a summer storm cloud.
“No, Mira.” He reaches across the table and puts his hand over mine, his voice as soft with concern as it was cold and matter-of-fact just moments before. “I’m sorry. I should have told you when it was.” He shakes his head sadly. “This is all my fault. I was just so excited you said yes.” His hand stays on mine, squeezing gently. “I mean, is there any way you can change your plans? It’s going to make both of us look bad if you cancel now.”
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment my resolve wavers. I want to say yes to him more than anything. Would it really be so bad if I took this gig instead of going to Visitors’ Weekend?
“I don’t want to make you look bad,” I admit.
“I don’t want you to make me look bad.” He flashes a playful smile. “Especially since I think you could make me look so good.”
The compliment sends a slice of light through my anger and frustration. Desire tugs at me. It’s not just that I want to make Derek happy. It’s that I think this gig would make me happy, too.
But it would mean going eight whole weeks without seeing Crow and Nicky … and my camp friends, and my teachers, and the amphitheater, and the lake. I don’t know if my heart could handle that. And I don’t know if Crow and Nicky would forgive me.
“Can I sleep on it?” I ask finally.
Derek grins. “Sure. But wait’ll you hear who else is spinning …”
He spends the rest of our meal naming DJs, making my mouth water as much for the festival as it does for the food—and for him.
“Come on,” he says when we’re done. “Let’s get out of here.”
He flags down the waitress and insists on paying the check, even though I try to hand him money twice. Does that make this a date, I wonder as we leave the restaurant?
Outside, the air feels like hot silk and the sky is purple with the last gasp of sunset. We walk without any destination, shoulder to shoulder, his keys jangling in his pocket just like the marimba in my piece. We pass my car, the corrugated metal doors to This Is A Lot, a two-story mural of hands taking flight like birds, and a girl walking a peacock on a leash. A clutch of motorcycles idles outside a VFW clubhouse, their leonine growls stirring the lazy air.
Derek ducks into a narrow alley between buildings and beckons for me to follow.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
He smiles over his shoulder. “Can’t you just trust me?”
“I don’t know. Can I?”
“Yes.” He grabs my hands and pulls me in. “Come.”
I follow, laughing as he slowly shuffles backward. There’s a hazy light where the alley ends, and a smell like wet wool and ocean brine.
“This,” Derek says as we emerge. “This is my favorite place in the city. And it’s a secret, so don’t go telling everyone.”
“This?” I wrinkle my nose. We’re standing on the banks of a canal lined with gray, water-stained buildings. The water is inky green and slow-moving; a crumpled coffee cup drifts by like a small, sad sailboat.
“This.” He leads me down a crumbling concrete stairway and onto a tiny platform just above the water’s edge: a dock, I guess. The smell is stronger here, laced with gasoline.
Derek sits on the stairs, his feet on the dock. After a moment, I join him. The stairs are narrow, pressing us together. I can feel the touch of his arm against mine; it burrows beneath my skin, strong and insistent as a song.
“Why is this your favorite place in the city?” I ask.
His eyes slide sideways, into mine. “See if you can guess.”
I look around, trying to see it. The canal isn’t beautiful, and neither is the way it smells
. The stairs are cold and damp, with pieces of crumbling concrete that dig into my back and legs. It’s hard to see why anyone would want to come here. Unless that’s the point.
“Because it’s a secret?” I finally venture.
“Bingo.” He reaches over and taps me on the tip of the nose. “I knew you’d get it.”
“It is pretty peaceful,” I concede. The gentle lap of waves against the concrete banks is almost hypnotic, and lights from the buildings’ windows dance across the canal’s dark surface. The city noise is muted here: there are no trucks idling, no engines revving, no voices calling across the night. Derek’s arm rubs against mine, a rainbow of colors and intricate, swirling designs.
He catches me looking. “Go ahead,” he says. “You can ask about them. Everyone does.”
“Okay.” I lick my lips, my throat dry. “What’s the deal with your tattoos?”
“Funny you should ask.” He rolls up the sleeve of his T-shirt, pointing to a pink lotus flower on his shoulder. “I got this one first, mostly to piss off my mom.”
“Did it work?” I ask. If I were trying to piss off a parent, a pretty pink flower isn’t exactly what I’d choose.
“Oh yeah.” He sits back, rubbing his hand over the ink. “She always wanted me to be the man of the house, so when I was seventeen I went out and got the most feminine design I could find.”
“Wow.” I long to touch him, to run my fingers over the pink petals. “And she hated it?”
“So much,” he says, grinning. “She gave me the silent treatment for a week.”
I think of my mom’s reaction to Britt’s hair. “She must really love you, though,” I say.
“Oh yeah.” He shakes his head. “There’s no doubt about that. She loves me too much. It’s stifling.”
I bite the inside of my lip. Is it possible for a parent to love you too much, I wonder?
“What about the rest?” I ask, indicating his sleeves. “Why’d you get those?”
He shrugs. “More of the same. I just wanted them to be beautiful. There’s so much ugliness in the world. I wanted people to look at my arms and experience beauty and feel peace.”