“Why wouldn’t I?” Shit. I said that out loud, and it oozes “arrogant asshole.” That’s not at all what I meant, or how I meant it. I had practiced saying something else, something perfect, but what? “I mean, I’ve heard great things. Really great things.” Really great things?
Professor Kovich stares hard, clearly not impressed. “How about you tell us what music means to you, then.”
It’s both a challenge and another chance, and it should be an easy question, one I went over again and again. But my mind is completely blank. Because how do you describe what it feels like to listen to insanely good music that traps itself under your skin where you feel it, just below the surface, humming throughout your whole body? There are suddenly no words, either, for what the time over winter break with Uncle Kurt and the guys from Lead Paint meant to me—all of us crammed in Shit Show, the tour van that smelled like feet and pine air freshener, or us all crashing together in tiny hotel suites. The guys had treated me like a kid brother. And when they’d found out I’d made it to live auditions, they’d started coaching me on perfect finger placement or vocal articulation. But how could I tell these professors that the best part of being on the road was how far away it made Bay City feel? That I’d gotten a true taste of what life could be like every single day surrounded by music-passionate people, that going back to regular life had been near impossible? The only good thing about coming back had been meeting Erica.
Erica.
No. Focus on the question—what music means to you. In this program, I could discover who I’m meant to be. I could live and breathe music every day.
Because music means everything to me.
And Erica had meant…
“Everything,” I say into the mic, too loud. The faculty flinch away at the sudden noise.
I recoil, mumbling, “Uh, everything. Music means everything to me.”
Such a pathetic answer. I glance over at Uncle Kurt, knowing I’m blowing it while he watches, and after everything he’s done to help me with my application. When I’d emailed him my personal statement, he’d made me start over. Twice. “Want it more,” he’d said, till I’d gotten it right. And when I’d sent him my prescreen audition video for feedback, without me knowing, he’d sent it to a professional editor friend to add transitions and fix the sound quality. Then, when I’d gotten the email mid–winter break inviting me to live auditions, he’d coached me every single day, making me do mock auditions in the hotel suite, the greenroom, the back of the van, again and again till he was satisfied. “The audition starts the moment you walk in,” he’d said.
And it had, the second I took this stage. I try to square my shoulders and smile, shake off my mistakes, knowing posture, body language, confidence—it all matters. Everything matters. But in front of the faculty, in front of my uncle, I’ve lost all the words I’d rehearsed and am fucking it up royally, which clearly the faculty spokeslady thinks too, because she throws up a dismissive hand. “Why don’t you just… get started, then?”
Erica, the girl in the boots.
I shake my head hard. That’s not the right lyric. Think. What had Benji said in that greenroom after I’d admitted how scared I was about this audition?
“Don’t just show them you love music, Tommy. Show them how much. Tie it to an emotion. Play something true.”
But I can’t. My mind erases like an Etch A Sketch, and I can’t remember what song I’m supposed to play first, let alone the melody, the opening line…
Girl in the boots. Girl in the boots.
Not. That. One. The clock in the back ticks by another second. Then another. Then another.
I clear my throat, play a chord, stop. That’s not the right chord or lyrics. That’s her song.
Fuck. Think, think, think!
But I can’t. All I see is her, and if I think about her now, I’m sunk.
My chest grows hot, flush creeping up my neck. “Sorry,” I mumble, stumbling over another chord. “Sorry.”
You’re blowing it!
Something true. Play something true.
That’s… Erica. At least, it was. The night at the beach washes over me—Erica beside me as I strum Eleanor. We’re huddled on a fleece blanket on a cold sand dune as I play her the song I wrote for her.
“I…,” I say to the faculty, my eyes squeezed shut.
Erica’s staring at me with her huge eyes, absorbing every lyric: The girl in the boots.
But I’m running out of time… The songs I’d prepared…
My eyes fly open. “Can I… can I change songs? To one I wrote?”
Professor Kovich looks beyond exasperated, arms folded tightly. Even in the shadows I can see my uncle shift, annoyed or disappointed maybe, but I can’t take the question back. And the song won’t leave me alone, pressing into every part of my brain. I see Erica wearing my letterman, hair whipping in the wind, skin smelling like body lotion—freshly baked vanilla cupcakes—mixed with salty ocean and dried seaweed. It’d been the first time she’d ever heard me play, watching me intently and clapping like crazy. She’d kept asking me to play song after song, till finally I’d worked up the courage to play the one I’d written for her. The way Erica’d looked at me, smiling a dazzling smile, I knew she could read on my face how hard I was falling for her. With Erica, I felt like I could be anyone, that I was someone.
Black turtleneck professor gives me a nod. “Sure. Whatever song is fine.”
It’s from pity, but I don’t care. I just play, just need to play. My fingers find the right chords, and suddenly, I’m right there back on the beach, playing Erica the song I’d written about seeing her for the first time.
The Monday I’d returned after winter break, I’d been so bummed out, missing Uncle Kurt and the guys and not at all stoked to hold up a whole lacrosse team till Zac’s arm healed. That morning before school, I’d thrown myself onto a patch of mangy grass beside a picnic table, air-guitaring along to a Lead Paint song, thinking about them, about being on the road again. And when I looked up, there she was on the other side of the hallway window, jolting me out of my dark thoughts. People jostled around her, but she didn’t turn away, her face perfectly clear through the glass. I remember her green eyes, her smile…
A smile so lovely it fills you with fire
One even men drowning would stop to admire
…the purple pants she had on that would’ve made Prince proud. I’d scrambled to my feet, tripping over my backpack and nearly falling like an idiot, which had made her laugh. I’d smiled, tried to look away but couldn’t. And she hadn’t looked away either. When the bell finally rang, she’d sent me a little wave before disappearing, trailing electric sparks in her wake. I’d watched her go till the courtyard’s reflection made it impossible. Pulling out my song journal, I’d scribbled the last line in what was to become her song, this song: Frozen in place by the loveliest face, a lyric I sing now…
Like a slow-melting spell, the auditorium comes back into focus, the last of the chords fading away. I’m shaking, a tear sliding down my face. Stomach dropping, I come back to myself, remembering I’m onstage, auditioning in front of all these people. I swipe at my cheek, humiliated beyond belief, gaze dropping to Eleanor. Uncle Kurt bought her off Benji, just for me. My uncle has done so much for me. He’s the only one who showed up today, believed in me enough to help me make it on this stage. And I just fucked it all up. What a colossal thank-you.
Agonizing seconds later, Professor Kovich speaks. “Thank you, Thomas. That will suffice.”
Beside her, Turtleneck Guy is nodding. Clearly he’s had enough too.
Based on the clock, I technically have time for at least another song, but the faculty can call the audition at any moment. Honestly though, I’m so relieved it’s over. Whenever I’ve played Erica’s song before, it’s made me feel ten times lighter, but right now it feels like taking a full-body hit at practice.
The stage is absolutely silent as I exit stage right. I can’t even look at my uncle, unable t
o face how totally disappointed in me he must be.
ERICA
I MET CAYLEE AND AMBER in English class when Caylee approached me to work with them on a group project. I remember being surprised how nice Caylee was because she’s so pretty—the type of person that everyone notices with a perfect teeny waist and wind-tousled hair, delicate, sun-kissed porcelain features and wide eyes. After we became friends, I secretly called her “Caylee Mermaid” in my head and even started drawing her in my sketchbook with a glittering, scaly tail. And Amber… well, it took me zero seconds to learn that she takes absolutely no shit from anyone. The secret alter ego I’ve been sketching for her is an ivory-white Medusa owing to her death stare that could turn offending souls to stone.
The one time they came over to our apartment was to work on the English project because Caylee’s kitchen was midremodel and Amber’s moms were hosting a poetry slam. Of course, I’d spent that whole morning cleaning and most of my allowance on the gourmet foods I’d seen them eat, including the B-Thin bars Caylee practically lives on.
When Caylee and Amber had arrived, I’d invited them in, nervous beyond belief. An awkward silence followed while they took in the place—cracks, stains, and all. Caylee did the polite, barely-move-your-head-while-glancing-from-the-corners-of-your-eyes type of looking. Amber did… Amber. She tossed her auburn hair over her shoulder and took in every corner. I only hoped she wouldn’t say anything blunt or judgmental like she did about everything else because I really didn’t want to cry in front of her and Caylee.
But she didn’t. Amber merely asked, “Well, are we going to get started, or what?” then with an “Ooh, cupcakes!” she made a beeline for the food. And Caylee seemed touched that I’d noticed she liked B-Thin bars. She smiled at me then like she approved of me, not even seeming to mind that I’m poor.
And that was the last time Caylee came over. Until today.
Now Mom’s footsteps head for the front door, the echo of the doorbell still sounding throughout our apartment.
Leaping from the shower, I pull on my robe and scramble to my room. I snatch up a pair of leggings and a long-sleeved shirt to cover any faint traces of leftover writing. By the time I make it to the living room, Mom has already answered the door and is chatting away. In the entryway, silhouetted against the light outside, stands Caylee, just like I knew she would be.
As I step closer, I’m panicking. Does she know? Is she mad? She hasn’t been back here since our group project. I’d been so nervous that day, so embarrassed, but now I can conjure up only a trace of that mortification because Caylee witnessing the true state of our crappy apartment is the least of my worries.
Caylee steps inside, slipping off her sandals by the front door, my purse slung over one shoulder. Then she flashes me a smile and a quick wave.
I could cry I’m so relieved, not only for seeing Caylee, but for her smile that says everything’s okay. She’s not mad. So maybe she doesn’t know what happened. Or maybe she has answers that will explain it all away: “Oh, come on, E. Of course it’s not like that. What a drama queen you are!”
I hate myself for even thinking there could be another explanation, especially after everything I overheard from Zac’s kitchen. It’s not possible, not with the writing I found or where that writing was located. Despite all this, the sight of Caylee smiling calms my breathing.
“It was so crazy,” Caylee’s saying to my mother, continuing whatever conversation they’d begun. “We were watching a movie one moment and the next… Bleeeeeh.” Caylee pantomimes vomiting, opening her mouth and sticking out her tongue. She tucks her blonde hair behind her ear, a telltale sign she’s lying.
Thankfully, Mom’s oblivious to Caylee’s giveaways. “Well, thank you so much for taking care of her last night. I was worried when I couldn’t get ahold of you both, but it sounds like you had your hands full.”
“No problem, Ms. Walker.” Turning to me, Caylee holds up my purse like evidence. “You left this at my house.” She brushes more hair behind her ear, overemphasizing her lie, but adults never seem to question her innocent-looking face. “How you feeling?” she asks me, slinging my purse over her shoulder.
“Better now,” I say, and it’s true. I can’t shut out the images of the faded writing for even a second, but at least I have my best friend back. Caylee can be a little flaky at times, but she’s still my best friend. And now I have to find a way to tell her about everything. Except, how do I bring up that her boyfriend wrote his name inside my thighs? The thought fills me with dread. “Thanks for bringing my purse,” I tell her. “Want to…?” I gesture toward my room.
“Yeah.” She nods, ready to follow.
“Okay, well, I’m off,” Mom says. “Take it easy, Erica. Don’t overdo it. And Caylee, thanks again for taking care of my little girl.”
I cringe at Mom’s “little girl” comment, but Caylee pauses only a half second too long.
“Any time, Ms. Walker,” Caylee replies. “Have a great day at work. I mean night!”
Then Mom’s off, leaving Caylee and me alone.
Caylee follows me to my room. Even though Mom left, I close my door for good measure, then turn to face her. “Thanks for coming over, Caylee.”
She shrugs from the middle of my messy room, an awkward smile on her face. “Sure thing.”
I try not to look at the clothes heaped on the floor, the tangle of bedsheets, the embarrassing collection of Disney princess POP! figures lining my bookshelf. And of course, only now do I notice the stale air that reeks of trapped body sweat.
Tell her about Zac’s name. “So, uh, why didn’t you call me back? I tried calling you twice.” I cross my arms in front of me, attempting to act nonchalant but knowing my tone sounds judgmental.
She mimics my crossed arms. “How was I supposed to know that was you calling on the other end, considering how many times your mother tried to call me this morning? When I heard your message, I drove straight over. And lied to your mom, twice. So, you’re welcome.” She plops on my bed and holds out my purse to me, both of us aware that this is the closest we have ever come to confrontation and that neither of us is good at it.
“Right. Sorry. Thanks for coming, Cay. Really.” Taking the purse from her, I peer inside. “Please tell me my phone is in here?”
She shrugs a shoulder. “I think so?”
“Oh my god, what the hell?” I yank my wet fingers from my purse as a fermented, sour smell hits me.
“It’s beer, by the way.”
I drop the purse to the floor and rifle through it. “Who the hell spilled beer in my purse?” Please tell me my phone is okay. Please tell me my phone is okay. My makeup is completely ruined, my wallet soggy. Thank god I left my sketchbook in the car or that would’ve been destroyed too.
“Um, that would be you. Remember?” She takes in the worn carpet, eyes lingering on an unidentifiable stain.
I cringe, pulling my wet phone from my purse. “Oh god.” I press the side button. The screen stays blank.
She smiles over at me, sympathetic. “Yeah, you were trying to take a picture with Thomas but dumped your beer instead. A full cup from the looks of things.”
I throw myself into the desk chair and plug the phone into its charger. I should wait till it dries, let it sit in a bag of rice to pull out any moisture, but I don’t have time. I’ll have to chance it.
Caylee rushes on, “You were a little party animal last night.” She leans in, breaking into a conspiratorial smirk and nudging my knee. “You and Thomas were all over each other by the bonfire!”
My mouth tightens into a smile. So, Caylee doesn’t know. Not all the details at least. Because if she did, my relationship with Thomas would be the least of her concerns. Question is, what does she know? “I… I don’t remember much,” I confess.
“Seriously? Well, what part do you remember?” Caylee’s eyes are so striking, so burnt-sienna brown, so earnest, that I have to look away.
Staring at my phone, I try to pull memorie
s from the party. “I remember being by the fire. With Thomas. Everyone in the backyard. Zac and his bottle rockets. Tina trying to outdrink the guys. Forest’s shark costume….”
This last part earns a snort from Caylee. “Man, Forest is hilarious. Who would even think to wear that? But sorry, keep going.”
The charging symbol appears on my phone’s screen. Thank god. It was dead, but not dead dead.
“And… then Thomas and I went inside?” I say. It comes out like a question as the details evaporate.
“Well, you tried. He had to carry you. Piggyback, you know? Very romantic.” She bounces off the bed and over to my bulletin board, where the beach picture of Thomas and me is tacked. “Speaking of, this is cute.”
I sort of remember the piggyback from last night, laughing and tripping in the backyard. “And that’s it?”
She pulls the tack from the picture, surveying it. “Pretty much. You two disappeared. I’m assuming to, like, seriously make out in Zac’s room and declare your undying love for each other. But you don’t remember that part?”
I shake my head no.
“Dang.” She frowns, re-pinning the photo. “I was hoping to get the lowdown. But I guess you’ll just have to ask him when you talk to him.”
My stomach twists in knots. “Think he’ll call?”
“Why wouldn’t he? You two are in love.”
I glance to where my phone is charging. Would Thomas call? Or maybe he’d already tried, but my phone was off. Maybe when I had the chance to look, I’d have a message from him, or a text at least. “So, what happened with the rest of the party?” I ask Caylee, trying to stay on task. “Like, after Thomas and I went inside?”
“Carried you inside. He had to physically carry you.” She starts to laugh, then sees my expression. “Not that I’m judging!”
After the Ink Dries Page 5