by L A Tavares
At their engagement dinner, I concentrate mostly on the drink in my hand and the empty glasses on the table, but every once in a while, I take a chance and steal glances across the way to see Kelly sitting with her head in her hand, not enjoying the celebration the way I thought she would. Natalie taps her on the shoulder, and she leans in, fakes the biggest smile she can muster and Xander’s mother snaps a picture.
“Blake,” Xander’s mother says, “Get over here. Take a picture with Xander.”
I push back my chair and stand in the corner of the room, leaning into Xander’s shoulder as his mom snaps hundreds of pictures. We are used to the media, but Xander’s mom is exponentially worse. She always has been.
“Everything okay?” Xander asks once our photoshoot is over. “You seem off.”
“Never better.” I look around to see where the waitress is with the next round of drinks.
“I’m sure you already expected this, but I’d really like it if you would be my best man.” He smiles widely, oozing happiness through the buttoned-up shirt he’s wearing. I kind of hate him in this moment.
“I would be honored,” I say, knowing that my temporary disdain for my best friend—my brother—is fueled only by alcohol and jealousy. Natalie is perfect for him. Somewhere beneath the liquor-infused anger layer, I am happy for him.
As I sit down, Kelly looks to me and our eyes linger on each other. I turn up the corner of my lip only slightly and she gives a light smile back. She stands from her chair and walks by me, saying nothing, but running her fingers across my back as she passes. I watch as she saunters away. When she reaches the door, she places one hand on the door frame, drops her shoulder and looks back at me before retreating completely. I’m not sure if this is a sign that I’m supposed to follow her, but I do.
She stands in the hall of the hotel outside of the restaurant, pacing back and forth across the hallway.
“Kel?” I ask. She turns to me, slowly, seemingly weighing her options of what to do or say next. She steps toward me, almost in a run, then her body is against me, her lips finding mine and kissing me with a desire that leaves me both confused and wanting more.
“I thought you said you didn’t want anything serious?” I back away from her for a moment.
“I don’t,” she responds as she pulls me into the nearest restroom and locks the door behind us.
* * * *
Then
There are boxes covering every inch of the run-down, one-bedroom apartment when I walk in. In the corner, a bucket is in its usual spot catching drips where the roof leaks through a yellow-colored circle on the ceiling. Mother is throwing things carelessly into boxes, not bothering to sort or wrap anything. It’s not like we owned anything valuable anyway.
“Mom?” I kick aside some packaging paper at my feet. “What’s going on?”
“What does it look like I’m doing, Blake?” she snaps, throwing plates from a cabinet into a box. I wish she wouldn’t toss them like that. We can’t afford to buy new ones.
“It looks like you’re packing up. Did you find a better apartment?” I ask, excited to finally be rid of the dripping ceiling and constant mildew smell.
“Yeah.” She continues to pack the kitchen items. “In Massachusetts, just a short way outside of Boston.”
“We’re moving moving? Again?” My throat dries, and all the moisture that once belonged to my mouth migrates to my eyes to form tears I try to blink back. “I just finally got used to this school. I finally made friends.”
She throws a bowl to the ground and it shatters over the yellowing laminate floor. “Damn it, Blake. We can’t stay here. Go pack up your room. Now.”
That’s that. No explanation, no back story. Just me packing up ‘my room’ which was nothing more than one small bookshelf and a plastic tote by the living room couch I’ve been sleeping on since we moved there seven months ago. I wasn’t ready to start over, but maybe the next place would give me a space of my own. I’m not holding my breath, though.
* * * *
Now
The band members sit on Xander’s balcony looking over the cityscape and singing along to older songs Xander plays from his collection of original vinyls. It’s relaxed and easy, just like old times. We’re quieter now, drinking a normal amount instead of over-indulging and talking about our futures instead of reliving our pasts. Time to face the music. We’re getting old.
“So, what’s with you and Kelly?” Xander asks as Dom drums against the banister in tune to the song flowing through the air.
“That’s something you would need to ask her.” I take a sip of my drink. “Then fill me in, too, if you would be so kind.”
He laughs, but it’s true. I have no idea what she wants. I’ve left the ball one hundred percent in her court. We play by her rules. When she wants me, she calls. When she doesn’t want me, I don’t hear from her.
It’s not exactly what I pictured, but I don’t know how else to move forward with her.
“How did you make Natalie see that you’re not the man you once were? I mean, you were, and are more fucked up than the rest of us combined, and she still trusts you.”
He glares at me but considers his answer.
“I’m the last person—literally, the last person—who can give advice on that. I probably didn’t deserve the happy ending that I got. I was lucky she was willing to give me so many chances. But I had to work every minute of every day to earn them. I still do.”
“I guess I just have to do everything I can to show her I mean business—that I’m not out there screwing around anymore.”
“It’s a start,” he says. “My suggestions would include—avoid New York and be clear she’s not sleeping with Dom or Theo.”
I look their direction with an arched eyebrow and Theo adds, “I don’t kiss and tell.” I throw a guitar pick at him and we all laugh aloud, echoing sound. It’s nice that we’ve gotten to a point that we can laugh about things that used to make us cringe. Growing up isn’t so bad, I guess.
* * * *
For months, Kelly falls asleep next to me in my bed, but I know when I wake up in the morning, she will be gone, just like all the nights before this one. This is all I get from her…physical contact. But we don’t talk. She doesn’t let me in. Some men would argue I have nothing to complain about—and I’m not, necessarily—but I want to be with her completely and not just behind closed doors.
“How about dinner?” I play with her hair near her temple.
“Dinner? It’s two o’clock in the morning.”
“Not right now,” I say with a laugh. “Later this week some time. We’re leaving for the tour in a few weeks, and I’d like to take you out a few times before we go.”
Kelly sits up and pulls her shirt over her upper body, then stands and steps into her jeans.
“Where are you going?” I swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
“Home.” She walks to the door frame. “Goodnight, Blake,” she adds, looking over her shoulder.
She leaves the room, heading toward the kitchen, and I follow closely behind at a jog.
“What is this, Kelly?” I don’t hide my frustration. “What the hell is it that we are doing here?”
“We’re having fun.” She shrugs and shakes her head. “Or at least we were.”
“This isn’t fun for me, Kelly. I want to be with you…more than this. I don’t know how else to say it.”
She’s silent and answerless for a brief moment. I can’t make her stay, but I don’t want her to leave.
“I can’t do that, Blake—”
“And why not?” I raise my voice to a higher volume.
“Because you’re leaving!” she finally yells back. “You are here now. You want this now. But, Blake, you are literally known for having a different girl in every city. The band constantly jokes about you losing count before your very first tour was over and not bothering to learn the names of the women you’d ended up with.”
I want to argue back, bu
t I can’t. She’s not wrong. I rub my hand at the back of my neck, looking at the floor so I don’t have to see the look in her eyes as she berates me in my own home.
“I’m sorry, Blake.” She places her hand on the door handle and cracks it open. “I like you. I do. I just don’t really trust you.”
The door clicks as she leaves with no counterargument from me.
* * * *
Then
If anyone ever tells you they like being the new kid at school, they’re lying and aren’t to be trusted. Being the new kid sucks. Being the new kid at your sixth school in eight years over two different countries and multiple states sucks harder. I stand in the hallway, by myself, holding a piece of paper that may as well have been written in hieroglyphics. It makes no sense to me. Then again, school was never my strong suit, right down to the school map and schedule.
“You need help?” a boy in a black jacket and dark jeans asks me. His hair is much too long and he carries a tattered acoustic guitar case at his side.
“Yeah, if you don’t mind.” In the words that escape my lips, I can hear what is left of the slight South African accent I once had. My years in the States have diminished the sound quite a bit—I’ve picked up pronunciation and dialogue from each of the diverse regions we have lived in. We usually spent enough time in each area to allow me to inherit pieces of the local accent, creating a unique blend that doesn’t belong to any one place in particular but never a long enough time to actually belong to any of them.
He places his antique-looking guitar case down next to his worn-out canvas shoes and steps toward me, looking at my class schedule.
“Well, we have the first two classes together, so I can help you with those. Just follow me.”
“That sounds good,” I mumble. First days have never gone this well for me. My first days have historically consisted of stuck lockers, tripping on untied shoelaces, dropping my books in front of a large crowd or bumping into someone in the lunchroom and wearing their pasta dish for the remainder of the day. This is too easy—too good to be true. I’m sure of it.
“This way, then.” He picks up his guitar and heads down the hallway. That’s when I realize he doesn’t have any books with him. “I’m Alexander, by the way.”
“Blake,” I say in response, but my voice is distant, my attention elsewhere.
A girl in the hallway spins the lock on her locker about ten yards from us. She wears ripped jeans with her blonde hair dyed to an almost white shade on top with the deepest black coloring the underneath. Her black-and-white canvas sneakers are decorated with writing and drawings covering every inch of the fabric. Her notebooks are covered in stickers of music notes and band names. She has headphones in, listening loud enough that the entire hallway could hear the music. The headphones were useless, really. She would have been better off playing the tracks out loud.
“Alexander?” she says, raising her voice an octave as if she’s surprised to see him. He waves to her and she removes a headphone. “I hardly recognized you without your braces and band uniform.” She raises an eyebrow and lets out a giggle, returning her headphone to her ear. Alexander rolls his eyes and treks onward.
“Band and braces?” I ask, my eyes widening. He turns and faces me, his eyes narrowed in a way that says we are never to bring it up again. I swallow hard and he turns away, continuing our path to our first class.
“Hey, Alexander?” I ask, quickening my pace to match his. He looks at me over his shoulder and places black sunglasses over his eyes, even though we are indoors. “Who was that?” My voice is hushed.
“Kelly Montoy.” He offers no other information except her name.
Chapter Three
Now
The school is almost entirely unlit except for one illuminated exit sign at the opposite end of the hallway and a blinking smoke detector overhead. Kelly’s heels click clack as we walk, breaking up the otherwise-silent soundtrack.
“What are we doing here?” Her voice is a whisper, as if we’re going to get in trouble for being in the hallways of our old school—and maybe we will, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.
“Come here.” I take her hand and lead her onward.
“Where are you taking me?” She giggles and follows closely behind.
“Back in time.” My voice is smooth and playful as I chauffeur her around the corner and flick on the lights in the hallway above her old locker.
She runs her fingers across the faded maroon metal and spins the lock. She smiles then her eyes find mine. They turn to a confused glance when she realizes I’ve left her side.
“That is where you were standing the first time I ever saw you,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets and rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet about thirty feet from her. “And I was all the way over here.”
She leans her shoulder into the locker and stares at me, trying to see the point.
“That’s how it has always been with us, Kelly. You were always too many steps away from me—always across the room, always in a different crowd, always out of reach.”
I start walking toward her, slowly, speaking with each step I take to close the gap between us.
“But if I could go back, if I could do it all again, I wouldn’t have waited so long to talk to you.”
I lean into the locker next to hers and she looks up at me.
“This time, I’d like to introduce myself—not as the guy you think you know or the guy you see on TV and on tour. I want you to know the new me.” I put one hand out. “Hi, I’m Blake Mathews.”
A shy smile crosses her lips. She places her hand in mine and shakes it.
“I’m Kelly Montoy,” she says, playing into the script exactly the way I had hoped she would.
* * * *
Then
My mother didn’t understand why I wanted to play an instrument the first time I came home asking if she would rent me a guitar—she didn’t understand a lot of things—but she had also never seen Kelly Montoy before. I was surprised when my mom handed over a large wad of cash and told me to purchase—not rent—a new guitar. I didn’t know we had that kind of money, but I figured she was just trying to do something nice. She’d said, ‘Why not, son? We’re having a good week.’ I never knew what that meant, but I never dared to ask.
Alexander’s eyes bulged out of his head like a cartoon character the first time he saw my new guitar.
“It is beautiful.” He ran his fingers down the strings. “Why’d you buy this one?”
“I don’t know. I just thought it looked cool,” I admit, though truthfully my knowledge of the instrument is nonexistent.
“Are you taking lessons?” He raises an eyebrow my direction.
“I figured you could teach me.” I rub my hand at my neck. I’m certain my mother’s ‘good week’ couldn’t cover both the instrument and lessons—and I didn’t want to push my luck.
He looks at the guitar and back at me again.
“I mean, I can try…” he says. “But I would have to teach myself first. I’ve never actually played a bass guitar before.”
“Bass guitar?” I repeat the words slowly and carefully. I look at my guitar then at his, recognizing mine has two less strings and a different body style. He claps his hand at my shoulder and lets out a light laugh.
My guitar and new-found interest in playing weren’t the only things that changed. Over time, Kelly ditched her drastic hair colors and unique style in favor of brighter, more trendy clothes that fit her new life as we moved into high school. She changed. She got popular. Me? I stayed exactly the same. I am still the kid with the odd accent who strums a guitar with his only friend on the stairs outside the school, playing the music that I picked up to impress the girl who still, to this day, has never found the time to look my direction. She gave up on her love of music, but I didn’t. I fell in love with the music the minute I started playing a few simple notes. I picked up the skill relatively fast. I think, maybe, it was in me all along. It just took a
young crush and a talented best friend to make it come alive.
A few painfully awkward preteen years after the first time I saw her, she was in the hallway, bent over a table sorting through papers and stopping every few moments to jot something down. I pace back and forth behind her, trying to decide if I should say hello or not, but each time I work up the courage to say anything at all, I swallow it down again. She turns around and sees me standing there, and I really have no idea what to say. I feign an interest in the bulletin board nearest me, accidentally taking down half the paper advertisements and quickly trying to tack them back into place.
“Did you need to sign up?” She points to the flyer in my hand.
“Sign up?” My voice fails me and cracks violently mid-question.
“For the talent show,” she says, raising an eyebrow and smirking a half smile that forms a dimple at the corner of her lips. She taps the paper on the table with the tip of a pink glittery pen.
“Right…” I say, “the talent show.” The hallway suddenly seems miles long and eerily silent apart from my awkward answers echoing against the lockers.
“Yes,” I finally reply, clearing my throat and trying to sound confident. “I need to sign up for the talent show.”
She smiles and walks around the table, smoothing her skirt before taking a seat and reaching for the sign-up page.
“Name?” she asks, and I fall apart at the seams, disintegrating into the old, scuffed hallway flooring. I had known her name for years. I knew her favorite song. It was the first one I ever taught myself to play. I knew everything there was to know about Kelly Montoy, and she had no idea who I was at all—not even my name.
“Umm…Blake,” I say, and she jots my name down in large, bubbly writing.
“Is it just you, ‘Umm…Blake’, or will you be performing with others?”
Another question I don’t know the answer to. Just as I’m about to respond, the hallway doors swing open and their squeaking hinges echo through the nearly vacant space. One long-haired student walks toward us, his boots letting out a piercing screech as he shuffles across the tile. Alexander’s perfectly timed entrance gives me an idea.