This went on for the rest of the evening with intervals for bathroom and dinner breaks as he toyed with my sneaker. After every song, he held his hand to his ear in the shape of a phone. Every time, I shook my head with as much annoyance as I could show.
At first, everyone else minded their own business. But his music, or our quarrel, or whatever led to a gradual y increasing balcony audience. People got nosy, wanting to know what our tiff was about and why I didn’t want to talk to him when he was essential y serenading me. One person, then another, then a few more, cried out, “Oh, come on!” “Give the poor boy a break!”
“Give him your number!” “How romantic!” “What music!”
Romantic? No. Opportunistic? Yes.
He played into the night. Maybe I could bide time. How long would he last? How long before his back hurt and his fingers bled?
“That’s lovely music. Who’s playing?” Ma asked as she walked through my room.
I went inside. “Some guy who won’t let me have quiet,” I grumbled.
“Ah, beta. Come watch a movie with us,” she said instead and went into the living room with Lil y’s pil ows and blanket.
“Maybe.” But al I real y wanted to do was figure out how to get my shoe back.
—
Strange that the first thing to pop into my head as soon as I woke up the next morning was not having to pee or what to eat for breakfast, or even the realization of blissful morning peace, but Guitar Boy. After going through my morning routine and doing some reading, I went outside.
There he was. Sitting on his chair, facing me. He waved.
Without breaking eye contact, I held up my sign.
SHOE!
He held up my sneaker in one hand and his phone in the other. A dozen scenarios gushed through my brain. Could I throw a pot at him? Could I climb up to his balcony and take my shoe while he was gone? Could I figure out which apartment was his and knock on the door and tel his mom what he’d been doing?
Guitar Boy played smooth, soft notes for almost an hour, a new song each time.
We took breaks and came back out to continue our standoff.
In the evening when more people got home, as wel as other kids, they’d come out to listen and take sides and add irritating commotion. Except those who took my side, of course. They got imaginary brownies for being on side ME.
This went on for another day. The division of sides quickly shifted. More people turned into Team Guitar Boy. I was losing the battle.
—
While Marly posted IG stories of her cats dressed in tutus and hand-knit caps, and Janice group-texted us her new monthly workout chal enge for that better booty, I complained about Guitar Boy. Today’s standoff included snacks on the balcony, shades for high noon, a fan, a pil ow for my back, an icy fruit drink, and my trusty sign that Lil y would need back any minute now for a summer school presentation (!!). Guitar Boy was equipped with a bottle of water and his own snacks. We pretty much lived out here now.
He played. Always slow and melodious, sucking me into a trance with songs I’d never heard. His music lured me into a daze, one that I had fought against al this time and wanted to be upset over. But over the course of these past days, it had created something sorta bizarre. I hadn’t noticed it until now, until I ful y gave in. Because one: being annoyed added to my headache. Two: his music was kind of soothing. Three: this was a free show, to be honest.
I’d lost track of time as everything around me melted and blurred. It didn’t matter how hot it was, or if my butt hurt from sitting in this folding chair. Musical notes fel around this backstreet width of space between us.
Notes that bal ooned into plump, swaying raindrops and dancing fairies of round, thrumming beats.
For once, noise didn’t give me a stabby headache, or induce anxiety, or make me want to throw something.
Was this what music did for him? Al cathartic and stuff?
This time when he stopped, there was a void. Silence was too…quiet. I actual y missed his music. Badly. Like absolute hol owness. In a world ful of colors and chaos, there was now a splattered goop of a black abyss with a sign that read You Are Here.
I went inside and cooked dinner for my family, giving Lil y the task of measuring ingredients. My parents had taken a nap earlier and now were folding laundry.
“You two need to make your beds and clean your room,” Ma scolded.
“Okay,” we told her.
“Honestly. We need routine and cleanliness. We don’t want ants, do we?”
Dinner came and went. Then Lil y and I cleaned our room. Wel , I did most of it. She put away her things but I made the beds and cleaned up al the snacks. She immediately went to the living room for movie night, which was every night.
I went onto the balcony, ready for the standoff during the seven p.m.
serenade, but surprisingly found several people on their balconies around us, al quiet, like they were waiting for something. Guitar Boy didn’t have his guitar out. He waved.
One by one, people across the balconies held up signs—on paper shopping bags, on dry-erase boards, on Amazon cardboard boxes—imploring me to give the guy a chance. And with those signs came hoots and hol ers cheering me on.
Guitar Boy just stood there, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets, a smirk on his face, and a shrug as if he hadn’t orchestrated this entire stunt.
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I groaned and yel ed, “Fine!” But in reality, giddiness squirmed through me. Never had a boy tried so long and this hard to get my number. Never had one put together a phone number proposal like this or had an entire crowd backing him up. Had a boy ever even asked for my number?
The scattered crowd applauded and whistled. Thank goodness my family was in the living room watching a movie turned on so loud that they hadn’t heard this commotion.
I didn’t have the dry-erase board, so I held up my fingers to hand over my cel phone number one number at a time. Guitar Boy immediately added it to his phone as my face warmed from al the approving attention.
I expected my phone to buzz with a text. But nah. It rang. He actual y cal ed me! Right here and now in front of everyone!
My hands shook as I answered.
“Hi,” he said in a level, deep voice as he stuffed one hand back into his pocket.
I tried not to smile, but dang it! I was grinning so hard that I almost spun around so he wouldn’t see.
“Hey,” I said as casual y as possible, but my voice might’ve been trembling.
“So this is what you sound like. When you’re not yel ing.”
“Yep.”
“Thanks for giving me your number.”
My gaze fluttered to the al ey below, away from his intense look, away from the nosy audience. “You forced me to. Did you tel al these people to do this?”
“What? That? Had nothing to do with it.”
I glanced at him and could see he was grinning now. “Right. This just evolved on its own?”
He laughed. Wow. He sounded so nice. My skin tingled.
“Can I have my shoe back?” I asked.
“I dunno…”
“Wasn’t that the entire point of getting my number?”
“No. The point was to final y talk to you. If I give you your shoe back, you might not talk to me again.”
“So, extortion, is it?”
“Col ateral.”
“Wow. Okay. Can I ever expect to get my shoe back?”
“Of course.” He looked behind him. “I have to go. Can I text you later?”
“Do I have a choice if you’re holding my shoe hostage?”
He held up the sneaker for me to see. “It’s in good hands. Promise.”
I clamped down on a smile as he went inside. And with his departure, I went inside, too. I joined my family for movie night, if nothing else to get my mind off Guitar Boy, but found myself constantly checking my phone.
Which didn’t go unnoticed by Ma. “Waiting for something important?”
“Someone is
supposed to text me.”
“Someone? Not a specific name? Are you talking to boys?” Ma asked.
“Whaaaaat?” I said without much conviction.
“Nice thing about quarantine is that I don’t have to worry about boys getting too close to you. The virus took care of that! Six feet apart at al times! Hard to kiss or do things you shouldn’t be doing when you have to maintain social distancing.”
“Ugh. Can we not talk about that? No one is trying to get close to me.”
The movie ended and stil no text.
Lil y was already asleep in bed. I crawled underneath my covers, facing the wal with my back to my little sister. The window was in my view and the phone beside my face so that I could see it light up.
This was total y uncool to wait for some boy. I was not here for this. I was going to sleep and respond when I responded.
Just as my eyelids fluttered closed, the screen lit up.
Guitar Boy: Hey. Are you stil awake?
I tapped the phone, deliberating on replying.
Me: Yeah
Guitar Boy: My name’s Neal. What’s your name?
Me: Bobby
Guitar Boy: Bobby? Isn’t that a boy’s name?
Me: Not in my culture. Don’t throw your social constructs at me Guitar Boy: LOL. Fair
Me: I need my shoe back
Guitar Boy: Do you though?
Me: Yes!
Guitar Boy: When you threw it at me, thought it was a gift Me: At least I didn’t hit you
Guitar Boy: That would’ve hurt. You threw it kinda hard. Nice aim, BTW
Me: I’m a softbal pitcher. I could’ve thrown it way harder Guitar Boy: Nice! I mean the pitcher part. Glad you didn’t throw harder
Me: You could be a gentleman and throw my shoe back Guitar Boy: I don’t have your aim. It might end up on someone else’s balcony
Me: Meet me outside, then
Guitar Boy: Sounds like an invitation to a fight
Me: Listen. I also have a softbal bat and I’m not afraid to throw it Guitar Boy: I’m going to hold on to your shoe for a little longer Me: :/
Guitar Boy: Col ateral. Hey, can we video chat?
Me: Why?
Guitar Boy: So I can see your face
Me: You saw me outside
Guitar Boy: Kinda far, though
Me: I’m in bed and it’s dark. You’re not going to see much Guitar Boy: I’l take what I can get
I bit my lip and thought about the request for a moment before obliging.
But mainly because I wanted to see him closer up, too. I popped in my earbuds and checked how I looked on camera first. Eh. It wasn’t the best, but it was dark and he wouldn’t be able to see much of me. I took in a deep, nervous breath and video cal ed him.
Within seconds, Neal manifested on my screen. He sat in bed in a wel -lit room, his cheeks a little flushed as if maybe he was nervous, too. He had a lot of quarantine hair, wavy and wild, that curled at the ends. It brushed his ears and forehead. His smile squished up his intense, brown eyes, and deep dimples formed. But his smile! He had this big, bright, dazzling smile behind ful lips.
He was super cute! I mean…Mena Massoud, was that you??
Neal grinned. “You gonna stare any harder? You might hit your face on the screen.”
I swal owed. “Whatever. Anyone tel you that you look like Mena Massoud?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
“The guy who played Aladdin?”
He shook his head and pressed his lips together. Those dimples! “Um.
No.”
“Oh. Wel , you do. Anyway.”
He furrowed his brows and brought his phone closer to his face. “Who is that behind you?”
I jumped and rol ed over, almost screaming with fright. “Lil y!” I quietly yel ed, trying to get my heart to calm down.
She, like a little creeper, was standing over me and just al in my business. “Are you talking to a boy?”
“Shhh! What are you doing? You scared me to death.”
“You’re not supposed to be talking to boys. Who is that?” She leaned down to look at my screen and excitedly asked, “Is that Aladdin?”
Neal laughed and waved.
“Oh my god,” I muttered, and ushered her away. “Go back to bed.”
Then I said to Neal, “I gotta go.”
—
I’d showered, washed my hair, and shaved, just in case…ya know, Neal wanted to video cal . What if I accidental y dropped my phone and he got a look at hairy legs? I checked out my reflection. Ew. This growth on unkempt brows. I deftly plucked my eyebrows and made sure my clothes were fresh and clean.
“Since when have you begun drinking coffee?” Ma asked as I poured a mug for myself in the kitchen and grabbed a waffle hot out of the toaster. I smothered it with butter, no syrup.
“Just want something not sweet. My gums are starting to hurt.”
She frowned. “Yes. We need to limit sugar. Quarantine is not an excuse to go sugar wild.”
“Where are you off to in a hurry?” Dad asked as he helped Lil y with something on the laptop.
“Going to eat breakfast on the balcony.”
“Good to get some fresh air. Make sure to water those poor plants while you’re out there.”
“Okay.” I closed the bedroom door and hurried to the balcony, throwing a pil ow and my sweatshirt out to make myself as comfy as possible.
Everything was set up, my shades on, relaxed and leaned back on my pil ow-cushioned folding chair with coffee in hand and half-eaten waffle on a paper towel on my lap.
In about four minutes, Neal texted.
Guitar Boy: Hi! I’m going to be out on the balcony in a bit if you want to come out. Some real-time face time? Maybe?
Me: Sure
When he emerged, he beamed and waved. Then he leaned his forearms against the railing and we just watched each other. There was something very rewarding about being able to check out a boy from afar. And the shades hid my gawking now that I knew what he looked like close up. There was an entire conversation between us without uttering a single word.
He eventual y sat down and pul ed a book from the windowsil before asking for a video cal .
Sure. Why not?
My stomach tied into little knots in anticipation as his image appeared on my phone. The shades stayed on, though.
“Hi,” he said, simple but so thril ing. He was even cuter in the daylight, his skin glowing.
“Hey,” I replied, trying to sound as chil as possible.
“Whatcha up to today?”
“Oh, you know? The usual. Eating, drinking, watching my friends’
TikToks. I might play a game with my fam later. Waiting for a certain boy to hand over my shoe.”
He chuckled, sending a pleasant flutter through my bel y. Wow. Calm down, woman.
“Why’d you throw it at me in the first place?” he asked.
“I needed quiet and the balcony is the only place I can find it. I asked you to stop. You ignored me.”
“Ah. But throwing something at me was kinda extreme.”
“With everything going on in quarantine, al the noise, being stuck inside, glued to screens, I was getting bad headaches and just needed quiet. I shouldn’t have thrown anything at you.”
He knitted his brows. “I’m sorry. I probably added to that stress.”
“At first, definitely.”
“Not anymore?”
“I think the music you play actual y helps.”
He nodded. “It helps me.”
“You’re stressed, too?”
“Who isn’t? Worried. Bored. Irritated. Playing the guitar helps.”
“Where did you learn how to play?”
“YouTube. Gotten much better since quarantine, though. It’s harder to play songs already out there, so I just make up my own stuff, sometimes.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. “It’s real y nice. Thanks for sharing your music with me.”
“Anytime
. I can be quiet, too, though, if you need.”
“Thanks. So. What are you up to?”
He held up the book. “Summer reading. Dinner with my mom later.
Maybe indoor workout. Play some music. Consider returning a certain shoe later.”
He reached over to grab my sneaker. “What’s up with the scribbles, though?”
“Those are not scribbles.”
He made a face. “Are we talking about the same shoe?”
I sighed, longing for the other half of my white sneakers with colorful y inked words and drawings. “When the pandemic hit up north, we had a feeling that it wasn’t going to just end and life be normal after spring break.
We knew it would hit us, too. Kinda saw it coming when school sent us home early for spring break and told us not to come back until further notice, especial y when other states were going into quarantine. Anyway, my friends and I bought shoes before we got quarantined, and we signed them and wrote little doodles and pictures and…um…yeah, fine scribbles.”
I’d expected him to laugh or mock me for such a childish, girl thing to do. Instead he half smiled, the right corner of his lips arching upward in a perpetual y adorable, dimple-inducing look. “That’s pretty awesome. Wish we’d thought of that. Was it your idea?”
“Yeah. Definitely got into trouble with my parents for ruining brand-new shoes,” I said. “So…what are you doing al summer, besides holding shoes hostage?”
“TikTok videos.”
“Of what? Playing the guitar?”
He seemed a little embarrassed. “Dancing.”
I gasped. “To what? I want to see.”
“Nope.”
“Um, yes. You can’t keep my shoe and not give anything in return.”
He tried to change the subject to summer quarantine hobbies, but I kept reeling the conversation back. He relented. And I spent the rest of the day watching, rewatching, and triple-watching some hilarious, amazing, and swoon-worthy videos.
I, of course, shared with Marly and Janice, who conceded with al the heart-eyed emojis that Guitar Boy was the absolute cutest boy ever. Oh, and also a good dancer.
After dinner, I’d stayed up late on the balcony while Neal played, this time airy and uplifting.
This is for you, he’d texted.
Was a boy seriously playing music just for me? Wel , nosy neighbors thought so, but they also benefited because they sure did stay out and enjoyed with me. Applause ensued after every song. Neal even took a bow. He’d earned it, and I absolutely saw how music had become his outlet.
Together, Apart Page 6