Friended

by Kilby Blades

  I did the only thing that could distract me from this torture. I pulled out my cell and got on Instagram, not for his benefit for once—so that other friends and other places would commiserate with me. I posted a “Keep Calm and Eat Tacos” meme I liked. It was meant for my old crew. God, did I miss the tacos in L.A.

  @Roxxy_roxxy_roxx: I’d take down a nun for a taco from La Pancha. I’d settle for something with caffeine and sugar.

  I fired it off irritably and immediately, before going back to my feed and scrolling in a very un-merry way. I tried not to dwell on it as an act of defiance—as proof that not everything was about him. When a teacher glared at me for having my phone out, I slammed it back into my pocket. I hadn't refocused on Coach Bradley's lousy job of emceeing for two minutes when I heard the hushed whisper of my name.

  "Roxy Vega," the unfamiliar female voice whisper-urged, "She's, like, two rows behind you."

  I had no clue what was going on. Looking down the bleachers to the sea of kids seated in front of me, it seemed that some kind of wave was passing through the crowd.

  "Roxy Vega," an unfamiliar, bored-sounding voice instructed, and the strange movements of the crowd continued.

  By then, even Zoë had caught on and she fixed me in a glance of confusion just as two items were dropped onto my lap. Reflexively, I snatched up a red Coke can, then I noticed the bag of Skittles. I scanned the crowd then, at last permitting myself to look for him. He smirked when he saw me before turning his attention to something in his palm.

  His phone.

  I set aside my snacks to look at mine. With I opened Instagram to find a screen shot from an old Skittles commercial, my hopeful delusions returned.

  @moves_like_jagga: Taste the rainbow.

  Ten

  Iris

  And I'd give up forever to touch you

  ‘cause I know that you feel me somehow.

  You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be

  and I don't want to go home right now.

  -Goo Goo Dolls, Iris

  Jagger

  "Hey there, little man…" I whispered to baby Nick, a wide smile spreading across my face.

  He wasn't old enough to smile yet or move around much, but his eyes were open and he looked much healthier than he had when he was born. It was after school and I was at the hospital starting my volunteer gig shift. Almost no one knew that, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I cuddled newborn babies who were stuck in the ICU.

  Some of the babies had to be there for weeks. It was really hard on the parents. Even if the moms were on maternity leave, sometimes they had other kids to take care of at home and most of the dads had jobs. The hospital arranged a small army of cuddlers to step in. The science said that babies needed the contact to develop essential social bonding hormones and interaction skills. All common sense and decency said that babies—especially ones away from their families—needed to be loved and held. So, twice a week, I layered in linens provided by the parents so that the babies would associate being nurtured with the scent of their own homes.

  Not just anyone could be a cuddler, of course—they had to screen for baby-stealing lunatics. And beyond all the rigorous criminal and background checks, cuddlers had to be good with babies. Another thing that wasn't widely known: the nurses called me "The Baby Whisperer" for my talent to calm babies with my voice. But I was driven by more than altruism. Being here was cathartic.

  "He's happy to see you.” A nurse named Grace smiled kindly, glancing at us briefly as she swaddled a baby close by.

  "I'm happy to see him.” I smiled back, before lifting the little bundle to settle him in my arms.

  I had a brother once. Anthony was his name. He'd lived for seven weeks. I'd visited him every day of his life in this very room, but I'd loved him before he was born. They say babies connect with music and voices even within the womb. When my mom was pregnant with him, my dad and I would talk to her belly and take turns playing him CDs. I'd sit with my mom on the piano bench when he was restless and she would play him soothing concertos. I would play him Hot Cross Buns. She told me stories of when she’d carried me and how happy they'd been that I was coming, how they'd done the same things for me.

  He was born prematurely and through a difficult labor. Not all of his organs functioned properly and he was weak. Since he couldn't come home, we'd visit him here. Given my dad's position at the hospital, they made sure I cleaned up and wore scrubs and looked the other way on the "no children in NICU" rule. What they said about babies being able to hear in utero must have been true. He, too, had calmed at the sound of my voice. Most days he was too weak to be held, but I remember each time that I did. People who thought six years old was too young of an age to remember something like that were dead fucking wrong. I remembered every moment with him.

  When he died, it decimated my world, pulling all of us into a darkness I don’t think any of us completely survived. My dad took a hiatus from medicine. My mom barely spoke for weeks. They sent me to live with my cousins in Chicago that summer. I came home that fall to altered parents: a mother so paranoid over my safety that she smothered me with her protection; a father too grief-stricken to face his family, who started spending all his time at work.

  Things were better now. It was hard to believe it had been ten years. But, to arrive here I'd learned how to cope. During the bad years, music drowned out the sounds of my parents fighting. During the sad years, it filled the silence. When I went to dark places, it joined me. At times, it gave me hope, and in its words, it held the promise of a life much different from this.

  Nick's tiny cry broke me out of my thoughts. I often thought deep in this place. Stopping my slow pacing, I sat us in a rocker and hummed my own little lullaby. When he calmed, I stroked his tiny cheek and hugged him a little closer. When his eyes fell shut and his breathing evened, I returned to my own thoughts. Like wondering what must have happened to Roxy to make her listen to the music she did.

  "How's he doing?"

  This time it was my father's voice that broke me away from my thoughts. He often visited me here. "I had a free minute and thought I'd come by," he always said, though I knew he was busy and made time to come.

  "Much better," I said, smiling up at my dad, showing him I was okay. He still worried, sometimes, that I'd never be whole. In that, I think he was right.

  "How are you doing?" he asked in the voice of a father, not a doctor.

  I met a girl. She's beautiful, and she has passion and depth. I like her so much it scares me, but fuck it. She's worth laying it on the line. I had grand plans to talk to her today, but got cockblocked by a lame-ass pep rally and I had to leave right after school to come here. Maybe I'll chat with her tonight on Instagram—I've become quite the cyber-stalker.

  "Really good, Dad," I said honestly, and he beamed.

  We sat in companionable silence for a bit, as was our normal routine. Each time, I would offer to let him hold the baby for awhile and each time, he sadly refused. Noticing the time, he got up to return to his shift and we said we'd see each other at home.

  "By the way…stop down to see Dr. Sturman before you leave. She has something she thinks you may want."

  I raised my eyebrow at my dad's cryptic smile. His chuckle followed him down the hall.

  Eleven

  I Can’t Wait

  My love, tell me what it's all about.

  You've got something

  that I can't live without.

  Happiness is so hard to find.

  Hey baby, tell me what is on your mind.

  -Nu Shooz, I Can’t Wait

  Roxy

  In place of a peaceful afternoon spent obsessing over Jagger, I fell prey to Zoë's third degree. At the assembly, she'd swiftly ditched her texting with Gunther, demanding to know who sent me food and why. I wasn't about to get into it in a crowded gymnasium so instead of answering, I'd poured half of my Skittles in her hand. When I saw her in the parking lot at the end of eighth period, she shoved her phone in my face
.

  "Taste the rainbow?" she whisper-hissed with shocked accusation.

  "Since when are you friends with Jagger?" I hedged indignantly.

  "Since get in the fucking car!" she ordered, knowing we couldn't speak of this here.

  We zipped out of the parking lot at unauthorized speeds, turning not towards my house but toward hers. I scrolled through my phone, predictably obsessed with whether Jagger had updated again. He hadn’t, but the selfie I found of Zoë and Gunther, both of them starry-eyed and his arms around her was big news. But the caption was bigger.

  @DerbyGirlZoe: Status change: in a relationship

  I pulled the same move she'd just done to me: leveling an accusing glance as I showed her my screen.

  "Looks like we have some catching up to do,” she conceded with an eyebrow arch.

  When we got back to her place, her housekeeper had made us a snack. Since Zoë was practically an adult, nobody ever called Niede a nanny, but for how often Zoë’s parents were away, Niede was the most consistent adult in Zoë’s life. It made me more than a little uncomfortable—not that her parents left her alone, but that they’d outsourced her care to hired help. I didn’t know what was worse—a mother who didn’t stop long enough to think about why leaving your kid alone so often was wrong, or a mom who did think about it and fixed it with money.

  But I couldn’t think about that now. I was starving for real nourishment. Over chicken salad on whole wheat, I gave Zoë an abridged version of the Jagger story. I told her we'd chatted briefly about music, that he'd made a few recommendations, that we'd only had contact twice. I wasn't lying when I said we'd never talked face to face, but I left out the parts about his playlists. I was still too insecure about his motives to come completely clean.

  There was something else: yes, she was my best friend, but she had a vested interest in me and Jagger becoming a couple. I wondered how much her crazy prediction that Jagger had a crush on me was about what she actually saw vs. what she read too far into and hoped could one day be true.

  "Stop grilling me about Jagger!" I exclaimed gently at some point "It's your turn to spill about Gunther."

  Cartoon hearts and blue-jays orbited her head when I dropped the G-word. By the time she finished telling me about their budding romance, about him walking her to class and calling her every night, the comparative evidence—that nothing of consequence was going on between Jagger and me—was ample.

  When I returned home that evening, I had made a decision of survival. I knew that I had to back off. I waited until late to log onto Instagram. I hoped that after seeing the image I posted of a cupcake with a skull and crossbones on it would make him get the point.

  @Roxxy_roxxy_roxx: Crashing from my sugar high…

  After typing my message, and texting an excuse to Zoë about driving myself to school the next day, I turned off my phone.

  I rolled into school the next morning deliberately late. I told my dad I had period cramps, so he wrote me a note. I had a plan for Civics: I’d be cordial, but not hopeful. My days of trying to reach Jagger were over. If he wanted something more than a bizarre, shallow, felonious friendship, he'd have to step up and make his move.

  When I reached my seat, my Nano sat on my side of the desk and an unfamiliar set of fancy-looking white earphones were wrapped around the middle of each side before fanning into an elegant bow.

  "New headphones?" I asked, fully expecting the question to be rhetorical.

  He shrugged and pulled out my chair for me.

  "Those are better."

  I nearly fell into my proffered seat.

  "He speaks!" It was meant sarcastically, but laced with genuine surprise.

  His chuckle was drowned out by Mr. McAbee as he started his lesson. I reached into my pocket and pulled out his green Shuffle, sliding it across the table to him. He began scribbling on a piece of paper and clandestinely slid me a note.

  I took the liberty of adding some songs to your Nano. I hope you like them.

  Thanks, I wrote back. I didn't mean to be terse, but this whole thing was fucking me up and I had to stick to my plan.

  What are you up to this weekend? he wrote back a few minutes later.

  So now he wanted to be pals? Our need to be stealthy as we passed notes back and forth gave me a minute to form my response.

  The usual—polishing the silver, planning my world domination strategy.

  When he laughed at that, I bit back a smile.

  I got two passes to see Foo Fighters on Sunday, he wrote back.

  My eyebrows raised to my hairline when I read the note. Dedicated fan that I am, I knew all about the sold-out charity event they were doing at a small venue in Ft. Bragg. I wanted to be angry that Jagger could afford tickets and I couldn't, but mostly I was just jealous that he would get to see them play.

  You'll have to tell me about it, I wrote back trying to keep from looking sad.

  I could feel him looking at me then, could feel the warmth radiating off of his skin. That animal magnetism of his was working the hell out of me, and I knew if I looked back at him I'd be a goner. He wrote his next note more slowly and passed it carefully, almost apprehensively. I was almost afraid to read it.

  Either that, or you could come with me.

  I read it twice. Three times.

  Either. That. Or. You. Could. Come. With. Me.

  By the time I allowed myself to entertain the thought that Jagger Monroe might be asking me out, he had snatched the paper back and hastily scribbled another message.

  I know you like them. You have everything they've ever released on your iPod.

  Holy fuck, he was really trying to get me to go with him!

  It depends, I wrote back, needing to hold on to some shred of my dignity. Things could not progress as they had before.

  On what? He shot back. His look of worry didn't escape me. Good.

  My mind was so made up already—it wasn’t like I was going to miss out on Dave Grohl—but Jagger didn't need to know that.

  On whether you'll talk to me like I'm a normal person. I'm not texting you all night.

  Though he let out a velvet chuckle, I was not laughing. Nor was Mr. McAbee, who leveled his second glare.

  Of course we'll talk!

  I gestured at the note sarcastically, and fired back:

  You just *wrote me a note* to promise we'll talk?

  He rolled his eyes as he started writing again.

  It would be inappropriate to talk during class, Roxy.

  I raised my eyebrow.

  More or less appropriate than passing notes?

  He chuckled again, quieter this time. Hell if I didn’t love the sound.

  I'll take your untraditional show of gratitude as a yes. May I pick you up at 5?

  I fixed my eyes on the blackboard as I nodded my acquiescence, hating myself for how fucking easy he made me. I spent the rest of class so wrapped up in thinking about Sunday that I barely noticed when the bell rang. Before I could rise to stand, he leaned close to whisper in my ear.

  "And, Roxy? For the record, you're much better than normal."

  By the time I registered the caress of his breath on my neck and the goosebumps that had spread to my fingertips, he was already gone.

  Part Two

  Everlong

  Twelve

  In a Little While

  In a little while,

  surely you'll be mine.

  In a little while, I'll be there.

  In a little while,

  this hurt will hurt no more.

  I'll be home, love.

  -U2, In a Little While

  Jagger

  Roxy’s front door flew open before I made it up the steps of her split-level cabin-style house. It was well-maintained, but typical of the older construction in Rye. Her cheeks were alive with that gorgeous flush and her hair was slightly wild. Only the panicked expression and nervous lip-biting were enough to temporarily distract me from what she wore: her tight blue jeans and little bl
ack Foo Fighters hoodie were simple, but utterly distracting. Still, I checked myself, knowing her dad was around.

  "I'll explain later, just…sorry," she whispered with genuine distress as she ushered me inside.

  I'd driven twenty miles an hour slower than my normal speed to get there, and not just to compensate for having left my house so early. It was the first time I was taking a girl on an honest-to-goodness date and I needed the time to rehearse what I'd say to her father.

  In my vision, things would go like they did in the movies: Mr. Vega would greet me at the door and cast a disdainfully appraising look before waving me inside. Roxy, of course, would still be upstairs doing whatever girls do while their dates are scrutinized by protective fathers. He'd test my handshake and my eye contact to size up just what kind of boy I was. And, seconds before she floated into earshot, he'd growl a threat that if I laid a hand on his daughter he'd cut off my fucking balls. And who could blame a dad like that? After all, he'd been young once. He knew the hearts of teenage boys.

  But Roxy was the one girl I knew I would never want to hurt. My job was to make sure the Mr. Vega knew it too. And because my own dad had long-since prepared me for exactly this sort of situation, I followed Roxy into the living room and looked Mr. Vega straight in the eye.

  "Hello, Mr. Vega—I'm Jagger Monroe. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

  He shook my hand hard, but I gave as good as I got.

  "Jagger! Pleasure to finally meet you,” he said jovially before withdrawing his hand.