I break eye contact and gather the courage to say, “No, I’m good.”
“Fuck off, Brent,” Ray says, as she chucks a french fry at him, hitting him in the chest. “PS, there’s ketchup on your chin.”
“Seriously, man, don’t be a dick,” Tom says, flashing me bleach-white teeth.
“The quarterback has spoken, ladies and gentlemen,” Brent says, smirking as he rubs his chin with a napkin. He actually has the nerve to wink at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll play nice.”
“Wait, is she the one you were telling us about?” Tom asks, leaning across the table and eyeing me, his Under Armour T-shirt hugging his defined muscles. “Is your dad Caleb Rosenstein?”
I nod, silently willing this conversation to end quickly, to get swallowed up by the din of the restaurant.
“So cool,” he says. “What’s he saying about the season?”
“Who cares,” Brent pipes in, talking through a mouth full of fries. “Jets suck anyway.”
Jenna leans her head on Tom’s shoulder and rolls her eyes like she’s had to endure sports talk one too many times. I feel her pain and the truth is I have no idea what Dad’s saying about the season because I’ve never asked. I couldn’t care less.
“You suck,” Ray says. Brent blows the wrapper off a straw straight at Ray. She catches it midair, rolls it up, and puts it in her mouth. She then stuffs the wet paper ball in the end of her straw and spits it back at him, the tiny spitball landing in his hair. Normally I would think this is gross, but it’s cool how Ray isn’t intimidated by them, how she can be one of the guys.
“Gross,” Jenna says as she applies gloss to her full lips without looking in a mirror. I never understood how girls pull off this trick. If I ever tried something like that, I’d get gloss on my chin and cheeks—everywhere but my lips. Brent laughs and flicks the spitball out of his hair, almost hitting a waitress walking by our table.
“My dad doesn’t tell me anything,” I say. “I don’t really like football.”
It’s true. I hate football. But I say this now in the hopes that people won’t harass me for stats and strategies. I’d rather not walk the halls listening to a stranger’s idea of what plays Dad should run.
“What!” they all say in unison, their heads snapping in my direction.
“Seriously?” Ray asks.
“It’s America’s pastime,” says Jenna, her blue eyes wide.
“I’m pretty sure that’s baseball,” I say, and she laughs, pushing her auburn hair off her shoulders.
“Whatever, same difference.”
Not really, but I let it go.
“I guess growing up with football all the time, I kind of rebelled and went for music instead.” I try my best to sound cool, like someone they would want to hang out with. But in reality, I know this thing with Ray and her crowd won’t last. It’s only a matter of time before they realize I can’t get them into the luxury box at MetLife Stadium, before they realize I’m a plain girl who’s lived in a lot of places but has actually experienced very little.
“Stevie plays sax,” Ray says.
“No way,” Tom says. “That’s cool as hell.”
“She’s in the band with Ray’s boy,” Brent says before taking a long sip of soda. Ray glares at him.
“He’s not my boy,” she says. “Not anymore at least.”
Ray stirs the straw in her Diet Coke, a tiny whirlpool swirling inside the cup. She studies the swishing liquid and I know without asking that her boy is, or rather was, Drew Mason. I know it in the same way I know we’re about to move, even before my parents make the announcement. Something shifts in the air and although Drew’s practically a stranger, it’s obvious he’s the type of guy who makes girls stare into a fizzy glass of soda, missing something they can’t get back.
“I’m sure you met him this week,” Ray says, looking up from her soda. “Drew Mason?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, like he’s a guy I know from band, a guy I barely noticed. But the truth is, I’ve been desperate to talk to Drew again, to know if the incessant pounding in my chest means something more than a physical reaction to his soulful eyes and couldn’t-care-less hair. But now, knowing what I know, I squash the memory of placing my hand in Drew’s, him helping me up from the curb and making me feel a little less alone. Instead I remind myself that he’s barely glanced at me since that first day and that it was all in my head. That none of it meant anything. “What happened?”
“We were together last year,” Ray sighs. “For a while at least. Until his dad moved out and things got, I don’t know … weird.”
I read about Don Mason’s infidelity in the tabloids and even though I’m desperate for more information, I don’t ask. It’s not my place.
“I’m sorry,” I say as everyone at the table leans in, an audience I’m not sure Ray wants, but she keeps talking anyway.
“He was so angry, you know? And I didn’t know how to help him.”
Brent rolls his eyes and starts talking football with Tom as Jenna feigns interest. Ray pulls her phone out of her oversize bag and sighs, flipping the screen in my direction. It displays an unanswered text to Drew.
Ray
I need to talk to you
“He hasn’t texted me back,” Ray whispers as she folds a paper napkin into a small square, her eyes glancing at the others to make sure they’re not paying attention. “Do you think you can find out what’s going on with him? Maybe ask Shane?”
“Sure, I’ll try,” I say, each word solidifying the death of my crush on Drew Mason.
“You’re obsessed with him,” Jenna says, nudging Tom in his side and snapping him out of his conversation with Brent. “You talk about him all the time, don’t try to hide it. Right, Tom?”
“None of my business,” Tom says. “All I know is Drew’s a good guy. It was cool when you guys were together. I’m sorry about what went down.” He holds out his fist and Ray taps it with her knuckles, nodding at him. He nods back and kisses Jenna on the forehead. She pulls off his navy beanie and kisses him on the lips, a real kiss.
“Get a room,” Ray yells, throwing her napkin at them. I glance at my phone and jump up when I see it’s eleven p.m., remembering Mom’s instructions to meet Dad.
“I have to go, guys,” I say, eyeing the door, wishing I could stay.
“Already?” Ray pouts. I don’t tell her about my embarrassing curfew or that Dad’s likely outside, impatiently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. In fact, Dad’s probably been out there for the past ten minutes.
“Yeah, I’m babysitting my little brother in the morning,” I say, which isn’t technically a lie. Mom hasn’t officially asked me or anything, but I bet she’ll want to work on that piece she’s been painting of a girl and a yellow balloon. She’ll ask me to watch Joey for a half hour and a half hour will stretch into two hours. It’s just how it goes. “See you guys at school.”
“Later, Stevie,” they say one by one, each goodbye dancing in my ears, the possibility of a maybe friend.
It’s still warm when I get outside, a humid breeze making the air wet, like one big sauna. I hop down the steps, not bothering to look for Dad’s black Maserati, but when I reach the curb, I stop short. He’s not here. No one’s here. I check my phone and it’s ten past eleven. And then a text pops up on the screen.
Dad
Sorry, Stevie girl. Practice ran long. I’ll be there as soon as I can.
All at once I’m furious, my stomach boiling over at every moment in my life Dad has ruined. Every time he’s forced me out of my comfort zone away from my friends into a completely new school. Every time he’s been late for dinner or gone for weeks at a time at away games. All the thoughtless people who give me hell when Dad’s team loses. All the opportunists who beg me for tickets and pump me for inside football information during the season. Never knowing who wants to be my friend for real, all because of Dad’s job. And now, making me leave early, like a loser, when he’s not even here to pick me up.
&nb
sp; I sit on the curb, my throat closing up as I will myself not to cry. I search for the north star, because no matter where I live the sky is always the same, and that star somehow makes me feel like I’m part of something. But tonight, the sky is cloudy, all the stars in hiding. I’m about to head back inside when the bells clang against the door to Dino’s. I quickly push wet tears off my cheek, black mascara inking my fingers.
“Stevie, what are you still doing here?” Ray asks, plopping down next to me and stretching her legs out on the pavement. I avoid her eyes.
“My dad’s late.”
“Need a ride? My Uber’s coming in five.”
“Nah, he’s on his way,” I say, kicking the gravel with my flip-flop. “But thanks.”
“You okay?” she asks, turning to me. Concern settles in the corner of her mouth as she eyes my runny mascara. “You’re not okay.”
“He does this a lot,” I say. “I mean … I don’t see him a lot. And I barely even know where I am. I wouldn’t even know how to get home, and I don’t know anyone, you know?”
“You’re at a suburban diner in Millbrook, New Jersey. And you know me.”
“I just met you,” I correct her, because Ray doesn’t get what it’s like having to start over, never trusting fledgling friendships until they become solid.
“I’m obsessed with football and soccer and kicking balls in general.” She smirks. “My name’s short for Rachel, I suck at math, have an addiction to those true crime podcasts, and I used to have a rescue dog named Toast, but he just died, which sucked. Parents are still together but it’s obvious they hate each other. I’m the youngest of three girls which means my bathroom is always a mess and two of us are always in a fight. Oh and as you witnessed inside, I’m still hung up on Drew Mason, even though we stopped speaking six months ago.”
“I’m sorry about your parents and Toast and Drew,” I say.
“Thanks for trying to find out more for me,” she says. “Just don’t mention it was me who asked.”
“I’ll be discreet,” I say, holding up my hand like a Girl Scout.
“So what about you?” Ray asks, the streetlight catching on the stack of beaded bracelets that hangs from her wrist. “What’s your deal?”
“I don’t have a deal. I’ve moved around a lot. So I don’t have any close friends, except Sarah, who was my best friend in Seattle. But I haven’t heard from her much lately. I guess out of sight, out of mind,” I say, an emptiness tugging at my chest. “And I’ve never had a boyfriend or whatever. All that stuff’s hard for me.”
“How is that possible?” Ray asks. “I mean, look at you.”
At the risk of sounding like a conceited jerk, and I would never, ever say this out loud, I know I’m pretty. I see it in the way guys look at me, eyes lingering on my face for a beat too long. Guys like Drew and Shane, and even Brent. It’s the same way guys look at Ray. And I’m not going to sit here and play aw shucks like I don’t own it and celebrate it. Because girls have done that for way too long and frankly, it’s tiring. The thing is, the way I look on the outside has nothing to do with the way I feel on the inside, like a little kid stuck on one of those tilt-a-whirl rides going around and around, desperately wanting to stop and stay in one spot.
“I would kill for your lips,” Ray says. “And your eyebrows. I bet you don’t even have to tweeze.”
“I grow them myself,” I raise my brows at her, and she laughs as a black sedan pulls up to the curb, stopping in front of us. Ray stands as the window rolls down.
“Can you wait a bit? I can’t leave my friend out here alone. Her ride’s not here,” she tells the driver. He mumbles something back. “Yeah, I’ll pay extra.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say as she sits back down next to me.
“I know,” she says, pulling her knees to her chest. We sit side by side, the humid air shining our cheeks. She waits with me for the next ten minutes, making me laugh and helping me forget why I was so upset. All my anger at Dad flows out of me, straight up to the night sky as the clouds slowly shift, revealing the winking north star.
CHAPTER 5
Shane
SEPTEMBER
Stevie’s in my house, in my studio. No one has ever been inside this room besides my family and Drew. And now a girl is crouching down and tracing the letters of my initials on the surface of the bass drum. Stevie’s slender pointer finger follows the curves of the S, my heart hammering against my chest, betraying my mind’s instructions to stay cool. Stevie stands and picks up one of my drawings off the mixing board. Her eyes roam the charcoal strokes and colors that pour out of me and onto the page, my feelings on display. I push my hands into the pockets of my gym shorts and my pinky grazes a coin. The Coin. All at once I see Drew throwing that fateful penny high into the air. I shake the thought off. It’s not a lie. Not technically.
“What’s this?” Stevie gestures at the Dark Carnival poster in her hand, a drawing of a carousel horse shooting fireballs from his laughing mouth.
“Drew’s band,” I say as she puts it back on the pile. “I do the posters for them.”
“It’s great,” she says, her perfect lips stretching into a smile as she picks up another one, a drawing of a Ferris wheel with guitars and drums as seats. “This says they’re having a show Saturday night, after the first game?”
“It’s at Old Silver Tavern. I’m actually filling in for their drummer,” I say. I should invite Stevie. That would be the natural thing to do. Instead my heart thrashes in my chest like a Metallica drum solo. Just say the words. Three simple words. “Want to come?” I blurt out before I lose my nerve.
“Sure,” she says, so fast and simple, like it’s no big deal I invited her. Probably because I’m in my usual place, the friend zone. They have a table here reserved in the back just for me. “What’s this one?” Stevie pulls a piece of paper from the bottom of the pile and I freeze, my drum-solo heart seizing in my chest. A boy swims high in a cloudless midnight sky littered with a mess of silver stars. He’s swimming to a girl, dancing in the grass below. A girl with long, dark hair, almost as dark as the night sky. She could be any girl really. But she’s not.
“Oh it’s…” I step back, my clumsy feet kicking a bin over, endless drumsticks rolling onto the rug. I scramble to pick them up, Stevie helping me. I can’t look at her.
Once we get all the sticks back into the bin, I take the drawing from her.
“Sometimes I have trouble sleeping at night,” I say, which is easier than explaining what this sketch really means.
Stevie’s eyes soften as she sits on the rug, motioning for me to join her. She pretzels her legs and leans to me, like she’s about to tell me a secret.
“Me too,” she says, her eyes intent on holding my gaze. “I can’t fall asleep, like ever. It started before our last move and it’s gotten worse since I came to New Jersey. I don’t even try to fall asleep anymore. It’s exhausting, you know?”
“When my dad died, I kept thinking any minute he would walk through the front door, so I started waiting up. I know that’s completely unrealistic, but in a weird way it helped, hoping for the impossible. And now, it’s like my body forgot how to sleep. There is one thing that helps though.”
“Anything, please. The bags under my eyes are exceeding the airline weight limit.”
I laugh, but she’s wrong. Those eyes are the reason Van Morrison wrote “Brown Eyed Girl.” I take a deep breath, my heart finally slowing to a normal tempo. Maybe it’s because I’m about to tell Stevie about the lists that always calm my mind.
“I make these lists in my head. Top five songs, top five musicians, top five anything, really. Thinking up lists helps me fall asleep.”
I grab a drumstick and start tapping the carpet, anything to make me feel like myself. Because sitting here across from Stevie, her eyes anticipating some miracle insomnia cure, feels anything but normal. A tiny voice whispers at me from the recesses of my mind. You only got here because of a coin toss. This isn’t
real.
“Okay, so best drummers of all time,” Stevie says, grabbing another drumstick and twirling it between her fingers.
“John Bonham,” I say, but I’m not thinking about Zeppelin. Drew says the coin toss isn’t technically a lie, so this is totally okay. But then again, Drew is never, ever right. About anything.
“Good call,” she says, nodding.
“Keith Moon.” I’m still tapping at the carpet. “He’s a required idol if you’re a drummer.”
Stevie opens her mouth to say something, but I keep going.
“Do you listen to Rush?”
“Not my thing.”
“Okay, okay.” I laugh. “Neil Peart was the man.”
Stevie asks me to send her some Rush songs even though it’s not her thing and I don’t know if I can do this. Hang out with her and know I have a secret.
“Oh, and of course Matt Cameron,” I say.
“Pearl Jam’s drummer?” she asks.
“And used to be Soundgarden’s drummer. Their songs are always in unconventional time signatures and Cameron kills it,” I say.
“I heard Pearl Jam’s playing a show at the Garden.”
“Tough ticket,” I say, and it’s true. I struck out with fan club seats and then got shut out by Ticketmaster. “Show of a lifetime though.”
“Seriously,” Stevie says with this faraway look in her eyes, like she’s picturing herself in the crowd losing herself in the music, and it’s clear she’s as big of a fan as I am. For me, the beat is the first thing to draw me into a song, but it’s the musicians who have something to say that keep me listening.
“Okay, back to the list. Number five is Buddy Rich.”
“Who?”
“Buddy Rich. Jazz. He’s pretty much the godfather of drumming.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” she says, her eyes shifting to the rug.
“We have to change that, Stevie,” I say. She has stellar taste in music, and I bet she would love the groundbreakers, the guys who started it all—Gene Krupa, Tony Williams, Bernard Purdie—the ones who built the foundation, the ones every drummer behind a kit tries to emulate. “What are you thinking about?”
Where It All Lands Page 18
