My eyes skim over Drew’s shoulder and land on Shane, the guy no one’s watching. His sandy-colored hair is all over the place, thrashing around his head as he heads into a solo. Gabe and Kevin quiet their instruments as Drew wails into the microphone. Then all at once the music goes silent, Shane’s cue to rip that drum set to shreds. He starts off slow on the snare, and even though it’s a quiet kind of tapping, the time he’s keeping is expert-level stuff. But then he adds the kick of the bass and a cymbal crash, layers of beats building on each other. His drumsticks are moving fast now, blurred lines instead of two defined pieces of wood. The crowd claps as he goes faster, the rush of beats filling Old Silver. He looks up for a moment, locking eyes with Drew and nodding as the high hat claps in sync with the audience. Drew nods at the rest of the guys as Shane ends the solo and easily slips back into the beat of the song, the guitar and bass joining him. My mouth hangs open.
“Not bad, huh?” Ray says in my ear. I don’t care what it takes or how I need to convince him, but Shane is helping me with All-State. And it’s not only about All-State. I can’t deny the flicker of curiosity that began in my chest during Shane’s solo, the way my eyes lingered on him, not Drew.
“Thanks, guys,” Drew mumbles into the microphone at the end of the show, his sweaty T-shirt clinging to his body. The crowd swarms Gabe and Kevin as they jump off the stage. Shane walks over to Drew, putting one hand on his shoulder. Drew shakes his head before raking his hair out of his face.
“C’mon,” Ray says, pulling me on the stage to join them. “Distract Shane while I talk to Drew, okay?”
“Great show,” Ray says once we reach Drew and Shane. I step back, giving them room to talk.
I smile at Shane, who steps back too, tugging at the bottom of his polo then stuffing his hands in his pockets. Sweat beads down his temple.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says, and we stand there looking everywhere around the room but at each other. Words bubble up my throat until I can’t stand the awkwardness a moment longer.
“I’m sorry if I was too nosy the other day, poking around your sketches.”
Shane wipes his forehead with the bottom of his polo, flashing me his soft stomach. “You weren’t nosy. I’m the one who should be sorry. And I am … sorry … for the way I acted at the end.”
Maybe the way Shane acted had nothing to do with me, and suddenly I realize that I hardly know him. But I want to. I want to know what set him off the other day and how he got so good on the drums and what made him want to become an EMT. I want to know him.
“So, what did you think of the show?” he asks like he’s desperate to change the subject, shoving his hands back in his pockets.
“I think you can really play,” I say, and a dimple I’ve never noticed before appears in his left cheek. On stage, instead of the marching band drummer who can’t seem to form complete sentences, Shane was so in control. In fact, he was magnetic, the kind of guy you can’t tear your eyes from.
“So did it work?” Shane asks, as a waiter throws him a bottle of water. He unscrews the cap and takes a long sip.
“Did what work?”
“The lists. Did you fall asleep?”
“I actually did.” When I got home from Shane’s house that night, my mind was on overdrive, obsessing over what I possibly could have done wrong. Finally, I got up and sat at my yellow desk, penning a list of my top five favorite singers. And when I crawled back into bed at close to three a.m., I thought about that list. I heard Shane’s soothing voice helping me count off a top five and miraculously I fell right to sleep. “Thank you.”
Shane sits on the side of the stage, taking another sip of water. I’m not sure if he wants me to join him, but Ray is deep in conversation with Drew. So I sit, my legs dangling over the edge of the stage, as Old Silver clears out, only busboys left scraping dirty dishes off tables.
“Why did you act the way you acted?” I ask, because something’s still not right. Even though Shane apologized, he’s distant, distracted. He snaps his head to me. “Did I do something? To make you not want to help me. I know I can be kind of awkward sometimes and I’m not the best with new people and I’m sure I was talking too much or whatever…”
“Stevie, no,” Shane says, angling his body toward me, his eyes grabbing hold of mine. “Don’t ever think that.”
“So, then why won’t you help me?”
Shane peels the wrapper off the water bottle, ripping it into little pieces.
“I need to tell you something,” he says, staring at the scraps of water bottle wrapper that litter his lap. He turns to me with unsure eyes as he flips the water bottle over in his shaking hands. But then his eyebrows rise and his jaw drops, as he stares over my head.
Drew’s arms wrap around Ray’s waist and her hands run through his sweaty hair. He’s kissing her and she’s kissing him and I sure as hell have never been kissed like that.
Ray pulls away and says, “I’m so sorry. I miss you.”
“I’m sorry too. And I’m sorry about Toast. Sorry about everything, really,” Drew says, leaning in to kiss Ray again.
They catch us staring and Ray holds her hand to her mouth, dragging Drew over to the front of the stage.
“Thank you,” she whispers in my ear.
Ray is a go-for-it kind of girl. The kind who gets what she wants, because she’s not afraid to ask for it. The kind of girl I want to be. The kind of girl I maybe can be. I don’t know what Shane’s deal is, but I’m going to show up at his house on Wednesday. I’m going to make him see that he’s the most talented musician I’ve ever met and that he deserved that All-State spot. And then I’m going to learn everything I can from him.
“Let’s get going,” Drew says, pulling car keys out of his pocket. “I can take all of us home.”
Shane and I stand, and I realize he never finished his sentence.
“Hey, Shane, what did you have to tell me?”
Drew glances at me and then at Shane, communicating with him like he did on stage, with only a look. Except this time it’s not about changing up a beat or transitioning into a new song. Drew’s face is cryptic as Shane bites down on his lip and turns his attention back to me.
“It was nothing,” Shane says. It’s obvious it’s not nothing. But whatever it is, I’m all in to find out.
CHAPTER 7
Shane
“For the hundredth time, you cannot tell her,” Drew says, taking a big bite of Mom’s lasagna, a gooey cheese string hanging from his mouth. He pinches it between his fingers and stuffs it in. “Shit, this is good.”
“I can bring more over. She froze a whole tray last night,” I say, sitting next to him at the massive island in the middle of his kitchen. He forks another bite and holds one thumb up. The sun makes its way to the horizon, the light slowly seeping out of the room. Drew stands and flicks the hanging fixture on, tiny rainbows projecting on the ceiling. “And I have to tell her. I’m a nervous mess around her.”
Drew sits down and cuts another piece of lasagna. He’s probably starving, but he would never complain. He swallows a bite then looks at me.
“We flipped that coin to decide which one of us would ask her out,” Drew says. “You do realize you haven’t even asked her out. Everything that happened, would have happened anyway. Thus, the flipping of the coin is null and void.”
“That makes no sense,” I say, and Drew smiles his know-it-all-smile, all cheeks and a shoulder shrug.
“It makes perfect sense. You never asked her out. I’m back with Ray. It’s like the coin toss never happened.”
“But it did happen,” I huff. “Let’s say you won that coin toss and you asked her out, because let’s face it—you wouldn’t have wasted time like me, fumbling all over yourself. You would have asked her out the minute that coin landed on heads. And if you did, she’d be your girlfriend, not Ray.”
“You don’t know that,” Drew says, through a mouthful of lasagna. “Maybe she would’ve said no. She b
arely talks to me.”
“That’s because you ignore her,” I say.
“None of it matters,” Drew says, flinging his hand in the air, dismissing the entire notion of a parallel universe. “Like I said, I’m back with Ray and it’s cool.”
Drew pushes a noodle around in circles with his fork and fidgets on the stool. Ray’s been hanging with us lately, like last year. It’s funny how you can slip back into an old routine so easily. Me and Drew shooting hoops after school and Ray sitting at the edge of the driveway messing around on her phone. It’s obvious she holds herself back, respecting our afternoon tradition, until she can’t help herself and jumps up, stealing the ball from Drew and sinking a basket. And then it’s two on one. I didn’t mind last year, and I don’t mind now. It’s fun having Ray on my side because she kills it on the court, and that usually means we beat Drew. Plus, Drew loves it. He cheers her on, especially when she dunks on him. But something’s off now, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it’s the way Drew hugs her after she wins, like it’s an obligation. And Ray, she hesitates before she high fives him. It’s like they’re out of sync, a record scratch skipping over the best part of a song.
“Is it cool?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says, but he doesn’t sound sure. He tucks his hair behind his ears, and I stay quiet. If I keep my mouth shut long enough, he’ll come clean. “It’s like this,” he finally says, meeting my eyes. “You think you know someone so well. But then life gets in the way and maybe you don’t speak for a while. And then life throws you back together, when the timing is finally right again, but it’s not the same. You want it so badly to be the same, but too much has changed. It doesn’t mean you care about the person any less, it’s just off.”
“Is off enough for you?” I ask. Drew’s not himself around her, instead going through the motions, like he’s playing a part.
“I don’t know.” Drew laughs his nervous laugh, more air than laugh. “Ray’s great, right? She’s great.”
“I mean, yeah, she’s Ray Stone. Any guy at school would jump at the chance to be with her,” I say. “But it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
Drew doesn’t respond, instead pushing that noodle around with his fork. He’s not saying anything else on this topic and I know better than to press him. But his words swarm around my head, the idea that you could grow so far apart from someone that you can’t find your way back to them.
“That would never happen with us, right?” I ask. “The whole life getting in the way thing.”
“Never.” Drew’s eyes are serious. “No way, I got your back. Always, no matter what life throws at us.”
“Same,” I say. Drew’s a constant, always has been, always will be. “So what do I do about Stevie?”
“Forget about the coin toss and just hang out with her. Aren’t you supposed to help her with All-State or something?”
“I messed that up too, remember?” I’m still reeling from last week’s spectacular failure.
“So un-mess it up,” Drew says, digging into his pocket. “Actually, I have something that might help.”
He produces two small rectangular pieces of paper and holds them up to my face. My eyes go wide as I read the print. Pearl Jam, Friday, October 10th, Madison Square Garden.
“Are those real?” I say, reaching out to touch the tickets. “How in the world?”
“You told me how much she likes them,” Drew says, his voice sincere. “My dad pulled a few strings. After bailing on the Old Silver show, he owed me.”
“These seats are right at the side of the stage,” I say. “You’re coming, right? This show is going to be unreal.”
“Nah, can’t stomach it, knowing the tickets are from my dad. Plus, you know that’s not my kind of music. I got these tickets so you can ask Stevie.” Drew smirks and polishes off the last bite of lasagna, pushing the plate across the marble countertop.
“I thought I wasn’t technically ‘asking her out.’” I make air quotes with my fingers.
“You’re not. These tickets are a gift from me. I’m asking her out for you, ‘technically.’” Drew makes air quotes back, a smirk still plastered across his face. He stuffs the tickets in my pocket and stands.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asks, grabbing his keys off the island.
“Huh?”
“It’s Wednesday, All-State practice day.” Drew heads for the front door.
“I told Stevie I can’t help her,” I say, following him. He glances out the window and turns to me.
“Then why is she walking up your driveway?”
* * *
I run out of Drew’s house and cut Stevie off as she heads up my front porch. She jumps when she sees me, almost dropping her sax case. Her hair is in a ponytail, pieces falling around her face, and there’s some sort of gloss on her lips, making them shine in the setting sun. Okay. I have two choices here. One, I can continue acting like a fumbling amateur and tell her to go home, which would be an epic fail. Or two, I can bury the memory of that coin toss deep in the recesses of my brain and invite her inside. Maybe Drew’s right. He’s back with Ray now and the terms of the coin toss don’t necessarily apply anymore. It might as well have never happened.
I open my mouth to invite Stevie inside, but she speaks first.
“You’re helping me,” she says, serious. “You’re the best drummer I’ve ever met. The best musician I’ve ever met. So, yeah, you’re helping me.”
Her dark eyes widen anticipating my response, but I’m speechless. No one has ever said that to me, not even Mom.
“I’m not that talented,” I say, because being the best is a lot to live up to.
“Yes, you are. You’re fantastic,” Stevie says, her shimmering lips telling me everything I’ve ever wanted to hear. “So come on, let’s go inside.”
She reaches for the door handle like she lives here, but the door swings wide open before she grabs hold. Mom stands in the entryway, her short hair pinned away from her face. Heat rushes to my cheeks like a radiator clicking on. Mom claps her hands together and brings them to her chin.
“You must be Stevie!”
Forget about the radiator. My face is a five-alarm fire, flames shooting out of my eyes, nostrils, and mouth. Mom ushers Stevie inside, oblivious to the fact that her only son is melting in a pool of boiling liquid like Schwarzenegger in Terminator 2.
“I’m Kathy, Shane’s mom,” she says, decked head to toe in the Lululemon workout gear she wears even when she has no plans to go to Zumba. She kisses me on the cheek and says, “Did Drew like the lasagna?”
I nod and say, “We’re actually going to head to the studio. Stevie’s trying out for All-State in December and we’re going to work on her audition piece.”
“Sax, right?” Mom asks her and I terminate right here in the middle of our foyer. I silently vow to never ever tell Mom anything again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t home last week when you were here. I got stuck at school. The beginning of the year is always crazy.”
“Yep, sax,” Stevie says, smiling. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Are you hungry?” Mom asks, and I groan.
“We really need to get to work,” I say, inching closer to the basement door, which is mercifully right off the foyer.
“Take some cookies for the road,” Mom says, scurrying off to the kitchen then reappearing with a zip-lock bag of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. She hands them to Stevie and smiles like she’s the first girl to ever set foot in our house. Well, Stevie is the first girl to ever step foot in our house, but whatever.
“Thanks, Mrs. Murphy,” Stevie says as I open the door and flick on the basement lights.
“Call me Kathy!” Mom yells to us as we make our way down the stairs.
When I reach the studio, I turn to Stevie. A cookie is half in her mouth as she puts her sax case down and bites through the middle.
“So good,” she says through a mouthful of cookie. “This is better
than something I would get at a bakery.”
I stuff my hand in the bag and grab one because Mom’s cookies are legendary, as Dad would always say. We sit on the rug as Stevie unfastens her sax case. She takes the brass pieces out, fitting them together one by one.
“Want to hear what I’ve been working on?” she asks, as she licks the reed and slips it on the mouthpiece. I’m staring at the tiny divot in her upper lip and the way her lower lip curves and I can’t think straight.
“Huh?”
“The piece I’ve been working on. It’s Coltrane.” Stevie stands and clips the sax to her red neck strap. It’s cool that she has a red one instead of the standard black everyone else in the band wears. I know she wishes she didn’t have to start over here in Millbrook, to seamlessly blend in. But I love the way she stands out, just like that strap.
“Definitely,” I say, leaning back on my palms.
Stevie launches into a song I don’t know. It’s jazz and the notes are all in the right place, brassy and raw. Stevie’s fingers expertly fly up and down the keys, fluttering notes flying around my studio. No doubt about it, she’s good. And this piece, it’s technically perfect, but something’s missing. It’s like she’s playing to get it right, to get an A on some test that doesn’t exist. But that’s not what music’s about. Music isn’t like scoring points in a basketball game or knowing all the answers to a pop quiz. It’s pouring all your emotions into an instrument and letting that instrument express every inch of you. That’s real music—the stuff that makes you feel something. Stevie closes out the song and looks at me, waiting for a grade.
“Do you like Coltrane?” I ask instead.
“Huh?”
“Do you like him?”
“Everyone likes him.”
“But do you?”
Her eyes shift to the side, like she’s considering my question. When she looks back at me, uncertainty settles on her face.
Where It All Lands Page 20
