“Hey,” she says, turning to face me as the door falls closed behind me. “I thought you weren’t coming in until later.”
I shrug—I’m not about to tell her the truth—and before she can ask me any questions, I reach into my bag and pull out the stack of CDs. I suddenly wish I could go back to being nervous about this moment instead of just pissed off. Why does my dad have to ruin everything good in my life? “These are for you,” I say.
“My musical education,” she says with humor in her voice. “You’re old school. Good thing my hand-me-down computer has a disk drive.”
Amy comes into the office while I clock in, but instead of retrieving anything from her purse, she holds out her hand to me. “Give me your phone.”
I look at her for a second and then reach into my pocket and hand her my cell. She takes it, clicks around for a little bit, and then hands it back to me. “I created a playlist for you on Spotify. Easier that way. No ancient technology required.”
I look at the playlist and snort. “Coldplay? This is my musical education?”
She crosses her arms, and even though she tries to look stern, there’s a sparkle of amusement in her eyes. “When was the last time you listened to this one?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve heard ‘Yellow’ nine hundred times, just like everyone else.”
She sighs, like I’m such a burden, and drops her arms at her sides. The whole movement makes me smile. Her eyes dip for a split second. “Listen to the words. Soak it in. Trust me. Things change over time. The way you appreciate things changes.”
I’m not smiling anymore, and neither is she.
AMY
I LOAD THE CDs onto my iPod, the iPod that my cousin, Carmen, handed down to me almost five years ago that barely holds a charge. I listen to the first CD on Sunday morning. Oliver gave me six, six, and as I lie in bed, I think some music might be nice. I have plenty of homework to do, but the sun is just barely peeking in through my blinds, and I want to be lazy. I want to listen to these albums so that I can argue with Oliver about the ones I don’t like. I stretch and smile to myself. I like arguing with Oliver, I like that little crease of disbelief he gets between his eyebrows when I tell him I don’t like something he does, or that I haven’t heard of a band he loves.
But really, I’m ready for new music. I’m not giving in to Oliver’s ridiculous argument that I don’t know enough about music just because I don’t regularly listen to anything released before my first birthday, but I’m always interested in bands I don’t know, so I’m down with this whole experiment.
I put my biggest headphones on, the ones that fold completely over my ears. They make me feel swallowed whole by my music, and I love that feeling more than anything else. I press play, and I laugh when the music starts in my ears. It’s not that the music is bad. But the electric, poppy notes of the first song on the CD aren’t what I was expecting. I glance at the case. Parklife by Blur. I set the case on my stomach, resting my hands on the bed on either side of me, and close my eyes.
This is my favorite way to take in music, new or old or something I’ve listened to so many times I know every word. Music is meant to be heard without distractions. As much as I love listening to an album while I do the laundry or while I drive through town or while I do homework, this is my ideal way of soaking in music: uninterrupted, undistracted, unblemished by reality. And I do soak it in.
OLIVER
MY MOTHER GLANCES over at me when my phone buzzes on the pew between us. I pick it up quick in case it buzzes again. Since we’re always late, we’re in the back row, so I don’t think anyone will notice if I check a text message. It’s from a number I don’t know, and it says simply Brit pop is rather smashing, but you’ll have to do better than that.
I grunt out a sound, more like disbelief than actual laughter, but either way, it’s loud enough for the people in the pew in front of me to stiffen and glance back at me. Mom smacks me on the leg and narrows her eyes at my phone.
Sorry, I mouth to her. To Amy, I reply, you liked Blur?
Bloody awesome.
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling nevertheless. How long am I going to have to endure the Brit talk?
Um. Excuse me. You brought this on yourself. Where I come from, there are consequences when you blaspheme someone else’s musical tastes.
I glance up at Mom. She’s looking at me disapprovingly. I shrug at her. Yes, I realize I’m being rude. I get it. Whatever. But it’s Amy. And she’s texting me for the first time, and there’s no way I’m going to blow her off. God will understand.
No more culture shock for you, I answer. Americans only.
Booooooooring.
I press my lips together to suppress a smile. Before I answer her, my phone buzzes again.
Sooo my brother might have cracked the Blur case a little bit. Don’t hate me.
I don’t know what to do about this warmth in my stomach. This isn’t me. I’m not this person who wants to smile down at my phone until my mouth hurts. But dear God, if I don’t feel the need to tell her I don’t hate her. That hating her is an idea so preposterous that it’s like she’s speaking another language.
No worries about the case. Just shows that it’s well-loved.
Shit. Isn’t it like Rule Number One that when you’re speaking to a girl that you don’t want to know that you have very intense feelings for that you’re supposed to avoid the word love? I’m an idiot.
Thanks! Sheesh. I thought you were going to be extra mad.
This makes me pause. Am I so much of a monster that she thinks I’ll go off on her for accidentally cracking a CD case? Is she … scared of me?
Nah. There’s no way. Amy is first in line to call me on my shit at work. Lately, she’s dethroned Brooke in the oh shut up, Oliver category.
Have you listened to the playlist yet?
I just text not yet.
Well what are you waiting for? It’s Sunday morning. The perfect time for some music education.
I love the way she’s talking to me, like we’re old friends. Like we talk with each other this way all the time.
I’m in church, and my mom is currently sending me disappointing looks.
You’re in church?!!
Is that so shocking? Am I so depraved?
Stop texting me! I don’t want to have to visit you in Hell!
I hold in a laugh. I check my phone over and over in hopes that maybe she’ll text me again, but she never does, and I try to pretend like I’m not disappointed.
“Who’s so important that you had to continuously check your phone during church?” Mom asks as soon as we’re sitting down to lunch. She’s eating a salad while I cover my order of French fries with a river of ketchup.
“Just someone I work with at Spirits.”
She munches and munches, one of her cheeks full, like a guinea pig. “A female someone?” Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I sigh and refuse to meet her eye. “Yes, Mom. A female someone.”
She’s quiet for a long time before I finally look up at her. Big mistake. She’s looking at me with a grin the size of Rhode Island, and I know that if she wasn’t going to tease me about Amy before, she’s going to now. “Is it that adorable new girl you were with the other day? She’s cute.”
“One and the same,” I say, looking away from her and attempting to sound impassive, the way I might have spoken about Amy a month ago. But I know Mom can see right through me. I’m going soft.
“I would be lying if I said I haven’t waited for the day a girl would catch your eye.”
I roll my eyes. “She hasn’t caught my eye. And there have been girls.”
She shrugs, lacing her fingers together on the table in front of her and nudging her empty plate aside. “I know, but not a girl that’s been really special to you.” Her smile fades a little. “Is she a college student?”
I can feel the direction this is taking, but I answer her question anyway. “She’s a senior. Got her sights set on St
anford.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. That’s impressive … and far away.” I see her thoughts play across her face. Things like long-distance relationship and heartbreak.
“Mom,” I say, trying to snap her out of it. “Don’t get carried away. Amy’s just a friend, okay? She’s—she’s kind of got a boyfriend.” It’s the easiest way to describe the situation, not that it matters anyway. Even if Amy wasn’t totally hung up on her ex, it’s not like I’m going to ask her out, right? In this instance, my mother’s wayward thoughts might have a point. If Amy is leaving for Stanford at the end of the summer, what am I doing getting so attached to her?
We both sit quiet for a few minutes, and it feels weird, like we’ve uncovered something that would have been better left hidden. But my thoughts have been set on a track I can’t pull them away from, and I can’t stop the words that cascade out of my mouth.
“Mom, did you ever consider not going to college?”
She puts down her glass of iced tea, and it sloshes over onto the table. “Of course not. If you want to get anywhere in life these days, you have to have a degree. Do you know what dropping out of school gets you? It gets you a life like your father’s. What a waste that would be.” She stops, and her eyes shoot to me, serious. “Why are you asking me this? Did you hear something from one of the schools? It’s still early.”
“No, no,” I say, waving my hands around to keep her from spiraling. “It’s nothing like that. Just thinking.”
She grimaces and crosses her arms. “You have opportunities, Oliver, that other people might never have. Not going to school would be wasting them. This has been your path your whole life, and it would be idiotic to stray now.”
I stare down at the tabletop because I can’t look at her. My life is a waste. It’s idiotic. It’s comforting to finally get her opinion on the matter, and to know that I’m going to avoid, for as long as I can, telling her what I’ve already decided.
AMY
I UNLOOP THE car keys from the hook by the door, but they’re immediately snatched back out of my hand.
“Sorry, baby, but I need the car today,” Mama says as she sticks them in her pocket. “You’ll have to take the bus.”
I groan and step out of the way as all my siblings rush out the front door. “You can’t drop me in the van? You’re taking all of them.” I motion at my four siblings, already buckling themselves into their seats and picking fights over the chair backs.
Mama shakes her head, and Carlos rushes out to the van. “Sorry, but the vehicles are accounted for, and Carlos doesn’t have time for two stops. He has a job interview today.” She sends me a close-lipped smile. “Bus, Amaría. You’ll be fine.”
So I go wait for the bus. Most days, I can talk my parents into letting me take one of the cars, dropping the kids off at the elementary school if they let me take the van, and if I can’t take a car, they’re usually willing to give me a ride. But I’m also well acquainted with the bus. I sit at the end of my street and pull out my calculus book and my iPod. I can feel the skin around my fingers refusing to stretch in the cold as I select the playlist labeled Save Ferris. One of the CDs Oliver let me borrow that I loaded up last night.
I find myself swaying to a big-band cover of “Come On Eileen” when I realize a truck that rolled to a stop at the end of the street right in front of me seconds ago hasn’t started moving again.
The loud trumpet music is still going in my ears, but I’m barely listening to it because I know that truck.
Jackson rolls down the window. “Get in!” he calls to me, but I don’t move. “Ames, come on. Get in the damn truck. It’s fucking freezing.”
I bark out a laugh in the direction of his open window. “Right, because you’re so concerned about me being cold.” I’m not even sure why I say it. Ever since the party, and our weird encounter at the Valentine-gram table, Jackson and I have been studiously avoiding each other. The only time I’ve really seen him is in AP bio, and even then, we try to be cordial.
He’s silent for a moment, and I’m prepared for him to drive off. “Amy, come on. Let me make it up to you, okay? Get in the truck. I know how much you hate taking the bus.”
That much is true. I really hate taking the bus. I hate the way it smells and how the vinyl is somehow always greasy and how loud everyone is, like it’s a contest or something. I look down at my calculus homework. There’s no way I’ll be able to do it on the bus, and the faster I get to school, the faster I can really focus on it without distractions.
I’m doing this for my grade, for my valedictorian status, not for Jackson.
I toss my backpack onto his floorboard, and I’m swept into a moment of déjà vu. So many times when we were together, Jackson drove me to school, and I would have a textbook on my lap, my index finger saving my place, just like I do now.
“What were you listening to?” Jackson gestures at the earbuds slung around my neck.
Am listening to, I think. Save Ferris is still playing. I can hear the trumpets under the sound of Jackson’s tires moving down the street. He doesn’t listen to music when he drives. Just sits in silence or listens to sports radio. Drives me nuts.
“Ska,” I tell him, pausing my iPod.
“Never heard of them.”
I glance sideways at him. “Ska is a genre. Not a band.”
He just nods and puts on his turn signal. Being with Jackson has never been awkward for me before. We’ve always had something to talk about.
“Have a good weekend?” I ask. Ugh. I hate that we’ve wandered back into small talk territory, but what other option do I have? It’s not like we can talk about us—about how I’m pretty sure I still love him; about how I still can’t really forgive him for ditching me at his party; about how I’m happy with my new job, even if I only took it for the money and now it’s starting to take its toll on my grades.
But if I’m being honest, it’s not Spirits’s fault I almost failed that test.
It’s Jackson’s. If we were still together, not fighting, I probably would have aced that test. Calculus isn’t even a sore spot for me.
“Yeah, I guess so. Went to the game.”
I blink at him for a second. I’m not sure which game he’s talking about. Is it football season? Is it the swim team? Does the swim team have games?
Jackson chuckles. “The basketball game, Amy. God, have I taught you nothing?”
My heart flutters at his laughter. Sports are a thing I went to when Jackson and I were together that I would never do if it wasn’t for him. I don’t find sports to be particularly interesting, just like he doesn’t find studying and listening to indie rock on Friday nights interesting. He always said that staying home on Friday night was a sin.
“Right. The basketball game. Did we win?”
The corner of his mouth is perked up slightly. “Yeah. We won.” His eyes flit to me for just a second. “What’d you do this weekend?”
I think about how I spent all day Saturday going over my calculus test and reviews before work. I think about spending Sunday in my room, listening to that Blur album over and over, until I couldn’t imagine ever not knowing it. I don’t mention any of that to him. Those are two things Jackson really doesn’t care about—music and academics.
“Just went to work,” I tell him, which is true. Every second I didn’t spend at home was spent at Spirits.
“So, you like your new job, huh?”
I shrug. I don’t know why, but I feel like I can’t show him too much enthusiasm, like somehow he might use it against me. “Sure. It’s a paycheck, you know. Carlos has a job interview today, so we’ll see.”
We stop at the light around the corner from school, and he smiles over at me. “You know that’s not the only reason you’re doing it.”
I feel myself blush and look away from him. It’s easy to forget, sitting here next to him more than a week after he’s broken up with me, quiet and awkward, that he knows me better than anyone, has known me like this for almost
a year.
“It’s the biggest reason,” I say, looking out the window as what’s left of the melting snow drifts by.
My phone pings, and I get a weird feeling in my stomach at the thought that maybe it’s Oliver.
But it’s not even a text. It’s an email.
Your tickets have shipped! the subject reads.
God, I can’t believe I forgot. In all the business of Spirits and Jackson and valedictorian, I forgot that I bought tickets to see the Lumineers this summer.
I glance over at Jackson, and his eyes are on the screen of my phone. On reflex, I turn it off.
“I forgot about that,” he says, as we pull into a parking space and Jackson puts the car in park.
I bought the tickets for Jackson and me. Even though he hates the Lumineers, hates all my music, he still agreed to go with me. But everything is different now. I never accounted for a breakup.
I haven’t figured out what to say, my hand already on the door handle, ready to run away. But then he says, “We can still go.”
I turn away from the window, back to him. His eyes are so soft, and as much as I want to remember him as being the guy who stood by while his best friend stole my car keys, I can only remember him as the guy who ran his fingers through my hair while I did homework, who called me right before he went to sleep to tell me good night, who brought me soup when I was sick.
“If you want.” I watch his mouth say the words, seemingly in slow motion.
I open the door. I have to get away from him. Because Jackson is so good at sucking me in, and as much as I want everything to just go back to the way it was, if I let Jackson suck me in again, I know I’ll just get hurt. Because he was right when he said it was too hard on him to be with me, that we were rarely ever together anymore. I ignored it for a long time, the way his eyes were always a little sad, because it was too hard to admit.
All Our Worst Ideas Page 10
