A&b

by J. C. Lillis

  Heat creeps up my neck, spills onto my cheeks.

  “C’mere.” Abel crooks a finger. “I wanna tell you a secret.”

  I lean closer.

  “The first time we did it, we totally read these first.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “He was so cute and Catholic and awkward and he didn’t know how to tell me what he wanted, so…you know. They were helpful. Except the ones that defied physics.”

  “So you think this’ll get him all…” I shut my eyes because I am speaking of my pseudo-big-brothers. “…hot?”

  “No! No. Not hot. Nostalgic.” Abel resumes his knot-picking. “…And maybe a teeny bit hot.”

  “You think it’ll work?”

  “Barrie. In eight weeks he’s had eight bad dates and exactly no sex. Plus he made not one but two that’s what he said jokes while we stir-fried last night. Something’s gotta give.”

  My eyes wander to page 3 of “Three Little Words” and right when I read the phrase the smaller boy’s engorged extension, the circle of bells jingles on the St. C’s door and in walks The Smaller Boy himself. I slam the folder shut and shove it under my butt.

  “Hey.” Abel waves to him. “Your pie’s cold.”

  “Sorry, A.” Brandon hops down the steps to the dining room, holding up a blue hardcover. “I was browsing after I hung up with you, and I got to reading.”

  “Anything good?”

  “It’s interesting, yeah.” He turns the book around. Paisley designs swim around the gold title: UnMated: My Year of Productive Celibacy.

  Abel wilts like a flower in a heat wave.

  “O-kayyy…?” he says.

  “It’s not what you think! It’s not a religious thing—he’s an atheist, actually. Former chef at Crux in San Francisco.”

  “So it’s like Eat Don’t Pray Don’t Love?”

  Brandon snort-laughs and studies the jacket copy. “The author says he kept hopping from relationship to relationship without taking the time to look inward and figure out why his lovers all left him.”

  “Perhaps he’s a shitnugget.”

  “He says going celibate for a year brought him the clarity he needed to fix himself, and he ended up meeting the love of his life on this kayak-slash-yoga retreat in Australia.”

  “Babe, I will physically restrain you from downward-dogging in a kayak.”

  “I wouldn’t.” Brandon looks annoyed. “But I don’t know, there’s something appealing about removing yourself from the equation. A year’s a long time, but that’s the point.”

  “I’ve never even been in the equation,” I blurt.

  “See? Yeah.” Brandon points at me. “Look at everything she gets done, because she doesn’t have to worry about relationship stuff.”

  Abel glares at me. I mouth sorry.

  “Well, this sounds like utter bullshit,” Abel decrees, squinting at the book’s back cover, “and I would not trust a dude who fondles dolphins in his author photo.”

  “So self-examination is crap?”

  “If it comes with a chastity pledge? Fuck yeah.”

  “Why, because sex is everything?”

  “It’s not nothing.”

  “Agreed, but in the intro, he says—”

  “Stop. Stop.” Abel gets up and grabs the book from Brandon. “Bran, look. Do you not see what this is? It’s the same avoidant bullshit you pulled when you were eighteen—”

  “Don’t—”

  “Minus the Jesus angst.”

  “—bring that up. Dammit.”

  “It’s true!”

  “Right, yeah, I forgot. Anytime someone doesn’t agree with you it’s avoidant bullshit, or I’m not being honest, or—”

  “GUYS.”

  They whip their heads to the side to look at me. I scootch down in my seat, my guts in a knot.

  “Sorry, Barrie,” Brandon says.

  “Sorry,” Abel mutters.

  “Why are we fighting, even?”

  Abel rolls his eyes. “Gosh, I don’t know.”

  “Can I just read you this one really good part?”

  “Fine. I need a drink first.”

  “I could use one too.”

  “Shall I make you a No Sex on the Beach?”

  Brandon shoves Abel playfully. Abel shoves him back, harder. As they walk off toward the bar, I realize the fanfic folder is still under my butt. The pie-and-fanfic memory-lane plan is clearly shot, so I tuck the folder next to the bracelet in my new bag—a green tote with a fan-designed Sour Grapes logo—and sigh. It is immensely frustrating when two people who are ideal for each other are kept apart by squabbles and stubbornness.

  BING BING

  Ugh, Ava. I don’t know what Abel’s seeing between us. Our exchanges over the past eight weeks have been strictly professional. Maybe we’ve gotten friendlier, but that’s a natural by-product of prolonged contact with a person. And yes, okay, I think she’s pretty, but so? Lots of people, places, and things are pretty. The Mona Lisa is pretty but you don’t see me crushing on her.

  I check my phone, because she is my business partner and that is my duty. She’s texted one word.

  EMERGENCY.

  In a cool and professional manner, I leap to my feet.

  ***

  I make myself walk all the way home before I answer, to prove I’m not super-concerned or beholden to her or anything. The wait is torture. What if it’s Tera-related? What if she found out I’m helping Ava cheat? I picture her emailing me personally to change my B to a D minus and my heart crumples up like my failure dress in the BSA Studios trash can.

  Franny is waiting on the beach chair when I get to the shed, her eyes alive with longing for the treats I sometimes sneak her: a hunk of chicken, half a hard-boiled egg. I dig in my bag and offer her a chunk of Don’s awesome sour lemon cake but she flicks her tail like are you even kidding me.

  “Later,” I promise. “I have an emergency.”

  Me: What is it?

  I wait. I drum the folded ping-pong table with two wooden shish kebab sticks.

  Ava: It’s fucking awful, FARG. Are you sitting down?

  I sit down on the lawn chair, heart pounding.

  Me: Tell me.

  Ava: I have to write a happy summer love song.

  Evil B surges back, sends a bitter laugh up my throat. Franny darts under the table. Happy summer love songs are the jewels in my songwriting crown. They’re a stroll in the park, a connect-the-dots, a—

  Me: Piece of cake.

  Ava: For you. That’s YOUR horrible thing. Or was, before your makeover.

  Me: Well, I haven’t forgotten how. It’s like riding a bike.

  Ava: A gross sparkly bike. For two. With glitter streamers on the handlebars.

  Me: I wouldn’t complain. We’ve done two midtempo downers in a row. You could stand to mix it up!

  Ava: Here are some things I would rather write about: Murder. Demonic possession. Incurable hiccups.

  Me: Okay, explain thy stance.

  Ava: Happy songs are dull. Negative feelings have facets, nuances. Happiness is flat. There’s only one way to be happy.

  Me: I disagree.

  Ava: Because?

  Me: I have experienced joy in many flavors and hues.

  Ava: *vomits in many hues*

  Me: Look, don’t freak out. I’ll send you a chorus tomorrow.

  Ava: Actually, don’t.

  Me: Why? Do you want to take a first pass?

  Ava: Let’s do things differently this week.

  Me: How?

  Ava: I want to collaborate in my free time tomorrow.

  My hand stops twirling the kebab stick. It halts in my fingers like an unsmoked cigarette.

  Ava: What do you think?

  Me: Like write the whole song together? On vidchat or something?

  Ava: Yeah.

  Me: Wh
y?

  Ava: You can’t write my choruses forever. I want you to show me your process so I can see how you do it. Face it, you could learn a lot from me, too.

  I stare at her text.

  Ava: I mean…unless you’re the CHICKEN to my PIG. Bock bock boccccck…

  I sit down on the beach chair and think, my left hand kneading my lower face.

  One thing I have never done in life is write a song start-to-finish with someone. (Evil B doesn’t count.) I’ve never even had a songwriter friend; Chelsie was a dancer but uncommitted to her art, and she never understood why my self-imposed rehearsals snipped our mall hangouts short, why I’d turn down a McFlurry run to shut myself in my room and perfect the prechorus of “Sun on My Face.”

  Co-writing. Man, just the word. I always thought it would be as intimate as sex and as serious as marriage. You’d come to each other committed but with no clue what to expect. You’d both lay down your tender ugly first-draft words and sounds, full of humiliating dents and bruises, and she’d see every part of your process as you sweated and chopped and swore your way to something plausibly songlike. I’d rather be naked in a butcher-shop window. I’d rather take an oral algebra test. I’d rather play dodgeball for eight straight hours in gym shorts that make my thighs look like unbaked bread loaves instead of the majestic marble pillars they are.

  Ava: What do you say, chorus girl?

  My stomach does a shimmy. An ecstatic YES punctured the silence, I think, and then I swat away the fanfic line.

  Evil Barrie says: NOT A CHANCE.

  I set down the shish kebab stick and stare at Ava’s text bubble.

  Evil Barrie says: THIS LITTLE JERK. TRYING TO SWEETEN HER DEAL.

  I butt my thumbs together thoughtfully.

  Then I type: You’re on.

  Chapter Fourteen

  WHY, says Evil B at 10:06 the next morning. WHY DID YOU SAY YES.

  I shoo her back in her basement. It’s not your day, I tell her.

  THIS IS A BAD IDEA, she says. THIS IS MFFHDHGGNNFFF

  I have shut and secured the door. While I wait for Ava to get out of her morning Vocal Dynamics session, I zip the bracelet away in my duffel and apply my organizational skills to Abel’s chaotic food cabinets.

  Cleaning relaxes me.

  I need to relax.

  Why did I say yes?

  I am alone in the house; Brandon’s gone to a sci-fi collectible shop in Santa Monica and Abel’s moped off to St. C’s under a cloud of unrequited love. I did not tell them that ten foolish thumbstrokes committed me to a co-writing session with my nemesis. Abel would have nine thousand words to say about this, all of them silly and none of them based in reality.

  It’ll go fast, I promise myself, tossing a stale cherry Pop-Tart and three profoundly expired cans of soup. If I plan the whole thing out, we could be done in an hour.

  As I attack the white cabinets with a scrubby sponge, I dictate my ten-point plan for writing a perfect pop song into my Notes app.

  Two minutes after I send it, Ava texts back.

  Ava: No way, woman. We’re not doing this.

  Me: This is how I work.

  Ava: This is a formula.

  Me: A reliable one, based on proven principles of what pop fans like.

  Ava: It’s like shoving us both in a box and nailing it shut from the inside.

  ARRRGHHH. I knew she’d be snobby about this.

  Me: I like boxes! They make you even more creative.

  Ava: Bullshit. How?

  I look around for a metaphor. The first thing I spot on the counter is the big bag of marshmallows Abel bought yesterday and promptly ate half of while Brandon read his Productive Celibacy book.

  Me: It’s like s’mores, you know? There’s a basic formula for them so they’re guaranteed to be good, but tons of possible variations. What chocolate you use, cinnamon or honey grahams, big marshmallows or minis, etc.

  Ava: I’ve never had s’mores.

  Me: ARE YOU KIDDING ME

  Ava: I AM NOT

  Me: What kind of deprived childhood did you have?

  Ava: Rule #1, FARG. We don’t talk about my childhood.

  My shoulders tense; I’ve hit a nerve by accident. Evil Barrie shouts POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL WITH HER DULL ORGANIC SNACKS, but I close my ears. Everyone’s got their forbidden conversation topics. I, for example, would rather record an EP of death metal covers than talk about Chelsie.

  Me: Well, if you ever want to make one, do it in a campfire. Microwave ones aren’t as good.

  Ava: “Campfire.” I like that word.

  Me: Me too. Safe and cozy.

  Ava: But also hot and potentially dangerous.

  I blink at the words hot and dangerous. An image roars to mind: Ava on a motorcycle, decked out in the heart-spattered leather jacket Tera wore in her “Rearview” video. The mysterious Danny from her Sudden Death song sits behind her, his meaty tattooed arms locked around her waist. She skids to a stop and yanks off her red helmet, and her curls splash over her shoulders like—

  Ava: HELLOOOOO ARE YOU THERE?

  Me: Yes! Sorry.

  I shake away the motorcycle image because what on earth was that even.

  Ava: See how we hit on a working title super-organically, no ten-point plans in sight?

  Me: We did?

  Ava: “Campfire.” Unless you object?

  Me: Not I.

  Ava: Got a wardrobe consultation now. We can start writing after. Vidchat?

  Me: What time?

  Ava: 12:30, unless they don’t listen the first hundred times I refuse the Standard Hot Mama Makeover.

  Me: Stay strong. How shall we proceed: Chorus first? Verse first?

  Ava: We write prechorus/chorus your way, verses my way. You start off.

  Me: No way. You’ll just snark on my process.

  Ava: We’ll make a rule: Process snark strictly forbidden.

  I take a marshmallow from the bag and slowly smoosh it on the counter with my palm.

  Me: It’s a deal.

  ***

  The first thing she does is laugh at my whiteboard.

  Ava is slightly pixelated on my phone’s vidchat app, but you can still see her cute crooked teeth exposed in the service of ridicule. I zoom my face close to the phone, which is propped on Abel’s table.

  “Excuse me,” I say with great frostiness. “I picked this up at the office supply store with my own money. For your song.”

  “Fine, fine, sorry. I owe you—how much do nerdy writey-boards cost?”

  “Ten dollars and twenty-seven cents.”

  “Damn! What a racket.”

  “Shall we start?”

  “Hang on. Let me get Fernando.”

  “Who’s Fernando?”

  She pulls her blue guitar into view and taps him. Okay, that’s cute.

  “Ready, teacher.” She rests Fernando between her legs and shoots me a maddening prove-thyself grin. “Teach me.”

  I uncap my red marker. All my chorus-confidence, which at this stage usually bubbles away like my favorite one-pot pasta, goes flat and still. Nothing jumbles a foolproof formula faster than a pretty girl with folded arms.

  “So, um, the first thing I do, after I determine my central image, is I put it right in the middle of the board.” I write CAMPFIRE and encase it in a heart as per usual.

  “Why the heart?” she says.

  “If you show your words love, they’ll love you back.”

  “Question.” She raises her hand.

  “Yes?”

  “What if you show your words too much love, and they think you’re creepy, and they tell all the other words to stay away from you?”

  “We said no process snark.”

  “Sorry, sorry.” She folds her hands. “What’s next?”

  “So then…” My hands shake a bit. Stop that
, hands. “I try to link that word to a concept people can relate to. A common experience.” I draw lines radiating from the heart.

  “Are those…arteries?”

  “Idea rays. DON’T SAY A WORD.”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Then I brainstorm ideas. Big, relatable concepts. Backyard camping with a friend you have a secret crush on.” I scribble it down, a Chelsie memory burning in my chest. “S’mores as a metaphor—different ingredients that somehow work together…” I study the whiteboard. Usually I can crank out eight or nine ideas in under two minutes, but she’s stumping me with this one. Maybe it’s too specific. Maybe it’s—

  “Can I jump in?” Ava says. “Or are we shutting up and letting each other do our thing?”

  In my heart I am more in favor of the shutting up option, but I spread my arms out. “Jump in.”

  “A kiss,” she says softly. “It’s about a first kiss.”

  The way she says kiss, it sounds different. Like she invented the word specifically for the song. I heat up in intimate places, which is exasperating.

  “I like it,” I admit.

  “Yeah?”

  I ink KISS in careful letters under CAMPFIRE. By the time I get to the first S, chords and words are crackling in my head, as if they were waiting for Ava to strike the match. I rough it out on Rosalinda, tossing words atop a trusty old A–E–F#m–D progression: “First day of summer, something-something bliss/Blah dee blah blah with this campfire kiss/We’ve got the whole summer, summer ahead/to keeeeeep this fire burning…”