Follow Your Arrow

by Jessica Verdi

  He scoffs. “I work really, really hard at the violin, and I’m nowhere close to professional level. Joshua Bell and Lindsey Stirling were way ahead of me at this age. I’m just trying to catch up.” He begins ticking items off on his fingers. “I like to dance, yeah, but you definitely can’t say that I’m good at it. This”—he lifts his drawn-on foot a little—“is just a doodle. I always have to be doing something with my hands, especially in uncomfortable or awkward moments.” He looks away and his face goes red. “And yeah, I connect with animals, but that connection very much does not translate to how I interact with people. I actually think I like animals so much because I’m sort of bad at the whole people thing. Animals are simpler. More genuine. Easier to read.”

  “That’s not true, though,” I argue. “You connected with me. Like, right away.”

  Josh’s gaze meets mine again, and stays there. “You’re an exception, CeCe. Trust me.”

  I suck in a little breath.

  This comfort between us, like we’ve somehow always known each other, is nice. Okay, it’s amazing. But it’s also horribly inconvenient, because it’s so easy to just say things like that, all genuine and exposed. And then the lines go blurry, and then … what?

  “Thanks,” I say, for lack of anything better. “I still suspect you’re one of those secret geniuses who’s good at literally everything you try, but I appreciate that.”

  “I can’t sing to save my life,” he offers. “Which is unfortunate for a musician. I hear the notes perfectly in my head, but by the time they come out of my mouth, they’re all wrong. My sister, on the other hand, is an amazing singer—she could be on one of those TV shows if she wanted.”

  “You should form a family band!” I laugh. “I bet your dad’s good too, if the two of you are so musical.”

  He shakes his head. “No, my sister and I were both adopted. Dad can sing along with the radio just fine, but Gabby and I didn’t inherit anything musical from him. Not in a DNA kind of way, anyway.”

  “Ohhh. Oh god, I’m so sorry.” I hang my head in my hands.

  “Why?”

  “I hate when people assume things about me based on societal norms. And I just did the same thing to you.”

  “Oh. That’s okay.”

  No, it’s not. It’s really not.

  “Hey. CeCe.” It’s not until I’m looking at him again that he continues. “You’re always so worried about hurting people …”

  “Yeah, but that’s the problem,” I retort. “With, like, the world. More people should be worried about that.”

  “I know.” He tilts his head like he’s trying to figure out what he said that put me on the offensive. But it’s not what he said, exactly—it’s more that I’m tired of people acting like I care too much. “I mean, I agree. That’s not what I was going to say.”

  I blink. “Oh.”

  “I was going to say that I wish you’d be nicer to yourself too.”

  I stare at him. “Oh,” I say again. The only other person who’s ever said anything like that to me before is my mom. “Ohh.” It’s all I know how to say, apparently.

  Josh seems to sense my inner plea for a shift of focus. He keeps doing that. “So, what happened was,” he begins, “my father was married a long time ago, and he and his wife decided to adopt a baby together. But by the time all the paperwork and vetting were done, and they were deep into the waiting process, their marriage kind of fell apart. For other reasons, not the adoption stuff.” He shrugs. “So they decided to get divorced, but right around that same time, they got a call about a baby who’d just been born. That was me.” He gives a toothy, overly posed smile. “So they talked everything through with the agency and their attorneys and my birth mother, and they decided that Dad would adopt me on his own. So he’s my dad, but his ex-wife isn’t my mom. Does that make sense?”

  I nod.

  “It was an open adoption, which means we’ve had some contact with my birth mother. Emails, photos, occasional visits. She lives in Florida still.”

  Wow. “What has that been like for you?” I don’t know much about adoption, but on TV they make it seem like people who were adopted never get to know anything about their birth parents, let alone have a relationship with them.

  “It’s been great,” Josh says. “She’s a really interesting person. Very artistic and kindhearted.” Artistic. Aha. “She wasn’t equipped to raise her children herself, so she made the choice that was right for her. And my dad is one of the best people I know. I’m really glad she picked him to be my parent.”

  And here I am, still harboring resentment over my stupid father and his stupid stupidity. Josh is officially chiller than I am in every way.

  “So your father decided to adopt again, later?” I ask. “Hence Gabby?”

  Josh grins even bigger now. “Sort of. When I was ten, my birth mother found out she was pregnant again, and she reached out to Dad to see if he’d be willing to adopt her daughter. That’s Gabby.”

  “So Gabby is your biological sister?”

  “Half, but yeah. Cool, huh?”

  “That’s basically the coolest story I’ve ever heard,” I say, amazed.

  He beams. “Yeah. I agree.”

  There’s a long silence, and I’m certain I know what Josh is thinking.

  Sure enough, he puts voice to it. “What about yours? Your father, I mean. You mentioned that thing about the seltzer …” He says it so casually it’s not casual at all.

  I do want to tell him. But I don’t want to blast all this happy energy to smithereens. “Would it be okay if we punt that story to another time?” I ask.

  “Of course.” Josh nods profusely, then goes back to doodling, on his other shoe this time. A series of semicircles emerge from his pen. They look a little like the rainbow tattoo I want, but the more intricate the pattern becomes and the more angles and turns the lines take, the more they take on an air of importance. Like a sharp metal crown, or icy mountain range, or big, toothy grins. When Josh looks up, a new glimmer has entered his eye. “Want to put on some music and dance?”

  I only hesitate for a second. “Okay.”

  Josh gets to his feet and plugs his phone into the speaker cord on my desk. The music he selects is not anything I would have ever chosen. It’s full-on country music, with prominent acoustic guitar and a kind of beat that makes you want to stomp your boots. Maybe if we were in a barn I’d know how to dance to this. But barefoot in my bedroom? It’s so out of place.

  “Really?” I say over the music.

  “What?” he says, hopping from foot to foot.

  “I’m not really into my-woman-left-me-and-stole-my-truck kind of music. Can we listen to something else?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Just give it a chance.”

  The chorus of the song kicks in, and … interesting. The woman singing has a definite twang to her voice, but her tone is clear and pretty. And there’s a line about kissing whoever you want—boy or girl—and another about loving whoever you love, ’cause you only live once. It’s kind of great. And decidedly not what I think of when I think of country music. There’s nothing about horses or trucks or America. It’s just a love song.

  “What is this song called?” I ask.

  “ ‘Follow Your Arrow.’ Kacey Musgraves. She’s rad,” Josh says as his movements become more exaggerated. Okay, he’s not a great dancer, but he’s confident, and he’s enjoying himself, and he’s going where the music takes him; as far as I’m concerned, those are the three main requirements for dancing.

  I take a deep breath and start some step touches.

  “Finally!” Josh says. He grabs my hands and moves my arms in toward him and then out again. He doesn’t pull me close, which I’m glad about. For some reason, I feel like that might be awkward. This way, it’s easier to extend the leash on my inhibitions a little.

  Josh sings along—terribly—and I join in on a word here and there, when I can remember them.

  Another song, less country and more
folksy-pop, comes on next, bleeding into the last without a gap. This one is more my speed, so I crank up the speaker. The next four minutes are a flurry of arm waving and jumping around and shout-singing and out-of-breath laughing.

  “Hey,” I say, dancing over to Josh’s phone and scrolling through Spotify until I find “Elle me dit.” “Have you heard this one? It’s my favorite.”

  Josh shakes his head, but listens to the entire song attentively as I twirl around the room. I don’t know how much of it he’s actually picking up, since I’m pretty sure he doesn’t understand the French lyrics, but he listens closely anyway. When the song ends, I switch to the English reimagining of the song—“Emily.”

  I notice Josh eye me thoughtfully at the “Don’t leave your life to chance, or you’ll end up like your father” line, but I don’t meet his gaze. I’ve already let my walls down so much today; any further and I might crumble.

  Another Mika song comes on next, then another. At one point, several songs in, Josh spins me around, then tucks me into a dip. Half upside down and giggling, I catch a glimpse of the bedroom doorway—and Mom’s there, leaning against the door frame in her dark gray scrubs, an amused expression on her face. Josh must see her at the same time I do, because he pulls me upright and presses the PAUSE button on his phone. My heartbeat echoes in my ears.

  “Hi!” I say to Mom, gasping for air and wiping the sweat from my forehead. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I can see that.” Mom chuckles. She steps forward into the room and holds a hand out to Josh. “Nice to see you again!”

  I’d forgotten they’ve already met. It seems weird now that Mom knew Josh before I did.

  “You too!” He wipes his palm on his jeans before shaking her hand. “Sorry, I’m sweaty.”

  “Don’t let me stop the party,” she says, smiling. “I’m loving the playlist.”

  Josh beams. “Thanks!”

  “I’ll bring you up some ice water,” Mom offers.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “We can come down and get it.” I look at Josh. His face is flushed, his hair slicked back a bit by the sweat at his roots. He looks … good. “I’m tired,” I admit with a little laugh.

  “Yeah, same. Ice water sounds amazing.” Josh pushes up the sleeves of his T-shirt to his shoulders, and I allow myself the briefest glimpse of his surprisingly defined biceps. I should have guessed he’d have arms like that, with the way he plays the violin like his life depends on it.

  I fix my eyes resolutely to his face.

  As we follow Mom downstairs, my head is spinning, and not just from the dancing. It’s rare that I think a guy is cute like that. I mean, yes, Noah Lim of YouTube fame, obviously. And there was a kid in eighth grade—my wood shop partner, Mark—who I found intriguing in a curiosity/new hormones kind of way. But this is different. I just legit checked Josh out, in the way I used to look at Silvie (and still do with her photos, in moments of weakness). Josh. A guy I know in real life, who I didn’t even think was attractive at first.

  My stomach is a gooey mess. No more arm ogling, I tell myself firmly. One and done.

  We sit at the kitchen table.

  “Josh, are you staying for dinner?” Mom asks. “I was going to make pasta. Nothing fancy.”

  “Oh, thank you so much, Maggie, but I actually need to leave soonish to pick up my sister—she’s at camp this week while school is out.”

  “How old is your sister?” Mom asks, sliding two tall glasses of cold water across the table to us. We guzzle it down like we haven’t seen water in days. Who knew dancing in your room could be such a good workout? I’ll post something about that later, wearing the Jeremy Bearimy tank Treat Yo’Self sent me.

  “She’s seven.”

  “Wow, that’s quite the age gap!” Mom says, sitting at the table too with a glass of white wine. She lifts Abe onto her lap and smooches the side of his snout. Two signs that Mom’s had a hard day at work: She pours herself a glass of wine or she gives Abraham extra love and attention. When she does both, you know it was really bad. A dog hit by a car or some flagrant instance of animal abuse. I want to ask what went wrong today, but won’t. I don’t want her to relive whatever it was. “Second marriage?” she asks Josh.

  I cough. “Mom.”

  She looks at me. “What? Divorce happens, CeCe.”

  “Yeah. I know. But …” I look at Josh apologetically. Two Ross women making the same mistake within an hour of each other.

  He smiles at me, and I decide to take his earlier word for it that he doesn’t mind. “That’s what most people think—that Dad remarried and that’s when Gabby came along. Either that or that she was a surprise for my parents.” Josh laughs, and then gives her the same history he gave me.

  This is Josh’s thing, I realize. This and music. He lights up when he talks about his family, and adoption.

  A loud sniffle sounds from across the table, and we both turn to discover Mom is weeping. “Sorry,” she says, wiping her nose with a napkin. “It’s just been a really long day, and that’s such a wonderful story. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear something good.” She looks at me through watery eyes. “CeCe, you should have Josh tell that story on your page. I bet all your followers would love such an inspirational—”

  Oh no.

  “Um, maybe!” I say hastily, plowing over whatever she was going to say next. The back of my neck grows hot. “But, you know, Josh doesn’t really like social media stuff, so probably not. Anyway, Josh, what time did you say you had to pick up your sister?”

  Josh and Mom stare at me.

  It’s not the words I’ve said. I think they’re normal? It’s the way too loud, abrupt way I’ve stopped the conversation mid-flow. It’s not subtle.

  What was it she said? All your followers. That could be a clue, if he were looking for one. But he probably wasn’t. It’s probably fine. Right?

  “Six,” he says after a beat, and glances at the clock. It’s five thirty. The park where Gabby’s camp is held is about fifteen minutes away, without traffic.

  “Sorry, I’m not kicking you out or anything.” I laugh awkwardly. “I just didn’t want you to be late. Because, you know. Rush hour and whatnot.” Stop talking, CeCe.

  Josh’s face clears. “You’re right, I should be going.” He stands up and says goodbye to Mom. As I walk him to the door, he says, “Thanks for today.”

  “It was fun. Yay spring break.”

  He laughs. “Let’s do it again?”

  I nod. “I’ll text you.”

  “Cool.” He hovers for a moment, as if unsure whether to reach out for a hug or not. Ultimately he just gives a quick “Okay, bye,” and steps out onto the porch.

  I don’t breathe again until he’s in his car and backing out of the driveway.

  I know I can’t keep my internet fame from Josh forever. And this would have been the perfect opportunity to tell him—Mom was there to be a buffer, we were in a sharing kind of mood.

  But that day, back at Holtman’s.

  Influencers, he’d said, disgusted. More like brainwashers.

  What if he finds this out about me and decides I’m not the kind of person he wants to spend his time with after all, and then I don’t get to have any more days like this?

  “I’ll be upstairs!” I call to Mom, avoiding the kitchen and the many questions she probably has cued up for me.

  I close my bedroom door and lean against it.

  Josh seemed fine as he left. A smidge confused, maybe, but not mad. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

  Except … I don’t know when it happened, but fine isn’t good enough anymore. Not with Josh.

  I should have just told him, I think for the millionth time as I approach Procter & Gamble Plaza on Thursday. I’ve been feeling far too close to a right-wing lobbyist for comfort these last two days: like a selfish jerk who cares about nothing but their own interests, damn everyone else. I need to tell Josh the truth about my life online. And I will, when the time is right.
r />   Josh is already at the plaza when I arrive, unpacking his violin. He’d initially wanted to meet later in the day because he needed to spend the morning practicing. Something about being determined to nail the third movement of Brahms’s Violin Concerto in D Major, even though very few soloists ever achieve the skill level required to perform the piece professionally. He and his teacher back in Florida had been working on it together, and in her absence he’s decided to “let the genius of Johannes Brahms himself remind him what he’s been working so hard for.”

  I probably resembled the shrug emoji when he said that, but whatever!

  Instead, I suggested he bring his violin with him, since I know he likes playing outside. His violin case has straps like a backpack, and he doesn’t seem to mind lugging it around everywhere. He could practice at the plaza, which is surrounded by office buildings. Businesspeople tend to have deep pockets; maybe he’d sell some CDs.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asked. “Won’t that be boring for you?”

  This conversation took place over the phone, by the way—the actual phone. I’d texted him, and then my phone rang. I thought it had to be a butt dial. But then I remembered who I was dealing with.

  “Of course I don’t mind!” I insisted. “It’ll be great.”

  “Hi!” I say now, claiming a spot on a nearby bench.

  “Hey, CeCe,” Josh says with a smile made of pure light and sunshine. His hands seem to act of their own accord, performing motions they’ve done countless times before: flipping open the case, tightening and rosining the bow, attaching a shoulder rest to the back of the violin, assembling the music stand. Josh’s violin itself is a well-loved, beat-up old instrument, with nicks in the varnish and mismatched pegs. It’s perfect for him.

  “Don’t mind me,” I say, slipping my sunglasses over my eyes and pulling out my phone. “I’m just a regular bystander.”

  He laughs. “Okay.”

  Once he’s satisfied with his tuning, he settles his left hand into position and lays into the first powerful chord with his bow. I’m surprised to realize I recognize the song. I don’t know from where—it isn’t on the CD that I finally borrowed from Mom and listened to in my car yesterday—and I couldn’t distinguish Brahms from Bach from Beethoven if my own life was at stake, but it’s familiar. Maybe it was in a movie or something.