For the next hour, Josh plays and plays and plays. I watch and listen from where I sit, and his music draws me in, making me feel like I’m a part of it, somehow. His eyes never leave the sheet music. His left-hand fingertips work in a kind of organized frenzy, pressing down on the strings in rapid, invisible patterns. Each note tugs him deeper into that musical place, the place he’s always drifting off to, to the point where I legitimately wonder if he’s forgotten that I’m here, or that he’s in public at all.
I record long stretches of video on my phone, but don’t post them, which, admittedly, is off brand for me. But this is one of the most peaceful mornings I can remember experiencing, and I don’t want to share it with anyone else. I liked the meditation app, but this type of reflection and mindfulness is more my style.
People in the plaza stop to listen and murmur appreciatively. The violin case with the stack of CDs and little placard rests open on the ground a couple feet in front of Josh. A man in a dark suit tosses in a ten-dollar bill and selects a CD. Josh doesn’t stop playing, but nods to the man appreciatively. When the man strolls away, Josh and I share an excited grin, and I give him a big thumbs-up.
But really, more people should be buying these. Or at least tossing some change into the case.
I study Josh’s sign, the marketing part of my brain click-click-clicking. First off, he needs either better handwriting or a professional font. And some color—the black Sharpie gets lost on the brown cardboard. He should also really add a Venmo or Cash App handle.
I grab my phone and open the app to research what other Josh-like musicians are out there, and what they’re doing to market themselves, but quickly get distracted. There’s some hubbub happening across the feeds of many of the people I follow—lots of mentions of #culturalappropriation and #disrespect—and I click through them, trying to figure out what’s happening.
Within a couple minutes, Josh’s music scoring my scrolling, I get to the root of it all. A famous British pop star, a white woman, is using a giant, neon om symbol as a set piece in her new stadium tour. Some Hindu fans of hers saw it and posted the picture on social, and now the post has been shared thousands of times, with people calling for the singer to stop using the symbol immediately and some even urging her to cancel the tour.
Mackenzie has posted something too:
Go, Mack!
Takedowns on the app are happening more and more, as online culture becomes more aware of the dangers of hate speech and the fact that even simple, hasty actions have the ability to cause lasting harm. An old photograph of a famous person doing something problematic emerges, or someone with a large following says something racist, and people on the app sound off, demanding not only apologies but consequences and retribution. And if the apology isn’t heartfelt, or the person accused doesn’t see what the problem is, matters only get worse for them. Online, one spark can ignite an explosion.
Most of the time, I agree with the callouts. I’m cheering on the masses from behind my phone screen, even if I don’t do it publicly. I don’t care who you are or how well-intentioned you are—if you do or say something without thinking it through or doing the appropriate research, and that thing harms someone else, or a whole group of people, you should not be given a pass. We all need to be held responsible for our actions.
Once, back before I made my app page a no-conflict zone, a television actress, after having a few drinks, posted something grossly prejudiced against a particular group of people. I joined the thousands of others and called her out online. And I was genuinely happy when she got fired from her TV show. It sounds extreme, but sometimes a second chance is one chance too many. The damage is done; calling it out and demanding action when it happens is the only way to move the needle of progress forward.
I’m grateful for, and a little in awe of, all the people out there who aren’t scared like me, and who use social media to get loud and get angry.
Josh reaches the end of the piece, and the simple open note resonates through the breeze. I look up. His bow and fingers are lifted off the instrument entirely, and I think I can see sweat on his brow. I click off my phone; I’ll log back on later to see if the singer has issued an apology.
It takes a few slow seconds, but Josh gradually comes back to himself. When his gaze unfastens from the music stand and finds me, he smiles. I shove my phone into my bag and spring to my feet, giving him a loud, resounding round of applause. A few passersby do the same, and Josh’s cheeks go pink.
“That was awesome,” I say as he begins to pack up. “I can’t believe you thought I’d think it was boring!”
“It was okay,” he says. “I’m more comfortable in third position than fifth, and that piece is like all fifth. I’ll get there eventually.”
“Well, it sounded professional to me. Even better than the CD.”
“You listened to the CD?” Josh looks up, surprised.
One corner of my mouth lifts. “Well, it required tracking down a time machine first, but I made it work.”
“Ha ha.” He rolls his eyes.
“I do have one question,” I tell him.
“Shoot.”
“What does your shirt mean?” I’ve been trying to figure it out all morning. The text reads, WITHOUT MUSIC, LIFE WOULD B .
Josh slings the case over a shoulder, grinning. “Without music, life would be flat.”
* * *
“Hey, thanks for telling me about your family yesterday.”
We’re in Josh’s car, on our way to pick up Gabby from camp. I reach forward to lower the music a bit.
“Of course,” he says.
“Want to hear my dramatic family story now?” I try to keep my tone light.
He glances at me out of the corner of his right eye. “If you want to tell me, yeah. I’d like to hear it.”
I do want to tell him, and not only because I’m trying to make up for keeping him in the dark about the other thing. “So, my parents got divorced almost four years ago, when I was thirteen. My dad lives here in Cincinnati, but I haven’t seen him in close to a year. That was my choice.”
“Oh. How come?” Josh flips his blinker and makes a left-hand turn.
“It probably sounds bad,” I acknowledge. “I know a lot of people would love to have a relationship with their parents, but …” I pause. I need this to come out right. “For me, it was the right choice.”
Josh nods.
“When my mom and dad met, he was the opposite of who he is now. He was pretty cool back then—he didn’t eat meat, he had gay friends, friends from different backgrounds. He even went to protests against the Iraq War and filmed those events, with the goal of putting the footage together for a documentary. I’ve seen photos and clips, and heard stories from Mom. I didn’t know him then, but I think maybe we would have gotten along. But after I was born, something changed in him.”
“What do you think it was?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe he was freaked out about being the father of a daughter? Or a father in general. Maybe his strict religious upbringing, which he’d pushed aside for a little while, worked its way into his consciousness again. Or maybe it was some fluke rearrangement of his brain chemistry. I don’t know. Mom doesn’t know. Whatever it was, though, it happened quickly.”
“What did he do?” Josh asks. He pulls into the parking lot and keeps the engine running. In the distance, across an expanse of trodden grass, are dozens of kids in orange T-shirts, playing tug-of-war.
The clock on the dashboard reads 5:52. I can probably get the rest of the story out in eight minutes.
“He started watching conservative cable news all hours of the day. He repeated the things those people said at every opportunity—somewhere along the way, he developed such hatred for everyone and everything who wasn’t exactly like him. Immigrants, queer people, people of color, people who needed government assistance, women fighting for equality in their workplaces, efforts to save the planet. Even people who were outspoken against the
wars—though he used to be one of them!” I let out a breath. “It got worse after Obama left office and was replaced by that … other guy. Dad felt validated, so he got louder. Angrier.”
“Wow.” Josh has turned in his seat to face me fully. “I know Florida has its share of conservatives, but they weren’t always so visible in Miami. We have—I mean, they have; I keep forgetting I don’t live there anymore—flourishing immigrant and gay communities. Part of me always hoped people like your dad were caricature inventions of the media or something.”
“Oh, they’re real,” I assure him. “And they are many. How else do you think the world became what it is?”
“I don’t know—widespread propaganda? Hacking?”
The internet, he means. I sigh. “Yeah, but those things don’t work without lots and lots of people willing to believe and defend those views.”
A sad silence hovers in the car with us. “That must have been hard to live with,” Josh says after a minute.
Understatement of the millennium. “It’s so opposite of who I am. It wasn’t just that I disagreed with it—everything in my soul actively fought it. I don’t know how to agree to disagree, and I don’t know how to respect someone just because he’s my parent. You’ve seen my bedroom,” I add.
Josh smirks. “Girls just want to have fundamental rights.”
I laugh. “Exactly. And this girl”—I nudge a thumb at myself—“wants everyone else to too. Mom pushed back on some stuff with Dad, but she was dealing with her own issues—I can’t imagine what it was like for her, to suddenly be married to a stranger. She so badly wanted that picket-fence life.”
“You know,” Josh muses, “I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a picket fence. They must not have them in Florida. What do they look like?”
“They’re overrated.” I give him a side smile.
“So what happened?”
I shrug. “My dad and I fought. All. The. Time. Even when we tried to keep the conversation neutral, it ended up in a fight. He’d say something about a football game, and I’d get angry that he was still willing to support the NFL, after all the looking the other way about the brain injuries, or their players being accused of domestic violence. Or I’d say something about the weather, and he’d go off about how climate change isn’t real. And that was before it became really personal. You know, with the LGBTQ stuff.”
Josh nods.
“I remember arguing with him when I was five years old about his views on immigration and refugees and the freaking border wall.” I shudder. The memory is crystal clear. “We were screaming at each other. Actually shouting in each other’s faces. I was in kindergarten, Josh. I’m sure my argument was all feeling and no facts, but still. He should have listened to me. At the very least he shouldn’t have fought back. He shouldn’t have used the words he used. But he didn’t have a filter, and neither did I.” I fiddle with the seat belt some more, and finally just unlatch it. “About ninety-five percent of our conversations, my entire life over, have been filled with animosity. We don’t like each other. We don’t know how to coexist,” I finish simply.
Josh’s eyes are fixed on me. I can tell he’s thinking hard. “Do you want to?” he asks. “Find a way to have a relationship with your dad, I mean.”
I shrug. “In a perfect world? Yeah, sure. But the world isn’t perfect. And demanding distance from him has become a self-preservation thing, I guess.” Just like CeCe’s Curated App World.
“I get that,” Josh says, nodding again.
But there’s more to say. “I didn’t come out until after my parents’ divorce,” I continue, more quietly now. “Sometimes I think that if Dad found out I was bi while we were still living under the same roof, and for some reason my mom hadn’t been around, he would have kicked me out.”
Josh gasps.
“I mean, that’s all conjecture,” I say quickly. “It didn’t happen that way. It wouldn’t have happened that way, because Mom would have stood up for me. But the things he’s said about gay and trans people … it’s enough to make me wonder.”
“Does he know now?” Josh asks.
I quirk an eyebrow Josh’s way. “He found out on social media.” Ah, the irony. “He’s one of those people who do justice to your argument of the internet being a breeding ground for negativity.”
Josh seems surprised I’d admit to that. But it’s the truth.
“I’m not saying your argument wins,” I say pointedly. “But, yes, people like my father love the internet because there’s always something, someone, somewhere who is going to validate the hatred or superiority or whatever it is they’re already feeling. Confirmation bias, I think they call it. He spends a lot of time online.” Maybe even more than I do.
“What happened when he found out?” Josh asks.
I let out a one-note laugh. “What do you think? He emailed me a bunch of links to anti-gay websites, said some crap about how it’s not natural, blah blah blah. I deleted the email without finishing it, then texted him to leave me alone.”
“And you haven’t seen him since then?”
I shrug. “He’s reached out. I met with him a few times. It didn’t go well.” I leave out the part about why Dad wanted to meet those times. “Finally, last year, I told him to never contact me again, unless he’s open to seeing things differently. So far, he’s listened.”
The mass of orange shirts is making its way toward the line of cars in the parking lot now. Josh opens his car door so Gabby will see him.
“I’m really sorry, CeCe,” he says. “That’s awful.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay,” I say truthfully. “I’m glad for it, in a way. I’ve been able to set my own boundaries, and he’s finally respected my wishes. It’s better this way. Healthier. For me and for Mom.”
“That makes sense.” Josh waves to a little girl with a high ponytail and grass stains on her leggings. She beams and sprints toward the car.
“So many times,” I say, more quietly now, because Gabby’s going to be in earshot soon, “I’ve wished I could just tune out. Mind my business, and not get so worked up when I hear someone say something closed-minded or cruel.”
“Music is good for that,” Josh offers.
“Yes.” I laugh. “It is. Staying away from the news works too. And focusing your attention on lighter things. But then I feel guilty.”
“Guilty?” Josh looks confused. “Why?”
I take a breath, and admit something to him that I haven’t admitted to anyone. Not even Silvie. “Because I don’t really want to tune out. I could have followed in my dad’s footsteps. So many kids take on their parents’ views as their own. For some reason, my brain magnets have been configured to repel my dad’s, rather than cling to them. And I got the opportunity to figure out who I was really early in life. I was kind of forced into it, yeah, but I’ve come out the other side okay, I think.” I’m whispering now. I’m not even sure Josh hears that last part.
Josh gets out of the car just as his sister reaches us. She gives him a big hug. “How was camp today?” he asks, beaming down at her. There’s definitely a family resemblance—they’re both fair-skinned, dark-haired, and lanky, with a smile that makes you eager to know what they’re thinking.
“It was awesome! I got to row a canoe!”
“A canoe? All by yourself?”
Gabby laughs. “No, silly. That’s really hard. You’ll go in circles. Aly and Leanne and Benji helped.”
“Ah.” Josh nods.
“Did you get good practicing done today?” Gabby asks, heading over to the passenger side of the car.
“Some, yeah. Back seat today, kiddo. We have a guest.”
Gabby startles when she looks through the window and sees me sitting here. “Hi!” she says, and seamlessly changes course to the back seat. “Who are you?”
Josh hops back into the driver seat. “This is my friend CeCe.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, turning around to shake Gabby’s hand.
�
��You too!” she says. “I didn’t know Josh had a friend! Miracles do happen!”
“Hey, no editorializing from the back seat,” he says, laughing.
I laugh too, and Josh catches me with the most heart-stopping smile. Then he whispers, just for me, “You’ve come out the other side more than okay, CeCe. You’re amazing.”
“Read any good books lately, CeCe?” Josh’s dad, Marty, asks me.
It’s Sunday, the last day of spring break, and Josh and I are hanging out at his house. The weather is warm, almost summerlike, so we’re sitting on his back patio.
Josh’s dad lifts the grill lid and turns everything over—burgers, corn cobs, veggie dogs. I’m so hungry I want to eat the air.
Marty is shorter and chubbier than Josh, with a short, graying beard and surprisingly cool black-rimmed glasses. I have a feeling Gabby is going to out-height him by the time she’s ten.
When I got to the house earlier, Marty opened the front door before I could even knock, boomed a “Welcome, CeCe!” and gave me a hug of the totally genuine, not-even-a-little-creepy variety. Which, I’ve found, is rare when it comes to older dudes. “It’s so nice to finally meet you!” he said. “I’d begun to think you weren’t real. But Gabby assured me you were.”
I laughed. “Josh’s assurances weren’t enough?”
“That kid spends more time in his own head than in the real world. You never know what’s real and what he’s dreamed up.”
“CeCe! Come see my room!” Gabby said, and I gave Josh a fleeting wave hello before being whisked off to a stuffed-animal-filled bedroom. Posters of Ariana Grande, Janelle Monáe, and Billie Eilish were taped to the pink walls. “Oh! That’s Ears.” She pointed to the black-and-white cat curled up in the pet bed at the foot of her own bed. “He’ll let you pet him, if you want!”
Follow Your Arrow Page 11
