by Cynthia Hand
And Heather was right in what she wrote about blushing in her family. I’m sure there will be connections between us, like blushing, like how easily we get cavities, that sort of thing, that are always going to be there, invisible but also unerasable. It makes me wonder about you. The ways you will turn out like me, and we won’t even know it. The pieces we will share.
So I might owe you something, after all.
A beginning.
You see, when a man and a woman love each other very, very much . . .
Ha-ha. Well, that’s not my job, telling you about that. You’re eighteen. If you don’t know this stuff already, I’m not going to be the one to tell you.
If I were you, though, I’d be curious about the guy who spawned you—the sperm donor, so to speak. He’s never going to be your father in any real sense of the word, the same way I’m never going to be your mother, but you should know something more about him than what the paperwork will tell you—that he’s nineteen years old and 6'1" and he’s got green eyes and blond hair.
Yep, I fell for the older guy. I’m an idiot. I think we’ve established that.
I’m going to call him Dawson. That’s not his real name. There’s a TV show I used to love that you’ve probably never heard of, and he looks a little bit like the guy on that show. Tall. Blond. But the TV Dawson was into movies, and my Dawson is into music.
This was all because of the music.
So last November I went to a Pearl Jam concert at the Idaho Center Arena. Don’t judge me if Pearl Jam is washed-up by the time you’re reading this. I love them. I will always love them—I will go to my grave loving Pearl Jam. I love them so much I paid out the nose for a seat near the stage. So I’m there, and there’s an empty seat next to me. I notice this blond guy skulking around in the aisle, and I can tell by looking at him that he’s trying to find a better seat than the one he’s got. He keeps eyeballing the seat next to mine, but he waits, he waits until the opening band starts up. He waits until we’re all screaming—Matt Cameron is sliding behind the drums, Eddie Vedder taking the stage, and Mike McCready and Stone Gossard strapping on their guitars—and the blond guy makes his move and scoots in next to me.
Usually I wouldn’t care. But I paid a lot for my seat. I stood in a ridiculously long line to get it. I had to plead with my dad. I had to promise not to smoke pot, which is what my dad assumes is all that happens at Pearl Jam concerts, I guess. I had to be a committed fan to get this seat. So I turn to the guy.
“Hey, can I see your ticket?” I ask him. “I don’t think this is your seat.”
It’s loud. The stage lights have all gone red. The band’s playing. Eddie’s starting in on “Of the Girl.” People are screaming and cheering and jumping up and down, hands raised.
The blond guy doesn’t hear me. Or at least he acts like he doesn’t.
“Hey! You! That’s not your seat!” I grab his shoulder.
He turns. Smiles.
“Heavy the fall, quarter to four,” he sings along, like it’s right to me, “fills his mind with the thought of a girl.” He looks into my eyes. As if I’m the girl in the song. As if I’m the point of him being here.
I know. I shouldn’t have fallen for it. But he’s hot—I hope you end up looking like him, because frankly, he’s a specimen. The biting words I had planned—the scathing condemnation of this jerk-off taking someone else’s hard-earned seat—die on my lips. The guy’s still smiling, still singing, and he knows the words by heart. The lights change blue. Eddie’s voice wraps itself around us like a seductive serpent of alternative goodness. I become aware that I’m still hanging on to the guy’s shoulder. He’s warm under my fingers. I let go. The guy angles back toward the stage, still singing. I can’t hear his voice over Eddie’s, but it’s like I can feel it, and I start singing, too, waving my hands in the air, and that’s how it goes, the entire concert. We sing. We move to the rhythm. We stare up at Eddie Vedder, so close we can see the beads of sweat on his forehead, we sing and sing, we sway, we forget about everything else, we let the music take us.
Then, hours later, it’s over. I feel like I’m waking up from a dream. The band leaves the stage. The lights come up.
The guy turns to me again. He tells me his name. I tell him mine.
“There’s a band you should listen to,” he says like he knows me, as we’re walking out. “You’d love their sound. They’re playing here.” He writes an address down for me on a scrap of paper. “Next Saturday night. The Sub. Nine o’clock.”
The Sub must be a bar or something, I think. I’m not old enough to go to bars.
“Okay.” I wait for him to ask me to go with him to said bar to listen to said band. But he doesn’t. He smiles, and his eyes are green, I notice again, and he smells good, like sandalwood and pot smoke, maybe—don’t tell my dad, and don’t smoke pot, kid, cuz blah blah blah, just say no—and that’s it. That’s how I became acquainted with the person who contributed to half of your DNA.
Pearl Jam.
So now you know how your story started. With a guy I randomly met at a concert.
I hope that’s enough.
S
4
“Don’t look,” whispers Nyla into my ear, “but there’s a new guy over there.”
It’s a Saturday morning, and we’re sitting in the house of the Bonneville High School auditorium, waiting to audition for Into the Woods, a musical that’s all the fairy tales put together. Ny and I both adore this show, and we’re desperate to be in it. I’m feeling sick to my stomach, which is business as usual. This is, like, the twentieth audition I’ve done, but I’m still a bundle of nerves.
I glance around, but I don’t spot anyone unfamiliar. “Guy?” I repeat. “What guy?”
“I said don’t look.” She tries to point with her head.
I follow the gesture, trying to look without looking like I’m looking, and sure enough, sitting in the second row with his green Converse sneakers propped up on the seat in front of him is a boy I’ve never seen before. I don’t know why I had to try to be subtle about it. Everybody in the theater is blatantly staring at him, gossip-whispering. The Bonneville High School theater scene is made up of a small, tight-knit group of the same students, performing play after play together, semester after semester, year after year, so anyone new among us is whisper-worthy. But this guy seems oblivious to the attention he’s getting. He’s focused on filling out the audition form, bent over his paper writing furiously like it’s an application to Juilliard.
“Hey, he may even be cute,” I observe, although from this angle it’s hard to be sure. I’m mostly seeing him from the back, but he has a nicely shaped head. Dark, careless hair. Skinny jeans. Good shoes.
“More importantly, he’s male,” Nyla says.
“Amen to that.” It’s a curse of high school theater that there are, like, three girls for every boy. Nyla and I have both done our share of playing male characters because there simply weren’t enough boys to fill the roles. Hopefully this new guy is more than cute. Hopefully he can act. And, for the purposes of this production, as it’s a Sondheim musical and the music is really freaking hard, hopefully he can also carry a tune.
The chatter in the house goes quiet as our drama teacher—Joanna Golden, but we call her Mama Jo—glides down the aisle and up onto the stage.
I blow out a shaky breath.
“Don’t be nervous,” Nyla commands me sternly in a whisper. “If you’re nervous, I’ll be nervous. And if I’m nervous, I won’t hit the high notes.”
“I’m not nervous,” I whisper back. “I’m completely relaxed. See?” I give her a terrified gritted-teeth type smile.
“Right. Well, don’t forget: I got you, babe,” she says.
“I got you.” This is part of our preperformance support ritual. We bump fists.
“Good morning,” Mama Jo says warmly. “I’m thrilled to see so many of you. This is a large-scale production and we’re going to need a big cast, so be patient; we’ve got a lot
to get through today. Make sure Sarah the stage manager has your audition form—raise your hand, Sarah, everybody see Sarah?—and then sit tight and wait to be called up. First I want to hear the musical auditions you’ve prepared. Only one song per person, please. And after I’ve listened to everybody, we’ll break for lunch, and then come back and have you read for some of the roles. Sound good?”
There’s a weak chorus of yeses. Everyone, it seems, is equally nervous. I find this comforting. We’re all in the same queasy boat.
“Good,” says Mama Jo. “Let’s get started.” She jogs over to sit next to Sarah in the house, who hands her the first form on the pile, which of course belongs to:
“Nyla Henderson,” she calls out loudly.
I feel Nyla tense beside me. “You got this,” I say as she stands up and brushes past me.
“Hi, Nyla,” Mama Jo says when Nyla’s up at center stage. “It’s good to see you.”
Nyla smiles. “Hi. It’s good to be seen.” Nyla and I have performed, like, seven plays on this stage, all the way back to when we were freshmen. Mama Jo knows us both very well. Which takes some of the pressure off, I guess.
“What will you be singing for us today?” Mama Jo asks.
“‘Memory,’” Nyla answers. “From Cats.”
The music gets cued up, and Nyla begins to sing. At first her voice is soft—nervous, in spite of her swagger—but then her shoulders relax and she really starts to belt out the song, hitting every note solidly, the lows and the highs. And she doesn’t just sing. So many people, they get up there and they just sing, but Nyla becomes the character. She fills the lines with emotion. She believes it, and makes us believe it, too.
The song’s the perfect choice for this audition. I should know. I helped Nyla choose it, and we’ve been practicing for weeks. But even though I’ve heard her sing it, like, fifty times, I can’t help but hold my breath as she reaches the final note, a waver of tears in her voice. Then the music fades and everyone listening sits back, quietly stunned.
“Wow, thank you, Nyla,” says Mama Jo after a few seconds. There are sporadic claps and hoots, my own included. Nyla sashays back to her seat like her total awesomeness is no biggie.
“Show-off,” I fake grumble as she plops down beside me. Mama Jo calls up someone else, and I can breathe for a few seconds. “How am I supposed to follow that up?”
“Not my problem,” Nyla says, but then grins and puts her arm around me. “You’re going to slay it, too. You know you are.”
I wish I was as sure as she is about that, but whatever. Nyla’s amazing. If I’m being honest: she’s better than me. She always has been. I try not to feel competitive with her, but it happens. Sometimes she gets the part I want. Sometimes I get the part she wants. We’ve learned to navigate the envy, “the green monster” we call it, and simply try to be there for each other. Through thick and thin. Through everything.
We listen to, like, ten more songs from the other students—all good, no bombs. Everyone has apparently brought their A game. That’d be fantastic, if I weren’t competing with all of them for a part. Every time Mama Jo calls someone up who’s not me I tense up even more.
“Breathe,” Nyla whispers.
“I wish I’d gone first. How did you get so lucky? Who did you bribe?”
“Relax, Cass. You’re going to be fine.”
“You’re only saying that because you went first, and now you’re off the hook. You’re already fine. You’re—wait.”
Mama Jo has called out a name I don’t know.
It’s the new guy. He ambles up the stairs and onto the stage like he’s been here a million times. He tells Mama Jo he’s going to sing “Stars” from Les Misérables, a challenging song to say the least, but one of my all-time faves. He takes a minute to stretch—raises his arms above his head, drops them, rolls his head from side to side, shakes out his hands. And then the music begins.
“Whoa,” says Nyla after a minute. “New guy can sing.”
I stare at him. He’s not a big person—he’s maybe five nine, and slender—but he’s got this huge voice. He gets his notes to the back of the theater with ease. The song starts low, but his low notes don’t get lost the way they sometimes can. He practically purrs the song out, and he knows how to act, too. As we’re watching it’s like he stops being a high school–aged boy and becomes this bitter, weathered police inspector, determined to catch the runaway prisoner he’s been hunting for years. Then he shifts and sings in his upper register, this Adam Levine–like falsetto that makes goose bumps jump up along my arms. I’ve never had that happen before—goose bumps, without being cold. He’s that good.
“Holy crap,” breathes Nyla. “New guy can sing. What did she say his name was again?”
“Sebastian,” I answer. “Sebastian Banks.”
“This I swear by the stars!” sings Sebastian Banks, holding the last note long and steady and perfect. Then the high school–aged boy reappears, gives a little nod, and walks swiftly off the stage.
Nyla whistles. “Dang. Good thing he’s not auditioning for any of the female roles.”
I shake my head in wonder. “I’d hate to follow that up.”
“Cassandra McMurtrey?” Mama Jo calls.
I close my eyes. “Well, crap.” Another, better word bubbles up in my brain, but I always try not to swear in front of Nyla, who never swears if she can help it. My throat feels tight. This is bad. I don’t know how I’m going to get any notes out.
“Um, you got this?” Nyla offers.
“I got this,” I repeat, and then I take a deep breath and head up onto the stage.
5
“You killed it,” Nyla informs me five minutes later, when I wobble back to my seat.
“Thanks.” I hope she means this in the positive sense. I don’t know how I did. I always go into this white space when I’m up there, a kind of fugue state. But it went all right, I think. Maybe I wasn’t a showstopper like Sebastian, or a catch-your-breath performance like Nyla. But I was good. Good enough. I hope.
We must be done with the singing part of the audition, because Mama Jo’s on the stage again. “All right, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll see you back here at two o’clock, ready to read.”
Nyla nods to a few of our friends like, “Lucy’s?” and they nod back like, “Of course, meet you there,” and she gathers up her jacket and her bag. “Shall we do lunch?”
“Wait,” I tell her. “I want to talk to the new guy.”
She follows me as I make a beeline toward the front row, where Sebastian Banks is bending over, tying the laces on one of those green Converse. I wait awkwardly for him to stand up. Then I flash him a smile. “Hi.”
“Hello,” he says, smiling back a bit shyly.
“Sebastian, right?”
“Call me Bastian. And you’re . . .” He’s staring at my face like he’s trying to place me. “. . . Cassandra.”
“Call me Cass.”
He glances at Nyla.
“Oh, I’m Nyla,” she explains. “Call me Nyla.” I’m the only one allowed to call her Ny. She says it’s lazy when other people shorten her name, like they can’t be bothered to pronounce more than one syllable, but I get away with it.
“Cass and Nyla.” Bastian gives a little bow. “Nice to meet you.”
And just like that—bam—I’ve met a new guy.
“You’re awesome,” I blurt out. “I mean, you did awesome. Up there. Earlier.”
“Yes, we’re impressed,” Nyla agrees.
“Thanks.” He’s still staring at me. It’s a little intense.
“You’re new here,” I say, but of course he knows that. “I mean, you’re new to us. Here. At this theater.”
He nods. “Yeah, I’ve done some plays before, at my old school, so I thought I’d give it a try here. Besides, I love Into the Woods. I couldn’t resist.”
I’m nodding so much I’m going to give myself whiplash. “Me too. I’d kill to be in this show. Well, not literally kill, but .
. . you know. Metaphorically kill.”
Nyla is also staring at me now, but like I’ve lost my mind. “Anyway,” she says slowly, “great to talk to you, Bastian. We should probably get—”
“Do you like pizza?” I ask him. “A bunch of us are going to Lucy’s for lunch. Would you like to come with us?”
“Um, sure. Why not?” he says.
Nyla gives me a sharp look as we’re going up the aisle out to the parking lot. She loves pizza, probably more than she loves me, honestly, but I asked this guy out with us without running it by her first. Which breaks a sacred rule between us: friends before mens.
“Are you kidding me?” she whispers as we—me, Nyla, and Bastian—pile into Bernice. “What just happened?”
“Sorry,” I whisper back. “I should have asked.”
“It’s fine, I guess,” she says, but she starts humming the melody of “Jesus, Take the Wheel” to herself on the way to Lucy’s.
“This is a fantastic car,” Bastian observes from the back seat as we cruise along. “What model is it?”
“A Buick Regal,” Nyla says, warming up to him slightly because even she can’t resist any flattery aimed at her precious car. Good call, new guy. Good call.
“Does your car have a name?” he asks, grinning. “Tell me it has a name.”
Nyla’s chin lifts slightly. “Her name,” she says grandly, “is Bernice.”
We meet up with Ronnie, Bender, and Alice at Lucy’s and eat the aforementioned pizza, and then drive over to a nearby Starbucks for some mandatory coffee (except Nyla, who doesn’t do coffee for religious reasons) and by the time that’s over, we’ve learned that Bastian lives on the west side of Idaho Falls (whereas we all live on the east side), that he’s a senior but new to Bonneville (before he went to Skyline High School, across town), he’s an aficionado of classic movie musicals, he owns three pairs of Converse sneakers in different colors, and he’s a sucker for pumpkin spice lattes.
