by Erin Hahn
I can’t help myself. I’m already reaching for his earbud when he registers my presence. You can tell a lot about someone by what they listen to when no one is watching.
Twenty One Pilots’ mellow and painful “Car Radio.” Huh.
“Huh,” I say aloud. Because I’m relentlessly clever like that.
“Tyler Joseph is a brilliant lyricist,” is all he says. Equally clever.
The song picks up, and in the tiny speaker, I hear the electronic backbeat kick in as Tyler’s voice screams his sadness over and over. It’s a strangely relatable song. Someone mourning the loss of their car radio because now they are forced to face their silent demons head-on whenever they’re in their car.
Luke’s quiet, his hand tapping the board at his thigh. His mouth opens and closes without saying anything.
“I sometimes wonder if radios and headphones represent the downfall of emotional health,” I say because I am awkward and decidedly nervous about being alone with Luke. “Like, if I don’t want to face something, which is pretty much always, I just”—I motion to the little toggle on the wire connecting the earbuds—“turn it up. So loud I can’t hear myself think.”
He nods, wavy blond wisps falling across his black frames. He tucks them behind his ear, but they only slip back out. “Ah.”
My words tumble over one another, to fill the silence. “Of course, sometimes I don’t know what I really feel until I hear it sung. Have you ever heard that Flora Cash song? ‘You’re Somebody Else’? Like, obviously they aren’t singing about me. They’ve never met me. But it feels like they’re talking about me. I can pretend they are anyway, and before I know it, I’m crying into my Gatorade”—I wave the bottle in my hand—“and questioning my self-image.”
He blinks, no doubt overwhelmed by my verbal essay, but recovers, clearing his throat.
“I have heard it, actually. That line about seeing someone in a way they won’t until they are older, right?”
“Hm?” Now I’m the one struck dumb.
He shakes his head, his long fingers tapping. “At least … that’s the part that … erm … struck me.”
My mind catches up, and my stomach unclenches a little. “Yeah. It’s like everything you would hope for—” I almost say in love but cut off in time. It’s not like I know anything about that anyway, with my zero boyfriends.
He shoves at his lenses with his long fingers and tucks his free hand back into his pocket, and I realize I’m still holding his earbud, music beating out a tinny rhythm between us.
I hold it out and he takes it, rolling it up carefully and stowing it away in his pocket.
“They’re my mum’s,” he explains, changing the subject, thank God. “I lost my wireless ones somewhere on Fourth Street.”
“Hazard of boarding, I imagine.”
He glances down at the longboard at his hip. It’s covered in rainbow stickers in growing obnoxiousness. The one on top is a giant unicorn with rainbows shining out of its butt. His cheeks turn red, and he drops the board with a clatter and clears his throat.
“Ah, that’s Cullen. His idea of a joke. Not that it’s a joke. I mean, I fully support … obviously. It’s just … well, the unicorns are a bit … erm … over the top. One night while I was sleeping, Cullen snuck into my bedroom and covered it in rainbow stickers.”
“Naturally.”
“It’s fine. I mean, I don’t love the unicorn arse, and just now, seeing it through your eyes, it’s a bit humiliating but—”
“I love it.”
He winces. “Really?”
“Really,” I say, charmed by this kid who is so self-unaware. I clear my throat, remembering I need to get to work soon. “So, you want to collaborate?”
“Yeah.” He peers out through his frames, his cheeks still splotchy, and I wonder if I make him nervous. It’s probably just the cold. “Is that okay?”
It is now. “Oh, sure,” I say, trying to play it cool.
His face visibly relaxes, and it’s fascinating. “Brilliant.”
“I don’t really know how to go about this,” I start. “I’ve never collaborated before, and I don’t really dance.”
“I thought you moved marvelously,” he says, and I feel my face burn despite the icy wind funneling around the corner of the building.
“Thanks.”
He cringes, and this time he’s the one babbling. “I meant that in a completely not creepy way. I just … You seem to really feel the music, and that’s how I tend to write, so I thought we might be a good match. But I totally get it if you prefer to work solo. You probably already have a song picked out. You’re like this musical savant, and I’m still learning, but I’d like to try.” He seems relieved as he finishes, even capping it off with a little affirmative nod as if congratulating himself. Smooth, we are not.
“I’m willing to give it a shot if you are. When do you want to meet?”
His face is alight with relief, and I bite back a wistful sigh. “Sunday, before you work?” he suggests. “We could meet at the library. Or the mall. Someplace we can listen to music together.”
“How about the club? I have keys. Phil won’t mind me coming in early. That way, we’ll have a quiet space to work.”
“What time?”
“One thirty?”
“Perfect.”
“Speaking of work,” I say, regretful and grateful I need to leave, “I have to go. But I’ll see you then?”
He beams, nudging his frames so I’m gifted a clear shot of his gray-blue eyes. “See you then.”
* * *
It’s not a date or anything, this arrangement Luke and I have to meet up at the Loud Lizard. Alone. Or whatever. But it feels strangely loaded. Not as loaded as it might if we met at one of our houses, but I still feel the need to show up fifteen minutes early and, like, clean or something. Which is ridiculous because the club is covered in decades of grime that, according to Phil, speaks to the character of the place.
I peel open the blinds that face the back of the building to allow light in and turn on the real lights, the ones we rarely use since no one wants a brightly lit bar. If you want to see your date in halogen lighting, Phil says, take them to Walmart. We don’t do that shit here. We’re in the business of dark corners.
When I ask him in my cheekiest tone what happens in dark corners, he likes to ruffle my hair and tells me to ask my mom.
I glance at my phone. Twelve minutes. I jump behind the bar and pull a couple of glasses out of the dishwasher, placing them on a rubber mat, faceup. I dig around in the fridge and remove the cling wrap from a container of cherries left over from last night, still marinating in their pink maraschino juice, and scoop out a generous handful. I dump them in my cup before filling it with lemonade and dropping in a decorative sword.
Ten minutes.
I wish I knew what Luke likes. I could have it ready for him. Maybe I can guess based on what I know, though it’s admittedly not much. Punk-rock dad and composition class and gay twin brother. That feels a lot like things I know around him and not about him.
“Car Radio” song, though, I think, and Flora Cash. That alone tells me so much. I fill a glass with ice and water and throw in a lemon slice before moving to the modernized jukebox in the corner. I plug it in and tap around the screen looking for something in particular. As the front door opens, sending a miniature cold front into the air, I hit Play on Oasis’s “Wonderwall.” An oldie, but I think any respectable Brit would recognize the gesture.
Luke doesn’t disappoint. His face lights up, and he bobs his head a little. He clears his throat. “There are two kinds of Brits: team Noel and everyone who’s wrong.”
I blush. “When I was younger, I had a crush on Liam.”
He raises his pale brows.
“It’s not my fault! My mom was a massive fan. She poisoned my mind against Noel and his unibrow.”
He shakes his head, pretending to reconsider coming in, and I choke out a giggle. It’s unsettling; I haven’t gigg
led in a decade. He sits down at the bar in front of the water, pulling out a notebook and pen.
“Wow, are you really going to compose in front of me?”
“Definitely not. I’ve never done this with someone else. Actually, if you could not tell Cullen about this, that would be great. My family doesn’t exactly know I’m still writing music.”
That gives me pause. I sit down next to him, pulling my cup of cherries close.
“Still?”
He busies himself with his notebook, flipping pages until he finds a clean one. “Yeah. It’s … complicated. My dad would love nothing more than for me to follow in his footsteps, and I would love nothing less.”
“Not a fan of punk music?”
He pulls a face. “Not exactly. I like some. My dad was brilliant. I’m just not one for putting something out there for the world to judge.”
“A purist?”
“Something like that.” He grimaces. “That makes me sound stuck-up. I don’t mean that, necessarily. It’s like, all of a sudden, something you’ve worked so hard on becomes cheap. It turns into a judgment of you rather than the words. You had a crush on Liam Gallagher, for example. Was it his songwriting or his vocals or—”
“Definitely thought he was cute,” I say.
“Right,” he says, uncomfortable. “Look, I sound like a prick. I know that. I used to sing. Like at family parties and stuff. My dad would set me up on the piano in the backyard, and it was like this source of pride for him. He has loads of contacts in the industry, and they were all ready to sign me and put me in front of a camera. Then they start talking about how I needed to get contacts and could my jeans be a little more expensive and have I ever thought about a gym membership and have they taken me to a dermatologist for that acne and feeding me pop songs that were already written and I couldn’t bear it.”
“They wanted to make you a star.”
He nods sheepishly.
I think on that. How it might have felt. To be tinkering around on your piano just for you. Feeling proud of something you’ve created only to have it spoiled.
“And you don’t want to be a star,” I clarify.
His small smile is grim. “Not at all.”
Huh. Definitely not what I’d expected. It’s clear to anyone who meets the Greenlys that Luke is quieter than Cullen, but I’d always assumed it was relative. “Can I ask why? Stage fright? Too shy?”
He doodles in the corner of a page. “Not really. It’s not that I’m afraid to play or even that I don’t like people. I just want to write songs. I happen to be a good singer, but I love to write the music. I don’t need the rest.”
“You’re right,” I say, with a teasing grin. “That does make you sound like a prick.”
He grimaces again. “Exactly.”
I’m still smiling, though, and I meet his eyes, willing him to feel my lack of censure. After a long moment of him fiddling with his notebook, I realize perhaps I suck at body language. I clear my throat, feigning boldness. “I understand, though. The heart wants what it wants and all.”
He shrugs, sipping his lemon water, not bothering with a straw.
I try again. “I used to dance classically,” I say. “And I wasn’t terrible. When I was around twelve, I was offered the chance to audition for a high-stakes academy in Detroit. But I walked.”
I trace the side of my cup, making squiggles in the condensation. “My dad threw a fit. I think he was hoping for scholarships or whatever. But”—I lift a shoulder—“I didn’t want it. Moving to someone else’s choreography, performing their vision, it wasn’t my thing.”
I raise my eyes to meet his, and he’s smiling. The kind of smile where you don’t even realize you’re doing it. I feel my lips pulling to match, and I look away, feeling warm.
“So, back to the present, Mr. Purist. Are you sure you’re okay writing for the showcase? You do realize this requires a performance on your part.”
“Technically,” he points out, “this requires a performance on your part. And yes. I knew about the showcase going into the semester, but my need for instruction won out over my misgivings. He continues lightly, “Besides, no one in my family knows I’m in the class.”
“Same,” I admit. “So, that works out.”
His white-blond brows scrunch together behind his frames. “No one knows you’re dancing again?”
It’s my turn to feel on the spot. “Nah. I don’t want to give anyone ideas. Now it’s just this creative outlet for me. It’s like, um, therapeutic. At any rate, that I need an outlet will make my mom feel guilty and sad. I’d rather avoid that.”
“Is this the dad thing?”
I clear my throat, stabbing at a cherry and not meeting his eyes. “Probably.”
He presses his lips together, understanding my “probably” to be a “definitely.” I hear a car door slamming outside and glance at my phone. “Damn, it’s already two.”
Luke looks surprised but doesn’t move from his chair. He closes his nearly blank notebook, and I apologize for the lack of productivity.
He shakes his head. “Not at all. This is exactly what we needed. If we’re going to work together, we need to know what makes each other tick.”
“Daddy problems?” I ask, feigning lightness.
His lips quirk in a half grin. “Among other things. It seems we both have our secrets, and I’m honored to be in on one of yours, Vada.”
That’s a really sweet thing to say, and suddenly I find myself surprised at how not awkward this has been. “Ditto, Greenly. Should we do this again?”
“I have a better idea,” he says, looking sly. “What are your thoughts on over-the-top weird art installations that require audience participation?”
Forget it. Awkward quotient just multiplied. “You mean like a flash mob?”
Another half grin topped off with rosy cheeks and eyes that hold a hint of a dare. He’s clearly recovered from his initial hesitation. The back door opens, and Kazi comes in with the cold, holding a case of fruit from the outside freezer. I don’t get up.
“Sort of, but less showy. Ever hear of a silent disco?”
“I’ve heard of a mobile concert. There’s a park in Detroit that would put one on every year. You wear headphones and stuff?”
Luke nods. “No one would be watching us, because they’d all be in their own worlds.”
“You want me to dance with a bunch of strangers? In a silent rave? In public?”
He grins, tapping his fingers. “Sort of. It’s too cold for parks. There’s a concert Tuesday night at the Filmore, but it’s experimental. Everyone is being issued headphones at the door, and you get to play deejay. But the effect is out of this world. I went to one back in London. It’s about as intimate a setting as you can get. And yeah, you have to dance, but no one is really watching. Well, I might watch. A little. But you could watch me, too. Fair is fair.”
This could either be the coolest thing ever or super awkward and weird. Luke must read this on my face because he backpedals.
“Yeah. Okay. It’s stupid, and now you think I’m super weird. Which, admittedly, I am—”
I cut him off. “Hold on. Yes,” I admit, “it’s an unusual idea. But I’m also a little embarrassed I’ve never tried anything like it before. I mean, for all my bluster, if I can’t hang with an experimental concert, who am I even?”
“Really?”
“I think so?” I straighten. “No, I know so. Yes. Count me in. Before I can change my mind,” I finish with a nervous laugh.
His entire face lights up. “That’s brilliant. I’ll see if I can borrow Cullen’s car and pick you up at 5:00? The show starts at 6:00, and maybe after we can get a bite to eat. I have an 11:00 p.m. curfew on school nights.”
“Same,” I say. “If you can’t drive, I can ask my mom for her car.”
He shakes his head. “No way. This is all on me.” He starts gathering up his things as more people start arriving for the afternoon shift, including Phil, who definitely n
otices who I’m sitting with, and it’s just as well since I need to intervene before Kazi cuts all the limes into fancy shapes again. Ain’t no one got time for that sort of high-class fruffery.
I scrawl my number on a napkin. “Here,” I say, passing it over. “Text me yours. That way we can make arrangements.”
He takes the napkin and folds it carefully before tucking it into his jeans pocket. “Excellent.” He flings his backpack over both shoulders and picks up his board at the door. “I’ll talk to you soon, Vada.”
“Bye, Luke.”
I feel eyes on me as I watch Luke walk out the front door, and I busy myself with cleaning up our cups.
“What?” I bite out after a minute.
“Not a thing,” Phil says mildly. “Not a single thing.”
* * *
Later that night, I’m at Meg’s. My mom was cooking dinner for Phil, and while they didn’t explicitly tell me to make other plans, my mom’s recently jumped on the Whole 30 bandwagon. Phil might have to put up with no cheese, grains, or sugar out of love and adoration, but I sure as heck don’t.
“So, Vada, Megan tells us you got into UCLA? That’s ambitious. I bet Mary’s already crying over you moving across the country,” Mrs. Hennessey says. I swallow my alfredo. Everyone calls my mom Mary, and I can’t bring myself to call the Hennesseys anything other than Mr. and Mrs. Hennessey. They just feel like a Mr. and Mrs. kind of family.
“If she is, I don’t hear it,” I reply, keeping my tone light. “I’m sure she’ll be sad—it’s always been the two of us—but she’s really excited for me.” This is my staple response, and I’ve gotten good at it. Reviews are a mixed bag when it comes to my college choice. Marcus is against anything that’s not free, Grandma Connie sniffs and wonders aloud why I need a career, and most everyone else acts like I am purposely trying to rip out my mom’s heart.
The only one not against my choice is my mom, who is maybe a little wistful but extremely supportive and enthusiastic. I think Phil helps in that he’s not going anywhere and is certain of my impending success. But also, my mom is just a stellar human being. Seriously the best.
