by Erin Hahn
Still, my memory didn’t do it justice. If it were anyone other than Vada, I’d assume she’d chosen it for the title. Obvious enough. She was grateful for the night out. But it was Vada, and admittedly, we only had our first real conversation recently, but I’ve been reading her blog for years, and I know she knows exactly what she sent me.
What I don’t rightly know is how to take it. There’s how I want to take it, and how I need to take it, and I was awake a long, long time trying to decide which one was going to win out come morning.
Spoiler alert: Neither. Or both.
I’m fucked.
But also a little bit happy?
By the time I reach my lunch hour, I’ve completely missed my morning classes. I was there, and I took notes, but it would go like this:
American Lit Teacher: What are your thoughts on the symbolism of the color red in The Scarlet Letter?
Me: Maybe Hester Prynne was a ginger. Like Vada.
Geo Trig Teacher: Solve for B in this quadrilateral equation.
Me: Why don’t you solve this relational equation?
PE Teacher: Suit up for dodgeball!
Me: I hate gym.
Okay, so not the last one, but you get the idea. It’s been useless. I slide my tray down the line and choose a breaded chicken sandwich, plopping a bunch of extra sandwich pickles in a small cup and grabbing two mayo packets, distractedly.
“Hey, stranger.”
I swallow. “Hey, Lindsay. How’re you?”
I feel, more than see, her long, pale hair flash over her shoulder in a rush of great-smelling shampoo. That’s one thing I’ll say for Lindsay, she always smells good. Though I’ve yet to find a girl who doesn’t smell awesome all the time, so it’s hardly a point in her favor.
“Not bad. We missed you last night,” she says conversationally, ladling a healthy scoop of fake cheese sauce on her french fries.
I slide a little farther, picking up an empty cup for water. “What was last night?”
“Basketball game?” she says. “Zack was awesome. There’s talk about the state championship.”
“Ah,” I say, inwardly cringing. Shite. I forgot about the game. Not that I make it to all Zack’s games, or even most of them, but I pride myself in at least knowing what’s happening in his Sportball world. “I had plans.”
We’re halted at the checkout, and I shift my stance, trying to appear open but focused on my tray. Lindsay deftly maneuvers around to face me, blocking my view of the rest of the cafeteria.
“That’s too bad. Maybe next time. Anyway, I was wondering what your plans were for the prom?”
I clear my throat. “Prom? Isn’t that in May?”
She shrugs. “It’s eight weeks away. Lots of people have dates already, though. I thought maybe we could go?”
I try to keep the confused look off my face, but I don’t think I pull it off. I nudge at my frames with my shoulder, nearly upsetting my sandwich, and I move up in line. “Wouldn’t you rather go with someone who didn’t break up with you?”
Her face falls. “Well, sure,” she says, a blunt edge to her voice. Somehow, we’re side by side now. “But we’re still friends.” She says it like she’s willing it to be true, but I’m not convinced we were friends to start with. Sure, we’ve hung out in the same group before, but we barely know each other. Maybe if she had known me better, she wouldn’t have posted videos of us kissing on social media.
Or maybe if I had known her better, it wouldn’t have gotten that far in the first place.
To be fair, I did say we’d “stay friends.” That one time. When I broke up with her. (I’m rubbish at boundaries.)
We make it to the checkout, and I hand my student ID over to be scanned. When she does the same, I break away, but Lindsay is fast on my tail as I fill my cup from the water dispenser.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say, answering her. “But I’m not sure I’m even going to the prom, and anyway, I’ll bet there’re loads of guys who want to go with you.”
“Your brother was homecoming king,” she says. “Of course you’re going.”
I narrow my eyes as I try to make sense of that statement, skimming the room for Zack. “I didn’t go to homecoming either. It’s not really my scene. Much more his.”
“So, you’re telling me you’re still on the fence. Okay. But if you decide to go?”
She’s not interested in hearing anything other than yes. I wasn’t with Lindsay long, but that personality trait was abundantly clear from the beginning. Our breakup is still raw, though, and I imagine, given time, she’ll find a better option.
“If I decide to go, and I won’t, but if I do, you’ll be the first to know.”
She beams, her cheeks flushing. “Great. I’m planning to go in turquoise this year, so keep that in mind.”
I can’t help it; my jaw drops. Oh, to possess even a tenth of her gall. Before I can argue, she’s off toward a table of her friends, who all wave at me as I join Zack and a bunch of his teammates at another spot.
I slide my lunch onto the table, and Zack raises his heavy brows over what is likely his third PB&J.
“I think I was offered a prom date? Or I was offered to be a prom date?”
He chews thoughtfully. “She asked you to the prom?”
I unwrap my sandwich and tear open a mayo packet. “More like she asked if I would take her, and when I said I wasn’t going, she suggested I could take her when I changed my mind.”
He shrugs this off. “Did you agree?”
“Not in so many words, but I’m not sure that would hold up in court.”
“She’s slippery.”
“She is,” I agree. “But that’s okay. I have zero interest in the prom.”
“Even with a different date?” he asks, meaning pressed into every word.
I glare at him before covering the chicken patty in pickles and replacing the bun, taking a bite.
“I’m just saying, you might regret it later.”
“I won’t.”
“But what about—”
I cut him off with a look.
“How was last night?” he asks, his eyes gleaming.
“What the fuck, man? What’s with the eye twinkle all of a sudden? It’s like you’re channeling Dumbledore.”
“Rude.”
I sigh. “It was good,” I say, my voice low. I toss a glance at the rest of the guys at the table, but they’re busy strategizing or something. That Zack is super gay would be an issue in most towns, and he’s faced his share of grief, but never from the team. I might not fit in with those guys, but he does. Turns out, they care more about winning than who he spends his free time with. Part of that is Ann Arbor. Part of that is Zack and Cullen. You can’t help but root for them.
“Only good?”
“I’m not sure.” If I can’t tell Zack, who can I tell? And I need to tell someone. The conversation with Vada at the diner, still fresh in my mind, I pull out my phone. After a quick look around, I open my text from Vada and pass it to him.
After a moment, he passes it back. “Okay. I’m assuming there’s more to it from the look on your face, but I don’t know Zeppelin.”
I slump back into my chair, stifling a groan. “Never mind, the bell’s about to ring anyway.”
Zack sighs, rolling his eyes in an overexaggerated way and pulling out his phone, before, in a very pointed voice, saying, “Siri, what are the lyrics to ‘Thank You’ by Led Zeppelin?”
As Siri works her magic, he mumbles under his breath, “And I thought Cull was the dramatic one.” His eyes dart back and forth, and his thumb scrolls through the sparse lyrics. I watch as his eyes grow wider.
He looks at me, stunned, and I instantly feel better.
“What does this mean?” he asks.
“Thank you?”
“Okay, I’ll try again. Are you freaking out?”
“Not necessarily,” I lie.
He grins.
“What does this mean?” I ask, turning it around
on him.
He shakes his head right as the bell rings. We gather up our trash and walk over to the bin, tossing everything in. “I don’t know. You and Carsewell are on a different level from mere mortals. There is one thing, though…”
“Yeah?” I ask as we file out through the double doors.
“You should have been clearer to Lindsay about the prom thing. Sounds like you might have plans.”
* * *
It took me until the end of Wednesday to decide I didn’t care what the song meant. Or, rather, of course I did, but I didn’t have the stones to ask Vada to clarify, so I needed to leave it alone.
Instead, I decided two could play that game. I desperately wanted to get inside her brain, and the best way I could think to do it was texting.
It’s easy to be bold when texting.
LUKE
Worst home improvement show?
VADA
Is this hypothetical?
LUKE
No. This is current events.
VADA
FLIP OR FLOP.
LUKE
Oooooh. What is it you don’t like? The awkward divorcees or the fake tans?
VADA
It’s all painful. The overblown dramatics are vomit-inducing. They are always just shy of missing their financial/time/creative budget.
VADA
Also, every house ends up looking the same. Too many bathrooms and taupe everywhere. And chevron pillows. And gross backyards that need sod.
LUKE
Wow. Don’t hold back.
VADA
Why do you ask?
LUKE
My dad’s on a This Old House kick. He hasn’t left the basement couch in three days. My mum just keeps bringing him meals.
LUKE
He’s taking notes, Vada. I’m worried he’s plotting a giant reno.
VADA
*snicker* I have so many questions. Is he handy? Do you live in an old home?
LUKE
Sort of. He’s far handier with a guitar, but he gets around a small project all right. And yeah, we live near Burns. Big, creaky old house, rickety garage, and a patch of grass.
VADA
Plenty to get into trouble with, is what you’re saying.
LUKE
Halp.
VADA
He needs a hobby.
LUKE
He needs a job.
VADA
What does a punk rocker do when he retires?
LUKE
I suggested he work at Trader Joe’s.
VADA
HAPPIEST PEOPLE EVER.
LUKE
ikr?
LUKE
He declined. He’s bored but a bit crusty. I can’t see him having a whole lot of patience for the clientele.
VADA
Maybe not.
LUKE
He keeps threatening to buy a club, but it’s been years and Ann Arbor’s not exactly lacking in sports bars.
VADA
Definitely not. At least twice a shift Phil grumbles about the “goddamn Bee Dubs conspiracy”
LUKE
Do I even want to know?
VADA
Not really. It’s tied into some “corporate conflagration of patriarchy and government funding” or something like that.
LUKE
That … doesn’t sound like a real thing. But Cull needs me. Gotta run anyway.
LUKE
YouTube: “Wish You Were Here” Pink Floyd
VADA
:) Me too.
10
VADA
I’m not a runner, but I can stroll for ages. Give me miles of quiet path and the newest Welshly Arms album and I won’t need to stop for hours. Particularly when the temperature is around freezing and most particularly after a phone call from my dad.
The man could motivate a marathon runner with his guilt trips and narcissism. But knowing that doesn’t help. Why do I even answer my phone when I see his number? It’s never good. It’s never “Hey, kiddo, just checking in.”
I was sitting at the library with Meg when his name lit up my screen. I could tell she could tell by my face it was him.
“Maybe it’s about missing dinner,” she offered. I packed up my things, promising to call her later, and was out the door before the librarians could get annoyed with my ringing phone.
Instead, it was a lot of “I miss you, you never come over” interspersed with a healthy serving of “one hundred facts about how having small children is harder than he could have ever imagined, and I couldn’t possibly understand.” Never mind that he has me, a person who was once a small child. That belonged to him.
My mom thinks he just doesn’t see me that way. I’m not his daughter. I’m his sometimes-parent, sometimes-babysitter, sometimes-conscience. But never his kid and never his responsibility.
I should have let him go to voicemail. (But that’s a whole other thing, because then I have to call him back.)
He wanted tickets. His wife, Jane, is burned out from the kiddos. So, he wanted to take her out and was thinking I might have a hookup through work, and also could I watch the babies?
Fucker. And what am I supposed to do? Be petty and go, “Sorry, Dad, but if you don’t have money for my tuition, I don’t have free tickets for you.”
Instead, I told him I didn’t know. I had to pick up more shifts for work to save for school. Which is true. And felt petty, until he said, “Oh. Great! That’s very responsible. Let me know when you find some tickets!”
That right there is how you know he’s not going to lend me one damn cent, because he rarely encourages me to work more at Phil’s club.
It’s fine. It’s just my life’s ambition, my one shot away from this place and him and a childhood of almost-but-not-quite. If only he would move away. If he’s not going to be my dad, he may as well leave. Cut out the complicated emotional roller coaster. Why doesn’t he have to answer for anything and I have to answer for everything? Why does he get to be my father when I’m not his daughter? He teases the idea of moving south—to warmer climates—but never does. He says it’s because of me, but as we all know, one, it’s never about me, and two, he means I would be too far away to babysit.
That’s some bullshit, if you ask me.
I turn up AJR’s “Sober Up” and tuck my earbuds carefully under my stocking hat. My feet pound the sidewalk with the increasing beat, but I draw my breaths in long and deep. Inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth, pursing my lips.
The wind picks up, cooling my flushed face and the wetness on my cheeks. I swipe my tears away, determined not to give him a second more of my time.
I repeat my five-year plan like a mantra cycling in my brain. Work for Phil. Take over Behind the Music. Acceptance into UCLA’s prestigious music journalism program. Check, check, and check.
My next step is the most vital.
It’s been years in the making. Every summer, Ann Arbor holds a free lunchtime weekly concert series that has an enormous local following. Phil is like some kind of psychic wizard when it comes to predicting talent, and I’ve been studying under him for years, spending hours talking radio and music and genres, and I’m ready for more responsibility at the club.
This is it.
Athletes spend hours training their bodies to withstand competition. Scholars spend their days with their noses in books, absorbing knowledge in their chosen field. I’ve done the same in my own way. Music is my obsession, my life’s blood. It runs through my veins, coloring my skin. My natural inclination is to rock, but that’s not enough if I want to make music my career.
I listen to the greats, the not-so-greats, the once-had-potential-to-be-greats, and the will-be-greats. I memorize lyrics, listen to podcasts, read biographies, and correct Wikipedia pages.
Every waking minute I’m not doing stuff for school, I’m at the Loud Lizard absorbing it all. It’s better than any internship. It’s the real life down and literally dirty. It doesn’t matter if
my dad gives me money for school. The experience is what they want.
No, the dad part is just for me. Phil says to give him a chance, and I’m working up to it. It’s like this dance of simultaneously hoping he won’t fuck this up and knowing he probably will and that it’s going to hurt like hell when he does.
But I have to know. I can’t leave here not knowing. Which is stupid because logically, he should be the one having this constant inner pep talk, and he’s not.
My mom’s church was having this whole series on forgiveness, and I tried to follow it. For her. Turn the other cheek and all that. Except I’m turning my cheek so much, I’m set to spin. How do you forgive someone who doesn’t think they’ve done anything wrong?
* * *
After school the next day, I get to work on the next part of my plan, the one that ends with me flying solo on Liberty Live. I talked my mom’s ear off over dinner at our favorite Ethiopian place, hashing and rehashing all the details, and we agreed everything starts with Phil (boss Phil, not her boyfriend, who happens to be my boss, Phil).
At exactly 4:00 p.m., I knock on Phil’s office door.
“Vada,” he says, peering at me over his smudged bifocals. “You don’t need to knock. You texted two minutes ago from the parking lot.”
I pull out the chair opposite his desk. Mustard-yellow stuffing is spewing out the cracked fake leather, and the metal is so rusted the wheels creak when you move it—like someone used it for an office chair beach race years ago. Knowing Phil, they did. I perch on the edge, straightening my mom’s button-down. My mom said it gave me a professional edge. I think it makes me look like an exasperated server in a Tide commercial, but whatever. Phil removes his frames, his eyebrows twitching as he takes me in.
“What can I help you with, Vada?”
My hands feel weird. Like, what even are arms? What do I do with them? I settle them in my lap. I want to check my phone for no practical reason.
Phil’s expression straight-up says he thinks I’m having a stroke.
I clear my throat. “Here’s the thing,” I say. “I’ve been working at the Loud Lizard for two years.”
