More Than Maybe

by Erin Hahn

  “Vada?” I can hardly make him out, and his voice is barely above a whisper. He grabs my hand, stopping me from opening the door, but not cornering me.

  My skin is on fire where he’s touching me. So stupid hyperaware of every single one of the atoms that make him. “Yeah?”

  It comes out in an exhale. “I don’t know what I’m doing around you.”

  My heart squeezes. His profile is painted in gray, his glasses reflecting the parking lot lights, so I can’t see his eyes. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, the nearly imperceptible constriction of his throat.

  “Me neither.”

  His laugh comes out in a soft huff, and he raises a shaking hand to fidget with his frames and brush his hair back. I grab his fingers, pulling them between mine, and say, “I’ve never held hands with someone. Is this okay?” I’m so grateful for the darkness because I’ve never felt so ridiculous and vulnerable.

  He wraps his longer fingers over mine and squeezes them in a way that is an instant balm to my nerves. “Like this,” he says.

  “See?” I say. “Easy-peasy.”

  With my free hand, I pull open the door, and we step out into the light. Mike is there, sitting on the hood of his car, waiting, and I wave him away. Luke’s got Cullen’s car, but it’s parked next to mine. He has to let go, and already I miss the feeling of his hand. Reluctantly, I reach in, turning on my car to get the heat going. Luke does the same and looks over the top of his car to smile at me. We stand there smiling like idiots for probably too long. I should feel self-conscious, but for some reason, I don’t anymore.

  “Good night, Luke.”

  “Night, Vada.”

  We get in our cars and pull out into the night. A few minutes after I’ve made it back home and am getting ready for bed, my phone chimes.

  LUKE

  YouTube: Kodaline “What It Is”

  * * *

  I’m finishing responding to comments on my blog to distract myself from swooning over Luke when I decide to check my email before bed. I nearly auto-delete the first, assuming it’s spam, but thank goodness my eyes are faster than my shaking fingers. This can’t be real. No frigging way this is real life.

  Ms. Carsewell,

  We’re thrilled to offer you the opportunity to apply for a place on our newly developed, on-the-ground teen music review team at Rolling Stone online. Everything will be done remotely, but we would like to commission teens to attend shows and report back on performances for our website. The tickets will be paid for in advance, but payment per review only comes upon acceptance.

  Should you choose to apply for the position, we are asking you to submit a sample of your writing that is appropriate to the position (i.e., music related) as well as a letter of recommendation from a source within the music industry.

  The attachment outlines the pay scale per article and the potential timeline of events. The scheduling is flexible since this is a team comprised of college students. I’d have a handler of sorts within Rolling Stone who would coordinate my scheduling.

  I click through the document looking for the lie. This can’t be real. But everything checks out. They claim to have found me through Behind the Music. I’m to expect a follow-up phone call if I’m interested.

  If I’m interested. Like. What?

  I immediately email back because I’m not an idiot and then take time to calm my breathing because this can’t be real even though it definitely sounds real. I check my email again, hoping for a response, but it’s only an automated confirmation (on Rolling Stone letterhead, no less) that they’ve gotten my response and will be in touch soon.

  Fair. It’s close to midnight.

  I open up my Behind the Music drafts and scroll through for a sample to use, but if they’ve already seen my blog, should I use something new? I need to go to another show immediately, if so. But this week sucks, and next week isn’t much better. I could always review an album, but it’s not the same. My gig is live music. It’s what makes me stand apart from the rest. Relax, Vada. The deadline isn’t for a few months, I think. I can definitely see a show and write up a review in that time.

  What I really need is Liberty Live. It runs all summer, but the first show is only five weeks away. Immediately following graduation. Interviewing a band and reviewing a show that I helped manage from start to finish? That would be enormous. How many other eighteen-year-olds could say that on their applications?

  Just in case, I refresh. Nothing. Fine. I close my laptop with a click and settle back against my pillows and grab my phone instead. Looks like Cullen loaded The Grass Is Greenly early this week, maybe since it’s the end of spring break. I reach for my earbuds, plugging them in and turning off the light while the podcast downloads. I sink into my pillow and let Luke’s soft voice wash over me.

  * * *

  Oh. My. Gosh.

  19

  LUKE

  Something has definitely changed. I’m not Mr. Popularity by any stretch, but I’m liked well enough. A hazard of being Cullen’s twin. Everyone likes him, so they like me by default. And despite what my brother might imply, I have dated around a little.

  But this morning, I feel like every girl I ever dated is trying to kill me with her eyes. And that’s not … normal. I’m usually on good terms with my exes.

  My fingers work the familiar combination on my locker in the senior hallway, and I raise the latch with a click. I like to keep my locker neat, so I find my book quickly and shove it into my backpack. Another group of girls walks by, openly glaring at me.

  “Morning, ladies,” I say experimentally. They walk on. I swipe at my face. “What in bloody hell—?”

  “I think they’re mad at you.” I turn to Zack, who’s leaning against the bay of lockers with a smirk, his thumbs stuck in the straps of a backpack.

  “Right. I guessed that. But why?”

  Zack straightens. “Well, you did break up with Lindsay, so she has reason enough. And didn’t you dump Rachel before that?”

  “I guess. But I talked to Lindsay, remember? She was fine. A bit delusional about the whole prom thing, but otherwise okay.”

  I follow Zack’s eyes, and Lindsay and her best friend, Mary Anne, are in a huddle of girls at the end of the hallway. They turn at once to shoot daggers at me, and I look away.

  “Yeah, I don’t think she’s going to hold you to that, man.”

  “Probably not,” I concede, closing my locker with a click. “No real loss. I could honestly not care less, unlike a pair of homecoming kings I know. More of a relief, to be honest. She was pretty insistent on the turquoise.”

  Zack ignores the jab. “Did you hear the podcast last night, by chance?”

  His tone is offhand, and I start walking toward English, him at my heels. “Not the final version. I went to bed before Cull got home.” Not that I slept. I couldn’t stop my brain from replaying the way it felt having Vada’s body pressed against mine, interspersed with the fact that we’d held hands. That meant something. At least that’s the conclusion I’d settled on around 2:00 a.m. Then I’d downloaded the entire Kodaline album and listened to it twice through, finally drifting off sometime before my alarm woke me. “Thought he was out with you, actually.”

  Zack’s cheeks flame, and he suppresses a grin.

  “That’s what I thought,” I say. I continue lightly, “I feel like I should be offended that my best friend prefers my brother.”

  Zack laughs, good-natured. “He kisses better.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  Zack shakes his head as if dispelling the thought. “Okay, but back to my point. Did you hear what Cullen put out?”

  “Nooooo…” I trail off slowly, things clicking into place. “Jesus. Did I say something about Lindsay?”

  “Not exactly. Which is … sort of the point.”

  “We talked about celebrity couples and revenge breakup songs—” I start.

  “Really?” cuts in Zack.

  I pause. “Yeah, really.” My stoma
ch starts to knot up. “Why, what did you think we talked about?”

  “Well, I mean, there was some of that, but you sort of went into this long rant about real love…”

  “No.”

  Zack grimaces apologetically. “That’s what I figured.”

  I spin on my heels, tugging out my phone. “I need to find Cullen. The fucker was supposed to cut that stuff.”

  LUKE

  Where are you?

  CULLEN

  Study hall, why?

  “It was kind of nice. I mean, I could completely see your parents in it, and that bit about the lotion, well, I mean, I didn’t know Cullen had done that for me.”

  “Holy … you could tell all that? I was just talking. I didn’t even know what I was saying.” I stop, starting to panic.

  “Well, yeah.” Zack interrupts my thoughts. “Anyone who’s been around your parents knows how in love they are.”

  I’m nearly at study hall, English completely abandoned. I’ll get a late pass from Mr. Fallon, but first I need to see my brother.

  “I have to go to geo trig,” Zack says. “And besides, this is between you two.”

  I wave him away. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

  I walk straight up to Mr. Fallon and ask to see my brother. Something in my face must belie an emergency, because he motions for Cullen. I drag Cull out to the hallway by his arm.

  “What did you do?” I snarl.

  “What are you on about?” he asks, ripping his arm back and adjusting his rolled sleeve. “Don’t you have English?”

  “Lindsay is furious. Won’t even talk to me.”

  Cullen lifts his hands in a placating way. “You dumped her. That’s nothing to do with me. I didn’t think you wanted her back.”

  “I don’t, but all her friends won’t talk to me.”

  Cullen’s expression is blank. “Again. Not my problem.”

  “Yes, but we were friendly. Then I record the podcast with you and it goes live, and she hates me. What. Did. You. Do?” I repeat.

  Comprehension dawns. “Ah. That. I didn’t do anything. You left, I cleaned the copy and posted it.”

  “I told you to cut the nonsensical bullshit.”

  Cullen narrows his eyes. “And I told you not a chance. That bullshit was the most genuine thing you’ve ever said.”

  I slump against the opposite wall, my head spinning. “I can’t even remember what I said. I was definitely talking about Mum and Dad. There’s no way that would upset Lindsay. I don’t get it.”

  Cullen looks like he’s holding something back.

  “Well, let’s rerecord. After school?” I pull out my phone, scrolling for Phil’s number. “I’ll see if the booth is free.”

  “It’s already posted, Luke. Obviously.”

  Shite. Right. I’m all turned around and flustered. “So, that’s it. It’s out?”

  He nods. I exhale slowly and let that sink in. So, Lindsay is mad. That’s … expected. Almost. I mean, we did break up, and I did talk about love. I scrub at my gritty eyes. Okay. Strangers listening won’t be a big deal. They don’t even know me in real life. Besides, our listeners barely number in the hundreds. It’s not like we’re nationally syndicated or anything. It’s fine. By this time tomorrow, it will be forgotten.

  “Okay.”

  Cullen scratches at his short hair, causing it to stick up from the product he uses. “Okay?”

  “Yeah. I mean, there’s nothing I can do. Lindsay just threw me is all. She must have listened last night. I guess she cared more than she let on. It’s fine.”

  Cullen looks like he wants to say more, but Mr. Fallon peeks his head out.

  “Everything all right, boys?”

  “Better, yeah. Thanks, Mr. Fallon. I should get to class.”

  He hands me a tiny white slip. “Already signed off. Just pass this to Mrs. Montemayor.”

  “Um, thanks,” I say, taking the slip, surprised.

  “I enjoyed your show last night. I’m a big fan,” he says. “Back to your seat, Cullen.”

  I pocket the late pass and exchange confused looks with my brother before heading to class. Before I make it, I have another text.

  CULLEN

  Listen to the podcast and … don’t kill me, okay? I had my reasons.

  I knew it.

  I detour into a bathroom and log on to my podcast app, clicking on the link. It takes a minute to download, and I almost give up. When the green circle finally completes, I hit Play. There’s our intro. I skip ahead. Celebrity cheating scandal. Okay. Dread is filling my stomach as I skip ahead again. There’s my rant. I listen to the entire thing. I sound like an idiot, but it’s not terrible. I wince at how that must have sounded to Lindsay or any other girl I’d dated. Clearly, I wasn’t talking about them, but I also don’t think anyone could have figured out who I’d meant. Not that I’d meant anyone.

  All right, fine, Vada has seeped into my psyche. I didn’t wax poetic about her freckles, so that’s something, but barely. It’s probably fine. I was recorded before the slow dancing and hand holding. Technically. I exhale, my breath shaky. Fuck, Cullen. I missed English for this? I’m about to close out the app, but my finger hovers on the line. It says there’s five minutes left. I swallow hard.

  The sound changes, and Cullen says something about a special message for an anonymous girl in my life. “Luke won’t say who this is about, and to be honest, I don’t even know if he realizes who he’s singing for. But whoever this is meant for? They deserve to hear it. It’s called ‘Break for You.’”

  And there’s my voice. Singing the song that night in my bedroom, when I’d thought I was alone. My voice, the one I don’t let anyone hear, and my song. The fucker recorded my song and posted it online. Not only that, but he’d named it. Without asking me.

  And now she’ll hear it. She’ll hear it, and she’ll know.

  Fuck.

  20

  VADA

  LUKE

  YouTube: Smashing Pumpkins “Disarm”

  VADA

  I hate hate HATE these things.

  LUKE

  Me too. I’m shite in an active-shooter drill. They told us to pick up “everyday items” to arm ourselves, and I grabbed a bin of protractors.

  VADA

  Well … those have sharp corners, at least?

  LUKE

  Only if you manage to throw them like boomerangs.

  VADA

  I’m in the “run for your lives” group.

  VADA

  I feel like this would be less traumatizing if we called it “Zombie Apocalypse Drill.”

  VADA

  Like, same protocol, but less staring at your classmates and wondering, “How good is your aim with an assault rifle?” followed by “Why is this real life?”

  LUKE

  This is madness, for sure.

  VADA

  YouTube: Gary Jules “Mad World”

  The active-shooter drill interrupts my lunch hour. I sit with the same kids I’ve known since eighth grade. We aren’t super close or anything, but we’re that kind of comfortable where we know one another’s siblings’ names and remember that one time freshman year when you had that allergic reaction to Red Dye 40 and blew up like a balloon.

  That kind of thing. I’ve been sitting with Ja’Kai, Cate, Laura, Heather, and Ahmed every day for years. It’s an automatic choice. All our last names start with C or D, and we’ve always been in the same homeroom and lunch.

  All of this is to say, I barely think about it. I bring my lunch, I sit down at the same table, grimace as Cate sits on Ja’Kai’s lap the whole time, and share commiserating looks with Heather before Ahmed and Laura interrupt with some ongoing argument about quantum physics or bioelectrical engineering or plausible genetics or some other fake-sounding branch of science.

  Today, everyone arrived on cue, and I had just pulled out my plastic Tupperware containing a cold slice of pizza and my copy of Les Misérables when the alarm sounded and announced the lockdown
drill.

  The weirdest part of these drills is the silence. Even though it’s only a drill, there’s this eerie energy vibrating over students filing out or hunkering down, depending on the scenario. It’s as if Principal Carlisle casts a Silencio curse over the student body. Or, more likely, the act of pretending you could be murdered at eighteen (or sixteen, or twelve, or seven) is innately damaging. There’s not a single one of us who’s not thinking morbid thoughts as we shuffle out the emergency exits and scatter to the woods behind our school toward our predesignated “safe place.”

  The uncomfortable implication being that school is not the safe place.

  I tuck my phone in my back pocket and rub my hands up and down my arms to warm up. I regret leaving my cardigan in my locker after last period. There’s still a chill in the breeze, and the leafless trees over our heads clack against each other.

  “Uh-oh, Turton is pissed,” Ja’kai is saying in a hushed tone, tucking his hands deep into the pockets of his hooded sweatshirt, and I watch as a cute Lindsay Turton huffs past us, still carrying her salad. My stomach growls. “You’d think someone ran over her puppy or something.”

  Laura perches on an overturned log, rolling her eyes as she picks the bean sprouts off her grab-and-go sandwich and readjusts the plastic container on her lap. “Seriously. Lindsay and Luke barely dated. They weren’t even going to the prom.”

  I’ve never understood how the prom became this relationship-status identifier. Like, Achievement Unlocked, you have a prom date, so you obviously mean business. Until a month later, that is, when graduation rolls around and you decide to break up.

  My eyes catch on a white-blond head bobbing through the masses, and it’s as if my perception shifts ever so slightly. Like when you tweak the toggle on a microscope and everything sharpens even if you didn’t realize it could get more defined. Except, instead of a slide of onion skins, it’s Luke I’m magnifying. He’s been let out of his hiding place. Kids are milling around, most pretending not to notice we can return, instead choosing sunshine and fresh air.