More Than Maybe
Page 24
“Straight hair or beachy waves?” Meg asks.
“Side braid.”
Meg sighs. “I knew you would say that. No hat, though.”
“Fine.”
“What are you wearing?”
I look down at my flannel and jeans. “This. And my Docs.”
My best friend frowns. “I realize this is banana pants to even suggest, but maybe you could change into a flannel that doesn’t have holes and isn’t seventeen sizes too big.”
“It used to be Phil’s,” I say.
“And that’s adorable, but Phil’s not an eighteen-year-old girl. Let’s just have a look.” Meg flips through my closet and pulls out a short black T-shirt dress and a fitted purple-and-green flannel. Here.” She says. “It’s called a compromise. Still the flannel and boots but put on some leggings and a dress. You deserve to look good. This is your night.”
“Technically, it’s Phil’s night.”
“Technically,” she repeats louder, “it’s your best chance at saving the club and Liberty Live. So”—she shakes the dress—“put this on, and you’ll look like you care.”
“Fine,” I say. “I happen to love this dress,” I grumble. “It’s comfortable. I just forgot about it.”
“That’s the spirit,” Meg says, not bothering to hide her exasperation.
After getting dressed, I put on a little light makeup and pull my long hair to one side, braiding it loosely enough that strands fall around my face, how I like it. I’m pretty sure it’s how Luke likes it, too. Not that it matters. I don’t even know if he’ll show. After blowing him off, I deserve it if he goes to his dad’s club instead. Thinking of him at the Bad Apple, listening to (Not) Warren without me, is depressing, though, so I push it away.
“Perfect,” Meg says, and I nudge her shoulder in our reflection, grateful she’s here. For better or worse, whatever happens tonight, I’ll still have Meg.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say.
* * *
We arrive late. Okay, not late. On time, but it feels late. I wanted to run the show, but Phil put his foot down. My purpose tonight is to watch and write and talk it up tomorrow on my blog. All my work was in the prep and marketing. By the time we arrive, it’s dark and crowded on the street.
“Holy shit,” I say to Meg. “They closed Liberty?”
Meg shrugs. “They had to. Look at this. People are packed in like sardines.”
“This is incredible. Who knew people loved bluegrass so much?”
Meg lets out a high-pitched laugh and pulls my hand along. We arrive at a barrier, and my mom says, “We’re expected. I’m Mary Josephs.”
“Of course,” the officer says, letting us past. I gape up at my mom. “Did you just name-drop?”
She smiles. “I’ve waited my whole life to do that.”
We push up to the stage right as the lights shut off and the crowd gasps before screaming.
“There are a lot of girls here!” I shout to Meg.
She shakes her head, mouthing, “What?”
I can make out some movement in the dark, the band getting set up, but I can’t make out anything they are saying. It looks like three figures and a piano? I don’t remember Ben’s band having a pianist, but good for them. They’re obviously branching out.
“Turnout’s great, isn’t it?” I look to my left, and it’s Ben.
“What are y—”
The lights flare on, and I gasp.
It’s not Ben and his bluegrass band onstage.
It’s Luke. My Luke. His piano is raised in the center of the stage, a spotlight making his white-blond hair stand out like a halo around his face. His eyes are closed, and his fingers are steady. He inhales once, sharply, a rise and fall of his broad shoulders, and opens his eyes to stare directly at me. He smiles his sideways, crooked smile and begins to play the showcase song.
What if this is all we’re going to be?
What if we just did what they expected
And we let them take the lead?
I’m not sure I have it in me,
More than maybe is all I’ll be
But I know it’s not how I see you,
So, it can’t be what I believe
And if that means that we’re falling short
If we’re missing all the marks
Then our potential, we abort,
Then, baby, quitting’s just the start
We weren’t meant for ordinary,
We weren’t meant to wait
Our lives aren’t supposed to be ordinary
I’m no longer leaving us up to fate
The crowd is breathless in anticipation. His voice echoes through downtown like it was meant for this. For all the times I’ve heard Luke sing, I’ve never had the privilege of watching him play, and mercy, it’s the most sensuous thing I’ve ever seen in my life. His entire lithe form pours into the movement, from his legs pumping a perfect rhythm against the pedals to his long fingers dancing confidently along the keys. And the way his face scrunches up at the words? His intensity terrifies and thrills me. I know this beautiful, talented, awkward boy. I’ve kissed that face. I’ve loved that face.
And he wrote this for me.
Oh God.
Luke’s shoulders bunch and sway along with the chorus, and he barely sits on his bench, as if he’s incapable of staying grounded. The words, already tattooed on my heart, bring hot tears to my eyes, but I swipe them away. I don’t want to miss a second of this.
My hands yearn to reach out and touch him. Feel if he is real, and just when I wonder if maybe he’s not—maybe I’ve imagined this entire scenario, the drums cut in, and I remember he’s not alone up there.
Phil is perched behind a polished set of drums, looking like he’s a kid again. My mom is screaming. Oh, geez, they’re gonna be impossible to live with after this. I scream along with her. My mom clutches my hand, her face shining.
Luke’s voice is joined by another, and it only takes me a half second to realize Charlie Greenly is singing backup. He’s got an expensive guitar strapped across his chest, and he’s beaming at his son as if he’s been given the best gift of his entire life.
How.
How did I not know this was happening?
How did they ever convince him to do this?
Why?
This time, I sing along with the chorus. The only one in the whole place singing along because I’m the only one who’s heard it enough times to memorize. The words get caught in my throat as I frown. He’s blowing everyone away, but deep down, this isn’t where he wants to be. He’s closing his eyes, and not because he’s intent on the music. He’s shutting out the crowd.
I’m starting to think he’s doing this for me.
Which is bananas, right? Like, how arrogant am I?
He transitions into another song. A cover, this time. Vance Joy’s “I’m with You.” It takes me until the next song to understand. He’s playing them all. The songs we’ve been sending each other all these months. He plays Led Zeppelin and Kodaline and Mt. Joy and Tom Odell and, gah, Counting Crows (where I spend the entire song gritting my teeth to keep from running onstage and licking him). He even plays a Bad Apples hit and lets Charlie take the lead for a toned-down but nevertheless stellar version of their biggest hit, “Who’s That Girl?” Phil gets in on the act, too. When Luke plays the Cure’s version of “Just Like Heaven,” Phil takes a second to dedicate it to his “lovely bride,” and my mom dies all over again.
I lean over to Meg and yell, “Can I crash at your place tonight?” over the roar of “Aww!” ringing out in the crowd at his declaration.
Playing covers seems to suit Luke. It’s less about him, so he can hide inside it. The crowd knows all the words, and their voices join his at every turn. It’s the most fun I’ve ever had at a concert, and that’s saying something. I don’t want it to end, but it has to be wrapping up soon because it’s late. I swallow hard. He hasn’t played the song yet, and I can’t help but wonder if he will.
I don’t know how to feel if he does.
Somewhere along the line, Cullen and Zack found us and are dancing and singing along with the crowd. A few times, I’ve snuck peeks at Cullen and caught him watching his twin closely. As if willing him to get through this. He can see it, too.
“He’s doing great,” I say when the crowd gets quiet, trying to reassure him just as much as myself.
Cullen nods seriously. “He’s doing brilliant. Beyond what I imagined.”
“But this is it,” I say firmly.
He looks down at me, his dark eyes holding something like approval or even affection. “This is it,” he agrees.
“Why is he doing this?”
Cullen looks around, motioning at the crowd. “He knew he could get them here.”
“But he hates this.”
“He really does,” Cullen agrees cheerfully. “Fucking can’t stand the crowds. In fact,” he says, pulling me gently by the shoulders, “maybe you should be right up front. Give him friendly support as he finishes up.”
Cullen performs his magic, and the crowds part, allowing me even closer than I was. From here, I can practically touch Luke.
“Oy!” Cullen yells, and Luke’s head jerks up, and I wave. Stupidly. Luke’s entire face smiles, his shoulders lifting as if he’s been given a new lease on life.
The lights dim, and the crowd seems to hold its collective breath, knowing this is it. This is the moment everyone has been waiting for since the second that song was leaked. A pale blue spotlight creates an eerie sort of circle around Luke and his piano, and I wonder if he’ll say anything, or just play.
Luke turns on his bench, facing the crowd and pulling the mic nearer to his mouth. “Thank you all for coming out tonight to support a place that is very dear to me. I don’t have the official numbers, but I think”—he raises a hand to shield his eyes, smiling—“that we’ve done all right. I hope to see you all this summer at Liberty Live, where we’re gonna have a host of amazing new talents lined up for your enjoyment.”
Luke wipes his hands down his jeans. “I have one more song for you. And I think you all know the one. My twin brother, Cullen, decided to do me a solid with the girl I was crushing on by releasing this song into the world. Turns out, it was bigger than either of us ever anticipated. So big, I never felt right telling the girl. I worried it might scare her away. It’s a bit intense, because, well, I’m a bit intense, it turns out.
“But I messed up. By not telling the girl, I mean. And that girl went from the one I had a crush on”—Luke’s eyes zero in on me, and I can’t breathe—“to the one I fell in love with. So”—he exhales into the mic—“there it is. I wrote this song for a girl named Vada Carsewell, and it’s called ‘Break for You.’”
At first, he closes his eyes, but he changes his mind and opens them, looking back at me and winking, before turning to his piano. He counts it off with his dad and Phil and begins to sing.
Before now
Not the slightest inclination
Racked with
Hopeless indignation
Except when I sink into bed
Each night you’re in my head
It’s not
That I was born unfeeling
More like
I have some issues dealing
With the thought of offering
Them to you
Till now
Everything’s been pale gray
Outlined with beige
and stony-faced whey
But what if
You misunderstood me
(Would you know
I meant this sweetly?)
That I might
Be willing to for you?
Perhaps that, my heart could break
For you
Fissures split
Along my surface
Snapping my
Carefully crafted courage
Echoes of
My former, brave self
I can’t
Seem to bind all the pieces
What’s left
What’s revealed is the least
It’s
All of me exposed for wanting you
Till now
Everything’s been pale gray
Outlined with beige
and stony-faced whey
But what if
You misunderstood me
(Would you know
I meant this sweetly?)
That I might
Be willing to for you?
Perhaps that, my heart could break
For you
Every song I hear
They all bring you to mind
The way your hair falls
The way your eyes shine
The way my hands shake
When you say my name
And how I can’t concentrate
Until you say it again
Every song I hear
I just had to give you mine
About the way your hair falls
Across the smile in your eyes
The song swells and stretches into the air, his face scrunched up and his hands slamming gracelessly against the keys. It steals my breath and makes my heart ache. This isn’t the same as playing the song over my earbuds at night and wishing it was about me. About us.
Instead it’s listening with all the knowing and understanding within me. It’s hearing the words wrenched from inside of him and feeling them thrum through my veins with each beat of my heart.
It’s something I will never ever forget as long as I live.
Till now
Everything’s been pale gray
Outlined with beige
and stony-faced whey
But what if
You misunderstood me
(Would you know
I meant this sweetly?)
That I might
Be willing to for you?
Perhaps that, my heart could break
For you
But perhaps my heart could break for you
Perhaps my heart would break for you
When the song is over, I can’t contain it any longer. Mike from the Loud Lizard is standing guard at the stage and doesn’t even try to stop me from hopping up past him. Luke sees me coming for him and stands, knocking over his bench in his haste, and before he can say a word, I’m flinging my arms around him and choking the life out of him. He doesn’t seem to mind, pulling me against him just as hard.
“I’m so sorry—” he starts, and I cut him off.
“Oh my gosh, shut up. I wanted it to be about me. So badly. I love you, I love you, I love you, you ridiculously selfless boy.”
This time, he’s the one ending the conversation, kissing me hard, and lifting me clear off my feet, swinging me around with a whoop.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“I’m not,” I say, kissing him one last time on the cheek. “This way I got to hear you sing Duritz, too.”
Behind the Music
By Vada Carsewell
(submitted for consideration)
Last night, I had the privilege of witnessing magic. My own personal total eclipse or super-ginormous moon or Halley’s Comet. One of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, once-in-a-lifetime, home-before-the-stroke-of-midnight kinds of magic.
It was so very special to me and to everyone in attendance that I can’t tell you about it. I know what you’re thinking. What the actual fuck, isn’t this a review? Well, yes. I realize that’s, in general, how I roll.
But here is why I can’t share: it’s not mine to tell. Luke Greenly (yes, that Luke Greenly) didn’t mean to release his hit song. He didn’t want to share it with the world. It slipped out of his hands and tumbled onto the world’s stage without his permission. There was no intention behind it. Even last night, when he performed for a giant crowd, it wasn’t for his benefit. It was for, well, mine, actually.
I know. Get fucked, Vada. Right?
I know, I know. Beli
eve me.
*ahem* Anyway, what am I doing here? I’m painting a picture, folks. I can’t tell you about the music—which was brilliant, by the way—but I can tell you what that music did to those listening.
After all, that’s what we really care about when it comes down to it, isn’t it? We care about what we felt. We want to be moved and changed and knocked over and pieced back together. We want to swoon and taste and cry and scream to the sky, Yes, this. We want ninety-minute relationships encompassing a lifetime of feels. We want the fantasy, the reality, the immorality, the salvation … we want to be seen.
Well, friends, I was all those things and more. And more.
Oh. And remember a few months ago when I went apoplectic over (Not) Warren?
Psh. Greenly was better. My eyes were basically glued shut through the entire thing, which is a damn shame because he’s a sight to behold.
Opportunity with Rolling Stone Online
Lori Kephart-Spinks Jun 10 to me
Dear Ms. Carsewell,
Welcome to Rolling Stone.
Lori Kephart-Spinks
Director of Musical Review for Online Publication
EPILOGUE
LUKE
THREE MONTHS LATER
People are packed in like New Year’s in Times Square tonight. The summer is wrapping up, and we hosted our last performance of this year’s Liberty Live season this afternoon. Apparently, no one wanted to return to work after that. Everyone just migrated from the Square, came in for happy hour, and haven’t left. Phil’s had to double the bar staff and even hire on new help. It’s still the same old Loud Lizard. Same sticky floors, same graffitied walls, same grungy regulars. But it’s also brand new with exciting bands coming through thanks to Vada’s blog—and more capital from the success of my performance. Which feels good, even if I never want a repeat experience as long as I live.
Over the crowd and music and clinking of bottles, I hear a familiar laugh, and I look up from the table I’m clearing to take in Vada and Phil in conversation with a regular. Her freckles are a little darker, and her cheeks and tip of her nose are slightly pink from our weekend trip to Chicago so she could report from Lollapalooza. She’s not technically working here anymore, but she offered to come in to help train the new staff.
We leave for the West Coast in five days. I have to arrive a week before the semester starts for my composition program orientation. It sounds like a ballbuster, but I’m so grateful they let me in that I’m happy to comply. Vada’s being sent to a private session with the Foo Fighters at the Starlight Theater, and if I didn’t know she loved me, I would definitely be worried about her obsession with Dave Grohl.