I watch him plug in, mess around a little, sing. He’s just showing me the rough lines of the sound, but it’s still good. I tell him, when he’s finished, to do it again, so that I can listen for alternate paths the melody might take. He nods and starts right in, sings a little more seriously. Whatever happened yesterday at practice, he’s already let it go, and so should I.
It’s hard to concentrate, though, because while he’s singing, Oliver’s phone bings next to me on the coffee table, with about ten incoming texts. When he finishes playing he turns it off. I’m sure it’s Whitney, but I don’t ask.
We move on to “You’re Ugly, Too,” and after an hour—Mr. and Mrs. Drake leave for a benefit dinner in the meantime—end up changing the entire third verse, making it into more of a kick-in-the-throat song than a pathetic attempt at an insult.
“Fabian’s going to like messing around with that one,” I say from nowhere.
“He’s good, right?”
I nod. Oliver saying Fabian is talented gives me a little thrill inside. But I can’t let Oliver of all people see that, so I keep my face even. “Really good.”
Working out “Just Hang Up” is harder. The chords Oliver’s trying are all wrong.
“Stop playing and close your eyes,” I finally tell him. I’m sitting on the floor in front of him, legs crossed.
He does, and his placid, trusting face is startlingly sweet.
“Think about a girl—a girl who’s desperate to get the last word in. A girl trying her very hardest to hurt the dickhead boyfriend on the other end of the phone. She has no way of knowing she’ll never succeed. Because he doesn’t really care and is just doing all this for some kind of twisted amusement. But she keeps trying. She won’t let go. She’s like some kind of pit bull.”
He opens his eyes. “A pit bull hanging on to a dead man.” The way he says it, there’s some personal experience behind his words.
“Exactly. We should even put that in.”
“Okay, here—”
He tries another progression of chords, these definitely darker. I test out a few lines along with him. We sketch out a melody and for a second try some harmony but just end up scrunching our faces at each other and laughing.
It isn’t perfect. We have to go back, change some things, but we do it. Together. No egos and no awkwardness. Just me and him, working to make these songs the best we can.
Which is why I don’t realize how late it is. “Oh, shit,” I say, squinting at the digital clock on his elaborate entertainment console: 11:23. “Is that clock right?”
“Looks like it,” he says, turning on his phone and holding it up for me to see.
“Damn. I’ve got to go. Like, right now.”
He stands up. “It’ll be quicker if I drive you.”
Which is another good thing about Oliver: he is totally respectful when it comes to parents and their demands. Chores, groundings, curfews, family dinners, whatever, he understands it. He doesn’t tease you or say, “Screw your parents, man,” or anything like that. So when I jump up from the floor, all he does is switch off the power on his equipment, and then he’s behind me up the stairs, grabbing his jacket, out the door.
We make it back to my house at 11:28.
“Thanks, man,” I breathe.
“No, thank you. That was . . . enormous.”
“It was kinda, yeah.” I nod. “I mean, it was cool, working with you that way.”
The wide, no-teeth, I see you for real smile fills up his face. For a minute I say a little silent fuck you to Whitney and all the girls who glare at me when I hang out around Oliver. He never smiles at them this way, I know. Or, at least, maybe not as often.
When I shut the car door I wave at him, and he waves jauntily back. Walking up to my house, somebody might accuse me of bouncing or something, and that’d be okay. Because tonight I feel really, completely, deep-down, all-around happy and good.
The feeling continues on Saturday. Oliver plays the new songs for the guys, and they get them almost right away. Even Abe throws in some truly inspired drumming, and it’s just amazing to see how quickly Fabian can follow—and then play with, and then add to—whatever it is Oliver’s doing. It makes my Oh my god I dig you so much feeling accelerate about fifty times.
While Oliver’s singing “Foreign Tongue,” I forget myself and start singing some harmonies, which are easier to find with Fabian playing along. Eli likes it so much we decide I’ll do it for real. When I sneak a glance at Fabian, we both break into grins.
After practice, Trip texts to see if I want to go catch a movie or something. Surprised but thrilled, I negotiate with Gretchen and even get the car. Trip and I decide to see the new zombie apocalypse one, mostly because there isn’t that much else playing. We laugh our heads off during most of the gory scenes (much to the annoyance of the people in front of us, who actually get up and move seats), and afterward we go to Java Monkey and crack ourselves up again, practically acting the entire movie out for each other.
When I drop him off, he reminds me about aikido starting this week, that his practices and my practices are going to dictate our lives. I suggest we plan to hang out every Saturday night, then, because this was so great. He smiles at this, and I do too. When we wrap each other in another good-night hug, I can’t remember why I ever thought anything might go wrong.
Chapter Eight
It’s Thursday when things get bizarre.
First of all, when Oliver and I get into his car to head to rehearsal after school, he goes, “Just so you know, Whitney and I are finished.”
“Wait, what?”
He jerks one shoulder up around his ear in response. So that’s why we were walking so fast after school—he didn’t want to chance running into her.
“When?”
“This morning.”
“Hang on. You broke up with Whitney this morning? Why?”
“Why are you freaking, Spider? You hated her. Everyone did.”
I hadn’t realized I was that unsubtle. “I didn’t hate her. I just—”
“You did and it’s cool. She’s an albatross, anyway. I just got sick of her shit.”
“Her usual shit, or extra shit? I mean, is it about the band?”
He lets out a long, irritated sigh. “Just shit, man. She’s not my girlfriend anymore, so I don’t see why we need to talk about her any further.”
This is one of the extremely irritating aspects of being friends with boys: their utter refusal, or perhaps inability, to divulge any kind of important information when it comes to matters like this. Whenever Lish broke up with someone (and when Clay finally dumped me last year)—we went over every single “he said” and “I said” and “then he,” not to mention analyzed every heartbroken (or angry) text that came after that. But boys, they’re just so maddeningly unresponsive. Oliver dumping Whitney before school is a perfect example. Even though I can’t stand Whitney, that is complete and total ouch. A girl would have thought for days about exactly how, when, and where to do it. And she would’ve been a little more considerate. But maybe Whitney did something in the parking lot that pissed Oliver off and he just snapped? Who knows, since we’re not allowed, apparently, to talk about it. Still, I can’t wait for rehearsal to start so I can text Trip the news.
That Oliver wants the subject to be dropped, however, doesn’t seem to matter much to Whitney, because about twenty minutes into practice, Mrs. Drake comes to the top of the rec room stairs and tells Oliver he has a guest.
“I’m practicing,” he says in that pouty way he has with his mom.
“Yes, dear, I can see that. But if you could just—”
I love Mrs. Drake, because she is so perfect and polite all the time, but you still can tell when there’s something she dislikes. I picture Whitney at the door, makeup dripping down her cheeks. Oliver’s mom would definitely find that unpleasant.
Abe and I swap smirks behind Oliver’s back.
“What’s that about?” Eli wants to know as soon as Oliver
’s gone.
Abe shrugs. “Ex-girlfriend hysteria.”
Eli shakes his head. “Bitches, dude. You can’t keep them around long or they go sour on you, you know? Oh—” He glances at me. “Sorry, Charlotte.”
But I think it’s funny. “No, I hear you. It’s all eggs and milk in here, and those have expiration dates, so.”
Abe barks out a surprised laugh.
“No you didn’t.” Eli’s jaw drops around an impressed smile.
I shift my eyes to Fabian, see if he’s laughing too. When he’s not, the pride and delight I just felt dissipates a little. Fitting in with Eli and the other guys is important, but not if it’s going to make Fabian think I’m gross.
“She’s probably pretty upset,” I switch. “I mean, he did it before school.”
“That’s the best time, dude.” Eli thumbs a string. “That way, they can’t be calling you every five minutes. Gives it a chance to sink in. Once you’ve gone through the whole day, it’s a sealed deal. She can’t do anything about it. You’re gone.”
“Well, Whitney’s a little more . . .”
“Difficult?” Abe offers. But then his face becomes totally inexpressive and he straightens up, as Oliver thumps back down the stairs.
“You okay?” I ask, automatic.
He rakes his fingers through his bangs a few times but that’s it. “‘Just Hang Up’” is all he says, counting off before his guitar is even back around his neck. I know the rest of the guys know that it’s a breakup song, but I’m not sure they get, as much as I do, how badly Oliver needs that song right now.
Whitney crashing practice isn’t even the most bizarre thing that happens, though. I’m gathering chip bags and stuff to take upstairs when Fabian, who has been taking an unusually long amount of time getting his equipment together, asks me from nowhere, “Charlotte, would you be interested in going to hear a band this weekend?”
It’s all I can do to not drop the glasses I’m carrying.
“Um, who is it?” Like that would matter. Like I wouldn’t go hear klezmer polka with him if he asked me.
“This band called Unkind. They’re from Chicago, I think. I don’t know who’s opening.”
Above us we hear the other guys coming back down the stairs.
“Um, sure,” I say fast.
“Great.” He smiles. I do too. And then, because I’m stupid and don’t know what to do with myself, I bolt upstairs to give myself a few minutes to completely hyperventilate. I stay there in the kitchen, going, Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod, and sucking these little breaths in between closed teeth, just to try to calm down enough to face him coolly and without squealing.
When it’s time to go, I’m a little calmer. At least I hope so. But then my heart accelerates again and I grind my teeth together to keep my jaw from doing that obnoxious popping thing when Fabian offers me a ride home.
“That’d be great, man,” Oliver says for me. “I gotta get a jump on studying.” To me he says, “You mind?”
“Uh.” I am so dumb. I mean, literally, dumb. I think I am even breathing out of my mouth. “Okay.”
The inside of Fabian’s car is shockingly clean. There’s barely anything on the floor mats, even, and it smells like a Febreze commercial.
“Your car is so clean,” I say. Idiot.
“That was part of the deal,” he tells me. “Which way?” His fingers point over the edge of his steering wheel, and I think, I love his knuckles so much.
“Oh. Sorry. Up to the stop sign and then right. It’s not very far, really.”
“You usually walk, right?”
“Yeah, or Oliver drives.”
He nods and looks over, smiles in just a little curve.
“Um, so . . . the deal?” I ask.
His eyebrows scrunch together.
“You said keeping everything clean was part of the deal? Past the gas station up here, take the first left.”
He’s confused for a second. “Oh, yes. For the car. My parents agreed to the hybrid only if I promised to not trash it up like my brother did his first car. They didn’t think I could do it. My dad sneaks out after dinner to look in the windows, see if I’ve slipped up. It’s become kind of a fun game between us, actually. For me, anyway.”
I am trying not to stare at him. At his face lighting up with impish playfulness.
“Um, you’re going to turn right up here. Not this street but the next one.”
“You’re a very good directions-giver.”
The back of my head, neck, turn golden under his compliment.
“It’s this one. On the left. The one with the green door.”
“Most people with white houses have red doors,” he remarks. “Have you noticed that?”
“Yeah, that’s actually why we don’t. It’s a folk thing, I think, to paint the door red. It says that your house is a place of refuge or something. Which is nice, right? But my stepmom, Hannah, she hates the red-door trend. She says that people just do it because they saw it in Southern Living.” I realize I’m talking too much, but I’m halfway through the story and can’t stop now. “She thinks most people don’t understand the meaning at all and would never give refuge to anyone they didn’t know—especially not anyone, god forbid, foreign or homeless—and so she doesn’t want to be associated with that at all. Also, she says, it’s not like we’re running an Elizabeth Arden spa. So, our front door is green.”
“Your stepmom sounds like a cool person.”
And this would maybe be unflattering, but I feel it in the most admiring way when it strikes me that Fabian sounds, a little, like Kermit the Frog. Also, I haven’t really thought of Hannah as cool before, but coming out of Fabian’s mouth, it seems right.
“She’s pretty cool, I guess. But I suggest you reserve judgment on my stepsisters until you actually meet them.”
Which makes me blush to say. Fabian meeting Gretchen and Darby. Meeting my family. I have got to get out of this car now before I say anything even more stupid.
I clear my throat to make my voice not wobble. “So, this show?”
“Yeah.” Fabian reaches around, takes his iPhone out of his back pocket. “Tell me your number?”
“You actually have it, I think. From when I texted you? About the auditions?”
“Oh yeah, right.” This looks like it surprises him. In a happy way.
He fiddles around with the screen a little more.
“Are you the 9061 number?”
“That’s me.” I’ve taken out my phone too. “Which one are you?”
“2277.”
“Well, that’s easy to remember.”
Digits resaved in our respective devices, we smile at each other again.
“The show’s at, I think, eight. I can pick you up?”
“What night is it?”
“Oh, yes. Right.” He shakes his head a little, embarrassed by himself. It is wildly endearing, and kind of a relief, that I’m not the only one who’s flibberty. “Saturday. At the Masquerade. Have you been?”
“Isn’t that, like . . .” I feel like an incredible baby. “A bar?”
“But the shows are all ages on Saturdays. It’s cool. You’ll see.”
“Sounds like it.”
God. More stupid shit. I have to get out of this car now.
“Hey, thanks for the ride.”
“Can I get back to Ponce from here?”
“Oh, right.” I try to explain where he’ll be going, but it ends up being too many streets so I just take out a piece of paper and draw him a map.
“You’re good at maps, too.” He holds it up. “I’ll hang on to this.”
“Okay, well.” I practically stumble, getting out so fast, the idea of my stupid map staying in his car, being something maybe he’ll refer to so often he won’t need to anymore. I turn around and wave to him as he’s backing out, but I don’t think he sees.
As soon as I’m safely inside the house, I holler for Darby. She appears at the top of the stairs, mad at being inter
rupted, but also cautious, like she might be in trouble. “What?”
“I’m going to need your help,” I gush. I know this is an intra-band relationship no-no I’d frown on with anyone else, but I don’t care this second. “I, apparently, have got a date on Saturday night.”
Chapter Nine
My excitement about going out with Fabian—fueled, in part, by Darby’s crazed enthusiasm and our little What Not to Wear exercise after dinner—dissipates the next morning as soon as I read the notebook from Trip.
The cartoons about Whitney doing all these awful things because Oliver broke up with her are hilarious, but the second part catches my laugh in my throat: POTENTIAL SATURDAY-NIGHT PROJECTS, the top of the next page reads. BETWEEN ONE DEMPSEY “TRIP” BREWER AND ANOTHER CHARLOTTE ANNE AUGUSTINE. Under that Trip has written out a list, some actual contenders (Take MARTA to the airport and back, documenting the crazy conversations overheard during the trip), some ridiculous (Don formal attire and gallivant around Little Five Points, documenting the number of times people ask if we’ve just gone to prom). There are at least twenty ideas here. Maybe more.
Crap.
After lunch I still haven’t had the heart to write back to him. I don’t want, for one thing, my date with Fabian to be recorded yet. And even though I told Darby, it still feels like something that’s just mine. Secondly, I can’t make myself write it—can’t say, I can’t do Saturday night because I’m going out. With a boy. Though Trip is my friend, it still sucks for me to stand him up. I know too well how it feels to be replaced by someone else, even for only one weekend. Though I’ll make it up to him next Saturday for sure, it’s still depressing. And he would probably have a thing or two to say about me dating someone in the band.
But Trip can see something’s wrong as I head down the hall to meet him.
“You okay?”
“I can’t do Saturday night,” I tell him straight-out. Rip off the Band-Aid. That always feels better, right?
When his face falls, it doesn’t. Feel better. He tries to recover fast, though. “Everything okay?”
Being Friends with Boys Page 9
