Being Friends with Boys

by Terra Elan McVoy

  Really, I can’t see past the colossal wall of shock that’s just hit me.

  And then Fabian’s there, next to me. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be great.” He grabs my hand and waggles it around, trying to loosen me up. “You’re great,” he tells me, but it’s like the end of an echo.

  “Fabian’s told me a lot about you,” Lover Boy says. “I’m Drew.”

  Somehow my hand accepts his. Drew. That Drew. The one Fabian mentioned going to the movies with a few weekends ago. The Drew who, Fabian said, thought our Van Halen conversation was funny when Fabian repeated it for him. Drew, who I thought was just Fabian’s friend.

  “Nice to meet you,” I manage.

  “Okay, okay.” Mr. Cornell beckons furiously from the doorway. “It’s time.”

  I move into the dark hall, shuffling like Frankenstein. Behind me I hear Taryn squealing, Eli and Oliver high-fiving, Abe pounding Oliver’s back. Under that, though, louder than anything, I hear good-looking, too-nice Drew murmuring something to Fabian. There’s the distinct sound of their lips connecting again, and I feel myself sink. About ten feet away is the curtain, and beyond it are shouts and screams and applause as the DJ says, “—in a public debut you’ll be glad to say you were at: Sad Jackal.”

  I know I am absolutely going to throw up.

  But I don’t. Instead I stand there, hovering in the wings, watching as Abe, Fabian, Eli, and Oliver play the first song. With the stage lights shining down on them, it’s almost easy to forget I even know them.

  From here, because the lights aren’t shining straight in my eyes, I can also look out and see the audience—part of it, anyway. Enough to see Taryn and Sylvia and Drew, right up front. I close my eyes. Darby had already guessed right, and I was too stupid to see it. Does everybody get to have someone else, except me? And why, on top of everything else, does Drew have to have better legs than me?

  My misery makes the first song fly by. The notes fade out, applause fills the gym, and now it’s my turn. Oliver looks into the wings for me, expectant, and gives me a triumphant smile. I feel myself stepping out under the lights to take his place at the mic. I can’t even look at Fabian.

  But I can’t see anyone out in the crowd now either, which helps, a little. Of course I know right where Taryn, Sylvia, and Fabian’s boyfriend are standing, but it doesn’t matter. I shut my eyes, close out everything but the music starting behind me. The words spool out with more meaning than they’ve ever had: “A bag of peanuts in your hand; searching for something you used to understand.”

  The sounds from Fabian’s synthesizer sweep up and over me, and it’s like I don’t even have to make an effort to sing the next part: “Will you look at me? Will you really ever look at me? Will you look at the real me? When will you see enough?”

  Eli was wrong about performing. Being up here makes it easier, not harder. At Oliver’s house I was still me, Charlotte— Oliver’s oldest friend, the dumpy, amicable girl who manages the band. Now, up here, in front of this gaping blackness, the lights and the music holding me up, I can disappear from everything except the crushing sadness I feel. I don’t know what the people out there are thinking—I don’t know where Trip is, if he’s even here; or how excellently Fabian thinks I’m doing—and I don’t care. All I care about is how utterly broken I feel right this second. Up here, like this, the low singing in me can be the all of it.

  I haul the last repeating lines from a deep, breathy part of my throat: “Now all I see is you walking away from me. Walking away from me. Walking away . . .”

  I don’t think anything has ever been more true.

  When the final vibrations of “Cage Song” dissipate around us, an enormous wave of cheering washes over me. Oliver moves up beside me to take his place at the mic again, touches my elbow lightly. “Awesome, Spider,” he whispers.

  Since my voice is only decoration on “Foreign Tongue”— not carrying the whole message—I’m a lot more conscious of my surroundings. Of Abe, for example, never taking his eyes off Eli, and how Eli gives him signals with these funny little side-jerks of his head. Of Fabian’s head bent in concentration, curved over like some kind of beautiful flower. I can’t shut my eyes, so I turn them out into the audience. It seems that no one is dancing out there, at least not the few people that I can sort of see. Since this isn’t really a song to dance to anyway, I’m not sure whether their stillness is a good or a bad thing.

  The balloon of approving sound comes at us again when we finish, though. I don’t sing on the next song, so I beeline to the safety of the wings, where I can press my hands to my face and swallow down the unforgiving lump in my throat.

  But I can’t cry yet, because I have to go back out there again in a couple of songs. For bravery, I fix my eyes on Oliver. He’ll want to know, later, how he did, so I need to pay attention. Watching him so fiercely helps, some: noting how he stands away from the mic but leans his face close to it when he sings, how strong his hands look while he plays. For a brief moment I wonder how Whitney feels, watching her ex up there slaying everyone with his awesomeness.

  But that leads to thoughts about Fabian’s boyfriend probably thinking the same things about him. And what Lily would think, if Trip were up there now. I close my eyes against it, but all that swirls there is Fabian’s smile, and those lips of his pressing on someone else’s.

  Soon enough, it’s time for me to go back out, but before we start the last song, Oliver leans into the mic.

  “We wanna thank you all for listening, for being such a great crowd for us. We’re Sad Jackal, and I’m Oliver Drake. On the drums is Abe Wallace . . .” He goes around, introduces Eli, Fabian.

  I can only press my lips together in what I hope somehow represents a look of appreciation when he calls me out. Nothing is going to make me smile tonight. But beyond the lights—is it just me?—the sound of applause seems to get even louder as he says my name. I picture Benji putting his fingers between his teeth and whistling. It almost helps. But mainly I want this whole night to be finished.

  The first chords for “Disappear” are crushing. They always have been for me; this is one of Sad Jackal’s saddest, and best, songs. After hearing Oliver sing it so much—after losing myself in the depths of his voice, the way he makes it seem like it’s a secret he’s embarrassed by, but unable to keep from you—I’d forgotten, mostly, that it was actually my song. That these words came from somewhere inside me, and that all that feeling that comes out of him so well—it came out of me first.

  Now, tonight, it could be no one else’s.

  “Would you help me disappear . . .”

  I close my eyes, drop away into it.

  And then it’s over. The gym is roaring, we’re taking our bows, and we’re heading off the stage.

  In the greenroom, Oliver and Abe are actually hugging. Eli gives Fabian a hearty handshake and pats everyone proudly on the back.

  “And you,” Eli says, coming over to me with open arms. I stand there while he pounds me in a hug/thump. “Getting up there and stealing the show.”

  I try not to mutter. I am trying to be happy for them, for us. “You guys were the great ones. Really.”

  Now that we’re done, though, it just means we have to go out there. See people. Hang out. Dance. There’s no way I can stand it.

  Eli’s flask comes out again and everyone takes a swig except me. They debate how long we should wait back here, how much time will be cool but not too.

  “I think I’m going to go, actually,” I say.

  “You okay?” Fabian asks. He hooks his arm around my neck. “You absolutely rocked, you know,” he whispers to me, closer. The warmth of it—how I thought, just yesterday even, that this kind of thing meant something—makes me clench my jaw tight.

  “Too much adrenaline or something,” I say weakly. “I just don’t feel—”

  “You need some water? Here, sit down.”

  And I really can’t stand it. This connection. Of friends. I shrug him off. “I’m going to
go find Gretchen,” I tell Oliver. “See if she can give me a ride home.”

  He looks confused, then let down, and then like he wants me to think he doesn’t care. “Well, okay.” But he’s disappointed that I’m not going to revel in our success.

  “I’ll walk you out.” Fabian.

  “No, really.” I hold up my hand. “You guys stay back here. Be cool. Make ’em wait. Tell Taryn and Sylvia I said bye, though, okay?”

  I bolt. My held-in tears really just aren’t going to stay put anymore.

  When I find Gretchen, she’s mashed in a giant throng of seniors near the center of the gym, all grinding along to the song the DJ’s playing. I duck under arms and elbows, shoulders, find her hand, grab it. For a second she looks like she’s going to slap me—maybe she thinks I’m the Wrestler—but then she registers my face and wraps me up in a giant congratulatory hug. All I can hear is her squealing, and the pulsing bass. I stand still, wait for her to stop.

  It takes a couple of tries, but once I’m able to get Gretchen to understand that I think I’m sick to my stomach, I have to give her credit. She hugs her friends good-bye and guides me through the crowd.

  While we’re squeezing between dark clumps of people, looking for Darby, I’m aware of grinning faces nodding in my direction, hands patting my shoulders and back. The heat and the sound and the closeness of everyone really is making me feel sick now—does one slug of whiskey really affect you that much?—so I stare down at the floor, into the dark.

  Next thing I know we’re outside. Darby wants to stay, and will get a ride home from a friend. Being out in the cold, clean air feels amazing. The noise from the gym trails behind us and disappears, and then we’re to the safety of the car.

  “You’re cool to do this,” I tell Gretchen, leaning my head against the seat.

  “Eh. If I stuck around I’d have to give about five drunk people a ride home. So, you saved me. Plus, Jilly’s done it for me before. You’ll do it for Darby too, I’m sure.”

  I’m curious about what, exactly, my big sister did for Gretchen, and when, but mostly I don’t want to talk, or think, about anything. I roll down the window, lean out a little to watch the few stars that I can see overhead.

  “You were incredible, by the way,” Gretchen says beside me. “It was like I didn’t even know you. I mean, I didn’t know you could do that.”

  “Neither did I.”

  And all I know is, I never want to do it like that again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ma, I’m not kidding, you would not believe how amazing they were,” Darby says, twisting around in her chair at the kitchen table to talk to Hannah, who is making us pancakes. Gretchen is still asleep.

  “Everyone was talking about it,” Darby says. “No one could shut up about you, Char. You probably have, like, fifty friend requests this morning.”

  “Well, they’ll be disappointed when they find out I’m barely ever on there.”

  “Nobody’ll be disappointed,” she says, “about anything. The mystery is great. It’s like you’re this incredibly complicated, deep, secret girl with all these powerhouse surprises. I mean, I’ve lived with you for two years and I had no idea. You shouldn’t hide that shit under a—”

  “Darby,” Hannah warns from the stove.

  “I’m just saying, Ma. Did you have any idea Charlotte was this mega rock star? That she could be this mind-blowingly cool?”

  Hannah turns to look at me, spatula still in her hand. “I’ve always thought Charlotte was cool.”

  Nice of her, but apparently not an acceptable answer for Darby. “But I mean, don’t you think she should—”

  “Hello? Darby?” I wave my hand in front of her face. “Still in the room here.”

  “What I mean,” she huffs, twisting around to face me, “is that you’re so—I don’t know. Removed. Always with your door closed and always writing in that notebook. When you got up onstage and sang like that, it was like you were shining out and pulling everyone in at the same time.”

  “I was not shining.” I sink down in my own chair. “I was miserable up there.” A pang, remembering Fabian and Drew. Kissing. Ugh.

  “Well, whatever. Even your misery was compelling.”

  Hannah brings plates of steaming pancakes and puts them down in front of us. In the distraction of butter, syrup, taking our first bites, I consider this. Even your misery was compelling.

  “Well, thanks. I mean, it’s nice to hear.”

  “You’re going to be hearing it a lot, girl.” Darby stuffs a drippy bite into her mouth, then points at me with the empty tines of her fork. “Because I bet you SGA is already talking Winter Formal.”

  After breakfast I have four messages on my phone. Four messages. In a twelve hour period. I don’t think I’ve had four messages all semester.

  1. Taryn. Practically screaming into the phone. At midnight. I can hardly understand her but she’s obviously happy. “I’m so glad I know you!” she shrieks at the end.

  2. Fabian. On his way home from Oliver’s house afterward. Telling me again how great I did. Asking me to call when I wake up.

  3. A long stretch of only muffled sounds, at first. Then, in the background, the old recording we did of “For Your Face.” From when Trip was in the band. Nobody says anything. The message cuts off.

  4. Lish. Ten minutes ago. “Hey, you. Wow. I loved seeing you at the dance. I miss you! This semester is crazy! Call me if you want to go off campus for lunch or something, okay?”

  I have no idea which message to be most puzzled about, which one to respond to first, so I put down the phone and take a long, hot shower. I stand there, letting the water pound my skin and watching it disappear down the drain. When I’m out and dressed, I dial Taryn.

  “Hi hi hi!” she says right away.

  “Hi there.”

  “Are you better? We were all so bummed you had to leave.”

  “Yeah. I just, I don’t know. Too much stimulation or something.”

  “Oh yeah, I understand that. Totally.”

  I have a hard time picturing anything overstimulating Taryn, but I don’t say so.

  “But you were so supercool up there on the stage. I couldn’t believe your composure. So dramatic and affecting and just— uber-wow.”

  “Well, thanks. I was—”

  “Which is why I want to ask you. Sylvia and I were talking afterwards and, well, anyway, I wanted to ask you just in case, because, you know, maybe you would want to, I don’t know, but we’re wondering if you might also want to sing with our little band.”

  It takes me a second to process what she’s actually asking me.

  “Gosh, that is really cool of you,” I say.

  “Well, we just think your energy is so good. And Fabian told us you wrote those songs? Incredible. I mean, you wouldn’t have to do that for us, of course, but still knowing that you can . . .”

  “It’s just that I’m not sure I have enough time to—”

  “We could absolutely work around you. Absolutely. We know how that is. I mean, you think college is awesome because you get to pick your schedule and everything, but they don’t tell you that you still have a ton of work outside of class.”

  I’m surprised. I didn’t realize Taryn and Sylvia were in college.

  “What year are you?”

  “Oh, this is my first semester. I’m not sure I’m going to keep going, actually, because maybe this isn’t my thing. I might take some time off and work in a nonprofit for a while or something, maybe teach music lessons—”

  Taryn’s plan sounds like my plan, a little. But I still can’t join them.

  “Like I said, it’s really nice of you to ask me,” I tell her. “But I just don’t think I can right now.”

  She’s quiet a second. “Okay. Well, you can’t say we didn’t try, right? Let’s go get smoothies or something sometime.”

  Smoothies? “That sounds like fun.”

  “All right. Well, I gotta tell Sylvia the bad news, I guess. Let m
e know if you change your mind, okay? Any. Time. Because you’re really great.”

  “Thanks, Taryn. Really.”

  “Okay, well, bye!”

  After that, it’s a puzzle. I’m not sure, still, what to say to Fabian. And the strange no-message message was obviously from Trip, but I can’t figure out how I feel about his call, let alone whether to call back. And I have no idea how to talk to Lish right now.

  I text Oliver instead. You are proud about last night, right?

  Right away: Yes, you? Feel better?

  Was just nervous I think.

  You didn’t need to be.

  Thx you neither.

  He doesn’t say anything else, so I abandon the phone and pull out my books. Every now and then, though, I catch myself gazing into space, thinking about what Taryn said about my being great.

  When the doorbell rings at four o’clock, pulling me out of a cross-eyed black hole of reading, for a bizarre second I figure it must be Fabian at the door. Checking on me. Maybe even coming to explain that after last night he realized he really wants me, not Drew, but he just didn’t get a chance to say it because I left so fast.

  But then the giggling and shuffling around outside registers. With everything going on, I forgot that today is actually Halloween. Ridiculous, I know, because we just played the Halloween dance, but I guess I didn’t think about it. I hear Hannah open the door, her exclamations of delight. “Trick or treat” is hollered, and miniature Milky Ways plunk into plastic pumpkins and pillowcases.

  I consider going downstairs to help her. That used to be our job—mine and Jilly’s—when she got too old for trick-or-treating and I didn’t want to be anywhere that Jilly wasn’t. I wonder if Jilly misses it today. Maybe she’s dressing up tonight, or—more likely—spending today recovering from a big Halloween party last night on campus. She’s probably glad not to be sitting at home, pretending to be scared by kids in werewolf costumes. The doorbell rings again, and I hear Hannah’s laugh. Helping her just wouldn’t be the same as doing it with Jilly. I text my sister Happy Halloweiner!, after one of our favorite picture books, but there’s no reply. She’s probably out, which makes staying in, without her, feel even worse.