This Song Will Save Your Life

by Leila Sales

  I thought of Char’s breath in my ear, his tongue on my neck, his hands on my stomach.

  “Thank you,” I said. I shook my head, like I was trying to shake Char right out of my mind. “That’s really sweet of you guys.”

  And it was, actually. That was the surprising thing of it. I’d assumed Sally and Chava had some malicious or at least self-serving reason for “encouraging” Russell to ask me out, because in my experience, when my classmates acted like they were trying to help me, they were usually just trying to help themselves. But all my DJing had taught me something about reading a crowd. And when I read Sally and Chava right now, all I saw in them was exactly what they claimed: they wanted me to be happy.

  It was weird. But being friends with Vicky had made me realize that some people were just like that. Some people were nice to you, simply because they liked you.

  “So will you go to the dance, then?” Sally asked.

  I smiled and took a bite of my sandwich. No matter how pure my friends’ motives were, they were not getting me into any non-mandatory school event. “I really do appreciate it, guys,” I said. “But no way.”

  * * *

  During my DJ set on Thursday, Pete came over to the booth. He scribbled a note on a Post-it, stuck it to the hem of my dress, and walked away.

  I picked it up. When you’re done playing, come talk to me, it said.

  Pete didn’t have to wait long. I was done about twenty seconds later, when Char ran over. “What did Pete want?” he asked me.

  I shrugged and showed Char the note.

  Char’s forehead wrinkled. “I’ll take over. You should go talk to him, I guess. I’m right over here if you need backup.”

  That didn’t sound good. I smiled weakly and climbed down from the booth.

  I found Pete sitting alone on a stool at the bar. “Elise!” he exclaimed, adjusting the brim on his fedora. “DJ Elise. Wait, you don’t have a DJ name, do you?”

  “DJ Elise is fine,” I said.

  “Do you have a last name?” he asked.

  No one at Start knew my full name: not Char, not Vicky, not Harry. But Pete was a real grownup. He clearly expected me to have a real name. “It’s Dembowski.”

  “It’s great to talk to you again, Elise Dembowski,” Pete told me. I hadn’t seen him since the first time I met him, when Vicky was trying to get his attention. He booked Start, but he didn’t come every week. Tonight he was wearing loose jeans, a plaid button-down shirt, and a dad-like haircut. The only giveaway that he wasn’t an elementary school teacher was his hat.

  “Do you know what I want to talk to you about, Elise?” Pete asked.

  I could think of a lot of options, none of them good. He wanted to talk to me because he’d found out I was only sixteen, for example. Or he wanted to talk to me because Char was supposed to have gotten permission to let me DJ Start with him, after all. Or maybe Pete wanted to talk to me because it was against the rules for two DJs to hook up with each other.

  Some people will tell you that honesty is the best policy, but I disagree. In instances like this, I fully believe that feigned ignorance is the best policy.

  “No,” I said. “What do you want to talk to me about, Pete?”

  He smiled. “May I buy you a drink?”

  I narrowed my eyes. If this was some trick to catch an underage drinker, I wasn’t falling for it. “That’s okay, thanks.”

  Pete nodded. “I hear you. I don’t drink, myself.”

  My gaze flickered to the glass on the bar in front of him.

  “Ginger ale,” he explained. “I’ve been on the wagon for five years. I used to party way too hard. I gave up all the substances back then, but I’ve never been able to give up the scene.”

  “What made you stop drinking?” I asked, interested despite my concern that this was all some elaborate setup to get me banned from Start forever.

  “Well, I was at the Mansion one night—do you know the Mansion? Downtown? No, never mind, you’re too young. Anyway, I was at the Mansion and accidentally sober. We’d all taken ecstasy, but I’d gotten mine from some shady dealer—shadier than normal drug dealers, if you can picture that—and I guess he gave me a placebo pill, hoping I wouldn’t notice. But I definitely noticed. We were all on the floor, dancing and talking and hitting on girls, and I had this moment where I looked at my friends and realized they were all acting like idiots.”

  I laughed a little. I couldn’t help it.

  “I know,” Pete said. “Obviously people on drugs act like idiots. Didn’t we all learn that in junior high? But I didn’t get it until I saw it. It was chilling, I tell you. Anyway, that was my moment.

  “Three months earlier my girlfriend at the time had overdosed on painkillers and spent a week in the ICU, all hooked up to IVs and shit. But that was not my wake-up call. My wake-up call was at the Mansion. The next day I enrolled in Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous and every other Anonymous club I could find. I even remember the song that was on the speakers the moment it happened, when I decided I wanted to quit, start a better life.”

  “What song?” I asked.

  “LCD Soundsystem. ‘All My Friends.’ I still go back to it sometimes, even now. When I’m tempted by something I shouldn’t do, I’ll listen to that song, and it reminds me of the life I don’t want anymore.”

  I pursed my lips. “That’s a pretty powerful song.”

  Pete stared into my eyes, like he was searching for something inside me. “A great DJ can do pretty powerful things.”

  I stared back at him, willing myself not to look away.

  “Elise,” he said, “do you want your own night here?”

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Your own night. Here, in this space. Char DJs Start on Thursdays, and he does a great job, but I want to expand. I want a Friday night party. The big time. It’d be all you. Whatever kind of music you want, however you want to set it up. Costumes, bands, decorations, your call. And you’d get paid, obviously. Ten percent of the bar ring, if that’s okay with you. We can negotiate it later. You can charge a cover at the door, if you’d rather make the money that way.”

  “Wait.” I held up a hand. “That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Pete nodded. “It’s a weekend night, so it’ll be more crowded than this. People will stay out later, too. I need to know if you can handle it.”

  “But I’m just—” I began, then stopped myself before I finished with “a kid.” “I haven’t been doing this for very long,” I said instead. “I’m sure you could find someone with more experience…”

  Pete took a swig of ginger ale. “If you’re saying that you’re sure I could find some thirty-six-year-old guy who’s spun ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ so many times that he’s able to play Tetris on his phone while he’s DJing, while chugging Red Bull so he can stay awake until four a.m., then yeah. I’m sure I could find that guy, too. But I don’t want that guy. I want someone with something to prove.

  “Char probably told you that I first booked him to play Start when he was barely eighteen years old. This was back when Start was at the Harts Lofts, you know, before the police busted that place and we moved down here. Char was just a kid with a big mouth who really wanted to be cool. I remember thinking, I should kick this guy out, but I could tell that he genuinely loved the music. And he had talent. But, Elise, believe me when I tell you this: your talent, your natural talent, puts Char’s to shame.”

  I shifted on my bar stool. “Char’s an amazing DJ.”

  “I’m not denying that,” Pete said. “He wouldn’t be here if he weren’t. And it’s not a competition. But you have got the goods to be big. Really, really big. If you want this, then I know you can do it. So just tell me: do you want this?”

  My body felt as if it were filled with electricity, and I started to smile. “Yes,” I said quietly, like I was signing a legal contract. “Yes! I want this. When can I start? Tomorrow?”

  Pete chuckled. “Why don’t y
ou give me a little time to promote it, get your name out there, so we can make sure people actually show up. We’re going to make a star of you. Let’s say two weeks from tomorrow. Ten p.m. Yes?”

  “Yes,” I said to him. “Thank you so much. I can’t even tell you how much this means to me.”

  Pete tipped his fedora to me. “Just make sure you do something powerful,” he said, “and that will be thanks enough.”

  I almost floated away from the bar. I needed to share this with someone. I needed to tell Vicky right now. I needed to tell Char. Fortunately, I saw that Vicky was standing right next to the DJ booth. I ran across the dance floor toward them, kicking up my legs behind me … then slowed to a walk when I saw who was with them.

  Pippa.

  “You’re back!” I exclaimed. “How was Manchester?”

  “What the bloody hell is your problem?” Pippa spat at me.

  I took a step backward. I tried to catch Vicky’s or Char’s eyes, but they were both staring at the floor.

  “I don’t…” I began, the electricity seeping straight out of my body.

  “My mum makes me leave the country for all of a month and a half, and you think this is an opportunity to just jump right in there and start banging Char?”

  Shit.

  “Pippa, it wasn’t like that,” I tried.

  “Oh, really? What was it like? Did you wait a whole week after I was gone? Come on, do you think I’m an idiot? If you were trying to keep your little romance a secret, maybe you shouldn’t have let Flash Tommy photograph it. We do have the Internet in England, you know.”

  I saw Char wince.

  “Pippa, honey,” Vicky said gently, “it wasn’t Elise’s fault.”

  “Oh, so she just accidentally pulled Char one night? And what about you?” Pippa turned to Vicky. “You never mentioned this to me because you thought I wouldn’t care, or because you weren’t brave enough to tell me?” Her voice rose and her tiny hands clenched into fists as she stared down Vicky and Char. “I was gone for six weeks. You can’t both just replace me!”

  “That’s not fair,” Vicky said in a low voice. “You’re my best friend, Pippa. I missed you every day.”

  “Just tell me why you did it,” Pippa demanded of me, and I could see her long lashes fluttering as she blinked back tears. “Why did you have to steal him?”

  Why did I do it? I didn’t know. I didn’t have a reason, really. Char kissed me, so I kissed him back. I hadn’t thought of it as stealing him from Pippa. He had told me he wasn’t interested in her. He didn’t want to be her boyfriend. How could I have stolen him if he was never hers?

  “Do you love him?” Pippa asked, her voice pained.

  I glanced over at Char. He was still studying the floor.

  It was a ridiculous question. Did I love Char? Did I feel about Char the same way I felt about the Beatles, string instruments in pop songs, the way Little Anthony sang high notes, the way Jerry Lee Lewis played piano?

  “No,” I said.

  Pippa frowned. “So why, then?”

  Because you were swept away by someone liking you.

  I took a deep breath and tried to explain. “I didn’t know. I feel sometimes like … there are all these rules. Just to be a person. You know? You’re supposed to carry a shoulder bag, not a backpack. You’re supposed to wear headbands, or you’re not supposed to wear headbands. It’s okay to describe yourself as likable, but it’s not okay to describe yourself as eloquent. You can sit in the front of the school bus, but you can’t sit in the middle. You’re not supposed to be with a boy, even when he wants you to. I didn’t know that. There are so many rules, and they don’t make any sense, and I just can’t learn them all.”

  “Well, here’s a simple rule for you, Elise,” Pippa snapped. “Don’t steal your friend’s man.”

  And she turned on her heel and marched toward the bar.

  Vicky ran to catch her. Char started after them.

  “Char,” I said, catching his sleeve. “I have something to tell you.”

  He pulled himself free and said, his voice clipped, “It’s not really a good time, Elise.”

  “Oh.” Of course, he was right. Pete’s giving me a Friday night party seemed silly and irrelevant now. No one was interested.

  I had a sudden flash of wondering just how Char was going to take that news. He would be proud of me. Wouldn’t he? Proud that he had taught me so well that Pete would trust me with this?

  Yes, of course, Char would be proud.

  But maybe I wasn’t so sure of that, because I let the subject drop.

  “Can you take over the decks so I can deal with Pippa?” Char asked me.

  I nodded mutely. He turned away again. “Char,” I blurted out. “Am I going over to your place later tonight?”

  I sensed instantly, staring at Char’s half-turned shoulder, that I had broken yet another unspoken rule. To ask for what I wanted.

  My question seemed to hover in the air between us, while I wondered what it would be like to have a real boyfriend. Someone who you could make plans with. Someone who called you when he thought of you. Someone who would say that he wanted you to come over. I wondered what it would be like to be Sally, and to have Larry Kapur tell you that he wanted to take you to a formal dance. Someone where you didn’t have to guess.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Char said. “Not tonight. It would just upset Pippa even more if we went home together.”

  “You’re right.”

  Char reached out and squeezed my shoulder briefly. “Thanks for covering for me, Elise. I owe you.”

  Then he went to the bar to handle Pippa, and I went to the booth to handle the music, and that was the last we spoke all night.

  I liked being up there in the booth, separate from everybody. Pete was right: I was good at it, and it was safe. But on a night like tonight, it was lonely, too.

  * * *

  When I was done, I walked home for the first time in weeks. When I reached my mother’s house, I eased open the front door into darkness and then closed it behind me as quietly as I could. I leaned back for a moment, resting my head against the door. Home safe.

  Then someone screamed.

  I bolted upright.

  “Alex?” I whispered.

  A pause. Then my little sister emerged from the shadows, brandishing an empty paper towel roll like a sword.

  “Are you okay?” I asked softly.

  “What are you doing here?” she hissed. “You scared me!” She didn’t quite lower the paper towel roll, like she still wasn’t sure whether she would have to physically fight me or not.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” I said. “I just went for a walk.”

  Alex stepped forward so I could see her better. “Now?” she asked. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  It was much later than the middle of the night. “I couldn’t sleep,” I explained.

  Alex blinked a few times, then asked, “You’re not sick again, are you?”

  And I knew we were both thinking about September, when I was rushed to the hospital and then had to miss weeks of school, because I was “sick.” I felt a sudden surge of love for my baby sister. Even if no one told her what was going on, she was no fool.

  “No,” I said. “I’m not sick.”

  “So why—” Alex began, at which point I decided that the best defense was a good offense.

  “What are you doing up?” I asked.

  Alex twirled the paper towel roll around in her hands. “Working on my poetry castle,” she said. “Come see.”

  She led me into the sunroom. The cardboard castle sat proudly in the middle of the room, flags flying from its two turrets. Paper and markers were spread out all over the rest of the floor.

  “It looks great,” I told her.

  Alex looked at it critically. “I still need to paint the front,” she said. “And I need to finish writing the poems. I’m going to sell poetry, and I don’t know how many people will want to buy them. I need to be
sure I have enough. Everyone in the whole school is coming, even the fifth graders. And all the parents. You’re coming, right?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “How many poems do you think people will want to buy?” Alex asked.

  “Well, I’ll want to buy at least ten,” I told her.

  Alex nodded like she had expected as much. “I need to write more poems,” she concluded.

  “But, Alex,” I said, “you don’t have to write them now. You have two whole weeks. It doesn’t have to get done at three o’clock in the morning.”

  “I know that,” Alex said, picking up a piece of paper and carefully setting it on top of the stack inside her castle. “I wanted to do it now.”

  I looked into her gray-blue eyes and saw myself in them, as clearly as looking in a mirror. Building a miniature record player for my dollhouse long past bedtime. Teaching myself to code a Web site under the covers, so my dad wouldn’t come in and tell me to go to sleep. DJing alone in my bedroom in the dark. These things could always wait until daylight, but I wanted to do them in the night.

  “I’m going to bed, Poet Girl,” I said. “Want me to tuck you in?”

  Alex tapped the end of a marker to her teeth, considering. “Okay,” she said at last. She put down the marker and followed me upstairs.

  “Alex?” I whispered in the darkness of her bedroom. “Can you not tell Mom and Steve that I went for a walk tonight?”

  “Okay,” Alex said, snuggling into her covers. “Don’t tell them that I was working on my castle either.”

  I wrapped my arms around her and she kissed my cheek. It wasn’t the person who I’d thought would be kissing me at the end of tonight. But it was better than ending the night alone.

  14

  By sundown the next day, I could barely keep my eyes open. I was curled up on the couch in Dad’s living room, holding a book but not really reading it. Mostly I was just staring at my cell phone, willing Char to call or text. I wanted to know what had happened between him and Pippa. I wanted to tell him that I was going to have my own Friday night party. I wanted to talk to him. But so far, nothing.