“This is perfect,” he says, his eyes sparkling. “It’s time for a love lesson, Book Licker. There’s no time like the present.”
He opens the door to the booth and practically shoves me into it. Jason steps in behind me and pulls the door shut before I can protest—or make an escape. A table in the corner holds a teetering stack of lumpy stereo equipment. There’re a tape deck, a CD player, two big speakers, and resting on top of the stack, a turntable. Jason nudges me with his shoulder a few times to get me out of the way, then executes a little hula maneuver that turns out to be a hip check. We do a little circular shuffle, practically nose to nose, until he’s the one by the stereo and I’m pressed up against the door. He keeps bumping into me as he works to keep the album cover hidden from view.
“Uh, Julia, you saw the sign,” he says, tilting his head toward the window of the booth. “Only one person per booth. Soooooo you better duck, okay?”
“Are you kidding?” I glare at him.
“Do you want to get in trouble for breaking the rules?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. Darn it. He knows me too well.
I lower myself to the floor and pull my knees into my chest. Jason turns his back to me and places the record on the turntable. He presses a couple of buttons on the stereo, then lifts the needle.
“Okay.” He holds the needle dramatically over the spinning record. “This song is the essence—the quintessence!—of music about love.”
“Quintessence?”
He ignores me. “It’s pretty much guaranteed to get you kissed, and I have it on good authority that Ryan made it to third base with Evie while listening to this song.”
I stifle a gasp. Ew. So ew. I didn’t know Evie and Ryan hooked up. It’s amazing that either one of them could be pried away from a mirror long enough to fool around.
Jason drops the needle, then joins me on the floor. He leans against the back wall, his knees against my knees, facing me.
A full band starts up, led by what sounds like six electric guitars and a synthesizer. It’s loud, but it’s also slow and dramatic. I look at Jason, who’s staring back at me so hard that I have to drop my gaze to my knees. The song is soft, the tension building. I hear some crowd noise, so I can tell it’s a live version. I glance back up and Jason’s eyes are still trained on me. My heart starts thudding in time to the rhythm. I hug my knees closer, my hands starting to sweat. This is a good song.…
Then the singer comes in; it’s a man’s voice. “Love on the rocks, ain’t no surprise. Just pour me a drink, and I’ll tell you some lies.…”
What?
I look at Jason for explanation, but he’s starting to crack up. “Your face!” he says between chuckles. “You were so into it!”
“What is this?”
“C’mon. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize the Diamond!” He pulls the album cover out from under his butt. He shows me a picture of Neil Diamond, decked out in the tightest pair of jeans I’ve ever seen on a man and an American flag—printed silk shirt, unbuttoned low enough to show way too much Diamond for my taste.
I don’t even know what to say. I stare at him openmouthed. “You’re sick,” I finally manage to say. “This is your epic love song?”
Jason laughs. “Jeez, Julia, didn’t we already have this conversation? Love is a fantasy. And not in a good way!”
I feel of flash of anger, but just as quickly it passes, and I’m sad for him again. Maybe Jason can tell that I feel sorry for him. He jumps up so fast the record skips. There’s a little scratching, and then there’s applause as a horn section kicks up. Jason’s face immediately lights up, his grin so wide that all his freckles look like they’re running together.
Neil’s voice comes in, in that sing-talking, soaring way it does when he’s performing live.
“ ‘Sweet Caroline’!” Jason says between lyrics. “C’mon. It’s just like home! Sing with me!”
“You are not serious,” I reply, still crouched on the ground. He reaches down, grabs my elbow, and in one swift move hauls me right to my feet.
“Hey, lady, you’re from Boston,” he says as we’re practically nose to nose again. “You can’t dis Neil, or half of Fenway is gonna jump you.” He picks up the needle, moves it over a bit, and drops it in just the right spot for the opening notes of “Sweet Caroline.” He spins the Sox cap around, pulling it down low over his eyes so I can see the logo, and air-guitars along with the chorus. He looks ridiculous, and I can’t help laughing.
“You know the words!” he says. “Sing!”
After another moment’s hesitation, I do. I burst out the lyrics just like my dad taught me, adding the “So good! So good! So good!” as if I were at Fenway Park. When the chorus ends, there’s a light tap at the window, and I turn to see the shop clerk motioning us frantically out of the booth. My hand flies to my mouth.
“Oh my God, he can hear us! And we’re not supposed to be in here together.” I point to the little sign.
Jason raises an eyebrow. “Of course he can hear us. Why do you think they have the headphones? The booths aren’t soundproof.”
“So embarrassing!” I cry, leaning back against the side of the booth. “Come on, we’re going to get in trouble.”
“Don’t stress it. You were showing some hometown love.” He bumps the door of the booth open with his hip, then gestures for me to shimmy out first. When I get back into the aisle, I lean against a crate of soul records and Jason squeezes next to me. “Besides, now I know we can be friends,” he adds.
I look away so Jason won’t see how much the idea pleases me. It feels nice to think I might have a friend on this trip after all, and it beats pretending to be friends with Sarah or Evie. “Why’s that?”
“Because you’re clearly a Sox fan.” He swivels his Sox hat to the side and grins.
“Hate to disappoint, but I haven’t been to a game in years.” I shrug.
“What?” Jason explodes, staring at me like I’ve confessed to having a tail.
“I used to go with my dad,” I reply. The words fly out of my mouth before I can think about what I’m saying. “He was a huge fan. But after he died, I didn’t want to make my mom take me. I thought it would make her too sad.”
Instantly, I wish I could take the words back. I never talk about my dad. There’s a moment of awkward silence, the kind that makes you realize you’ve unintentionally sucked the wind out of a conversation. I stare at the ground, pretending to be fascinated by an old hair elastic that has found its way into the corner. I try to think of something to say to lighten the mood again, but my brain feels like it’s covered in chalk.
Instead, Jason speaks up. “But things work out, you know. Even if it doesn’t feel okay for a long time, or even if it feels like things will never be okay again, everything works out in the end.” I look up, surprised by the softness of his voice. Now he looks like he feels sorry for me. My neck gets warm, and I’m glad I’m wearing my hair down so he can’t see the splotches that I know are forming. I take a breath, and my body sways toward him a little. In the small space, it brings me awfully close, and I worry he can feel the pounding of my heart. I want to say something, but I don’t know what, so we end up staring at each other for way too long.
Then he pulls the wad of grape gum out of his mouth and sticks it to the side of a record crate.
“Oh, gross!” I cry out. Just like that, the intensity of the moment is over.
Jason laughs and turns to a cardboard display of the Rolling Stones. Mick Jagger’s mouth is wide open, mid-lyric. In one quick move, Jason grabs Mick and gives him a deep dip, his arms wrapped around his cardboard waist.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting me some satisfaction,” he replies.
“I don’t think that’s the lyric,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m getting that,” he says. “Mick won’t kiss back, rotten prude.” Jason throws the cutout at the floor and accidentally takes Keith Richards and Brian Jones down with it. Before I can even blink, the ent
ire cardboard band goes flying, knocking over a stack of CDs near the register. Everyone’s eyes snap toward us at the sound of the clatter, including those of the shop clerk, who is putting price tags on a stack of vintage albums at the register.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I say to no one in particular, and reach down to pick up some of the CDs. But before I can make any progress, Jason grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. Once again, an outing with Jason culminates in disaster and the pair of us sprinting down the street away from trouble.
And once again, my head is full of more questions than answers.
is Jason still being a total ass? —P
“And this window treatment was selected by Queen Victoria herself, the first monarch to live in the palace, just before the first attempt on her life,” our tour guide says, his voice rising in excitement as he gestures toward some truly hideous drapes. Then he chuckles softly to himself. “One hopes the two things were unrelated!”
I clutch my notebook, scribbling furiously. Q. Victoria. Drapes. Assassination attempt?*
Underneath this, I add my own commentary: *Why are we learning this?
Our tour guide at Buckingham Palace today has been about as interesting as a Latin translation of the Boston phone book. He’s got a monotone voice and only shows hints of excitement when discussing the historical significance of the different draperies throughout the palace. He can’t stop talking about fabrics and color swatches. I’m a fan of symbolism and all, but sometimes a tassel is just a tassel, okay, guy? I’m willing to go out on a limb and say the gold thread in the drapes in the throne room has very little to do with the signing of the Treaty of Versailles.
I turn to say this to Jason, but he’s planted himself in the very back of the crowd. He’s been cranky all morning. He started the tour at my side, following our guide closely while I scribbled notes in my book. He kept looking at his phone, then snapping it shut in disgust. He barely paid attention to anything our tour guide said, and as we moved through the palace, he quickly drifted away from me.
Our tour guide leads us down a hallway and into a library. My heart quickens as I gaze over the shelves of leather-bound books. I stop to run my fingers along a shelf full of gorgeous editions of Shakespeare, but the tour guide is at it again. This time it’s the fabric on a gold-striped wingback chair in the corner. Something about how Churchill once sat here on a visit. If he can connect that chair to Churchill’s leadership during the Blitz, even I’ll be impressed. I flip to a clean page in my notebook and scurry back toward the front of the group. I get almost right to the front, but Deirdre is blocking my view of whatever our tour guide is gesturing to now. Her giant, unruly blond mane could seriously block the sun. I stand up on my tiptoes and dance around a little, trying to get a good view, but there’s no seeing around or over her hair. I’m going to have to get physical.
I clear my throat a little, then sort of step widely around her, giving her a gentle hip bump along the way.
“Hey!” she whispers.
“Oh, sorry,” I reply, giving her a sympathetic look. “I’m such a klutz!”
I turn to see what we’re looking at now, and I instinctively give a half-whispered yelp of fear and take a quick step back.
Perched atop a table is a perfectly taxidermied goose, wings spread as if in mid-flight.
“Are you okay?” Deirdre asks, surprisingly forgiving, considering I just hip-checked her to get a better view.
“Yeah,” I reply, trying to tear my eyes away from the animal in front of me. “It’s just … geese. I hate them.”
“Oh yeah, totally,” she whispers back with a little laugh. “There was this one time when a goose crapped on my new messenger bag, which thank God was waterproof, and …”
Deirdre charges on, but I’m not listening. I’m already thinking about my own horror story. I was five years old, and my family was at a neighborhood picnic held at a local park. I was playing with some of the other kids near a pond when a flock of geese landed nearby. I toddled my little kindergarten legs over to one and tried to pet it.
From my fuzzy little-kid memory, that bird let out the loudest, longest, scariest screech I’d ever heard from any animal of any kind, and snapped toward my hand. I screamed like a banshee and ran like hell, and that bird chased right after me. I thought I was going to die (or at least that’s what I screamed like, said my dad). Dad ran over and scooped me up, and all of a sudden I was bigger than that dumb bird. With me held high in his arms, we chased that stupid goose together.
Still, I’ve always been afraid of them. Whenever I see one, it’s a reminder that I’ve got to chase the geese on my own now. At least this goose is stuffed and shellacked and mounted on a wooden platform. Phoebe-the-vegetarian would kill me for saying so, but it kind of gives me a sick sort of satisfaction.
Luckily, our tour doesn’t linger long. When we finally make our way back to the grand hall, the class disperses to wander around the room, looking at the portraits set into the walls and examining the marble staircase. I tuck my notes into my bag for safekeeping and hurry over to where Jason is gazing out an oversized window. He’s tossing his phone back and forth between his hands, and I’m guessing he’s not contemplating the political ramifications of the purple brocade covering the window.
“Everything okay?” I ask him. “You get up on the wrong side of the bed or something?”
“What?” Jason starts, as though he didn’t even notice I’d appeared at his side.
I wave a hand in front of his face. “You haven’t made a sex joke in, like, two hours. Are you feeling okay? Do you have a fever?”
Out of nowhere, he blurts out, “Is Mark Bixford seriously your type?”
My brain powers down completely. “Excuse me?” I say. It’s all I can do not to choke on the words.
“I mean, he seems kind of shallow,” Jason says. My face must not be betraying the fact that I’m having a mini meltdown that is happening in my brain.
“Where did you hear that?” I say, struggling to keep calm, struggling to keep the panic from my voice.
“Where else? Sarah Finder, Queen of Gossip.”
Of course. Suddenly, I feel sick. The gilded room is spinning around me. Who else has Sarah told? Does Mark know? And how the hell did she find out?
Oh my God. Did she tweet about this?
Jason charges on. “But then again, he’s probably really charming, and not a complete ass like me.” His voice hangs on “charming” in a way I don’t like. I hoped we could forget about my flipping on him yesterday. He certainly didn’t seem mad last night when we went to Cue-2-Cue, but he’s clearly still a little pissed about it now.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I finally squeak. I hope he doesn’t notice the beads of sweat forming on my forehead.
“You can chill out,” Jason says. “Like I even give a crap who you swoon over. I’m not going to tell anyone.”
“I’m not swooning over Mark. And even if I was, why do you care?” I try to sound confident and dismissive, but all I can think about is that my knees are wobbling like they’ve been replaced with mint jelly. I try to casually drape my arm across the back of a wingback chair for support, but instead, it looks like I’m clinging to a piece of furniture as the Titanic is sinking. I hope the chair isn’t a priceless piece of history in case I pass out in it. Or barf on it.
“I don’t,” Jason replies. He plops down in the chair, and I imagine we must look like we’re posing for some bizarro portrait. Only I probably look like I’m participating at gunpoint.
“Then why did you bring it up?” I demand. My face is burning.
“You totally don’t get it,” Jason says, rolling his eyes.
I plant myself directly in front of him. “Listen, don’t hate on Mark just because he’s everything you’re not,” I say right to his face.
“Excuse me?” Jason looks up at me, his eyes narrowed to angry slits.
“You heard me. Mark is charming, and respectfu
l, and he’s not always vying for attention.” Jason opens his mouth, but I charge on before he can say anything. “He’s a really great guy who’s never said a bad word about anyone, and for you to trash him for no reason is pathetic.”
“You know what, Julia? You—”
Before something really nasty can come out of Jason’s mouth, my phone starts buzzing in my back pocket. I hold up a finger at him, the international symbol for “ ’Scuse me, I have something more important to pay attention to, so you’re gonna have to hold on.” I glance around for signs of Mrs. Tennison, but unwilling to take any chances, I crouch behind one of Queen Victoria’s fancy-pants drapes and flip open my phone to find a new text from Chris.
Sitting in a café with a burnt caramel mocha
watching the rain dreaming of u …
My face burns even hotter. No one has ever sent me a text this sweet before. I read it again. And again. Then I feel a finger poking at me through the drapes.
“You in there?”
I push on the drapes, trying to find my way out, but Jason is in the way and I can’t find the opening. I feel his hand poking me, but I can’t follow it out from behind the drapes. I have a brief, panicked fear that I’ll never get out of here, and my mummified body will become part of the palace tour.
I finally have to drop to my knees and wiggle out the bottom. When I emerge, Jason is rolling his eyes and giving me a total “you’re the chief resident of crazytown” face.
“What is your problem?” I ask, trying to pretend I didn’t stage an epic battle with a set of velvet drapes.
“If you’re soooo obsessed with Mark, if he’s your MTB”—here he makes air quotes—“or whatever, then why are you chasing after this dude Chris? For someone who probably irons her underpants, you’re pretty all over the place, aren’t you? Just like all the girls you look down on.”
“I don’t look down on people!” I protest.
“Don’t you? Haven’t you spent most of this trip thinking that all your classmates are shallow horndogs who couldn’t appreciate the history and literature of London if it kicked them in the teeth?”
Meant to Be Page 13
