GVogler: yesterday
Evidently he was a little peeved. I tried again.
NJames: Are we still on for tonight?
GVogler: far as I know. i’m picking Beck up on campus
NJames: What time?
GVogler: around 8
NJames: I have the passes from Sean, so meet you there at 8:30?
GVogler: that works—so is yesterday a ‘lost wednesday’?
NJames: Ask me tonight.
With any luck Beck could de-grump him before I had to deal with him. And if I was lucky, I could get to her first. Gabe might be my best friend, but I was balking at discussing yesterday’s “queen toppling” with him. I dialed Beck’s number, and she answered on the first ring, her greeting a sort of muffled hiss.
“Shhhh! What’s up?”
My eyes narrowed in confusion. Was she shushing me?
“You go first,” I insisted.
“I’m in class, scrunched down in my seat, hoping no one notices me—cell phones are taboo in here, but you’re bound to be plenty more interesting than Differential Equations.”
“Gee thanks,” I muttered, remembering D.E. “I don’t want to get you in trouble. Gabe says he’s picking you up on campus around eight. Can you meet me at sevenish to chat?”
“Without Gabe, you mean? Sure. He’s picking me up under the bridge on Dean Keeton. Why don’t I meet you there, and we can swing up to the Law Library, and then you can drop me back under the bridge?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Then she just faded away.
“Drive,” Beck demanded, slamming the car door at seven on the dot. I turned to look at her as a Capital Metro bus roared past on my side, swooping to the curb in front of me to pick up and drop off.
Her smile was mischievous. “Sorry. Just wanted to see how that felt.”
I pulled into traffic and then glanced back at her. Her hair was wound into two messy magenta coils on top of her head, a modern take on Princess Leia’s cinnamon buns.
“So ... is Gabe proving nerdy enough for you?”
“More than,” she confirmed with a nod and a playful smile. “And while I’m excited to see him tonight, I’ve gotta admit, I’m just as anxious for the chance—finally—to meet Sean. How’d it go yesterday? I tried not to call, just in case, but I’ve been absolutely quivering waiting to hear. I can’t believe I had you on the phone earlier and didn’t get the deets.”
“You were in class,” I reminded her as I slid into a parking spot on the street, somewhat in the vicinity of the Law Library.
“You know we’re gonna have to whisper in there,” she said. “And knowing them, they probably frown on squealing. Wanna go somewhere else?”
“We could. Or we could chat here, wait for campus police to show up before we put money in the meter.”
“Perfect.” She rooted around in her backpack. “I was going to try to smuggle them in but now I don’t have to.” She pulled out two giant chocolate chip cookies in paper sleeves and handed me mine. I could totally get used to these girl talks.
“Perfect,” I agreed, wishing I had a Coke.
“So? Yesterday? Did you go with either of my suggestions?”
“No. But you get points for effort and consistency.” I sank my teeth into the soft cookie and chewed appreciatively.
“Girl, I will take your cookie hostage,” Beck warned.
“Okay, okay.” I held my cookie out of Beck’s reach and commenced with the telling.
It was a shame we didn’t bother with the Law Library. The two of us getting kicked out would probably be the most excitement they’d seen in ... possibly ever. Beck was loud and effusive and agog. I managed to finish off my cookie while she worked through her first wave of reaction.
“So ‘The Plan’ has been vanquished, and you’re hitching your wagon to a rock star?” She licked a smear of chocolate off her thumb, her eyes smiling.
I laughed. “Only you would phrase it that way.”
“And you’re not even hyperventilating! Impressive, Ms. James! How do you account for this wild change? Could it be magic?” She leaned in to position her imaginary microphone for my response. Even in the dark, our conversation lit only by a streetlight two car lengths away, I could see the twinkle in her eye.
“It could be,” I finally admitted with a smile.
“You’ve come a long way, baby,” she said, crumpling the cookie bag.
“Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.” We grinned at each other until I looked away to glance at the time. Five minutes to eight. “Yikes! We’re cutting it close. Ever the eager beaver—at least as far as women go—Gabe’s probably already waiting.”
“Just drop me a block away—I’ll hoof it.”
I stuck with this plan and sailed past Gabe’s Honda, letting Beck out on the next corner.
“See you in thirty.” She waved before darting out into oncoming traffic.
“Drive,” I told myself, heading toward Sixth Street and an evening of watching Sean at work.
17
life will surprise you—surprise it back
After dashing off my entry that morning, I’d broken my own rules, stuffing the journal into my bag and slipping the key onto my key ring. Chalk it up to impatience. I was curious to see whether my little fortunes would change now that I’d essentially given in. I was hoping for more straightforward and less, well, cheeky.
Evidently it was not to be.
Parked downtown, with a few minutes to spare before eight-thirty, I decided to take a little peek. And judging by this morning’s leftovers, it looked as if the gummed-up cliché was here to stay. And while I now realized that all those previous fortunes did eventually make sense, hindsight wasn’t a whole lot of help right now.
It was impossible to tell whether “life will surprise you” referred to the little shockers of the past week or new ones still to come. Which meant I was stuck playing defense. I hadn’t the vaguest clue how to go offensive with my life and “surprise it back”—although I would have dearly loved to one-up Fairy Jane. Talk about your double whammies! So rather than dwell on something that would, I had no doubt, come clear eventually, I decided to sneak another peek into the past.
Hunching down in the semidarkness of the front seat, I let the magic happen and then flipped through the pages until I’d found my place. Reading by the pearly glow of streetlamps, I lost myself in someone else’s life....
27 February, 1908
I’ve been called the family changeling as long as I can remember. And it isn’t simply my chestnut locks and deep brown eyes that have garnered me the nickname. While my siblings are each elegant, accomplished, and engaging, I am clumsy, overly candid, and unfashionably academic. They worry I will end up a spinster, and honestly, I can’t fault their assumptions. The men who interest me are much the same as I, and consequently, we are bound never to move past an awkward introduction, for neither of us have a fondness for small talk or dancing. Somehow, I need to sift through the glamorous trappings of New York society to find a kindred spirit. And once I’ve found him, decide precisely how to seduce him. It seems best to treat this as any experiment, recording both successes and failures on the path to getting practical results.
I couldn’t help but admire her strategy. I hurriedly flipped the page, eager to read on.
1 March, 1908
I’ve come to wonder whether my nickname might be more literal than I could have possibly imagined. What other explanation can there be for a diary in which some words disappear and some are left, seemingly for the purpose of offering advice? Is it possible that fairies are at work here? Surely not—this is New York, not the wilds of Britain, and yet no other solution presents itself.... I’ve not yet felt it necessary to use the diary’s key, but today, I think I must. I wonder if it will be any use. I need some time to consider this mystery—perhaps an afternoon in the library might shed some light on the matter. I look forward to discovering a plausible explanation. My only regret is that
my proposed experiment must unavoidably be put on hold.
This could have been me a century ago! I glanced at the clock. I would have loved to keep reading, but several minutes had already passed, and I didn’t want to miss any of the band’s SXSW performance. I was going to have to come back to this later. Talk about your riveting reading—I was hooked!
I joined the parade on Sixth Street, thronging along with festival music-lovers in search of a great band and a couple of adult beverages. Maggie Mae’s was already crowded, and I hollered for my rum and Coke, rather surprised to be heard over the din, paid my tab, and spent the next ten minutes worming my way through clusters of people, looking for any kind of breathing room.
When Gabe and Beck finally did show, holding hands and tipping their heads together, I lifted my free hand in a wave, feeling quite delighted with the world.
Gabe dropped Beck with me and beelined for the bar to order their drinks.
Beck leaned in and said loudly, “Gabe never suspected a thing.” She tried for the smoldering gaze of a femme fatale but came off more Cyndi Lauper.
Then Gabe was back, toting a couple of Guinnesses, as a voice sliced through the dull roar, stretching out to reach every corner of the bar. “Ladies and gentlemen, Maggie Mae’s is proud to host South by Southwest Showcase Artist Loch’d In!”
Standing on tiptoes, I’d only caught the barest glimpse of the band when a tall, sturdy cowboy of a man in a black Maggie Mae’s T-shirt, Levi’s, and boots showed up at my elbow, tipping his head down to speak into my ear.
“Nic James? There’s a table reserved for you and your guests at the front.”
Surprise flustered me, had my eyes darting toward Gabe and Beck, both of whom were staring curiously back.
“Hello again, Austin!” Sean’s voice piped through the speaker system had me whipping my head around to see him, center stage, guitar in hand. “Welcome to South by Southwest!” The only hint that Sean even noticed the Texas-sized helping of cheers and applause was the hint of a smile as the drummer synced them up with the one-two-three clicking of sticks. Opening with a pounding-loud drum solo and a sizzling guitar riff, the music held me in its thrall. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard the song—or even the fifth—but hearing it here, amid the noise and the lights, live and in person, with memories of last night zipping and twirling through my mind, I was lost. I didn’t even realize the cowboy had lingered, waiting patiently for me to get it together.
“This way,” he prompted, gesturing toward the stage. Beckoning Gabe and Beck with wide, “do you believe this?” eyes, I turned and let him lead the way.
As we wound our way closer to the stage, the music was building to an impossible crescendo, and my pulse was struggling to keep pace. When the words finally came, overlaying the music, I wasn’t prepared, and nearly stumbled into someone’s lap. As distracted as I was, it was lucky I didn’t settle in.
The same voice that had serenaded me with backup from a mariachi trio was now singing his own wildly seductive lyrics at a professional venue. And people loved him. Seeing him like this, immersed in the music and the crowd, it was impossible to look away. In scuffed jeans and an emerald green polo, he looked like a celebrity. And then I realized—here he was a celebrity.
I was vaguely aware of Beck tugging on my sleeve, urging me to sit, so I sat, still staring, mesmerized by Sean’s fingers skimming, impossibly quick, over the guitar strings. He made it seem effortless, and it was obvious that his focus was reserved for the crowds. He wasn’t grudging with his dimples either.
An unfamiliar little curl of jealousy was quickly and thoughtfully tamped down. Evidently I needed to get used to the idea that when Sean was performing, he belonged to the crowd.
Certainly I never thought I’d find a man who’d reserve all his smiles for me, but maybe I thought they’d be given out more sparingly, or with less obvious sex appeal. I realized I was being unreasonable, feeling slightly dizzy and overwhelmed, like a little girl at a carnival watching the rides spin in the dark with a tummy full of funnel cake.
Deliberately I let my eyes fall closed and pretended, just for a minute, that I was the girl I’d been a week ago, with a life relatively free of complications. I could feel the bass vibrating into me as the guitar notes hung in the air and the last lyrics skimmed the surface of my consciousness. And then the song ended on a long lonely note, a promise hanging in the air, echoing in Sean’s voice. My eyes fluttered open and came into focus, homing in on the Complication himself.
The band played a couple more songs, wowing the crowd and ratcheting up my qualm-o-meter, before breaking for a quick intermission. They’d demonstrated they could shift seamlessly from edgy rock to British band punk to haunting melody, and it was all brilliant. I had no doubts that this band—Sean’s band—was going to make it big. The rest of the world was going to know their names. Sean’s voice would be forever imprinted on the minds of many. He’d never belong only to me.
“Fill us in on the ‘lost Wednesday.’ ” Gabe’s voice broke through my subconscious as I pondered my dubious sharing skills.
“Um, okay,” I agreed, blinking the room back into focus. “I’m now the proud owner of a Weird shirt.” I smiled, oozing forced optimism. “Sean bought it for me, and I wore it yesterday. I’m official!”
Gabe cut his eyes around at me in disbelief. “Lucy! You’ve got some ’splaining to do!”
A laugh bubbled out of Beck as I answered. “What?”
“You’ve never worked up the gumption to buy your own Weird shirt, but suddenly you’re letting some guy—a virtual stranger—do the deed?”
I glanced at Beck, whose lips remained sealed despite the unexpected euphemism.
“Yesterday tipped the scales.”
“But you were already wearing it yesterday.”
Damn. I’d hoped that little detail would slip by him.
“True.” Stalling ... stalling ... “But my whole week has really been kinda out of the ordinary. I figured I’d earned it.”
“Good enough,” Beck pronounced cheerily, leaning in on her elbows. “So Sean’s the lead singer slash man on guitar, right?” Her eyes were dancing, her lower lip was tucked between her teeth, and she was glowing a radiant, otherworldly pink.
I nodded, returning her smile. “That’s him.” Then I darted in with a question of my own. Letting my eyes flick back and forth between them, I said, “Looks like you guys are getting along pretty good.”
Gabe shot Beck a glance of irritable affection and answered first. “We are,” he said, “but Beck wants me to keep my membership active on We Just Clicked and quiz her with the same questions I fire at potential matches. Naturally it’s irrelevant that I have no interest in any of these potential matches.”
Beck slid her index finger through the condensation rings on the table and countered with careful nonchalance. “I’m just curious to see whether he would have picked me out of a lineup,” she clarified, faced with Gabe’s and my blank stares. “And so far, I’d say it’s going pretty well ... ?” She made this into a question and lifted her eyebrow, waiting for Gabe to weigh in.
“It’s hard to say since you won’t ‘lock in’ your answer,” Gabe said with a wry twist of his lips.
“I’d think that would impress you, Mr. EPIRB. I want to weigh my options, choose wisely. The question isn’t quite as cut and dried as Olga seems to think.”
Faced with my avidly curious stare, Gabe elaborated while Beck sat quietly, her lips pursed and waiting. No doubt for my condemnation of Olga.
“Olivia’s question,” Gabe informed me, “was, ‘If you had to be an animal, which would you be?’ ”
Evidently unable to stand it any longer, Beck leaned in to interject, “She also asked, ‘Which flavor of ice cream would you be?’ An animal I get, but ice cream? What’s the underlying question there—‘Would you choose to be whirled with nuts, fruits, or some other ill-conceived mix-in before being frozen and eventually consumed? ’ ”
Gr
udging smile from Gabe, twitching lips from me. “She probably meant to ask my favorite flavor, not which one I’d be. And what’s wrong with a dolphin?” Gabe was clearly smitten, not giving a flying fig about the questions so long as Beck kept answering them.
“I don’t particularly care for that high-pitched squealing way they communicate. Imagine listening to that all day.”
Gabe and I shared a look, neither of us really believing we were having this conversation in a Sixth Street establishment during a SXSW showcase intermission. But Beck’s voice was ringing out through the din with you-better-believe-it attitude.
I couldn’t help it, I had to ask, “What sort of creatures are on your short list?”
“The naked mole rat is currently a front-runner,” she informed us. Faced with our no-doubt matching expressions of horrified curiosity, Beck added, “What? Hairless and buck teeth doesn’t appeal to you? Fine. I’m joking. But you know, they live in colonies—one queen and bunches of little worker mole rats doing sexual favors. Doesn’t sound too shabby.”
“Picture yourself as the queen,” Gabe insisted. “I dare you.”
Beck smiled sweetly and started shaking her head, as if she could avoid the image locking on by simply staying in motion. “I’d rather picture you as a worker rat. Stick your teeth out,” she insisted, grinning, reaching up to cup her hand under Gabe’s chin to pull him in for a spontaneously happy kiss.
I tried to hold back my smile as I waited for Gabe to look my way. Once upon a time we made a pact outlawing PDAs, particularly in the company of each other. And while I might have broken it many times over in the course of the past week, I hadn’t yet broken it in front of Gabe, so I was still one up.
But my smug smile fell quietly away as they were both instantly distracted by something behind and above my head. As I tipped my head up and around, I got a sudden, unexpected view of Sean’s face before he swooped down to bestow an impressively thorough PDA of his own.
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