The Right Song

by Shane Morgan

  “Only four hours by plane,” I try to joke.

  She glares up at me, not finding it funny.

  “Okay, maybe he was waiting for the right time? I kind of feel bad for saying something. I probably ruined your surprise.”

  I hope Drew intends on bringing Emma with him. Though, it would suck for me since that means I’ll be totally friendless this summer. Still, I’d rather he take her so she wouldn’t be all depressed.

  Emma shudders, as if to shake off the feeling. “Forget about it, Law. It’s fine. I’ll call him when I get home.”

  Then I remembered something she said. “Wait, what do you mean he’s been kinda off?”

  She shrugs, giving me a forced smile. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

  To erase the dull air around us, I dig into my chunky slice of apple pie and offer her a piece. She smiles and mouths, “Thank you,” biting on my fork and refusing to give it back.

  “Hey,” I squeal, reaching over to retrieve it. Emma tips her chin and keeps it out of my reach.

  I slide out of the seat, moving around the table to tickle her. Laughter surges from her. She could never handle being tickled; that’s how I always get her.

  Mr. Knightley calls out to us. “Girls.”

  There’s no one else eating in, but out of respect we behave ourselves.

  I grab the fork and return to my side of the table. We giggle softly as we resume our late night meal.

  A minute or so later, I hear the bell over the door as someone enters. My head springs up. I glance over my shoulder, unable to look away when I see who just walked into the diner.

  His arousing brown eyes catch mine, only briefly, still his gaze lingers on my face long enough to pique my interest. I begin to hear the subtle beating of those exotic drums again, telling me to take the leap, or maybe it’s just my heart pounding louder than normal?

  Daegan treads over to the counter and tells Mr. Knightley that he’s here to pick up his order. My eyes never leave him. He runs his hand through his jet black hair and relaxes his weight on one leg while he waits. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was trying hard not to look my way yet unable to. His head slants and his eyes cut to me for a split second.

  Mr. Knightley returns, handing him a large takeout bag. I keep my eyes on Daegan as he pays his bill and starts for the exit. He stays focused on his steps until he reaches the door.

  Before slipping outside, he glances at me; this time he flicks his eyes away fast as if he’s blasé about my presence. Then he walks out the door.

  Emma snaps her fingers. “Earth calling Law. Are you listening to me?” she probes, following my eyes to the window to see what is keeping my attention outside.

  I continue watching Daegan up until he hops in his dark blue, 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle—my dad’s favorite muscle car—and drives out of the parking lot, disappearing into the night.

  “Um, what were you looking at?” Emma asks as I swivel back to her. Grimacing, she regards me with suspicion when I don’t answer. “Were you just admiring Daegan Stone?”

  “No!” I yelp, looking down at my plate.

  “Humph.”

  She makes no more of it as we go back to eating. Shortly after finishing our food, we call it a night and start home.

  I arrive at my house after midnight. Entering the front door, I’m greeted by silence—the loudest one ever. I stroll across the foyer into the kitchen. There’s a note from Aunt Leah on top of the granite island. She’s working the night shift at the hospital.

  There’s food in the fridge.

  Please eat something sensible in the morning before you leave for school, in case I don’t get back before then.

  Also, don’t stay up too late working on music. I’m worried you’re not getting enough sleep at night.

  Rora, I’m sure even Joan Jett got some beauty rest.

  Xoxo, Leah.

  “Sure thing,” I breathe out, tossing the note into the trash. After filling a glass with water from the tap, I grab an apple off the kitchen counter and make my way upstairs to my room.

  The moment I enter, I place the glass on the side table, leave my flats and backpack by the door, and sink down on the warm gray carpet, sitting crossed-legged.

  My chewing echoes throughout the room, reminding me of how alone I am. I finish eating and pull the scrunchie from my hair, allowing my strands to breathe as they fall down my back.

  I remain motionless for a while, drowning myself in silence. When there are no unwritten songs echoing in the air and no melodies to distract me, my mind starts to drift into a state of remembrance. I miss my mom’s bright and breezy laughter, how it reverberated all over the house, and I miss my dad telling me stories.

  I used to think that I’d end up forgetting their faces and their endearing personalities the older I got because I was only a kid when they died.

  But I haven’t forgotten. I don’t need pictures or home videos to remind me. My parents remain in this house and fill every single room I walk into.

  And here I am now, standing in the doorway of their bedroom, incapable of taking another step. I’ve been reflecting so much that I have the urge to see the one place I can’t bring myself to enter, as if I’ll shatter to pieces the moment I do.

  Aunt Leah tidies up now and then, but it’ll always be the same to me as when my parents last slept here. My mom’s favorite teal curtains hang at the window. The bed’s covered in the ivory comforter that used to provide warmth when I’d snuggle in between them. And Dad’s briefcase is still on top of the table by the window chair.

  I touch my chest as pain pricks at my heart. God! I need to move on from this.

  I manage to close the door and stroll back to my room, almost desperate for air. It’s as if standing in the doorway of my parents’ bedroom nearly sucked the life out of me.

  The feeling of their ghosts being around torments me so much. Why can’t I be happy now? It’s been eight years. Why’s it so hard to let them go?

  I wonder if Aunt Leah ever thought about moving, taking me away from this house—from Seville. Maybe she never brought it up because of how attached I still am.

  When I get back to my room, I peel off my clothes and take a warm shower to calm down. Soon after, I find myself glaring at my reflection in the mirror over the bathroom sink.

  Dad’s almond-shaped, honey brown eyes stare back at me; everything else is inherited from my mom, including a little part of her Native American heritage: the round face, the long black hair, the olive skin, contoured cheeks, and the small, barely visible mole just below my bottom lip.

  I will never escape them. And the only reason it hurts so much is because I let it. I seem to be committed to the memory of their death instead of taking refuge in the good ones they left behind.

  Putting on my PJs, I pick up my songbook from the dresser and sit on the side of the bed. I’d already finished writing ‘Alive’ and had started something else last night, but I’m not feeling inspired enough to finish it at the moment. There’s a desire to write a different kind of song tonight.

  Words float around in my head. The second I place the pen in my hand, they bleed out onto the blank page. It’s a song about love—a concept I haven’t touched on before.

  What is it that makes me want to write about such a deep emotion now? Could it be his eyes? Those absorbing, deep, brooding eyes that burn into mine.

  I keep thinking about Econ and seeing Daegan tonight at Stop & Snack. This mysterious guy has stirred up some weird sensation that leaves me wanting to explore more.

  Catching my breath, I stop myself from writing to read what I’ve written so far.

  Breathe you in, incapable of letting you out,

  I want to hold you in forever…

  I’m your prisoner of love, without a doubt,

  I’ll remain your captive forever…

  I look at my words, baffled. What the hell is this? I can’t show this to Alex. It’s corny.

  For some reason I want t
o keep going. Only now I can’t seem to pull anything else from within to continue. I’m unexpectedly at a loss for words.

  Ugh.

  I push the book away and flatten on my back, pondering these strange lyrics, until finally my eyes become tired and I’m overcome by sleep.

  My thoughts are placed at bay as I slip into a land of dreams, where I see the bright faces of my parents smiling at me, and for now, I can find some peace.

  5.

  It’s a new day. My shoulders ache as I slowly rise to meet the bright morning sun coming through the lavender curtains. I sit up on the carpet, where I’d crawled onto in the wee hours, and stretch my hands up over my head. Bringing them to my face to rub the sleep from my eyes, I glance over my songbook and see the one other line I’d written after waking up in the night.

  You see my soul…

  I pick the book up as I push off the floor, dropping on the bed soon after. I read the words over and over, deliberating whether to keep writing or scratch it altogether.

  I toss it to the side, deciding to give it a rest for now and focus on mentally preparing myself for the day. I hop off the bed and change into my navy blue ‘We Are Rock’ t-shirt and haul on a pair of purple skinny jeans. I brush my hair up into a loose ponytail, grab my sneakers by the door, and snatch up my backpack from the chair.

  Stepping into the hallway, I bustle downstairs to head out to pick up Emma. The instant I land on the bottom step and reach for the door handle, Aunt Leah pops out of the kitchen, startling me.

  “Christ!”

  “I’m holding you hostage until you empty this plate,” she declares, grabbing me by the elbow and pulling me into the kitchen.

  I stare at her wide-eyed, taking in her green robe and her wet hair tucked beneath a shower cap. She wipes water from her forehead just as it runs out from under the cap.

  “I thought you weren’t going to be back this early? Anyway, I’m not really hungry.”

  Folding her arms at the waist, Aunt Leah leans on one foot. “Don’t give me that.” She points to the plate. “Sit down and eat.”

  I oblige, plopping down on the stool at the island. I start to eat the omelet, washing down each bite with orange juice.

  Satisfied, Aunt Leah takes a seat on the cappuccino stool adjacent to mine. She drinks her coffee and makes small talk. “So in a few months you’ll be done with high school, huh? Man, time has flown. Have you given any more thought to what you’re going to do next?”

  She sets the mug at the side of her plate and nibbles on a crispy strip of bacon. “I mean, you’ve already decided you’re not going to college this year. So…”

  Whenever I stare at Aunt Leah, I can’t help but notice she has the same triangular face as my dad, and even the same sandy hair when she’s not coloring it. Those simple features I can cope with. I’m just happy she doesn’t have his eyes—misty blue. Then it’d be a struggle to make contact with them.

  I break away from my plate and look at her as I answer, “Yeah, I’m going to start working on some songs. Maybe I can get a job as a songwriter for a local artist.”

  Her gray eyes light up at the fact that I’m sharing something with her. Although I can tell she’s still disappointed that I won’t go to college first.

  “That’s awesome! You know, I was thinking that since you’re so serious about music, you could go to New York or Los Angeles and cut a track for a label or something?”

  Here we go.

  I shift on the stool. “No, I’m staying here,” I say adamantly. “I’m not leaving Seville.”

  Aunt Leah frowns. As hard as my days can be, I’m still comfortable living at home. It’s safe. I know I’m basically a coward, but I like feeling safe. And I know that I’ll get over the pain.

  Someday.

  Twisting her mouth from side to side, she snatches up the newspaper in frustration. “Okay, whatever you want to do,” she says in an annoyed tone. “I’ll support you with whatever decision you make. But it’s only for a year, then that’s it, you’re off to college if there’s no breakthrough, missy.” She gestures with her hand to appear more austere.

  From the look on her face I can tell she’s fighting to say more, probably wanting to convince me to leave.

  My suspicions increase when she sets the paper down again. “You know, Rora.” Here it comes. “I think it’s time you moved on, not only from the loss of your mom and dad, but from Seville, too.”

  I play with the fork, mumbling, “I have moved on.”

  She cocks her head to the side. “Really? It doesn’t seem that way. I mean, you’re so tightly glued to—”

  “Don’t do that,” I say, hopping off the stool. I wrap one of her blueberry muffins in a napkin to take with me.

  She reaches for my hand before I can walk away. “I know it still hurts, honey. Believe me I do. But you can’t chain yourself to this house or their memory anymore. They wouldn’t want you to. I was thinking, maybe you should start seeing someone again.”

  I pull away from her, not wanting to hear this right now. “I don’t need to see anyone. We’ve already been through that, eight years ago. I’m fine now.”

  Her forehead puckers, but she doesn’t respond.

  “Look. I’m going to be late,” I say before walking out of the kitchen.

  After picking up my backpack by the front door, I open it to leave, freezing in the doorway as Aunt Leah calls out. “Hey, Rora?”

  I look over at her. She takes a moment to consider her words, but then it’s as if she changed her mind.

  “Have a good day. Sorry I’ve been missing your shows,” she says instead.

  Relief pours down on me. I’m glad she isn’t pushing it. “Don’t worry about it. See you later.”

  Scurrying down our bluestone walkway aligned with maroon smoke bushes, bottlebrush with blooming white flowers, and hydrangea shrubs, I glance over at Alex’s house for a fraction of a second.

  His car isn’t in the driveway. I guess he already left for school. I feel a tingle in my stomach as the expression on his face from last night rushes back to me. Hopefully there won’t be a reoccurrence of his oddness when I have dinner with him and his dad later.

  I open the car door and toss my bag on the backseat along with the muffin, taking off right away to go pick up Emma.

  Pulling up at the white colonial style house, I honk at Mrs. Dobson, who is tending to her flowers at the fence.

  “Morning, Mrs. Dobson,” I call out.

  She glances behind, gives me a halfhearted wave, and then continues what she’s doing. Her obsession with her flowers is unfathomable. It’s as if they’re the only thing in her life she can control. She barely takes her eyes off them to say goodbye to Emma as she steps out of the house, and I’m not sure if I feel sad for her or for my best friend.

  Emma treads down the walkway in a dressy cream top, fitted coral capris, and towering strappy sandals, her blonde hair bouncing in slow motion like the models in those hair care commercials.

  “Well, look at you hot mama,” I compliment her as she reaches the car and slides in.

  “Morning, love,” she replies, setting down her bag on her lap to buckle her seatbelt. Immediately after, she tries to take the scrunchie out of my hair.

  “Just let it down for once,” she screeches.

  “Leave me alone.” I slap her hand away before she succeeds, and then take off for school.

  She pouts, but recaptures her enthusiasm in no time, searching for the muffin I intentionally saved for her. She finds it on the backseat and snatches it up.

  “Mmm… this is good.” Emma closes her eyes while she eats in sheer delight. “Leah’s blueberry muffins are the best.”

  “Guess so.” I giggle at her.

  She breaks it and hands me the already bitten half. I nudge her hand away. She sticks her tongue out, chuckling. “Whatever, more for me. Anyway, what do you think’s going to happen today in English?”

  Oh right. I’d almost forgotten that I’d have
to see Milo this morning. Now that Emma’s mentioned him, there’s a sick feeling rising in my stomach, nervous about how he’ll react to me. He’ll probably laugh once I step foot in the class, recalling how idiotic I was yesterday.

  Shaking my head, I let out a long breath. “I don’t know, Em. Like I said, I’m over it.”

  Before she can say anything else, I turn on the radio to provide a soundtrack for the rest of the drive. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her grimace.

  Emma finishes the muffin and checks her perfect white teeth in the rearview mirror for any remains.

  When I come to the intersection and brake at the stoplight, she turns the music down, letting me know she has something serious to talk about.

  “Law, do you think Drew and I will be one of those couples who stay together after high school?”

  Yep. That’s definitely serious.

  Confused, I spin my head to look at her. “Why do you ask that? What did he say last night when you called?”

  She drops her head back against the headrest and lean her elbow on the door. “I didn’t bring up Cali. But after hanging up, I just started thinking about us. A lot of couples break up after high school. They just can’t take the strain of having a relationship while in college, or maybe the distance is too hard for them. And you know what my dad told me recently?”

  “What?” I ask, turning my gaze back on the road as the lights change.

  “He says I shouldn’t start college with a boyfriend. It’ll be too hard.”

  Yikes! I know Mr. Dobson likes Drew, so he has no ill-feelings behind those words. But I wonder why he’d say that.

  Before I can reconsider my words, I ask, “Do you love him?”

  “Huh? Well, of course…” She doesn’t sound so sure. “Why do you ask?” She scoffs. “Drew and I care about each other a lot.”

  There’s a difference between care and love. Particularly when you’re considering the next step for your high school romance; there’s a huge difference.

  I pull into the school parking lot. Turning of the engine, I collapse back in the seat and look into her piercing blue eyes. “Em, I think if you both want your relationship to last then you’ll fight for it no matter what.”