Just Listen

by Sarah Dessen

  “Well, not always. In this case, I had on my earphones, and she asked me what I was listening to.”

  “And it just so happened to be a band she knows and loves.”

  “That’s the universality of music,” he said cheerfully, switching the carrier to his other arm. “It’s a bonding thing. It brings people together. Friend and foe. Old and young. Me and your sister. And—”

  “Me and your sister,” I finished for him. “And your mom.”

  “My mom?” he asked.

  “I met her today, at the mall. At the Jenny Reef thing.”

  His face fell. “You went to see Jenny Reef?”

  “I love Jenny Reef,” I said, and he winced. “She’s much better than Ebb Tide.”

  “That,” he said, his voice serious, “is not even funny.”

  “What’s wrong with Jenny Reef?” I said.

  “Everything is wrong with Jenny Reef!” he shot back. Here we go, I thought. “Did you even see the poster she signed for Mallory? With the product plug in her autograph? I mean, it’s so abhorrent that anyone could consider themselves an artist and then sell out so completely to the corporate machine, in the name of—”

  “Okay, okay, calm down,” I said, figuring I should fess up before he popped a vein. “I didn’t go to see Jenny Reef. I had a meeting for the Models at Kopf’s.”

  He sighed, shaking his head. “Thank God. You had me worried there for a second.”

  “What happened to there being no right and wrong in music?” I asked him. “Or does that not apply to teenage pop stars?”

  “It applies,” he said flatly. “You’re entitled to an opinion about Jenny Reef. It would just dismay me if you were really a fan.”

  “But have you really given her a chance? Remember,” I said, holding up my hand, “don’t think or judge. Just listen.”

  He made a face at me. “I have listened to Jenny Reef. Not necessarily by choice, but I have. And my opinion is that she’s a publicity whore who has allowed her music, if that’s even what you want to call it, to be hijacked and compromised in the name of materialism and big business.”

  “Well,” I said. “As long you don’t feel too strongly about it.”

  Suddenly I heard a low buzz, and he reached around to his back pocket, pulling out a cell phone, glancing at the screen. “Pie up, gotta go,” he said, stuffing the carrier under his arm. “You know, as much as you might want me to, I can’t just stand here and argue with you about music all night.”

  “No?” I said.

  “No.” He stepped back from the door. “However, if you want to continue this discussion some other time, I’d be more than happy to do so.”

  “Like Tuesday?”

  “Sounds good.” He started down the steps. “I’ll see you then, okay?”

  I nodded. “Bye, Owen.”

  “And don’t forget the show tomorrow!” he called out over his shoulder as he headed for his truck. “We’re doing all techno. A full hour of dripping faucets.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “Maybe. You’ll have to listen to find out, though.”

  I smiled, then stood there, watching him as he climbed inside the Land Cruiser. He turned the stereo on first, then put the car in gear. Of course.

  When I got to the living room, Whitney was settled on the couch, drinking a bottled water. The pizza was on the counter. She didn’t say anything, her eyes on the TV—which was showing something about a sitcom actress who’d had a cocaine problem—as I helped myself to a plate and a slice and sat down at the table in the kitchen.

  “Are you…” I began, then stopped myself. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  She kept her eyes on the TV as she said, “I’ll eat in a minute.”

  Fine, I thought. My mother wouldn’t be happy, but then again she wasn’t here. And I was starving. As I began to take a bite, though, Whitney muted the TV and said, “So how do you know that guy?”

  “He goes to my school,” I said, then swallowed. She was watching me, so I added, “We’re friends.”

  “Friends,” she repeated.

  I thought of Mrs. Armstrong’s surprised smile as she reacted to this same word, hours earlier. “Yeah,” I said. “We sometimes hang out at lunch.”

  She nodded. “Is he friends with Sophie, too?”

  “No,” I said. I didn’t know why, but instantly, my guard was up, and I wondered why she was asking this. Or, actually, why we were even talking at all, when she’d been the one who’d been so resistant to my attempts at conversation all day long. But then I remembered her face when Owen had described me as honest, how clear it was this surprised her, so I added, “I’m not really friends with Sophie these days.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  “What happened?”

  Why do you care? I wanted to ask. Instead, I said, “We had a fight last spring. It got kind of ugly…. We don’t really talk.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  I looked back down at my plate, wondering why I had suddenly decided to share this with Whitney, of all people. It seemed like a mistake, and I sat there, waiting for her to say something snarky or mean, but she didn’t. Instead, she just turned back to the TV, and a moment later, I heard the volume come on.

  On the screen, the actress was now telling her story, dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex as she did so. I looked from her to Whitney, who was sitting in my father’s chair. Who knew she was an Ebb Tide fan, that she had imports, that she was possibly, in Owen’s view anyway, enlightened? On the other hand, though, it wasn’t like she knew that much about me, either. Maybe we could have remedied this over a long weekend, but we weren’t. Instead, we just sat there, together but really apart, watching a show about a stranger and all her secrets, while keeping our own to ourselves, as always.

  The next morning, Owen kicked off his show with a techno song that went on, no joke, for a full eight and a half minutes. All of which I spent telling myself that I was fully entitled to go back to sleep, and yet somehow not able to do so.

  “That was Prickle with ‘Velveteen,’” he said, when it was finally over. “Off of their second disc, The Burning, which is probably one of the best techno records ever released. Hard to believe some people don’t even like that kind of music, isn’t it? You’re listening to Anger Management. Got a request? Call us at 555–WRUS. Here’s Snakeplant.”

  I rolled my eyes, but didn’t roll over. Instead, I listened to the entire show, as was my habit now, while Owen played some rockabilly, some Gregorian chants, and a song in Spanish he described as “like Astrid Gilberto, and yet not.” Whatever that meant. Finally, in the last few moments before eight o’clock, I heard the beginning of notes of a song that sounded familiar. Although why I wasn’t sure until he came on again.

  “This has been Anger Management, here on your community radio station, WRUS, 89.9. We’ll wrap up today with a long-distance dedication to a regular listener, to whom we say: Look, don’t be ashamed of the music you love. Even if, in our humble opinion, it’s not really music at all. We know why you really went to the mall yesterday. See you next week!”

  Only then did it hit me: It was the Jenny Reef song, the one they’d been playing nonstop at the mall the day before. As it began, I sat up, grabbing for my phone.

  “WRUS, Community Radio.”

  “I did not go to the mall to see Jenny Reef,” I said. “I told you that yesterday.”

  “Are you not enjoying the song?”

  “Actually,” I said, “I am. It’s better than just about everything else you played.”

  “Funny.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “I’m sure you aren’t,” he said. “Which, frankly, is just plain sad.”

  “Almost as sad as you playing Jenny Reef on your show. What is this, all the hits with none of the lip?”

  “It was meant to be ironic!”

  I smiled, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “Just keep telling yourself that.”
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  He sighed loudly, the noise filling the receiver. “Enough about Jenny Reef. Answer me this. How do you feel about bacon?”

  “Bacon?” I repeated. “Which song was that?”

  “It’s not a song. It’s a food. You know, bacon? Pork product? Sizzles in a frying pan?”

  I actually pulled the phone away from my ear, looked at it, then put it back.

  “What do you say? You up for it?” he was saying.

  “Up for what?” I asked.

  “Breakfast.”

  “Now?” I said, glancing at the clock.

  “What, you have plans already?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Cool. Pick you up in twenty minutes.”

  And then he just hung up. I put the phone back on its base, then turned, looking at myself in the mirror over my bureau. Twenty minutes, I thought. Okay.

  In nineteen and a half, I’d managed to shower, throw on some clothes, and get out to my front stoop, where I was waiting when Owen pulled into the driveway. Whitney was still asleep, allowing me to forgo an explanation, which was handy since I didn’t exactly have one. As I walked over to the car, Rolly, who was in the front passenger seat, pushed open his door and got out, leaving it open for me.

  “You remember Rolly, right?” Owen said.

  “Yeah,” I said, as he nodded at me. “But you don’t have to move. I can sit in back.”

  “It’s no problem,” he told me, climbing into the backseat. “Besides, I have to make sure I have all my gear for later.”

  “Gear?” I said as I got in, shutting the door behind me. Owen gestured for me to put on my seat belt, which I did, letting him work the hammer to get it buckled.

  “For work. I’ve got to do a class today,” Rolly explained. As I turned around, I saw he was holding the same red helmet he’d been wearing the first time I saw him. Also on the seat were several pads of all sizes: a large one that looked like something an umpire would wear, several that were tube-shaped, and some thick gloves. “It’s an intermediate level. Gotta make sure I’m well covered.”

  “Right,” I said as Owen shifted into reverse, backing out of my driveway. “So, how do you end up with a job like that?”

  “Same way as most,” he replied, putting the pad down. “I answered an ad. Initially, I was just helping out answering phones and enrolling people for classes. But then one guy got a groin injury and quit, so I got promoted to attacker.”

  “Or demoted,” Owen said. “Depending on how you look at it.”

  “Oh, no,” Rolly told him, shaking his head. He had a really sweet face, I was noticing. Where Owen was big and broad, more the attacker style, Rolly was smaller and wiry, with bright blue eyes. “Attacking is much better than clerical work.”

  “It is?” I asked.

  “Sure. I mean, for one, it’s exciting,” he said. “And another, you really get to meet people on such a personal level. There’s a real bonding in someone beating the crap out of you.”

  I glanced over at Owen, who was switching gears with one hand and adjusting the stereo with the other. “You can look at me all you want,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “I am not commenting on that.”

  “Fighting brings people together,” Rolly said. “In fact, a lot of the women who take my classes come up and hug me afterwards. People connect with me. It’s happened tons of times.”

  “But only once,” Owen added, “that really mattered.”

  Rolly sighed. “True,” he said. “Very true.”

  “Meaning what?” I asked.

  “Rolly’s in love with a girl who punched him in the face,” Owen explained.

  “Not the face,” Rolly corrected him. “The neck.”

  “Apparently,” Owen told me, “she has a mad right hook.”

  “It was impressive,” Rolly agreed. “It was at this expo I worked, at the mall? We had a table, you know, and people could enter a drawing for a free class, and take a hit at me, for fun.”

  Owen put on his turn signal, shaking his head.

  “Anyway,” Rolly continued, “she comes up with some friends, and Delores—that’s my boss—-starts her spiel about the classes and invites them to hit me. Her friends won’t do it, but she steps right up. Looks me in the eye. And wham! Right in the collarbone.”

  “You had your pads on, though, right?” I said.

  “Of course!” he said. “I’m a professional. But still, even through the pads, you can tell when someone packs a wallop. And this girl did. Plus, she was gorgeous. Lethal combination. But before I can even say anything, she just smiles at me, says thanks, and walks away. Gone. Just like that. I never even got her name.”

  We were merging onto the highway now, picking up speed. “Wow,” I said. “That is quite a story.”

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding, his expression solemn. He put his hands on top of the helmet in his lap, folding them carefully. “I know.”

  Owen rolled down his window, letting some air in. Then he took in a deep breath. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

  I turned around; all I could see was highway. “Where?”

  “Two words,” Owen said. “Double bacon.”

  Five minutes later, we were pulling into the parking lot of the World of Waffles, a twenty-four-hour breakfast place right off the interstate. So they like breakfast, I thought. Then the breeze shifted, and suddenly I smelled it: bacon. The scent was pungent, heavy, and inescapable.

  “Oh my God,” I said as we headed inside. Owen and Rolly were taking deep, full breaths on either side of me. “That is—”

  “Great, I know,” Owen said. “It didn’t used to be like this. I mean, they had bacon, but not at this level. But then this new place opened up on the other side of the highway—”

  “The Morning Café,” Rolly said, wrinkling his nose. “So subpar. Famously soggy pancakes.”

  “—and they had to get competitive. So now, every day is Double Bacon Day.” He stepped up, pulling the door open for me. “Great, right?”

  I nodded, then stepped inside. The first thing I noticed was that the smell was stronger, if that was even possible. The second was that the room, which was small and crammed with tables and booths, was freezing.

  “Oh,” Owen said once he glanced over and saw I had my arms wrapped around myself. “Forgot to warn you about the cold thing. Here.” He shrugged off the jacket he was wearing, handing it to me. I started to protest, but he said, “They keep it cold so people don’t stay too long. Believe me, if you’re chilly now, you’ll be frozen in ten minutes. Take it.”

  I did, then slipped it on. Of course it was huge on me, the cuffs completely covering my hands. I pulled it tighter around me as we followed a tall, slim waitress whose name tag said DEANN to a booth by the window. Behind us, a woman was quietly nursing a baby, her head ducked down. On our other side, there was a couple about our age eating waffles, both in running clothes: The girl had blonde hair and an elastic around her wrist, while the guy was taller and darker, the bottom part of a tattoo just visible under his shirtsleeve.

  “I recommend the chocolate-chip pancakes,” Rolly told me after Deann had brought coffee and left us to examine the menu. “With lots of butter and syrup. And bacon.”

  “Ugh,” Owen said. “I keep it basic: eggs, bacon, biscuit. Done.”

  Pork seemed to be required, so when Deann returned I ordered a waffle and, yes, bacon. Although I wasn’t sure I needed it; I felt like I’d already eaten an entire side just by breathing.

  “So you guys do this every week,” I said, taking a sip of my water.

  “Yeah.” Owen nodded. “Since the first show. It’s a tradition. And Rolly always pays.”

  “That’s not tradition,” Rolly said. “It’s because I lost a bet.”

  “How long do you have to pay?”

  “Forever,” Rolly told me. “I had my chance, and I blew it. And now I pay. Literally.”

  “It’s not really forever,” Owen said now, tapping his spoon a
gainst his water glass. “Just until you talk to her.”

  “And when is that going to happen?” Rolly asked.

  “The next time you see her.”

  “Yeah,” he said glumly. “The next time.”

  I looked at Owen. “The girl with the hook,” he explained. “In July, we saw her out at a club. First time we ever saw her anywhere. And Rolly’d been talking about her nonstop since she clocked him—”

  Rolly flushed. “Not nonstop.”

  “—and here’s his chance,” Owen finished. “But he can’t act.”

  “The thing is,” Rolly said, “I’m a big believer in the perfect moment. They don’t come around that often.”

  This deep thought was punctuated—or interrupted, depending on how you looked at it—by Deann arriving with our food. I had never seen so much bacon in my life; it was crammed around the edge of the waffle, literally falling off my plate.

  “So there I am,” Rolly said, beginning to butter his pancakes, “trying to figure out an in, and her sweater falls off the back of her chair. It’s like it’s meant to be, you know? But I freeze up. I can’t do it.”

  Beside me, Owen had already popped a piece of bacon in his mouth and was chewing it while peppering his eggs.

  “The thing is,” Rolly said, “it’s a big deal when you finally get the chance to do the one thing you want to do—need to do—more than anything. It can kind of scare the crap out of you.”

  He pushed the syrup over to me, and I picked it up, putting some on my waffle. “I bet,” I said.

  “Which is why,” Owen said, “I said that if he picked up the sweater and talked to her, I’d pay for breakfast forever. And if he didn’t do it, he had to foot the bill.”

  Rolly took another bite of his pancakes. “I actually got up and started over there. But then she turned around, and I—”

  “Choked,” Owen said.

  “Panicked. She saw me, and I got all flustered, and I kept walking. Now I have to pay for breakfast for eternity. Or, until I actually make good on the bet, which is unlikely because I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s quite a story.”

  He nodded somberly, just as he had earlier in the car. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”