Just Listen

by Sarah Dessen

  “I will get you a water!” Rolly said. “But first, if you don’t mind, I’d like to meet my destiny in the most ideal way possible.”

  There was another burst of feedback from the stage. Owen sighed. “Look,” he said, “maybe you should just forget about the ideal moment.”

  Rolly just looked at him. “I’m not following,” he said.

  “It’s taken a long time for you to see her again, right?” Owen said. “And who knows how much longer until the perfect moment. Maybe you should just do it. That way—”

  Rolly’s eyes widened, suddenly. “Oh, shit,” he said. “There she is.”

  Owen leaned out of the booth slightly. “Where?”

  “Don’t look!” Rolly said, yanking him back in. “God!”

  Owen looked down at his sleeve, which Rolly was clutching. Rolly moved his hand.

  “Okay,” he said quietly. “She’s standing by the door. In the red.”

  I watched as Owen leaned out of the booth again, took a quick glance behind me, then sat back straight again. “Yep, that’s her,” he reported. “Now what?”

  “My point exactly,” Rolly said. “I need an in.”

  By this point, I had to admit that the suspense was killing me. “I’m just going to do a quick over-the-shoulder survey of the room,” I said to Rolly. “Okay?”

  He nodded, and Owen shot him a look. “She’s a girl,” Rolly explained. “They can look without looking.”

  When I first turned around, all I could see was a heavyset guy in a Metallica shirt. But then he moved slightly, and I saw that there was a girl behind him. She had shiny black hair and was wearing little retro glasses, a red sweater and jeans, a beaded bag pulled across her. But I didn’t need to see any of these things, really; I knew her with one glance.

  “Wait,” I said, turning back to Rolly. “The girl…it’s Clarke?”

  For a moment, Rolly just looked at me. Then he leaned across the table so quickly that I drew back, startled, bumping my head on the booth behind me. “Is that her name?” he asked. His face was now inches from mine. “Clarke?”

  I nodded, carefully. “Um…yeah.”

  After staring at me for another second he moved back, slowly, until he was sitting upright. “She has a name. And it is Clarke. Clarke…” He trailed off, looking at me again.

  “Reynolds,” I said.

  “Clarke Reynolds,” he repeated. “Wow.” He looked like he was in a trance. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened, and he snapped his fingers. “That’s it! That’s my in. You.”

  “Me?”

  He nodded vigorously. “You know her.”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I don’t.”

  “You knew her name,” he pointed out.

  “We were friends once. It was—”

  “You’re friends with her?” he asked. “This is perfect!”

  “It’s really not,” I said, shaking my head.

  “You go up and talk to her, and then I’ll walk by and you can introduce me. It’s organic. It’s ideal!”

  “Rolly, seriously,” I said. “I’m not the person to get you close to Clarke.”

  “Annabel.” He leaned across the table again, sliding his hands out to mine. “Annabel, Annabel, Annabel Greene.”

  Shhh, Annabel. It’s just me. I felt a chill run up my neck.

  “Please,” Rolly said. “Just hear me out.”

  I looked at Owen, who just shook his head. When I moved my right hand forward, Rolly instantly grabbed it.

  “This girl,” he said solemnly, his palm hot, “is my destiny.”

  “Okay,” Owen said, “now you’re officially freaking her out.”

  “Rolly,” I said. “This thing is—”

  “Please, Annabel,” he said. He put his other hand on mine, so my fingers were completely enclosed. “Please just introduce me. That’s all I’m asking. One shot. One chance. Please.”

  I knew I should tell him the real reason he did not want me to be his in, or any part of whatever happened, or didn’t, between him and Clarke. Not just because he deserved to know it, but also because up until now I had been truthful with Owen—and all things having to do with Owen—and holding this back would mean that for the second time that night, I wasn’t being the honest girl he thought I was. If I ever had been.

  At the same time, looking at Rolly’s hopeful face, I could feel myself wavering. On a night when what I’d done, or not done, was suddenly looming large, this seemed like a tiny way to somehow, in some distant way, make up for it. I couldn’t fix the past, or change what had happened to Emily, but with this, maybe, I could help someone else’s future.

  “All right,” I said. “But I’m just warning you: It might not work.”

  Rolly beamed, then hurriedly motioned for Owen to get out of the booth before sliding out himself. “I’ll just go over by the bar,” he said, “and wait until you’ve made contact. Then I’ll casually happen by, and you can introduce us. Okay?”

  I nodded. Already I was regretting agreeing to this, which Rolly most likely sensed, as he bolted out of there, fast, so I couldn’t change my mind.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Owen asked me as I got to my feet.

  “No.” I glanced over at Clarke, who was now sitting with a group of people at a table. “I’ll be back in a second.”

  As I turned away, I felt his hand on my arm. “Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “What?” I asked. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” He dropped his hand, then looked at me. “You just seem…I don’t know. Not yourself, or something. Everything all right?”

  And here I’d thought I was hiding it. But like the difference between the picture on Mallory’s wall and my face in the picture he took, this contrast—between who I’d been and who I felt myself becoming, again, with each step I took or was forced to take backwards—was obvious. To both of us. Which was why this time, I didn’t hesitate and try to be honest, instead just going with what came naturally.

  “I’m fine,” I told him, but I could feel him watching me as I walked away.

  Clarke was talking to a girl with blonde hair wearing heavy dark eyeliner, and didn’t see me until I was right up on her. She glanced up, half smiling, reacting to something her friend had just said. When she saw me, she immediately affected her normal thin-lipped, stoic expression. It wasn’t like I could turn back now, though. So I just dove in.

  “Hi,” I said.

  At first, she didn’t say anything, her silence stretching out long enough that I thought she might turn away, ignoring me completely. But just as the pause was getting excruciating, she said, “Hello.”

  Someone from down the table said something to the blonde girl, and she turned away, leaving us alone. Clarke was still looking at me, a flat expression on her face. I had a flash of her at the pool, all those years ago, a hand of cards spread out between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Look,” I blurted out, “I know you hate me, okay? But the thing is—”

  “Is that what you think?”

  I stopped in mid-breath. “What?”

  “You think I hate you?” she asked. Her voice, I noticed suddenly, was clear. Crystal. Not a sniffle to be heard. “Is that what you think the problem is here?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, I just thought—”

  “You don’t know,” she repeated. Her voice was sharp. “Really.”

  Just then, I felt it: a hand clapping onto my shoulder with such force it almost sent me spilling forward onto the table. “Annabel! Hello!”

  It was Rolly. When I turned, he was standing there with a wow-how-about-this expression, as if we were long-lost friends who hadn’t seen each other in eons. At the same time, I could feel a dampness from his hand, already seeping through to my shoulder.

  “Hi,” I said, trying to sound casual.

  “Hi!” he replied, doing no better than I had. “I’m going to go to the bar in a second to get some waters. You want one?”

&
nbsp; Clarke was looking at us, her eyes narrowed. Better get to it, I thought.

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks. Oh, um, Rolly, this is Clarke. Clarke, this is Rolly.”

  Rolly shot out his hand. “Hi,” he said as Clarke, more slowly, offered up her own. “Really nice to meet you.”

  “You, too,” Clarke said flatly. She turned back to me. “You were saying?”

  “So you’re here for Truth Squad, right?” Rolly said, looking from me to Clarke, then immediately back to Clarke again. “They’re really good, have you heard them before?”

  “Um,” Clarke said, “no. I haven’t.”

  “Oh, they’re great,” Rolly gushed. I took a step to the side, and he immediately moved into the space I’d been standing in, closer to her. “I’ve seen them tons.”

  “You know, I better see if Owen wants a drink,” I said. Clarke shot me a look; now, she was definitely pissed. “I’ll, um, be back in a minute. Or two.”

  And then I got out of there, quick. When I got back to Owen, he’d been joined by a guy with short dark hair and an intense look on his face.

  “—a total shambles,” the dark-haired guy was saying as I slid in. “It was better when we did the booking ourselves. At least then, we had some say in the dates, and the venues. Now we’re just their pawns, in their sick little corporate game.”

  “That sucks,” Owen said.

  “It does.” The guy shook his head. “At least the single’s getting some airplay nationally. I mean, that’s what they say. Who knows if it’s true or not.”

  I glanced over at Clarke’s table. Rolly was still standing up, talking animatedly, while Clarke seemed markedly less so as she listened to him.

  “Annabel,” Owen said, “this is Ted. Ted, Annabel.”

  “Hi,” Ted replied, barely glancing at me.

  “Hi.”

  From the stage, there was a thumping noise as someone tested the microphone. “Hey,” a voice said. “This thing on?” Someone from the crowd booed in response.

  Ted sighed, “See,” he said, “this is what I’m talking about. These jokers were only supposed to do a mini set, and they haven’t even started yet.”

  “Who are they?” Owen asked him.

  “I don’t even know,” Ted said, clearly disgusted. “The original openers came down with some kind of intestinal flu, so they booked these guys to fill in.”

  “Should have just had you go on early,” Owen said. “It is an all-ages show. Plus everyone’s here to see you guys.”

  “My point exactly,” Ted replied. “Plus, if we had longer sets, we could try out some of the new stuff I’ve been writing. It’s, like, a total change for us.”

  “Really.”

  Ted nodded, suddenly looking much more animated. “I mean, it’s not so far from our regular stuff. Just a little slower, with some more technical touches. Reverb, and all that.”

  “Technical?” Owen said. “Or techno?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Ted replied. “It’s kind of its own thing. Maybe we’ll be able to get a couple in the second set. Tell me what you think, okay? It’s, like, supposed to be out there but still accessible.”

  Owen glanced at me. “You know, if that’s what you’re after, you should ask Annabel what she thinks,” he said. “She hates techno.”

  They were both looking at me now. “Well,” I said. “Actually—”

  “So if she likes it,” Owen said, “it’s not too far out there. If she hates it, though, it won’t float with the masses.”

  “And she’d say if she hated it,” Ted said.

  “Yup.” Owen nodded. “She’s dead honest. Doesn’t hold back.”

  As he said this, I felt some part of me just sink. Because I so wanted this to be true, enough that, once, I’d actually believed it was. But now, I just sat there, feeling them both looking at me, and felt like the biggest liar of all.

  There was a burst of guitar music from the stage, followed by a few drumbeats. Finally, the opening band was starting. Ted made a face, then pushed himself out of the booth. “I can’t tolerate listening to this crap; I’m going back. You want to come with?”

  “Sure,” Owen said. I heard someone yowl, and more feedback. To me he said, “Come on.”

  I followed him and Ted along the back of the crowd, passing Clarke’s table on the way. Rolly was still there, talking excitedly, waving his hands as he did so. Clarke was listening to him, however, so that had to count for something.

  Ted led us to a door by the bar, then down a hallway so dark I could barely make out the restrooms as we passed them. When he pushed open a door with a hand-lettered sign that said PRIVATE, the sudden bright light spilling out made me squint.

  The first thing I saw inside was a guy with curly black hair crouching on the floor, reaching under a nearby couch. When he saw us, he got to his feet, breaking into a wide smile. “Owen! What’s up, man?”

  “Not much,” Owen said as they shook hands. “What about you?”

  “Same old, same old.” The guy held up a cell phone and battery. “Just busted my phone. Again.”

  “This is Annabel,” Owen said.

  “Dexter,” he said, offering his hand. To Ted he said, “What’s the word?”

  “The opener just went on,” Ted replied as he walked over to a small fridge, pulling out a beer. “Are you guys pretty much ready?”

  There were two guys at a nearby table, playing cards. One of them, a redhead, said, “Do we look ready?”

  “No.”

  “Well, looks can be deceiving. Because we are.”

  The other guy at the table laughed, throwing down a card as Ted shot him a look, then plopped on the couch, propping his feet on the table in front of him.

  “So,” Dexter said, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch. He put the phone on his knee, then picked up the battery, examining it. “What’s new on the local music scene?”

  “Nothing worth talking about,” Owen told him.

  “No kidding,” Ted said. “You should see the frat-rock cover band that’s playing now. Total Spinnerbait wannabes.”

  “Spinnerbait?” I said.

  “They’re a band,” Owen told me.

  “Hate Spinnerbait!” the redhead said, throwing down a card with a smack.

  “Now, now,” Dexter said, placing the battery carefully back on his phone. When he removed his hand, though, it fell off again, hitting the floor with a clack. He bent down, picking it up. “That’s the thing that’s great about this town,” he said, putting it on again. “There are so many bands to choose from.”

  “Doesn’t mean any of them can play,” Ted said.

  “True. But variety is always a good thing,” Dexter said as the battery fell off again. He turned the phone over, trying to fit it on that way: no go. “In some places,” he said, “you really only have a few choices and that”—the battery fell off again—“sucks.”

  “Dexter.” I turned around to see a blonde girl sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. She was holding a yellow highlighter, and a textbook was open in her lap. I hadn’t even seen her. “Do you need help?” she asked him.

  “Nope. I’m good. Thanks, though.”

  She got up, sticking the pen in the book and the book under her arm, then walked over to him. “Give it to me.”

  “No, I’ve got it,” Dexter said, turning the phone over again. “I think it’s busted for good this time, actually. Maybe something broke out of it.”

  She held out her hand. “Let me try.”

  He handed it over. Then, as we all watched, she looked at it for a second, stuck the battery in, and pushed down. There was a click, and then a trilling sound as the phone came on. She handed it back to him, then sat down on the couch.

  “Oh,” he said, turning the phone over and staring at it. “Thanks, honey.”

  “No problem.” She opened her book—Statistics for Business Applications, the spine said—then smiled at us. “I’m Remy,” she said.

  “Oh! Sorry!�
�� Dexter said. He reached down, smoothing a hand over her hair. “This is Owen and Annabel. This is Remy.”

  “Hi,” I said, and she nodded, pulling out the highlighter again.

  “Remy’s slumming, touring with us over her fall break,” Dexter explained. “She goes to Stanford. She’s very smart.”

  “Then why’s she with you?” the redhead called out from the table.

  “I have no idea,” Dexter replied as Remy rolled her eyes, “but I think it’s my mad make-out skills.” He leaned over, planting a series of loud, sloppy kisses on her cheek. She winced, trying to push him away, but then he fell into her lap, his long legs splaying out across the couch.

  “Stop,” she said, laughing. “God.”

  From outside, we could suddenly hear more feedback, followed by booing. “Hopefully, they’re cutting that set short,” Ted said. “Would anyone else like to perhaps, I don’t know, get ready for our show?”

  “No,” the redhead said.

  “Absolutely not,” the other guy added.

  Ted glowered at them. Then he put down his beer on the table with a clank, walked to the door, and pulled it open. Once he was out in the hallway, he slammed it behind him. Hard.

  The redhead threw down his cards. “Gin!” he said, lifting his hands over his head in a victory salute. “Finally!”

  “Aw, man,” the other guy said. “I was close, too.”

  “Off,” Remy said, and Dexter disentangled himself from her lap, getting to his feet. In the process, he dropped his phone again. This time, though, the battery stayed put.

  “Ted’s right,” he said, although Ted was now gone. “We should get organized. Owen, you guys sticking around after?”

  Owen glanced at me. “Sure,” he said.

  “Cool. We’ll catch up with you then, all right?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Then, everyone was suddenly in motion: Dexter sliding his phone into his pocket, the redhead pushing out his chair while the other guy gathered up the cards. Owen led me back into the hallway, where we passed Ted, who was leaning against the wall, still looking annoyed. Owen told him to have a good show as we passed, and he mumbled something in return, but I couldn’t make it out.