Mason, sounding slightly embarrassed, said, “Sorry. I probably should have told you that I haven’t been able to get your music out of my head since I heard it. It just feels right for this song, you know? Can you—can you keep playing?”
My music. Stuck in his head.
I took a breath, placed my hands in position, and we staggered through the rest of the song—me, trying to match his tempo, and him, trying to find mine. When we finished, Mason let out a little self-deprecating sigh. “This song has been sounding off to me, but I haven’t been able to pin down why.”
“It’s the rhythm,” I said.
I felt him twitch in surprise. “You think?”
“Yeah. I mean, try reworking it in three-four instead of six-eight. Your lyrics—they’re so passionate. But the rhythm? Not so much.”
“So you think if we match each other in a three-four, it would be...passionate?” he said softly.
I swallowed. Were we still talking about music? “Um. Yeah.”
“I can do that,” Mason said.
Silence floated around us for a moment.
“Right,” I said, sort of loudly. I put my hands into position. Hacked out a little cough. “So in three-four, then?”
My original plan had been to hold back a little and let Mason find me with his lyrics, but as soon as I hit the first note I realized that I wanted to put my entire world into this song. Mason stepped in at the beginning of the second measure, draping his voice achingly over my every note. And the song spun out of us so slowly, so perfectly, so sinuously, that I wasn’t sure if we were making the music or if it was making us. In it were our combined struggles, celebrations, losses. In it was everything we’d gone through, and every truth we’d come to know.
In it was us.
And when the last note faded away, when we turned to face each other, Mason’s shocked breath mingled with mine. Suddenly the air between us was flimsy, uncertain, yet impossibly solid.
“Wow,” I whispered, “that was...”
“Passionate,” he murmured.
I wasn’t sure how we got there—whether I leaned in or he stretched toward me—but suddenly there was no space between us and we were kissing. His lips tasted like ocean salt and absolute submission, and I was worried that Mrs. Milton would walk in and see us, and all I could smell and feel and taste was him him him. And it was as though there were some sort of crazed lunatic inside me that was set free, because I was dying to run my hands through his hair and over his chest and under his shirt and around his shoulders, and then—oh, God—his lips parted and I just melted into nothingness. After my mind blew up and came back together again and then blew up and came back together again, we peeled apart.
“Wow,” he breathed.
“Wow,” I said. Or at least I thought I did. I was pretty sure my mouth made that particular motion. My mind was preoccupied, on playback, reconstructing and deconstructing the kiss, which then made me pick apart my kissing skills, which then made me extremely nervous, which then made me suddenly blurt out, “Are you still going out with Hannah Jorgensen? The model? From New York City?” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was screaming at myself to shut up, but the words just kept on coming, tumbling out of my mouth before I could catch them. And what’s worse, I could feel myself getting upset, tearing up at the thought of him with another girl. I blinked several times. “Because I heard that you were going out with her, and honestly, I’m not the sort of person who just...makes out with a guy who has a girlfriend.”
Finally, I clamped my lips together to keep the stupid from coming out of my mouth.
A little bit of lighthearted air shot out of his nose. “A rumor. I don’t even know Hannah Jorgensen.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said, and he chuckled softly, just once.
“What?” I said.
“You’re soft inside, Maggie Sanders,” he accused, swiping the pad of his finger on the corner of my eye to whisk away the wetness.
“I am not.”
He laughed. “You are. You try to come off all badass and sarcastic, but inside?” He leaned toward me and kissed me again. I felt him smiling against my lips as he said, “You’re a marshmallow.”
A tap on the front door made us jump away guiltily. “Knock, knock,” a woman said, and then the door squeaked open and the sharp click of high heels sounded in the entryway. “Teddy and Samantha wanted to stop by to drop off some balloons for Ben. Is it a bad time?”
Mason cleared his throat, sounding adorably flustered. “No, no. Come on in. Hey, Teddy. Samantha. Ben’s in his room. Follow me.”
I heard them barrel inside, heard a small set of footsteps stop beside me. “You,” Samantha grumbled.
“You.”
“I guess you aren’t going away, are you?” she said stubbornly, but I could detect a hint of tolerance hiding in her tone.
“Not a chance,” I said.
When I got home that night, I called Hilda and asked whether she could squeeze me in the next day for a lesson in public transportation. Then, climbing the stairs and shutting the door to my room, I slid a college DVD out of its envelope and popped it into my computer, curling up under Gran’s quilt to listen.
Like so many other twelfth-grade girls this crisp fall afternoon, I found myself standing on a soccer field, grass jabbing at my ankles and wind in my hair, a crowd of spectators watching. I never pictured myself here without a jersey, never thought I’d be positioned so closely to a goal without a ball between my feet.
Never thought I’d be doing something like this.
I swallowed. Wiped my palms on my jeans. The crowd here was massive—much larger than the crowd had been at Alexander Park. But then, the Loose Cannons couldn’t just saunter onto UConn’s campus without seizing a lot of attention.
I could almost feel Ben’s smile as I shifted my weight, fingers hovering over the keyboard as I waited for David to kick off the concert. Ben had been claiming lately that the moments just before an impressive act were more amazing than whatever followed. I was beginning to believe him.
Despite the chemotherapy cocktail that continued to slither through his veins, Ben was doing well. Yes, he was still hurling. And yes, he’d lost all of his hair, even his eyebrows. And yes, I’d been wallowing in an unprecedented number of bald-eyebrow jokes. And yes, I still couldn’t see him, a fact for which I was perpetually grateful.
I smelled Mason before I heard him—that musky scent that I’d been tumbling into ever since the first day I met him. “Clarissa just got here,” he whispered in my ear. “She wanted me to give you this. For good luck.” I knew exactly what it was when he placed it in my hand. I peeled the wrapper back, took an unhurried bite, and then, chewing slowly, intently, I handed it back to him. “You aren’t going to eat the whole thing?” he asked.
“It’s the first bite that’s the best. The rest is unnecessary,” I told him, and he rumbled a low laugh, whispered good luck, and kissed me on the forehead.
Mason and I had been dating for approximately a month, fourteen days, twelve hours, and thirty-two minutes. Give or take. I’d like to say that I’d gotten used to his larger-than-life persona, but even I couldn’t tell that lie. Last night, he’d asked me whether I felt as though I’d changed over the last several months. I’d shaken my head no. I hadn’t changed. Not really. I was still an extraordinary smartass. I still considered cookies one of the basic food groups. I still ignored strangers when they spoke to me. I still believed that flip-flops were my biggest fashion statement. I still got annoyed when my English teacher talked about his nutsack. What was different about me wasn’t me: it was what I noticed. What I paid attention to. After all, circumstances don’t change us. They reveal us.
If you’d told me several weeks ago that Carlos would storm away from the group, once and for all, leaving the Loose Cannons few options except the girl who knew their keyboards by heart—the girl who had been practicing their songs on her legs for months on end—I would’ve told
you that you were insane.
But it was happening.
Right now.
David crashed the cymbals. My fingers spread across the keys and I hit the first notes of “Transcendence.” I was nervous as hell and my hands shook on the wind-cooled keys, but the music found me anyway.
Like it had been living inside me my entire life, it found me.
Mason’s voice rang out clear in the stadium, stunning the crowd instantly. Not just because it was gorgeously compelling—holy crap, it was gorgeously compelling—but also because it crooned out of every speaker in the stadium. Yesterday, Mom and I had come to the campus and cleared the concert with the dean, Mr. Seamen. I’d liked him, and not just because he had a hilarious last name—the sort of name I couldn’t say without smirking. Fact was, he’d loved the idea of Coach Sanders’s daughter standing on UConn’s soccer field. He’d even let the band use the stadium’s PA system.
All of which made it even more surreal.
As we segued into the next song, I heard my mother hoot my name. I smiled. Something had given way between us over the past several weeks, leaving a wide-open space that I wasn’t sure how to fill. We still weren’t perfect, but we were more us than we’d been in months.
As rehearsed, the band paused dramatically before “November.” And then the song unfolded just as it had in the living room that day with Mason—the keyboard leading into the song. I let the music unravel itself through my fingers, twisty and complicated and intense. Seconds later Mason joined me, slipping a hand in and unlocking an aching melody, and the song poured out of us: secretive, striking, longing, dark, beautiful.
Ours.
And as I stood on the field that day, a sharp breeze in my face and the grass cushioning my feet, I wondered how I’d given up on my Thing so easily all those years ago. I hadn’t just given up on playing music. I’d given up on everything that it was to me—emotion, expression, synergy, life, love.
When the song ended, the last note of “November” hung suspended in the air over the stadium. Without the weight of it pressing down on me, so massive and so eternal, I was sure I would’ve soared up, away from this world. As the music faded there was only silence, working its way around me like a corkscrew. I stood there for a moment, just shifting on my feet.
And then it got loud.
The crowd erupted around us, screaming and stomping and hooting. I was shocked, startled, unsure of what to do.
But then it happened.
I heard Mom’s enthusiastic voice in my ear, felt her arms wrap around me, felt her face, wet with tears, pressing into mine. It was the victory hug that I’d long been waiting for. It wasn’t at all like I’d pictured it all these years. Not even close. It was better.
Fair warning: these acknowledgments will be inadequate. Thanking everyone who has helped bring this book to the shelves would be nearly impossible, so please consider the following paragraphs just the frosting on the one-bite cupcake.
First and foremost, endless thanks to my family. To my parents, Janet and Merle, and my sister, Cari, I cannot thank you enough for your infinite support and encouragement. Your unremitting love is one of the biggest reasons you hold this book in your hands, and I will never, ever be able to repay that sort of debt. To my oldest son, Talon, I’m eternally grateful for your kindness and tolerance, for keeping me grounded through this entire process; and to my youngest son, Blaise, thank you for your bottomless enthusiasm, for taking it upon yourself to be my second publicist, my biggest promoter, my greatest advocate. I’m a better person because of you two boys. You are, and always will be, my greatest accomplishment. And lastly, to Paul, my husband and best friend. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for riding out both my celebrations and my tears. Thank you for letting each and every one of my days begin and end with you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I am so very lucky to have you in my life.
I also owe tremendous gratitude to the Hyperion team. To my remarkable editor, Laura Schreiber, I cannot thank you enough for your wisdom, sense of humor, and love of my characters. You’ve pushed me far beyond what I thought I could do, something for which I will be eternally grateful. Your brilliance can be found hiding behind every sentence, every paragraph, every word. And to Emily Meehan, Kate Hurley, Whitney Manger, and the rest of the Hyperion team—some of whom I know by name, and some I will never know—I’m forever indebted to you for your support, devotion, and earnestness. I’ve been so fortunate to work with such a passionate group of people.
My undying appreciation goes to Kathleen Rushall, for being the most enthusiastic and dedicated agent on the planet. Thank you for your belief and patience in me, for your lightning-fast answers to my e-mails, for making every part of this journey a celebration, and for gently and persistently guiding me along. I trust you clear to the Milky Way. And also, speaking of agents, huge thanks as well to my foreign agent, Taryn Fagerness, for your diligence and commitment to my work. Because of you, my story has been shot out of a cannon to reach farther than I ever dreamed possible.
A massive shout-out to the amazing people the publishing world has brought into my life. To my critique partners: Lindsay Currie, Karen Rock, and Courtney Barrett, endless gratitude for your moral support, laser eyes, and never-ending exuberance; and to Lola Sharp, there aren’t enough thanks for your hilariously inappropriate texts and e-mails, your ingenious insight, and your optimism. You’ve been my life raft time and time again, and I owe you an Everest’s worth of cheese. Lastly, huge thank-yous to the insanely talented Team KRush, the agents and writers associated with MLLA, the Fearless Fifteeners, the Diversity League, and the Fall Fifteeners. You all have inspired and amazed me time and time again. I’m eternally indebted to you for the advice and encouragement you’ve given me. You are all gods and goddesses.
Buckets of thanks to my extended family and friends, all of whom have championed and cheered me on throughout this entire process. There are too many of you to name here, but please know that you mean the world to me. The friendships in this story were derived from you. I’m so very blessed to have had that sort of love in my life.
I’m infinitely grateful to the librarians, bloggers, booksellers, and teachers who have advocated this book. You’ve spread your enthusiasm with heart, excitement, and charm. Your kind words and support have amazed and humbled me beyond measure.
And lastly, I’m most appreciative to you, dear reader, for opening your heart to my story. I’m so very honored to have been invited into your life, if only for a little while.
Marci Lyn Curtis grew up in Northern California, where she went to college and met an amazing guy in a military uniform. Two college-aged kids and one dachshund later, she lives in Maryland, where she laughs too loudly and eats peanut butter off spoons. The One Thing is her first novel. Say hi to her on her website, Marcilyncurtis.com, or on Twitter at @Marci_Curtis.
The One Thing Page 25
