The Secrets of Attraction

by Robin Constantine

  “Yeah, he’s great.”

  “And you’re really ready to play out somewhere?”

  “Ready? Not sure, but this will just give us incentive.”

  “That’s pretty brave.”

  “Or stupid,” I said.

  She grabbed her pad and pulled the pencil from behind her ear. “So who named the band Yellow Number Five?”

  “Tanner. It was kind of a random thing, but he said since it’s on the label of so many things we’d get a ton of free advertising. So it stuck.”

  “Ah, so he can do more than make drinks,” she said, scribbling something down. “And what kind of music do you play? Is there anything in particular you want me to focus on? Color—or is that obvious?”

  “Grunge . . . punk . . . Grunk.” I did not just say that, but if it made her smile . . .

  “Here,” she said, handing me the pad. “Give me your number, in case you—I mean, I—have any questions.”

  I blanked for a moment before writing it on the sketchpad.

  “Maybe you should take mine.”

  I took out my phone. My fingers were useless as she rattled off her number.

  “Can you say it again?”

  “Here.” She took the phone out of my hand and typed her number into my contacts. My heart knocked on my ribs as she handed it back to me.

  The hiss of the steam wand followed by a shout of “Muy caliente!” caused us both to turn. Tanner grimaced, waving his hand back and forth.

  “I guess I better get back there before he gets third-degree burns.”

  She laughed. “When would you want the logo by?”

  “Next week, maybe? You think you can—”

  “No problem, I’m on it.”

  “So does this mean you’ll come see us at Whiskey?”

  She took another sip from her drink before answering. “I guess if Wren is going . . . But isn’t that, like, a bar? Not sure we’d be able to get in.”

  “It’s eighteen and over.”

  “I’m not exactly eighteen.”

  Onstage, I forgot myself—the awkward guitar geek/barista who got tongue-tied and self-conscious. When I sang I could growl, spit, look into people’s eyes and make them listen. Standing there, in front of Madison, I tried to tap into that onstage confidence. I could have let it drop but I got the feeling that Yellow #5, playing a real show, in Hoboken, had impressed her the tiniest bit.

  “I bet that wouldn’t be a problem for you. I think if you want to be somewhere, you definitely have a way of making it happen.”

  Her eyes lit up again. I walked away before I could say anything else, ignoring all impulses to look back at her.

  “Did you melt her with your barista skills?” Tanner asked.

  I stole a glance at her. She was shaking her head slightly, smile on her face.

  She’d be there.

  “Something like that,” I said.

  NINE

  MADISON

  BROODY BARISTA HAD CHANGED INTO FLIRTY Barista overnight. It was just the distraction I’d craved. After being in the light and chatter of our yearbook meeting that afternoon, the idea of being home brought me down. It’s not like I wanted to sit and bond with the Mugshot regulars. I just didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts, because my thoughts had become barbed wire on my brain. It physically hurt to think.

  I’m your father, Madison.

  What was I supposed to do with that?

  Hanging with people who were just going about their lives, drinking coffee, faces in a book or computer, felt normal. And the Mexican hot chocolate was almost enough to make me forget everything, it was that good. The Aztecs were definitely onto something. Jesse would have been revered as a god. A cute god, who looked particularly scorching in his Levis and black tee that afternoon.

  What was it about broody band guys?

  I leaned back in the chair, my blank sketchpad begging me to create something, to get lost in the details of a drawing. A logo for a band? Hmm . . . I’d been thinking about something different for my portfolio, just one more piece that would round it out. This was perfect. Something pop culture–ish and fun. I closed my eyes, thought of the band name, trying to see it in some unique, fresh—

  I’m your father, Madison.

  There was no getting away from it. The moment I let myself get distracted or lost in something else, the phrase came floating across my mind’s eye, like a storm ticker on the Weather Channel. Even though it still hadn’t quite sunk in. Would it ever? I’d stayed in my room most of Saturday—ignoring my mother and Paul. He had left for a job on Monday and wasn’t supposed to return from Martha’s Vineyard until later in the week. My mother told me he was using the time to think. I envied him that. I hadn’t sat down with my mother yet either. One of the benefits of her new yoga philosophy was giving me my space. I wasn’t sure why I wasn’t talking to her—I think I needed to protest somehow until I knew how I really felt about the situation, but that could take forever.

  Paul was still Paul—that exciting guy who swooped in a few times a year with travel stories, and jokes and smiles and Springsteen songs. I should have been happy. This was a good thing. I knew I felt strongly about him, enjoyed the times when he was around. But did I love him like a person loves their father? Could he ever think of me as a daughter?

  I hadn’t told anyone yet. The words would not make it to my lips. I’d tried to call Wren and Jazz at different times over the weekend, but neither of them had been around. Wren had been at her sister’s tropical baby shower. And Jazzabelle had been out, probably clandestinely kissing her running partner behind one of the oaks in the park. Monday on the Boulevard bus, sandwiched among the leering dockworkers, prim weekday church ladies, and Sacred Heart girls hardly seemed the appropriate place to spill my news. Everyone had been all abuzz about the dance anyway.

  It had been the same way in yearbook earlier that afternoon, too. I’d almost blurted it out when Jazz finally pitched an idea about making the Father’s Club layout “On the Edge.” “You think that’s edgy? Wait till you hear this!” I’d imagined saying, but of course, I swallowed it. Piper had been annoyed at me because while Wren and Jazz handed in their Sadie Hawkins copy, I still hadn’t looked at the pictures from the dance. I rattled off some lame excuse and promised to look at them before Friday. The layout wasn’t due until the end of the month. I knew I took some decent shots, I just hadn’t had the time to really look at them yet.

  A knock on the window startled me.

  “Zach?”

  He stood there and pointed to his phone, then shrugged. Mom and Paul hadn’t been the only people I’d avoided over the weekend. Zach’s “I love you” was also on a ticker through my brain. And I still had no idea what to say to him. Maybe I could take it to the next step with him, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready to be with just him and only him; he was easier to handle in the hot-guy-I-have-fun-with role. I gestured to the door, reaching into my bag for my phone. I’d kept it off in protest too. It had been nice being unreachable. My own version of time to think. When I turned it on, there were at least twenty texts and three missed calls. Ignoring them made me feel like I had some control over something.

  “Are you ever going to pick up your phone?” The cold air had followed Zach in and I shivered, wrapping my hands around the hot-chocolate cup. Out of the corner of my eye I swore I could see Jesse watching. Or maybe I was just imagining it. I glanced at the counter, but he and Tanner seemed otherwise occupied. Jesse knew I’d had a date at the dance—why did I even care?

  “Sorry,” I said. “I needed to get some work done.”

  “So you came here?” he asked. He reached down and took the madeleine, mouth opened, teeth bared to wolf it.

  “No,” I said. It came out more forcefully than planned. A girl studying at the next table looked over at us. Zach’s eyes sharpened, a jagged line of confusion forming between his brows. He placed the madeleine down and raised his hands.

  “Okay, I’ll get my own.” He saun
tered up to the counter without saying another word.

  His tone made me feel like a first-class puppy-stomper. I shrugged off the feeling and settled back into my seat, but the desire to draw was gone.

  What the hell was wrong with me? I should at least try with him, right? I wasn’t ready to say anything back to him but maybe one day I could.

  Zach came back a few minutes later with his own hot cup and a ginormous chocolate chip cookie. He put both on the table and wriggled off his jacket. My throat tightened—he wasn’t expecting to have some love talk here, was he? Maybe if I didn’t bring it up, he wouldn’t either. He thumped into the chair and devoured half the cookie in one bite.

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  There were crumbs on his lips and lap, a blob of dark chocolate in the corner of his mouth. He finished chewing before he answered.

  “I didn’t,” he said, tongue dabbing at the chocolate. “I stopped by to see you and your mom answered the door.”

  “Really? Today’s usually her late day.”

  “Well, she was there. I was on my way home when I spotted you. Your mom told me to tell you to call her. So, call her.”

  “How did she seem?”

  He shrugged. “Okay. Why? Something up?”

  And there it was—the perfect entrance for me to tell him about Paul. I imagined hopping into Zach’s lap, his strong arms around me. That guy Paul? The one with my mother when they walked in on us? He’s my father. Could he be there for me? Or would he just say, That’s cool. Chill. Everything will work out. I didn’t want to hear that because right now, it felt like the equivalent of Shut up.

  “No, I just haven’t spoken to her all day,” I answered.

  “Oh.”

  He picked up my sketchpad from the table. My first instinct always was to snatch it back, because it felt like my soul was up for scrutiny. His eyes scanned the paper.

  “Who’s Jesse?”

  I grabbed the pad, aware of its heaviness in my hands, Jesse’s number like a beacon on the page. I wasn’t sure why I was so flustered—it wasn’t like I’d planned on keeping it a secret. I closed it and shoved it into my backpack.

  “He’s right there,” I said, gesturing toward the counter. “He asked me to design a logo for his band. Cool, right?”

  “A logo? Really? Why you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s not like you advertise logo design. How did he know—”

  “He saw me sketching and asked.”

  Zach gave me a deliberate and slow nod, while he lifted his drink to his mouth and looked out the window.

  “What?”

  He shook his head but remained silent, a small, annoying smile crossing his face.

  “I think I need to go.” I shut down my laptop, gulped the rest of my hot chocolate, which wasn’t really meant to be gulped since the cayenne pepper made my throat raw, and gathered my stuff. A shadow crossed the table.

  “Everything okay?”

  Jesse. Zach sized him up, or at least that’s the way it felt, and then peered at me over his to-go cup.

  “Great. Hey, Jess—this is Zach. Zach, Jess. I’m designing the logo for his band.” Neither of them made more of a move than a slight chin-jab in each other’s direction. Jesse picked up the dirty cup. Zach chugged the rest of his drink, then held out his empty cup to him. Not awkward at all.

  “They’re playing in Hoboken this month.”

  “Yeah, Whiskey Business, you should come.”

  Zach seemed to relax a bit. “Sounds cool. What kind of music?”

  I busied myself with my coat and hat as they spoke, telling myself that this was fine even though I felt slightly smothered. Jesse was becoming a friend, something separate from Zach, another life that included yoga and chai and sneaking around Sacred Heart. But why shouldn’t they meet? I carefully wrapped the madeleine in a napkin and put it in my pocket.

  “I can’t wait to work on the sketches for this, I’ll have something for you soon.”

  “Great, see ya,” Jesse said, walking back behind the counter with our dirty dishes.

  Zach’s eyes were on me. Why are you so uptight about giving him a chance?

  “I know you just came from there, but do you think you could walk me home?”

  He smiled. “Sure.”

  He draped his arm around me as we walked outside. I nestled in closer to him, shielding myself from the cold.

  “So why didn’t you tell Band Guy I was your boyfriend?”

  Band Guy.

  I nudged him. “I didn’t know I needed to, isn’t it obvious we’re together?”

  He shrugged.

  “Did you, um . . . About the other night, what I said . . .”

  “Still thinking.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to say it. Is that cool?”

  He sighed.

  “Oh, Zach, come on.” I took the madeleine out of my pocket and put it in my mouth, tilting my face toward his.

  “Nope.”

  “Mmmm-mm.”

  It was a food thing we did sometimes with Twizzlers at the movies, or his mom’s chocolate chip cookies. I stopped until he looked at me, one corner of his mouth pulling up in a sexy side grin.

  “Fine.”

  He leaned down and took the other half, biting down until our lips met and it was all about tongues and crumbs and missing the light to cross the street. Gross and sexy, all at once. We both laughed, swallowing our respective pieces. I hated public displays of affection, but there I was, on the corner of Thirty-Fourth and Broadway, proving to Zach he had nothing to worry about.

  Or maybe . . .

  . . . I was just trying to prove that to myself.

  The house was dark when I got home, except for the kitchen. The spicy smell of Indian takeout filled the rooms. I took my time, pulling off my hat and coat, hanging them on the coatrack, placing my backpack down. Creaky floorboards announced my entrance long before I reached the kitchen.

  Mom was at the café table, takeout boxes from Tandoori West surrounding her barely touched plate of food. She looked up, her face pale, eyes devoid of makeup. She looked so small and fragile sitting there—so alone. My chest ached with guilt. I was finally ready to hear her side of it.

  “Hey.” I sat across from her.

  “There’s some bhel puri and tandoori chicken.” She gestured at the open boxes.

  “Thanks. I’m not hungry,” I said, almost a whisper.

  She dropped her fork onto her plate with a rattle. “You should have answered my phone calls.”

  “Mom, I’m sor—”

  “No, I get it. You’re punishing me, but this—this—is huge and I can’t take that you’re not talking to me about it.”

  “What do you want me to say? You dump this on me some random Saturday morning after you’ve decided to ‘live your truth’ or whatever it was you said and expect me to sit and chat about it? Especially about Paul, who’s been in my life, like, forever? Did you ever think to tell us before? Why now, Mom? Why now?”

  Her palms went up to her forehead, as if she suddenly had a killer migraine. I expected her to rage back at me. Instead she just breathed out hard, put her forearms on the table alongside her plate, forefinger and thumb on the right hand together in a yoga mudra we’d learned in class a few weeks ago.

  “I don’t know. I guess I’d thought about it before, but it’s always been you and me ag—”

  “Against the world,” I finished her sentence. “That’s great, Mom, but I didn’t really have a choice in that, did I?”

  “Madison, please. I wanted to tell Paul, I did, but I wasn’t lying when I told you that it was the wrong guy, right time. I knew I wanted you, could handle raising you on my own, but I also wanted to keep Paul as a friend. I wasn’t sure he would have been able to handle it and I didn’t want to face that sort of rejection.”

  “Was he mad when you told him the other day? Is he . . . is he
upset that—” I couldn’t voice what I wanted to say because in all of it, the virtual Pandora’s box of emotions this announcement had opened, the last thing, underneath it all was this—did he want this? Did he want . . . me?

  My mother reached across and took my hand, and I didn’t resist.

  “He’s angry at me, Madison. Not you. It’s an adjustment for all of us, but the news was happy.”

  Relief blurred my eyes; tears I hadn’t even known I was holding in rolled down my cheeks. I swiped them away, sniffled. That was why I hadn’t told anyone. I wanted to be sure he was okay with it too. To go from not knowing who your father was to knowing that he didn’t want you were two different things.

  “Were you really worried about that?”

  I nodded, swiped my cheek. My stomach growled—maybe I was hungry, or maybe letting go of such a heavy thing had emptied me out. I grabbed a plate from the cabinet and filled it with bhel puri and tandoori chicken. Mom handed me a fork as I sat down.

  “He was surprised. And hurt. And—”

  “What I don’t understand is, if you’re such great friends, why didn’t you think he could handle you being pregnant?”

  She exhaled slowly, staring out the small curtained window to the yard. “Paul was different then, Mads. I’m not sure he would have taken the news the same way. He got this dream job and his hub was based in Spain. We went to Atlantic City to celebrate. We saw this indie band he’d been following, and played roulette and craps—we won—and it was . . .” She looked out the window again, but instead of being wistful or sad, she fought a smile, chuckled to herself. “One of those nights you never forget.”

  I nearly choked on my food.

  “I know it’s weird to talk about it like this, Madison, but I wasn’t sure I’d see him again once he moved.”

  “So you asked him if he could . . .” I said, suddenly conscious of what an intimate question I was asking.

  “No, it wasn’t formal or anything, it just happened. It was—”

  “Please stop, I think this is about all I can handle right now.”

  “Isn’t it better to know we were friends who loved each other, instead of someone random who disappeared?”