The Secrets of Attraction

by Robin Constantine

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “It just— It would have been nice to know that he was my father.”

  “What do you think of when you think of Paul?”

  “I don’t know. Doughnuts? Airplanes? Loud Springsteen music?”

  She laughed. “Exactly. Fun stuff. I was afraid that if you’d known, you’d pay more attention to the time he wasn’t here than to the time he was, and it didn’t seem fair to either of you.”

  Now my head hurt. I just wanted to stop thinking.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t answer my phone before; that was total douchebaggery on my part.”

  “You don’t have to use that word—”

  “It fits, though. I didn’t answer on purpose. I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Can we just eat now, Mom? Please? I just want to eat, take a hot shower, do my homework. Be normal. This is all I can handle for now. Is that okay?”

  She picked up her fork. “Yes, but you know anytime you have any questions—”

  “I know where you live,” I said.

  After dinner I holed up in my room with my computer and the memory card from the Sadie Hawkins Dance. For the first time since that night, I was excited to look through the pictures, to see if there was anything portfolio- or yearbook-worthy.

  The first few were awful, blurry, random crowd shots that made me worry the whole night had been like that. What had I been thinking? Then I saw the one of Wren and Gray, which was . . . sweet, sexy. Their foreheads touching, Wren had a soft smile on her face; Gray, too—they were both in the same blissful, secret world behind their closed eyes.

  I scanned through some more. The selfies Zach and I took made my heart ache—we leaned into each other, cheek to cheek and grinning. Before he’d said that thing. We made a pretty scorching couple. Why had I gotten so annoyed that he showed up at Mugshot? Why couldn’t I just say what he wanted me to say?

  The shots of the hallway with the glowing balloons were striking; I knew I could play them up with some effects and turn the photos into something special. A definite portfolio piece. The one of me, Wren, and Jazz was adorable, one that even Piper would approve of—we’d captured a perfect moment, the three of us smiling, arm in arm but in a casual way. Maybe I’d have to give Grayson photo credit. I went back to the beginning of the pictures, to the first one of Wren and Gray, ready to start editing.

  I pulled up the cropping tool, selecting the space I wanted to focus in on, when my eyes fell upon something in the background. Not something . . . someone. Jesse. He was up against the far wall, staring into the crowd. A few clicks and I came in closer on his face. It wasn’t crystal clear, but his features were plain as day. He was looking at something, or someone; his gaze seemed too fixated to be spaced-out. I studied the way his jacket hung on him, the line of his jaw, how his hair swept across his forehead. I got up from the bed to grab my sketchpad and a pencil off my desk.

  You’re supposed to be finding pictures for the layout.

  My pencil scratched across the paper as I blocked out the dimensions of the sketch.

  Jesse McMann was an intriguing subject.

  TEN

  JESSE

  “TAKE IT FROM THE TOP,” I SAID.

  “Again, dude? Come on,” Tanner said. “Can’t we break for a minute? I’m spitting dust here.”

  “Two and a half weeks until we play, we have two songs down, last I checked that’s not a set. We’re outta here in twenty, T, you can make it. Maybe if you took off the hat.”

  “Nope.”

  Grayson wiped his brow along the sleeve of his Batman shirt. “It is kind of hot in here.”

  Practice had become too intense for my garage—twice a week was about all the neighborhood could handle before someone called to complain. We decided to pool some work cash and spring for space at Lot 23, a warehouse turned rehearsal studio between an oil refinery and a strip mall on the far end of town beyond the old rails. They had four rehearsal rooms, and Plasma was taking up one of them too. Small town, even smaller rehearsal space, we were bound to run into someone we knew. The competition made us work harder.

  Tanner lifted his strap over his head. “I’m gonna pass out, Jess, just let me grab a water.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Hurry.”

  I strummed the opening of the next song, turned to Grayson. He’d come prepared, at least—chugging from a water bottle he brought with him. After sipping he trickled some over his hair, shook it out, and laughed. I had to give him props—I’d never seen someone work so hard or make that much progress in such a short time. He attacked it.

  “You really think we’ll be ready?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I kept thinking about that jar on Declan’s desk—If you’re gonna blow it, blow it big!! We sounded better—would we be our best by Whiskey? Probably not, but we’d go down trying. The door creaked open.

  “Now we’re down to fif—” I stopped. “Hannah?”

  “Hey, Jess. I saw Tanner in the hallway.” She smiled. Her presence lightened the room—a butterfly coming in through an open window. My knee-jerk reaction to seeing her pissed me off—my nerves turned to live wires. Would that ever stop?

  “What are you doing . . . oh, I guess . . . Plasma,” I said, answering my own question.

  “Yep, getting ready for the battle,” she said, peering behind me.

  I turned. “Oh, Hannah, that’s Grayson, our new drummer. Grayson, Hannah.”

  Grayson nodded at her and stood up. “I’m gonna see what’s taking Tanner so long. Be right back.”

  She was silent, toeing the floor with the tip of her boot, until he left the room.

  “You never came here for our practice,” I said.

  “You never asked me.”

  “I never thought I needed to.”

  “Don’t start, Jess. I just wanted to say hi.”

  “And ask why I haven’t contacted Duncan about the song.”

  “Maybe. I guess. But now I know why you haven’t given it to him. You’re doing the battle too.”

  “No, we’re not. We didn’t get the entry form in on time.”

  “But Tanner,” she said. Just then someone shouted, “Douchebag!” through the hallway. We both turned as a cacophony of voices stormed closer and closer to the room. Tanner barreled in, followed by Duncan, Kenny Ashe, then Grayson, who lingered in the doorway, observing.

  “So you are doing the battle,” Duncan said. “Guess that’s why you’re still holding on to what’s part mine.”

  Hannah stepped back, closer to Duncan. It was a small movement, but one that felt like she was letting me know where she stood. The live wires in my chest sizzled momentarily. I wanted to roar, to make them all spontaneously combust and splatter against the walls, but I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “No, we’re not. We’re playing Whiskey Business in a couple of weeks,” I said. Duncan flinched. He’d been so pumped to play there when we sent Deck our CD.

  That’s what you get for boffing my girlfriend.

  “Then you’re not doing the battle?” Kenny asked. In a parallel universe, I’m sure Kenny and I were great friends. I admired his playing, and he had this rasp in his voice when he sang that I envied, but he was all technique, methodical. I could play by ear and it pissed him off so much that the one time we tried to be together in a band, it didn’t last after one practice.

  “No.” “Yes.” Tanner and I said it together.

  “Tanner?” I said.

  He nibbled the side of his lip before speaking. “I put in the entry form.”

  The battle meant nothing to me anymore. We had a real gig, we didn’t need this high school pissing contest where it always felt like it was more about who you knew than how you played. I was about to say as much, that we just wouldn’t show up and I’d give Tanner the fifty bucks for the entry fee back, when I saw Hannah lean into Duncan. They stood there . . . waiting.

  “Then I guess we’re doing it,” I said. “What’s the big deal?” I could see plainly what the big deal
was—they didn’t want the competition. And Duncan wanted the song, but part his? Fuck that.

  Tanner grinned and let out a “Whoop!”

  “Stupid hat,” Duncan said, pulling it off Tanner’s head as he left. Kenny and Hannah followed him out. Hannah gave me one last lingering look, which I returned with a stony glare. Tanner was still grinning as they left.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked when they were gone.

  Grayson bent down and picked up Tanner’s hat.

  “Geez, dude, this hat is rank,” he said, tossing it to him and wiping his hand on his jeans. Tanner caught it and slipped it back onto his head.

  “Because you were all depressed and shit, and I knew you would pull that tortured-artist crap. And I wanted to be sure this worked out.”

  “Am I this?” Grayson asked.

  Tanner punched his shoulder and smiled. “Yup.”

  “Tortured-artist crap?” I said.

  T’s face contorted into an exaggerated grimace and he clutched his hands to his chest. “I can’t play, it’s not fun anymore, Hannah ripped my balls off when she left me and the world has no meaning. You know, all that stuff that spills out after a few vodka lemonades.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said.

  “When is it?” Grayson asked.

  “After the Whiskey—first week in April.”

  “We don’t have to do it. It’s a stupid contest,” I said. “I just couldn’t back down when they were standing here.”

  “No, I’m in. That was hard-core,” Grayson said. “I’ve only played in basements.”

  “Then we’ve got fifteen minutes, let’s do it,” I said.

  “Why don’t we stay longer? I don’t think there’s anyone coming in after us,” Tanner said, pulling his bass strap over his head.

  “Can’t do it tonight.”

  “But dude, the battle? Whiskey Business? We need to practice,” Tanner said. “You’re not on tonight, what gives?”

  “Have to go see a girl about a logo.”

  I stopped home to take a quick shower and wash the rehearsal-space funk away. Lot 23 may have been soundproof, but it stunk. Madison was expecting me at six and I had about fifteen minutes to get there. I shrugged on a tee and towel-dried my hair. I hadn’t had a cut in months and the most I could say for it was that it covered my head. I ran a hand through it, pushing strands to the side so they wouldn’t hang in my eyes. Maybe I’d swing by Vito’s for a trim before I came home. My stomach growled. Mom had chili on the stove, but I didn’t think it was the best thing to chow on before meeting a girl.

  “Be back in an hour or so,” I called as I bounded down the stairs and out the front door, ignoring the questions that were hollered at my departure.

  I arrived at Madison’s with five minutes to spare, taking my time, climbing the two sets of stairs to reach her porch. My finger was poised to touch the bell, when the door opened.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Come in, come in,” she said, grinning. She held out her arms for my jacket.

  “Oh.” I shrugged off my jacket and she took it. I followed her into the dining room. The house was dim, her computer the only light source in the room. She snapped a switch on the wall, and the chandelier above the table slowly came to life.

  “Sorry. You ever do that? Lose track of time and the next thing you realize, you’re sitting in the dark? Seriously, if I hadn’t heard you stomp onto the porch I’d still be staring at the computer, oblivious,” she said, tossing my jacket over a highback chair.

  “Yeah, totally,” I said, looking around. “So whatcha got for me?”

  She slid into the chair in front of her laptop. Her computer was pulled up to a page with a modern-looking house on it; it was all lines and angles and looked suspended in the midst of trees and a cascading waterfall, but made sense somehow. I knew I’d seen it before. She jiggled the mouse, trying to close down the page.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Oh, just the most amazing house design, like, ever. Frank Lloyd Wright designed it when he was in his late sixties. His sixties. There’s hope for me yet.”

  “Wait, that’s . . . What is it . . . water . . . something . . .”

  “Fallingwater. You’ve heard of it?”

  “My aunt lives in Pennsylvania, not too far from there. It’s in the middle of Bumfuck and Where-the-Hell-Am-I.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s the most amazing part of it, isn’t it? That something so beautiful is in the middle of nowhere. Could you imagine driving up to it and staying there? Like that was your house?”

  “Are you doing a project on it or something?”

  “Kind of—I’m writing an essay on Frank Lloyd Wright and organic architecture for art, but . . . I think that’s what I’d like to study. Architecture. It’s like math and design all rolled up into one. I’d love to— Sorry, you’re here for this logo, not to be bored off your ass.” She shut down the window and opened up another file.

  “No, it’s cool. It’s just, wow, I feel like a jerk for asking you to do this, obviously you’re into bigger and better things.”

  “Please, ‘bigger and better’—this was fun. Well, it will be, if you like it,” she said, clicking through a few pictures before coming up to it. “I worked up three—all pretty simple, straightforward. I mean, you want kids to doodle this on their notebooks when you become a household name.”

  “Ha.”

  “Here,” she said, getting up. “Just click through these, see which one speaks to you. Want something to drink?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Water? Soda? No fancy leaf patterns, though.”

  I grinned. “Okay, water’s good.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen. The first logo was simple, just Yellow #5 in old typewriter lettering. The second one was a little funkier-looking, like the letters were dripping. Definitely something that could be doodled on a notebook. The third one popped. The Y in Yellow had a long tail and became part of the hashtag, and the five was stylized. They all spoke to me, maybe this one a little more. All of them made me wonder how much work she’d put into this. They were amazing.

  She came back in, two bottles of water in her hand.

  I flipped my bangs out of my eyes, but they flopped back into place. “I think I like this one the best.”

  “That’s my favorite too—I got inspired by looking at the back of labels. Tanner’s right; you’ll get loads of free advertising. Although I guess the whole unnatural food-dye thing is a little scary.”

  “What do I owe you for this?”

  “You don’t owe me anything. I can use this for my application.” She took her index finger and moved my hair across my brow, more serious than flirty. She tilted her head to the side, studying my face, then ran her fingers through my bangs, pulling them straight before letting the hair flop across my forehead again.

  “Application?” I said, trying to ignore what having her touch me, even in the most innocent way, was doing to my insides. Just be cool.

  “Who does your hair?”

  I laughed. “Does it? I don’t get my hair done. I get it cut. Vito. I know, I’m due.”

  “Would you . . . I could do it,” she said.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “No, I can—it’s sort of my thing.”

  She wasn’t joking.

  “When, like, right now?”

  “Unless you have somewhere you have to be. Sorry, I just think you’d look really good with it a bit choppier, maybe even a darker shade. It would stand out onstage more. I did Wren’s hair a while ago, blue highlights, but . . . Oh god, I’m being pushy. I just think, it might be fun.”

  If letting her dye my hair meant having her touch me again, she could give me a purple mohawk with hot-pink tips. “No, let’s do it.”

  “Excellent,” she said, tapping her fingers together like a mad scientist. “To the kitchen.”

  What had I just signed up for?

  “Is that a good tee
you’re wearing? ’Cause these are some heavy-duty chemicals. We’re going blue-black.” She dragged a chair across the floor so it was situated next to a small café table where it looked like she’d set up a makeshift hair salon.

  “We are?” Dark was one thing; blue-black was really dark. She waved her hand dismissively.

  “My mother can fix any hair disaster, so if it looks awful, you can change it before you play in Hoboken. Sit,” she said, gently pushing on my shoulders until my butt hit the seat. She shook out a black plastic cape and it billowed around me, falling into place as she snapped it closed at the back of my neck. Then she tucked a small black towel around the collar.

  “This probably isn’t the best time to ask, but where’d you learn to do this?”

  “My mom’s a stylist. She has a few clients who only come to the house, so I sort of learned by assisting her. I do my own, otherwise I’d be this horrible shade of dishwater blond that would make me just disappear in the crowd.”

  “You? Disappear in the crowd? Right.” It had come out without thinking—a friendly thing, but it sounded flirty. Was I flirting? Madison was anything but a disappear-in-the-crowd kind of girl. Even now, without makeup or anything fancy, she was pretty. But that night at the dance . . . damn. Maybe I was flirting.

  She chuckled as she lined up three bottles in various sizes on the table. She placed a black bowl, a flat black brush with a long thin handle, and a little thing that looked like a whisk on the newspaper. Then she began hooking up the portable sink to the one in her kitchen.

  “Do you need help or anything?” I felt lazy just watching.

  “Nope, just let me have my way with your hair and we’re good.”

  Was she flirting with me?

  Once the sink was hooked up properly, Madison grabbed a small jar of Vaseline and stood astride my legs. Her fingers were in my hair again, the tips grazing my scalp, smoothing the hair away from my face. She was so close—I could smell her lip gloss, something sweet and sugary like bubblegum. The way she was standing I could easily pull her down to my lap, run my hands along the smooth, soft curves outlined by her jeans, taste her mouth. My tongue felt on fire.

  “What’s, um, what’s up with the Vaseline?” I asked, the words thick and hot, lava spilling from my mouth.