Summer of Supernovas

by Darcy Woods

  “Well, voice we can work with.” He slaps a hand on the floor next to him. Dust motes dance like flecks of fine glitter beneath the spotlight. “Come on up.”

  I eye the raised stage, trying to decide the best method for getting up without looking like one of those sea lions I once saw on Pier 39 in San Francisco. Thank God for the stairs I notice to my right.

  Once I’ve settled down beside him, I smooth my dress over my legs. “Okay, maestro, now what?”

  He resumes his strumming. “Now we sing. You know the lyrics to ‘Blackbird,’ don’t you?”

  “Sing? As in…right now?”

  “Unless you have a rule against singing on Saturdays?” Grant asks with an amused twist of his mouth.

  “No, it’s just I might have a strong aptitude for sucking.” I push back one of my limp waves. “What if I make your ears bleed?”

  “My ears won’t bleed. And you won’t suck,” he assures me.

  But I’m not nearly as certain. My throat feels packed with wood shavings that absorb all moisture. “Can I…” I point to his water bottle, which he passes over. I take several generous gulps.

  However, I reason if I can sing for the Crotch—Mrs. Crotchler, my evil junior high choir teacher—I can sing for Grant. Because no one could be more heinous than the Crotch.

  He counts off, tapping the guitar—thump, thump, thump. The melody follows and the sureness of his fingers captivates me once more. The way they slide up and down the neck of the guitar and don’t get lost along the way. Mine would. My fingers would trip all over each other.

  He nods his head, indicating the start of the duet.

  And we sing. Grant’s voice is magnificent, like a boy version of the fabled sirens. I would totally splinter my boat against rocks just to follow that sound.

  “Louder, Wil.”

  Oh but I’d rather not. I’d rather close my eyes and let this quiet song and his smooth and gentle voice wash over me. The occasional squeak of the guitar strings lulls me, too. And so, because I want to capture it, I have to close my eyes, and hope the lyrics find their way past my lips.

  Our voices overlap in pleasant harmony. Just as he made me seem a better dancer, I think he’s gone and done it again with his singing.

  And when the song ends, I savor the last chord before opening my eyes.

  Grant’s staring at me. He smirks. “Yeah, you suck.”

  I shove his arm. “And you just talked yourself out of future cinnamon rolls, my friend.”

  “I’m kidding!” He laughs. “That was great—no joke. You’ve got an awesome voice.”

  “Thanks. Even if you’re only saying it to make me feel better.”

  “I mean it, Wil.” He glances down at the guitar. “Hey, uh, I could teach you to play…if you want. Seems a shame to appreciate music the way you do and not play something.”

  Did I say yes? I must’ve, because he pushes the guitar with unbridled enthusiasm into my lap. The instrument is warm against my stomach and thighs.

  “Check you out, you’re a natural,” he says, beaming. “Okay, but you want to hold it like…” He springs to his feet, crouching behind me. His arms cage either side of me. “Here, like this. Bring your elbow down. Good. Now relax your grip. Relax, Wil,” he murmurs at my ear. His upper body brushes against my back as he arranges me in the right position.

  Relax? He’s lucky I haven’t splintered the poor guitar. I feel every place Grant is near, whether he touches me or not. I want to lean back and melt into him. And my heart doesn’t thump; it makes sonic booms. His voice is close at my ear as he guides my hands into position.

  “Let your hands get used to the feel of the instrument. Don’t worry about how it sounds. Just play around with it. See how the tension varies in the strings?” Grant carries on with his impromptu lesson, gushing about sound holes and bridges and headstorks. Er, headstocks.

  Meanwhile, goose bumps have declared a Million Man March across my skin. And I’m freaked he’ll know. He’ll know he’s the reason—him and his damn Pisces allure! I need to strengthen my defenses. Ignore the way he smells. The way he speaks. Focus only on the acoustic guitar. See? I’m paying attention; I know what kind of guitar it is.

  “Like this?” I ask. The instrument plink-plonks with none of the audible beauty it had in Grant’s skilled hands.

  “Yep, that’s it.” His words blister my shoulder. Does he have to do that? Be all…all blistery?!

  I bristle, and zero in on the feel of the strings. How the thicker ones are rougher, and the thin ones slip more easily past my fingers. But…it’s not working. Not with Grant wrapped around me like night on a star. Just when I’m about to run like a screaming nut job off the stage, my cell rings.

  There is a God in heaven! Thank you!

  I release the breath I’ve held hostage. “I should get that,” I say, shoving the guitar to his lap and rocketing to my feet.

  “Could be Seth,” Grant says with a hint of annoyance before turning away.

  I retrieve my phone from my bag, near the stairs. “Nope, it’s Gram. Hello?”

  Grant busies himself packing up the guitar.

  “No. No, I can be there. Half hour.” My pause is immediately followed by my grandmother’s breathless run-on stream of hysteria. “Gram, calm down. We’ll get it done. We will. Okay, bye.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “Well, it’s not a health crisis, just a baking one. Sisters of Society put in a last-minute order for twelve dozen cupcakes for an event tomorrow. Gram’s been trying to slowly cut back on the workload, but the money’s good, so we can’t really refuse—”

  “A hundred forty-four cupcakes, huh? We better get rolling.” He jumps down from the stage.

  “We?”

  “Sounds like a perfect time to call in one of your favors from the Cricket win, Songbird.” Grant holds out a callused hand.

  I take it in mine, making the four-foot leap to the floor. “Um, that’s a pretty huge favor. I wasn’t aware you baked.” And Songbird? Is he giving me a nickname?

  “I don’t.” He goes to a wall panel and begins flicking switches. The club gets progressively darker. “But I’m done here and you seem desperate enough to go for it.”

  “Grant”—I sway my head—“you don’t have to do this. You’re under no obligation to help my grandmother and me make cupcakes. I release you from your servitude.”

  “Look, the guys stayed out late last night. No one will be vertical until about three in the afternoon. Might as well be of use somewhere.”

  “Okay,” I reply uncertainly as we head to the front door. “But Gram’s going to insist on paying you for your time.”

  “Luckily, I accept most pastries and major credit cards.” He pushes the door open to the late-morning drizzle.

  “You’re positive? You’ll be giving up an entire Saturday. I mean, I’m sure you can fill your day a thousand other—”

  “Wil. I’m positive. Now, I’m gonna lock up and set the alarm. Meet you around front.”

  I stare into his brown eyes, which also possess a fine web of gold. That must be why they always look so warm. So arresting and—

  “Wil? This would be a great time to say thank you, Grant, and hop in your car.”

  “Um, right…thank you,” I breathe, and race into the rain.

  Dean Martin’s velvety voice sings of booze and love lost as we jog up the sagging front steps of my house.

  “So Gram’s got this thing for Dean when she’s on a tight deadline—her version of Red Bull. He recorded over five hundred songs, so, you know…prepare to get Dean-faced,” I say to Grant as I slide my key in the lock. I peer up over my shoulder. “It’s not too late. You could still turn back.”

  Grant is smiling. “What, afraid I might possess a secret black belt in baking?” He shakes the rain from his hair.

  “No,” I laugh, assured of my cupcake superiority. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  We step inside. Grant follows my lead as
I tug off my red galoshes and set them on the mat under the bench. His beat-up Chucks tuck in beside them, looking perfectly at home.

  He peeks around the hall into the living room, where two overstuffed chairs and a large green sectional sit—just as they have since the Reagan administration. Antique plates hang on the wall, along with a large framed collage of sketches, watercolors, and finger paintings I made during various stages of development. The grandfather clock bongs. His eyes wander the detailed woodwork from the baseboards to the coffered ceiling. “This place has so much character, so much history. It’s like it’s got its own soul.” Grant’s expression turns sheepish. “Sounds crazy, huh?”

  “Not at all. The soul, the character, I think that’s what makes it home. What’s your house like?” I ask, hanging my bag on a hook.

  “Different. Not like this.”

  “Oh. Well, kitchen’s this way.” I push through the door. “Gram? I’m here! And I brought reinforcements!” I turn down Dean’s crooning several decibels.

  “Angel of mercy! Reinforcements, you say?” Gram’s head is partly in the oven as she puts in another tray of cupcakes. Closing the door, she wipes her hands on her violet-covered apron.

  “Gram, this is my friend Grant.”

  A look of confusion flickers over her face. “Have we met?”

  “No, ma’am. You’re probably thinking of my younger brother, Seth. There’s a strong family resemblance.”

  “Ah.” Gram’s spectacled gaze takes in his rumpled flannel shirt, frayed jeans, and bare feet. Her blue eyes twinkle. “And I’d venture that’s where the similarity ends.”

  He flashes his cutely crooked front teeth. “You’d venture correctly, Mrs. Carlisle.”

  “Please, call me Eve.”

  My head snaps up; I stare at Gram. Excuse me, has Grant suddenly become a bridge club member? What the…And where in Orion’s belt is the Triple G—the Gram Gauntlet Gaze? She wields that on everyone she meets the first time. Is it because Grant’s being sweet and helpful that he automatically skips to the informal exchanges? Or is it because he’s not Seth? I fret, considering the latter.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, Mena, we’ve got plenty of work to do. Get this dear boy an apron.”

  I go to the wall and select the least flowery apron from the bunch. I settle on the one with dancing strawberries and bananas shaking maracas.

  Gram swivels back to Grant, who is unbuttoning and shedding his flannel layer, his trademark gray T-shirt lurking beneath. “Now, son, I want your word that what you’re about to witness today”—her voice turns ominous—“will not go beyond these walls.”

  His forehead wrinkles into a very serious my-word-is-my-bond expression. “I swear it, Eve.”

  “You’re positive? Because that old crone Rima Bazinski has been dyin’ to get her liver-spotted mitts on my Caramel Turtle recipe, and if she knew how I get the caramel to—”

  “Gram,” I interrupt, donning my own poppy-covered apron, “he’s got it.”

  “Then what am I blustering on about?” She claps. “Let’s get to baking! And, Mena, turn ole Deano back up. I can barely hear him.”

  I exchange glances with Grant, who is fighting back a laugh.

  “Warned you,” I mouth.

  The afternoon passes in a flurry of flour and frosting. Six dozen completed. The only cupcakes left on the order are the Toasted Coconut and Hubba Hubba Hazelnut. I’ve just put the last batch of Key Limalicious in the oven and set the timer.

  Unfortunately, Gram has to run back to the store since Grant—in lieu of lightly toasting—blackened the coconut. He stared at the stinky, tar-colored curls like he’d committed a cardinal sin. Which, I guess, for the coconut it was—death by Black and Decker toaster oven.

  We’re also famished, so Gram offers to pick up sandwiches from Valentine’s Deli on her way back from the grocery store, following a pit stop at the bank. Generally, these are the kinds of errands that could be accomplished in less than sixty minutes, but Gram’s speedometer rarely sees anything over thirty-five. I expect to see her next Tuesday.

  And I’m alone with Grant. Again. It’s beginning to feel like a damn cosmic conspiracy.

  “I don’t get your T-shirt,” Grant says, passing the baking tin for me to dry. “What does it mean?”

  I changed out of my dress after the burning incident, hanging it on the back porch to air out. Now I’m wearing jeans (a travesty) and a navy T-shirt that depicts a stick figure carrying an overflowing pitcher. Underneath it reads: AQUARIANS ALWAYS GRIN AND BEAR IT.

  “Well, I’m an Aquarius. Aquarius is the sign of the Water Bearer, not to be confused with an actual water sign—which is what you are. I’m air.”

  “How do you know what I am?” Grant asks, handing me another pan.

  “Very educated guess. My mom was sort of an expert on the subject, so I guess you could say I was born with an affinity for the stars. Even after she di—” I press my lips together. I didn’t mean to let that slip. I power on with my T-shirt explanation before he questions it. “Anyway, the T-shirt…the water inside the pitcher represents truth, which Aquarians give freely to the world. The ‘grin’ part is in reference to our most likeable trait—friendliness.” My eyes flick to Grant as he rinses a baking sheet. “Yours is compassion, if you were wondering.” Not that he should, because it’s his compassion that has him scrubbing dishes in my grandmother’s kitchen.

  “Interesting.” His lips tilt up. “So, you never lie? Ever?”

  “Grant, I’m still human. Sure, there’ve been some white lies, and I did sort of allude to writing an astrology book at Absinthe, but, by and large, yes, I tell the truth. Even when it’s difficult.”

  “Okay, so let’s have it. Give me a hard truth.” He turns to the counter and grabs a stack of dirty mixing bowls.

  Oh, jeez, there are innumerable hard truths I could tell. And none of them are ones I should. I take a bowl from the rack, wiping it dry.

  He misunderstands my apprehension. “Look, don’t sweat it, I can handle it.”

  “Um, all right,” I say carefully. “But you should get a chance to do the same—offer me a hard truth. I’ve got a moon in Libra that demands balance.”

  Grant clamps his lips to mask the emerging grin. “Okay, Wil, I followed about half of what you said. But yeah, I’ll swap you—truth for truth.”

  I put away more dishes, buying myself time to come up with something that doesn’t feel dangerous. “You’re a brilliant musician,” I say, turning back around.

  “That’s your hard truth?” He chuckles. “I’m disappointed in you, Songbird.”

  “I’m not done, Captain Antsy Pants. Now, as I was saying”—I walk back to the sink, assessing his tall form—“you have this incredible musical gift. And you practically lit up like the aurora borealis when you were teaching me this morning. So”—I plant my feet—“it’s positively criminal you’re going to U of M in the fall to study business. Business, Grant?”

  “It’s what I have to do.” He scrubs a little harder, sloshing dirty water on his torso. It doesn’t bother him. Course, neither did fishing the eggshells from the trash for Gram’s compost. I try to envision Seth doing either of those things and the image won’t come into focus.

  “What you have to do?” I repeat skeptically. “You know, Seth’s talking about having all these European adventures after graduation next year. Meanwhile, you’re pursuing an uninspired career that will bind you to the family empire. You’re doing what’s expected.” I touch his arm; he flinches a little. “Grant, you’re doing what’s safe, and that’s not embracing life. That’s not living. Hard truth: The guy I saw on stage, he embraces life. He squeezes out every last drop.”

  “That’s all very poetic, Wil, but you’ve only got half the picture.” His jaw clenches, then relaxes. “I owe them…my parents.”

  “Why?” I find myself staring at the tattoo again.

  “Let’s just say I wasn’t always a model son. And let’s just say, if
it weren’t for their unconditional support…my life would’ve turned out very different.” He closes his eyes. “So I owe them everything. They believed in me when no one else would.” Several moments pass before he returns, eyes slowly reopening.

  I want to ask questions but I don’t. Because I know if our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t care to satisfy his curiosity by dredging up my own past.

  His mood shifts, becoming lighter. “And really, it makes sense for me to eventually take over the firm. I’m the oldest, and way more responsible. That, and Seth couldn’t calculate his way out of a paper bag.”

  I laugh. “True, but he’d probably fold the bag into a really cool airplane or something.”

  Grant nods. “Okay, my turn.” He pulls the plug; the drain gurgles. “Are you ready?”

  I feel light-headed. Must be low blood sugar. I dip my finger in a bowl of leftover buttercream frosting. “Go ahead,” I say, licking my finger.

  “I like you in jeans.”

  I whip my towel at him. He catches the towel’s corner and yanks it from my grip, using it to mop the wet spot at his stomach. “That’s not a hard truth,” I say, using his words against him.

  “Honey, I’m not done,” he mocks. Somehow his use of the word “honey,” even in jest, warms me more than liking me in jeans. “You’re fearless. And…wondrously…strange.” I meet his gaze. “That last part was a compliment.”

  “Uh-huh, I sense a giant ‘but’ coming on.” I cross my arms. People’s opinions have never mattered much to me, but right now, I’m terrified to know what Grant thinks. Actually his “but” has me sweating bullets.

  “But I think you use this astrology stuff as a crutch.”

  Is that it? My body feels solid again. I shake my head and smile. Because I could rebut this in my sleep. “And why wouldn’t I use a system backed by thousands of years of exhaustive research and study? It’s a navigational aid, Grant, a tool for making sense of the world around us.” I move to the island and begin putting cupcake liners in the clean tins. “Astrology gives us a broader sense of purpose and insight into what we’re doing here.”