See Her (Turn it Up Book 1)

by Natalie Parker

  She’s flattered. I had a good time too. Goodnight

  I set my phone down and try to get back into my book, but the words of his text are floating around my head and glowing like a neon sign. After a few minutes, I resign myself to the fact I’m not falling asleep anytime soon, and get up to go do some work on my next paper. After drafting a good outline, I’m finally sleepy enough to collapse back into bed.

  Jack

  A bead of sweat rolls down my temple as I furiously work the strings of my electric, adrenaline coursing through my body. The sound of Matt’s bass guitar and Chris’s drums are pounding out of the speakers and causing a thump in my chest that makes me surge on, as we sing a song about a guy whose girl drives him crazy but he just can’t stay away. Matt’s ex inspired this one, and he and I wrote it together. I know we’ve got a major crowd tonight, but I can barely see them past the lights we’re under, as I keep playing the frantic rhythm that Matt and I decided this song should have. I’m connected to an amp that’s giving off just the right distortion to create the feeling we want to give out, helping the listeners to experience the energy of the song. I belt out the lyrics, standing so close to the mic, you’d think it and I have a score to settle.

  You mess me up

  Then you set me right

  You wanna play

  Then you wanna fight

  Oh, what do we do about us?

  And what do I do about you?

  I need to walk away,

  But I can’t stay away,

  I can’t take you,

  But I can’t shake you

  It’s the last song of the night, and we crush it. With a few powerful strums of the strings and hardcore drum out, we end with a bang. We give our usual ‘thank you’s to cheers and whistles in the crowd. We played until closing time and now we’re grabbing some drinks as the crowd is ushered out of the bar. It’s nice this way. We can catch our breath and pack up in peace.

  It’s 3:30 by the time I get home. I let Trooper out, take a shower, and then collapse on my bed, exhausted. But I’m thankful. I love playing those songs with those guys, and I don’t care where we’re doing it. As the buzzing in my head quiets down, my mind sleepily drifts to Mayzie. Before we went on tonight, I was still thinking about her, and while I don’t want to bombard her so soon after meeting her, I decided shooting her a quick text wouldn’t hurt anything. I’d waited a minute, to see if she’d respond and she did. Then I put my phone in my guitar case and walked on the stage with a smile on my face.

  5

  Mayzie

  “… five, six, seven, eight! And bump, two, three, four…” Annie calls out the steps to the music. We both have our left leg planted straight while we kick out our right hip to the beats.

  Havana ooh na

  “Kick ball change.”

  Half of my heart is in Havana ooh na

  “Pirouette, two, three, four…”

  He took me back to East Atlanta ooh na

  We run through the first verse and chorus of the song that Annie learned at the studio yesterday, getting me caught up to where the class left off.

  “Done!” she proclaims.

  “Thanks for getting me caught up,” I say, as we both take a drink of water. “It’s a little more Latin than Jazz, but I like it.”

  “I knew you would; you can’t resist salsa hips.” She’s not lying. My hips are my greatest asset on the dance floor and I own it. “Now, the burning question, where to go for lunch?” She says as we slip into our shoes and grab our bags.

  “I kind of want breakfast,” I say as we walk out her door.

  “Well if we hurry, we can do Maggie’s,” she says, locking her door. While I live more on the edge of town, Annie lives closer to mid-town so her house is walking distance to some of the shops and restaurants. It’s 11:00, and Maggie’s serves breakfast until 11:30. We can be there easily in twenty minutes, but Annie powerwalks wherever she goes. When I first met her, I felt like I had to do the splits with every stride just to keep up with her, but after all these years, I easily adapt to her speed. To anyone else, we probably look like we’re headed to take someone out. Oh well.

  Annie is my best friend for a number of reasons. She came into my life when we were both in hell, I mean college. Only, it wasn’t so bad for her. She exuded the confidence of someone who loved who she was, and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought. We met in the dance troupe when we were placed next to each other for a lyrical number. We joked, laughed at ourselves when we messed up and talked a little between tries. Afterward, she insisted we hang out in her dorm, where we learned everything about each other. She knew her worth, and anyone who didn’t was a waste of her time. I, on the other hand, allowed myself to be at the mercy of anyone that showed me any hint of wanting to be around me, just trying to scrape up any shreds of validation which led to bad decisions, and being screwed over constantly.

  She was having none of that. The fact that she met me, liked me, and immediately wanted to be friends with me, planted the seed that I was worth someone’s company. That someone wanted to be around me, without me having to act like something I wasn’t, without sacrificing my values. And from there, she steered me away from situations when she saw me leaning towards doing something stupid or spending time with someone that would leave me feeling… less than stellar. She truly changed the way I saw myself, and thus the trajectory of my happiness. She set me on the true path of finding myself and being happy and at peace with that. To this day, I still harbor some self-consciousness, and that will never go away. I’ve found that that’s just part of who I am. The important thing is, that at the end of the day, I am true to myself.

  Annie kept going to school for a year after I left, and then decided she wanted to follow her passion for photography. She transferred her credits to the downtown university that offered an Associate’s, and within 18 months she was good to go. She’s started her own photography business that isn’t quite lucrative yet, but helps supplement her in the meantime. She does families, weddings and kids right now, but she hopes one day to be renowned. To be sought after by magazines and get to travel the world. I daydream that by then I’ll be a writer doing the same and we can do it together. We’re not codependent, I just struggle with the idea of not having her around.

  As usual, I enjoy our banter as we speed walk down side streets, joking and shoving each other, until we turn down the street that leads to the busier part of this area. It’s Saturday morning, and people are out; shopping, walking their dogs, running errands, or getting a bite to eat. We maneuver our way through the flood of people and duck into Maggie’s. There is a ten-minute wait, making my prospect of getting breakfast questionable.

  “Damnit!” I say, and then look up at the hostess. “Sorry,” I say, holding my hand up in apology.

  “Forgive my girl here,” Annie says. “She’s fiending for some French toast.” Annie knows I’m the hangry type, and that when I’m craving something particular, I’m like a dog with a bone.

  “Let me see what I can do.” The hostess says, laughing with her. Annie can make friends with anyone. She’s just a naturally social creature, making her so likeable that we benefit from it sometimes. After six minutes, we’re seated and I plead with our server, hands together like I’m praying, for some French toast and scrambled eggs, while Annie orders a club sandwich.

  "What have you got planned the rest of the weekend?" She asks, dumping a glob of ketchup onto her plate for her fries.

  "I don't know,” I say, shredding the hell out of my French toast. "Probably go to my parents in the morning. I haven't gone over there in a couple weeks. It’s been even longer for Ian though. They should probably be graced with at least one child's presence once in a while."

  "Ian still drowning in quicksand?"

  "Yeah. Although I don't think Tina is as bad as he makes her sound." I drizzle syrup over both the toast and eggs as Annie shakes her head at me. I tilt my head and shrug, acting like everybody does that and
she's the one with the problem, before continuing. "She just wants it to be loving and exciting like it was before they moved in together, and he seems to think that once he dropped his bags in her apartment, he was off the hook in the effort department. She's driving him nuts wanting attention, but if he'd just show her a little..." I shrug as I trail off. I stab a banana slice, chunk of eggs, and a bite of French toast all together on my fork and cram it in my mouth.

  “So…” she starts, and I immediately tense up. Fuck, here she goes. “Do anything interesting the other day?” She’s referring to Thursday when we argued about me never getting out and taking any chances. I still don’t know if I want to talk about Jack yet. I’m afraid if I make the idea of him exist somewhere other than my own little world, I’ll jinx it. I look up and shrug.

  “Well, I did get out,” I say, after swallowing my huge bite. “I checked out Hawthorne’s, that new place?”

  “Oh, yeah!” she says, nodding. “I hear it’s like a toned down, cozy Barnes and Noble.”

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding enthusiastically, hoping to keep her on this subject. “Cozy, yet cool,” I say with a wave of my fork.

  “Do anything else?” she asks, not taking the bait. I freeze.

  “Went for a walk… in the park.” It’s not a lie. She sighs, shaking her head. I say nothing. I just silently pray for her to take this conversation somewhere else. Thankfully, she does.

  “You should’ve seen this couple I had to photograph yesterday. Engagement pictures. Talk about a match made in hell. Ian and Tina have nothing on them…” I smile at her story, enjoying the juicy details of a control freak bride-to-be and her fiancé who argued between photo snaps, but also in relief. I feel guilty, and I’ll tell her about Jack, eventually. But I just need some time… to see if there will end up being much to tell.

  6

  Mayzie

  “Here, have some quiche,” my mother says, shoving a casserole dish of evil my way across her granite countertop.

  “Blech.”

  “Oh, come on, you still don’t like quiche? I thought you’d grow out of that. Try some, I bet you’ve changed your mind and don’t realize it.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t be such a brat. Try it.”

  “No!” I say, turning my head away with my tongue out.

  “Quit being a shithead and try your mother’s damn quiche,” my dad says, strolling into the room.

  “I don’t like baked egg mixed with vegetables. Give it to Ian.”

  “He’s not coming,” my mother answers. Figures. I kind of had a feeling Ian would be wrapped up in more Tina drama. When he has the weekend off, he can’t really justify not spending time with her. That’s one more reason I came over for breakfast today, in addition to the hopes my mom would make pancakes, that is. I’m only half here though. My mind is still swirling around Jack. I’ve known him for three days now, and it scares me that I’m so taken in such a short time. I don’t want to fall too fast, as that’s what’s led my confidence to take so many hits in the past. He said he’d call today, but I’m doing my best not to hold my breath. I guess I also came over here to give myself something to do, hoping to take my mind off it. Apparently, I’m desperate.

  “How’s work going?” my mom asks. I can see she’s given up on the quiche as she’s getting the pancake griddle out. God, I’m spoiled.

  “It’s fine. It’s not thrilling or anything, but the work is coming in nice and steady.”

  “Have you been looking for anything else? Something that would help you branch out and write what you want?”

  “Yeah, but just casually,” I say, shrugging and pulling out the pancake mix for her. “I would like to blog, or write articles at some point. I figure I have to pay my dues for a while, like anyone else.”

  “You know,” she starts as she measures a cup of mix and dumps it in a bowl. “They say you should journal every day. I read it somewhere that it keeps you disciplined as a writer.”

  “I know, but I struggle with that part. You know, writing when I have nothing to write about.” I wonder if that’s how Jack feels, trying to write songs. My job is easy, I write what I’m told to write about. I want to do something creative, express myself with words the way I do with dance, and even better, get paid for it. I’ve bought a journal, because as my mom says, it’s one of the rules of thumb for writers - to always be writing whether it’s something that’s going to be read or not. But it feels all kinds of awkward to sit down with it when I have nothing to say.

  “Apparently, if that’s the case, you simply write, ‘I have nothing to write about’, and go from there. Maybe write why that frustrates you,” she says, pouring little pools of batter onto the griddle. I’ve learned that too. I just don’t see how that leads to getting one’s creative energy to flow. I know she’s right because that is what I was taught while getting my writing degree. It was just the one basic principle I couldn’t latch on to. This whole subject is frustrating so I move on to another one.

  “Did Ian say why he isn’t coming?”

  “Spending time with that girlfriend of his,” my mom says, grabbing a spatula out of a drawer.

  “Probably trying to prove to us we’re wrong about him moving in with her,” my dad adds, walking back in to pour another cup of coffee before going back to the living room. He does a lot of drive-bys, just to add his two cents.

  “Do you not like Tina, Mom?”

  “I hardly know her, that’s the thing,” she says, flipping each perfectly round little silver dollar pancake on the griddle.

  “Tell Ian to bring her around more then,” I say. Ha. Brother Dear will love that.

  “It’s been a couple of weeks, honey. How’s everything else? How’s dance, and Annie?”

  I tell her about how Annie and I got together yesterday, and how she’s been busy trying to get her photography business going. So, pretty much nothing new.

  After breakfast, I’m helping my mom clean up in the kitchen when my phone rings on the counter. Jack’s name is flashing across the screen.

  “Oh, excuse me. I gotta take this,” I say, snatching it up and holding the screen out of view. I turn to leave the room and run smack into my dad. He looks down at me with an eyebrow raised. Seriously? I’m twenty-four. I step around him and head out of the kitchen and hear him mutter a sarcastic “Uh-huh,” as I disappear around the corner.

  “Hi,” I answer, as casually as you please.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” he asks. He sounds chipper for the morning after a bar shift.

  “Just finishing up breakfast at my parents’ house,” I say.

  “Oh, sorry. I can let you go.”

  “No!” Way to be obvious, idiot. “I mean, it’s fine. I won’t be here too much longer.”

  “Oh. So, what are your plans the rest of the day, then?”

  “Nothing solid,” I say, still trying to play it cool.

  “Want to meet me in an hour?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I can do that. Where?”

  “How about at The Cedar? Just come around the back.”

  “Okay. I will see you in an hour then.” I’m about to hang up when he stops me.

  “Wait. What are you wearing?”

  “Uhh… I don’t know if you noticed, but my number doesn’t start with 900,” I say, caught off guard by his question. He laughs.

  “Let me rephrase. Are you in long pants? Good shoes or boots?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve got on jeans and my combats,” I look down at my attire. My mother hates these boots. I smirk at the thought. “Why?”

  “You’ll see. How about a jacket? You got one that’s leather, or protective material?” Hmmm. I do believe that if I looked in my old room, I’d find a leather jacket. And if not in my room, surely in Ian’s.

  “Yeah, I think there’s a leather jacket around here somewhere at my parents’ house.”

  “Okay, make sure you bring that. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Okay, bye.” My face is in a go
ofy grimace as we hang up. What the hell does he have planned? A gang war? Are he and I going to meet up with his gang the Jets behind The Cedar to take on the Sharks? Should I bring my switchblade? Oh well, bring it on, as long as I get to hang out with this guy again. Listen to me. I don’t like how hooked I already am. It’s happened so many times in my life, each time chipping away at my self-worth. I wonder if I’m getting in too deep too fast, and if maybe I should’ve told him we should cool off for a couple of days. I just can’t see myself doing that though, and I don’t want to. I have to keep my guard up, and that’s all there is to it. I remind myself to keep my expectations at bay as I head up the stairs to my old room to rifle through my closet. It doesn’t take me long to find it. My old black leather jacket is still in decent condition, and I pull it off the hanger to try it on over my white, ¾ sleeve top. It still fits, and I marvel at how I wore this when I was a teenager, hanging out with a group of ruffians. It zips up the front, and has fashion zippers adorned on the pockets and on the shoulders. I check myself in my old closet mirror. I look like a dork wearing a jacket from high school, but I can’t help but let one corner of my mouth turn up at the sight. Hopefully Jack won’t laugh.

  An hour later, I’m walking around to the back of the bar, checking my watch to make sure I’m on time. My handbag is slung on my shoulder and my jacket is draped over one forearm. I recline back against the brick wall of the bar and try to relax. I’m stressing about how my feelings seem to once again be running away with me, but am quickly distracted by the thundering sound of a motor approaching. I turn towards the back parking lot’s street entrance to see a classic Harley pull in, its rider dressed in faded jeans, black motorcycle boots, and a well-worn leather jacket. It stops about ten feet away from me, and the rider cuts the engine. He takes his black helmet off to reveal rock-star bangs hanging in front of dark blue eyes, and a smile that just won’t quit when he turns his head in my direction.