by Alia Rose
Sitting in the restaurant now, I felt like a giddy sixteen-year-old on my first date. What loomed over me with my father and the inevitable I was heading toward—with Amy it seemed to disappear.
“Seth? Is that you?”
I froze, not familiar with the voice. I blinked and looked up at a guy about my age. He had sandy blond hair and a warm smile.
Will.
I looked at Amy, who had her eyebrows raised. Will followed my gaze. “Hey, Amy, how are you?”
“I’m good,” she said slowly.
I stood up and shook Will’s hand. “Hey, man. It’s nice to see you.”
He clamped my shoulder. “You too. It’s been a while.”
His eyes searched mine softly. I felt my stomach sink. I knew what was going to come next. The last time I had seen him flashed in my mind. It was the last time I had seen anyone from this town.
“Listen, I’d love to catch up.” He pulled out a pen and leaned over the table, scribbling his number on a napkin. “I saw your dad not too long ago. He told me about the jazz audition thing. That’s really great, man. I always knew you’d do something crazy like that. A full ride gives you that right, huh?”
He winked at me, and I smiled, even though my stomach clenched, wishing he hadn’t said that in front of Amy. Will had been my summer friend each year when I came back to this town. I never spoke to him during the year, but every summer we would run into each other and start up right where we’d left off the summer before. And now, after three years of silence, nothing had changed.
“I’ll let you two enjoy your dinner.”
I looked at Amy, who nodded and watched me as I slid back into the booth. Her eyes burned with curiosity, and I knew it was only a matter of seconds before she would plow into me with questions.
“You know Will?”
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “We would hang out in the summers I was here.”
She nodded.
“How do you know him?”
She gave me a look. “You do know how small this town is, right?”
She was searching my eyes. I felt so exposed. It was starting to become really real how small it was, and she wasn’t the only one burning with questions.
He spoke to my dad?
My dad knew about the jazz ensemble audition?
My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of our burgers, and I tried to focus on eating. The last thing I wanted to do was tell Amy everything about me. I was kind of starting to regret this date.
“So you really are smart. How does one get a full ride to music school? I’m pretty impressed.” She smiled at me, at what I’m sure she thought was a compliment.
My heart sank. I could count on my hands the number of people who knew about my quarter privilege. I blamed the lack of being proud or having any interest in my mom’s ancestry on my father, who in turn blamed me for what happened to my mom. Now, with the address in my pocket unlocking a whole house of unknowns, a father who wanted nothing to do with me, and a weakness for a girl that I had dragged into all of this, I was starting to see it as more of problem than a privilege, something my dad and I could agree on now.
And yet it was a part of me, and there was no way around it.
“Don’t be. It was a grant. I’m a quarter Native American.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Amy
It was the day after my dinner with Seth and I slowly walked home, wondering what I would find there. John had taken my advice and when I had gotten up that morning, he was already in the kitchen emptying groceries, planning a big dinner for the two of them. I had wished him good luck and got out of there as quickly as I could.
So when I reached the house, I hesitated before opening the door. I heard shuffling and then laughter. I jerked my hand away from the knob and just stood there. It was my mom’s laughter—a sound I hadn’t heard in a while. I slowly backed away from the door, not wanting to walk in and ruin the moment. I looked around me, weighing my options. It was about six now, and eating dinner alone didn’t sound very appealing.
My mind went back to what had happened the night before and the strange turn of events that began with the casual dinner date. It left me wondering about Seth’s reasons for keeping a part of himself quiet. I tried to put myself in his shoes and wondered if I would have hidden it or been proud of it. I would think the latter—I liked the idea of being able to expose people to something they weren’t familiar with. But it was hard to know for sure. I hadn’t seen or heard from Seth at all that day, which left me even more full of questions I wasn’t sure I’d get answers for.
I walked away from my house and in the direction of Sarah’s. I saw Sarah’s car parked in the driveway and was thankful she was home. This time I knocked on the front door. I stood there looking up at the yellow welcome sign. Way too cheerful.
I heard footsteps and Sarah poked her head around the door. When she saw it was me, she opened the door wider.
“You used the front door,” she said, surprised. “I’m impressed.”
I nodded. “You should be.”
I walked in and followed her into the kitchen. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” she asked, sitting down on the stool.
I shrugged. “I didn’t want to go home.”
She nodded. “You hungry?”
“A little.”
She got up and opened the freezer. “We have…” she said, looking through the frozen dinners. “Seven different kinds.” She turned back to me. “Take your pick.”
I looked over her shoulder. “What do you want?”
“You first,” she said, stepping aside.
I picked the macaroni and cheese box and moved out of the way.
“I don’t understand how you can eat that,” Sarah said, picking out the Chinese sweet and sour chicken.
“I don’t understand how this is your dinner every night.”
“Well, when your mom’s always working and your dad doesn’t know you exist, what else would you have me do?” She paused. “Cook or something?”
“Maybe,” I said while she snorted. I put the frozen dinner in the microwave and sat down.
“So how have you been doing since the breakup with Jared?” I had seen him around town lately looking pretty depressed.
Sarah looked taken aback by my question. “Fine.”
“Yeah? You guys dated for most of high school. You can tell me if you’re not doing all right,” I pressed. I knew Sarah well enough to know that she wouldn’t want to talk about it, but I felt obligated to make sure she was really okay.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She gave me a pointed look and I nodded, knowing to let it go.
“Kelly’s coming over,” Sarah said, checking her phone. “She’s jealous of our dinner.” She rolled her eyes. “Apparently it’s roast beef at her house. How awful.”
Kelly was rich. Her family owned one of the twenty beach mansions in town. Her house was perfect, her family quiet and proper. She grew up having three-course meals every day, and had tried sushi by the time she was twelve. For as long as I could remember, she had tried skipping meals at home so that she could come over to Sarah’s house or mine for something “normal.” Frozen dinners didn’t seem exactly normal to me.
We were almost through eating when Kelly walked in. She went straight for the freezer. “So guess what?” she said, digging through the choices.
We remained silent, knowing Kelly would continue on her own.
“My brother decided to get engaged.” She paused, walking over to the microwave. “He comes home, without the girl, claiming he’s totally in love and can’t wait to get married. They want the wedding in August before he starts graduate school.” She faced the microwave and put her blond hair in a ponytail. “Three months. They’ve only known each other for three months!”
She sighed and waited while the food whirled around. After a few minutes, she said, “My mom nearly collapsed. He showed us a picture, and if you ask me I think
she’s a little plump.”
She said this last part with a squeak. I looked up and she almost dropped her steaming food.
“That’s hot,” she mumbled.
Sarah looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Plump?”
“Plump,” she repeated, sitting down.
“As in…” I chimed in, “fat?”
“Or…” Sarah added.
“Pregnant,” Kelly finished. “Yup, my brother is marrying an impregnated college dropout and expects everything to be okay.” She dug her fork into the lasagna. “Does he not realize it’s not just his life he’s ruining? I’m going to be an aunt. An aunt and a college student. Somehow I don’t think that’s supposed to happen.”
“Well, at least you’re not the one who’s pregnant,” Sarah said, attempting to be helpful.
Kelly gave her a dirty look. “I just wish I had picked a college out of state. UNC is too close to this place. It’s within driving distance, which is not a good thing. They might threaten to make me babysit on the weekends or something.”
I stopped chewing and looked at Kelly. “Don’t worry, Kells,” I said. “You’ll be in college; you can bail out on weekend trips.”
“I know,” she sighed. “I just can’t believe he’s getting married.”
Her shoulders slumped and she got this faraway look in her eyes. Sarah glanced at me and we both just stared at Kelly, waiting for her to snap out of it. We weren’t good at pity, or comforting people. Kelly usually didn’t mind, though. Her mom fussed over her enough that our lack of effort went unnoticed.
“There’s ice cream?” Sarah offered.
Kelly perked up. “Really?”
Sarah nodded.
“I’ll pick the movie,” I said, getting up. When ice cream was involved, so was a movie. It wasn’t safe to let Kelly pick the movie. We’d all be crying our eyes out if she did.
Four hours later, after forcing Kelly to watch a comedy and eating three pints of ice cream, I escaped. I walked out, feeling a breeze blow over me. It was chilly for a June night, but that didn’t stop me from walking toward the beach. It was close to midnight now and the neighborhood was still. The only part of Shelby that would be awake was the “downtown.” It was a short street with bars and clubs. I rarely went to that side of town.
When I reached the boardwalk, I could see a large portion of the beach stretched out in front of me. I scanned the empty beach and stopped when I saw a figure sitting on the sand. I already knew who it was.
“So I have a confession,” I said, sitting down next to Seth on the sand. He jumped, startled by my appearance.
“What?”
“I have a lot of questions.”
“Okay,” he said. I looked at him. He had turned back to the ocean, his face unreadable. I realized this wasn’t exactly how I’d wanted him to respond. He didn’t say anything else, so I felt I had to.
“I’m not going to ask them.” I looked down at the sand as I said it. I wasn’t even really sure why I was telling him this. “I get it. You don’t want to let me in. You don’t want to talk about it. So I’m not going to ask.” I paused. “But I’m here if you change your mind.”
I took a peek next to me and found him looking at me. I held his gaze, trying to read his thoughts. Truthfully, I was embarrassed and my heart was pounding. I wished I hadn’t walked down here and opened my mouth.
Then he smiled. “That’s probably the strangest comforting thing anyone has ever said to me.”
I exhaled, pulling my hair back as he laughed at me.
“What?” I said over his laugh. “I mean it. Now stop laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“Oh, really?”
He grabbed my wrist, causing my hair to fall back down, hitting my shoulders. He ran his finger against the bone in my wrist and I felt like my heart had stopped. I held my breath.
“You know more about me than anyone has in years,” he said in a small voice. “So thanks for giving me the option.”
I nodded. More questions formed and I kind of regretted saying I would not ask.
A few seconds passed and he let go of my wrist. He nudged me and gave me a grin: an evil one. I scooted farther away from him. “Don’t even think about it.”
He smiled wider, getting up.
“Seth—” I started to say but didn’t finish because he ran into the water.
“No way—you’re crazy,” I called after him.
He didn’t answer me and just began to swim. I watched him go farther and farther, wondering about everything. I wondered what I was getting myself into. I didn’t understand why I was comfortable around him or why I felt like I could completely be myself, even with all the unanswered questions.
I watched him swim back toward the shore, still smiling while I kept wondering. Maybe it didn’t matter if I knew the answers to those questions. Maybe it was enough, just the way things were.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Seth
It was about nine o’clock in the morning, and I sat at the café drinking my third cup of coffee. I stared at the napkin with the address on it that sat in front of me on the table.
I felt angry every time I looked at it. I had contacted John at his company the day before, asking him to meet me. I decided I wanted to know more about the house before going to it and I felt he owed me that much. He had agreed, but there was no sign of him. It hadn’t occurred to me that he wouldn’t come. That, more than anything, surprised me: the fact that I’d had complete confidence he would show up. I felt like an idiot for thinking I was almost out of this. No, John always made things more complicated. Disappointment began to overwhelm my anger, but deep down I just felt empty. I wanted closure and I wanted answers.
I was so absorbed in thought that I didn’t notice someone sit down in the seat opposite me.
“So I woke up this morning and figured out what is wrong with your music.”
I turned my face away from the beach and found Amy sitting in front of me. I blinked at her, realizing she had just said something. I didn’t respond.
“Bad time?” she asked.
I exhaled and wiped my face with my hands. I kept them there, covering my face for a second. I had a headache.
“Sorry,” she said quietly. “I’ll just go.”
I felt her shift, her chair squeaking as she got up.
“No, don’t,” I mumbled.
“You sure? We can meet later?” she offered.
I didn’t reply, but she sat back down.
“You were saying?” I asked her, wanting to ignore everything.
She hesitated. “Um, your music.”
“Right. What’s wrong with it?”
And just like that, the conversation went. Amy didn’t ask about my mood or if I was okay. She just went straight into her points and opinions about my music. That was another thing that was so different about her. One of the things I hated about people was their caring levels. I would rather have someone who didn’t care at all than have someone care too much. I hated when someone would constantly ask me if I was okay and what was wrong. To me it was obvious that, if I lied and said I was fine when I clearly wasn’t, that meant I didn’t want to talk about it. Yet friends and girlfriends would always persist, making things worse.
It was a relief to find someone who acknowledged that I didn’t want to talk about it. It distracted me from everything else, and I wondered if that was her purpose. If it was, it had worked. And I was glad.
“The bottom line is,” she said, “it’s sad.”
“Sad?”
“Yeah, your music,” she said, stirring her coffee. “It’s all sad. I mean, do you ever think about happy things? You remind me a lot of Yellow Road.”
“People like sad songs,” I argued. Then I said, “Yellow Road?”
“Yeah, people who enjoy crying all the time.”
“What would you have me sing about, then?” I asked. “Sunshine on a summer day? Like Yellow Road?”
&n
bsp; “Hey, why not?” She shrugged and gave me a look. “Don’t make fun of Yellow Road. They are a pretty decent up-and-coming indie band. And they’re from North Carolina. You should be happy that I just compared you to them.”
I shook my head. “I would be if I had any idea who they are.”
She smiled. “Not hard to look them up. They actually exist as a band, unlike you.”
I returned her look.
“Okay, fine. Where’s all the love songs?” she asked.
I swallowed my coffee. “I don’t write love songs,” I said in a flat voice.
She stared at me. “Not one?”
I shook my head.
“Wow,” she said. “That is impressive.”
I furrowed my brow. “Why?”
She clasped her hands together and leaned forward. “Well, everyone listens to love songs. They’re everywhere. You can’t avoid them even if you want to. You’re a guy who plays guitar and piano in a jazzy, soulful sort of way; it’s hard to think you could fill that whole CD with depressing songs and yet the closest thing to a love song is about a one-night stand that ended badly.” She paused, raising her eyebrows. “What was that about anyway?”
“Nothing,” I said, processing what she had just said.
She continued, “Every artist I’ve listened to has at least one famous love song. People fall over for that crap.” She took another sip, grabbing her cup with both hands. “It sort of makes sense why you’re struggling.”
I looked at her. I’d never told her that my open mic nights were struggling. The fact that she could tell just by listening to the songs didn’t make me feel any better.
“Before, you said you liked them,” I said reminding her of that thought.
She nodded. “I did.”
“Really?” I said in a surprised tone. “Then what do you say about songs you don’t like?” She ignored my comment.
“I love the music,” she said. “The melodies are beautiful. It’s just that the words and the thoughts are off.”
For someone who was not an expert in music, she sure acted like one. “You’re sure you’re going into architecture?”
