by AJ Matthews
She picks up the handset of the old wall phone with the long cord. I hear her side of the conversation. “Johnny, it’s Norma. Got a young lady who needs help. Uh-huh. ‘Bout a mile past our exit on 95. What color’s your truck?”
Oh. Me. She’s asking me a question. “Blue. A 1985 model.”
She relays this information into the phone. “Thanks, son. You’re a lifesaver.”
My chest heaves, a hot breath rushing out when she confirms the reason for my joy. “You’re in luck honey. Johnny’s headed up now.”
I head outside, and Mac is still listening to his music, but his thumbs fly over the virtual keyboard on his phone. He must be texting with one of his parents.
He glances up when I come out, at least. He pulls out his ear buds but says nothing.
“They’re towing the truck back here.” I search his face, but his expression is blank.
“Okay. Cool.” I expect him to get lost in his music again. He surprises me when he doesn’t, but silently stares into the distance. He taps his fingers on his legs like he’s still listening to music, or playing a song stuck in his head.
I stuff my hands in my pocket and pace up and down the sidewalk, kicking at random leaves and crumbs of food. I go back into the store and grab a bottle of water. When I walk back out, an aged tow truck rumbles into the service station drive and turns around so the pickup is next to the closed door of the service bay.
A man jumps out, his red hair poking out from under his black-and-white trucker hat, with freckles meshed together into one clump across his pointy nose. He ambles over. I’m anxious, but he doesn’t know this, so he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry.
“Hey there. You Miss Díáz?” He touches his hat and nods in my direction. His drawl is thick and lazy and slow, like his walk.
I arch an eyebrow. “I am. How did you know?”
“Checked out the registration in the glove box. Like to know who I’m working with.” He blows a pink bubble and swallows it back into his mouth. The gum crackles like my nerves.
“Ms. Díáz is my mom. Call me Trini. I appreciate you taking the time on your day off to help me out. You don’t know how much this means.”
“Happy to help, ma’am. I mean, Trini. Now, while I take a gander, you and your boyfriend …”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I snap, which is uncalled for. “I mean, he’s my friend.”
Johnny’s forehead scrunches up a little. “Alrighty. Perhaps you’d like to grab a bite to eat across the way.”
He jerks his head at a restaurant sitting on the corner at a diagonal from the service station.
“Yes. That’ll work.” Mac walks toward the restaurant.
My stomach rumbles in response. I didn’t eat much for breakfast, and the suggestion of a hot meal tempts me.
I nod. “Thanks.”
My legs work double-time to catch up with Mac’s long-legged stride across the parking lot. We cross the street and head to the Graham Swamp Motel and Diner.
My shoes scuff across the multi-colored linoleum tiles, and we grab a floral-vinyl covered booth in the back corner. Mac sits with his back to the window. “So I can find all the exits.”
He points at the front door, and the exit sign painted on the door opposite our booth.
Right. He’s told me this a few times now. Was this a topic of discussion in one of his support group meetings? To be prepared for emergencies or ways out in case a new place gets overwhelming?
The waitress, Fran, according to her nametag, saunters to the table, pen poised over her notepad. She tips her chin at me. “What can I get for y’all?”
“Water.”
“Of course.” Her face falls, probably because she sees her tip dwindling, so I order more. “Chicken noodle soup, too.”
She faces Mac, who points at the menu, another trick he’s learned to avoid prolonged eye contact with strangers. “This. The club sandwich. No mayo. Side of fries, and a soda.”
He offers a quick smile and thanks to Fran. For him to execute all three actions at once is difficult, and I am proud of his effort.
We place the menus back in the holder behind the napkins, and Fran walks back to the kitchen. She comes back and slides our drinks in front of us, then wipes up the wet streaks of soda dripping over the edge of Mac’s glass. He tears the paper off his straw and sticks the red plastic into his glass. He sips the drink and rips up the remains of the straw wrapper into bits. A tune might help. As I am about to encourage him to put his ear buds back in—which he doesn’t normally do while eating because his mom frowns on the practice—a neon glow catches my eye.
There’s a CD jukebox next to the exit door, so I pull a worn dollar from my wallet and walk over. The selection is older, with the newest stuff being from the early 2000s.
Country, country, boy band, rap, more country.
Oooooh. Here’s a terrific one. Green Day. Nimrod. “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life).”
I pick a couple more songs since we get three selections for a dollar—Tonic and Oasis—and head back to the booth. Mac approves of the choice. His fingers are tapping out the chords on the yellow laminate tabletop while he stares up at the white water-stained drop ceiling tile.
Fran comes back in a few minutes with my soup and Mac’s food. He ferociously devours half of his sandwich in sixty seconds flat. I slurp on soup and sip ice water, but my stomach growls at the notion of toasty bread topped with turkey and ham and bacon.
Mac rotates the plate clockwise, putting the second half of the sandwich within my grasp. He nods at the plate. “Are you sure?” I ask.
“Mm-hmm.” His mouth is full, and his parents chastised him enough not to talk while chewing, so he mumbles instead.
“Well, thanks.” I pick up the sandwich and take a bite. It’s so yummy.
I stare longingly at the fries but avoid taking any because salty, fried things are a trigger for bingeing. Now is not the time for such triggers.
After I swallow the second bite of food, my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but answer because it could be the garage. “Hello?”
“Hey Miss … I mean, Trini. It’s Johnny. From the shop. Across the road.”
“Oh, hey.”
“Well, I got good news and bad news.” He doesn’t wait for me to tell him which I want first. “The good news is it’s a cheap fix, and will be fast—”
I sit up straight, smiling at the excellent news.
“—but the bad news is, I have to order the part. Since it’s an older truck, the part’s gotta be delivered, but it’ll be here tomorrow at ten.”
My shoulders slump and the smile slides from my face. “Oh. So it’ll be ready by tomorrow afternoon?”
I try to hide the disappointment in my voice. My resolve is slipping away.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll leave the truck locked in the garage tonight, and I’ll be heading home now.”
“Of course, of course, go home. Again, thanks for taking time on your day off. Could you do me a favor and pull our bags out and leave them in the store? We’re almost done with lunch, so we’ll be over in a few minutes.”
“No problem at all. I’ll call when the part comes in and I get the work done.”
“Cool. Thanks.” I hang up the phone, and my text alert dings immediately.
Dean: Hello? Are you checking messages?
Not from you, asswipe.
I paste on a smile so Mac doesn’t suspect anything. He’s too engrossed in eating, cleaning the plate of fries, and downing another drink to notice my scowl.
“Was that the mechanic?” He stares at the now-silent jukebox. So he did hear the phone conversation. At least he didn’t read the text.
“Yep.” I take another bite of the sandwich and swallow before continuing. “The truck won’t be ready till tomorrow afternoon.”
He squeezes his eyelids shut. He’s processing. I wait a minute, then his eyes pop open. “Oh. So we have to stay …”
His gaze slides to the window, f
rom which the motel side of the building is visible.
“Seems to be our sole option. Not ideal, but it should be okay. We’ll get a room with two beds.”
He swallows and nods.
Because two beds is for the best. Because I don’t want to sleep in the same bed with my best friend again. Because sleeping in the bed with your opposite-sex best friend who kissed you a couple days ago is weird, right?
Now that I know about his feelings for me, am I starting to have them, too?
“Beyond my limits/That’s where I need to go/The only thing that will let my love for you show.”—Lyrics from “Fearless” by Mac Kelly
THE WHITE PORCH on the exterior of the Graham Swamp Motel gives way to an equally cheerful lobby. Trini asks for a room, and the front desk receptionist smiles and requests ID and a credit card. Because we’re under twenty-one, the clerk says they’ll have to put a hold on the credit card until they verify after check-out that we haven’t damaged the room. Makes sense. Most young people renting hotel rooms probably only have two things in mind. I don’t think Trini and I will be doing either.
Our room on the second floor has two beds, like Trini promised in the diner. I’m battling how I feel about this. I’m not good at sharing space, but she’s the only one I am comfortable touching outside of my family. Not to mention I like touching her, and I like when she touches me.
She sleeps the afternoon away on top of the quilted pink bedspread while I text back and forth with my mom and Shay. They check in every thirty minutes to make sure I’m okay. I am for now, but they might annoy me to death.
Mom tells me I can come home anytime, but she’s wrong, which I tell her. I can’t leave now, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. I need to see this through for my friend. If nothing else ever comes of us, she is my friend and she needs me.
I try not to watch her while she sleeps because it’s creepy, right? She mumbles in her sleep and I brush her hair out of her face repeatedly, because every time she moves, dark curls fall into her eyes. She’s having dreams. Not sure if they’re bad ones, but I don’t want to wake her.
The sun sets out of view of our room, and the sky fades from a bright blue to purple streaked with gray clouds. I run down to the diner to get us something to eat in the room, but the restaurant closed at three o’clock. The motel clerk tells me there’s another place a short walk to the east, toward the beach.
I shake Trini awake. “I’m hungry.”
She swipes at the drool on the corner of her lip as she sits up and blinks. “Um, okay, let’s go to the diner.”
I shake my head. “They’re closed. Not open for dinner.”
She rotates her neck and stretches her arms over her head. Her breasts rise with the motion, and I imagine how they would feel in my hands.
“Okay. Let’s check the book . . . She climbs off the bed to reach for the area guide book on the round table next to the dresser, but trips on the edge of the bedspread and falls right into me.
I push her away for fear she might feel my erection.
She stumbles to the bed, eyes wide.
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you.” Change the subject. “So the front desk clerk told me where to go for dinner.”
Her eyes grow bigger. I guess she’s shocked I initiated conversation with a stranger with no one around to back me up.
I shove my flippers into my shoes and stand facing the door, waiting for her to get ready. The click of the interior door tells me she went to the bathroom, and the telltale flush of the toilet confirms this. The sink runs for a couple minutes, stops, and then she comes out.
“Let’s go.”
My brain is foggy, drowning in hydrangeas, and I can’t move. She slips her arm around me and unlocks the door, then turns the handle before nudging me out.
The sign for the restaurant stands at the corner of the establishment’s parking lot, its bright white background and giant red letters welcoming diners to The Jukebox Saloon. Do they actually own a jukebox with real CDs like the one we played in the diner earlier? One with actual records would be cool. The more music plays, the less anxious I become.
I open the heavy oak door of the restaurant and remember to step back and let Trini in first because it’s the polite thing to do. A familiar scent hits me. Not because I’ve been here before, but because it’s a lot like the smell of my uncle’s place back in Key West. The faint trace of beer is overpowered by the savory aromas of Buffalo wings and onion rings frying up in the restaurant’s kitchen. The lights are dim, and lively conversation rings throughout, also much like Paddy’s place. The single sound I’m not familiar with is a clanking of heavy objects smacking together. My ears trace the source of the noise to two billiards tables in the far corner.
“Welcome to the Jukebox Saloon. Two of ya tonight?” Out of the corner of my eye I spot a dark-haired guy, not much older than us, grinning at Trini. My insides knot up, and my hands open and close at my sides.
She pushes her hair behind her ear, which I’ve read is a sign of sexual interest. She smiles back at him, her white teeth almost blue from the reflection of the neon beer signs lining the restaurant’s entrance.
“Yes, just us.” She takes my hand and wraps her fingers around mine.
“This way.” He leads us across peanut-shell-littered boards—another similarity to Paddy’s—to a high-top table sitting next to a stage with a microphone and a stool. Written on a dry erase board set up on the floor below the stage are the words “Open Mic Night.”
No way. Absolutely not. My stomach flops and my head throbs at the idea of getting up and performing in an unfamiliar place.
But would it hurt for me to try?
My body answers the question with a pain that shoots down my arms and through my lungs. So many unknowns. The acoustics of the place, the makeup of the audience, preferred musical styles of the owners. I never worry about these things at my uncle’s place.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. The best things never come easy, right? I can try to do this. I can do this. If I swim through this gigantic wave of fear, Trini will recognize I am making strides to overcome the hurdles.
Open mic nights are a lot like karaoke. They bring out great singers, but also rotten ones. I’m pretty decent, so I could elevate this night for the spectators.
The dark-haired guy, who tells us his name is Adam, takes our drink orders.
After Adam drops off our drinks, an older man, balding and about fifty, dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans, rumbles into the microphone, “Hey, folks. You may have noticed the sign here about open mic night. We’d love to hear all you amateur singers. Be sure to sign up on the sheet at the bar.”
Before the vise of fear grips my gut in a death-like clutch again, I slip off my stool and walk in a trance-like state to the bar. I print my name in block letters so they can read it clearly, but also to convince myself I can do this.
I get back to the table, and Trini stares at me wide-eyed. “Did you sign up to sing?”
“Uh-huh.”
Adam comes back and takes our food orders. I’m not sure if I can eat the cheese steak sandwich I ordered. My stomach roils again, and my feet take on a life of their own—one side tapping against the leg of the table, then the other.
I push the napkin dispenser, ketchup and mustard bottles, and salt and pepper shakers to the back edge of the table, lining them up in a neat row. Trini wraps her short fingers around my wrist, pushing my hands away from my nervous habit. I want everything on the outside in order, since my insides are so disorganized.
“You got this, Mac. You’re gonna kill it.”
Not literally, of course, but I know what she means.
The first singer takes the stage, a pretty blonde, about thirty, who smiles and bows when a few people applaud.
Someone calls out, “Looking good, Teresa!”
She must be a regular, and I admit, she’s talented, hitting all the high notes of Heart’s “Magic Man” as she strums the six-string i
n her lap.
Adam brings our food out, the cheese steak enticing me to take a few bites. Trini picks at her salad, eating the grilled chicken and bits of egg. She puts down her fork between each bite, chewing and swallowing before she takes a sip of water. She squeezes lemon into each new glass Adam brings. He seems to be checking on us more than the other tables. This bothers me for some reason.
Teresa ends on a strong note, strumming out the final chords before shrugging and smiling at the audience, who clap and whistle appreciatively. I’ve learned the difference between polite clapping and sincere applause, and this group seems to like her.
The next singer, a guy about my age, is one of the not-so-great ones. His nerves show when he laughs into the mic and his fingers skid across the strings. He hits a few sour notes, and I wince. With time, he will get better. For now, it’s a little painful, and when he finishes, he gets the polite applause before bolting off the stage and running to the bathroom, guitar still in hand.
How many people thought the same of me the first time, or the first dozen times, I played at Paddy’s?
I got lots of quiet, polite clapping. I also got better at performing.
Playing in front of strangers may not be ideal, but no matter what, I can always chalk this up to experience. This will make me a better performer, and put me one step closer to pursuing my dreams.
No matter how terrifying.
I take another drink of my soda, chewing on the straw. My turn. I was third on the list, and the first two are done.
I’ve been practicing the notes to the song in my head, which does no good without a guitar. I need her guitar. I can’t ask the other guy since he took off toward the restroom.
I hope she’s okay with sharing, because the idea of asking her makes my palms sweat. I slide from the stool again and go over to where Teresa is sitting with a group of friends. Four friends to be exact. I wipe my palms on my jeans. That’s a lot of people to approach when I don’t know a single one of them. My breath comes in shallow pants, and I remind myself to slow down.
