by Phil Stamper
A couple of hours later, I wake to a mostly silent room. Sun creeps in from the window, and my jeans and tee are crumpled from the nap. I change into a different tee and a pair of khaki shorts, and venture out of my room.
This will be my home for the next three months.
That’s not enough time, I know that. But I have to make it work. Anxiety rips at my throat, but I swallow firmly and steel my core. Deep breath in, long breath out. And repeat.
I peek into Shane’s room. He’s got headphones on, his eyes are closed, and he’s fully into his foremost musical passion. One that makes entire symphonies, but one that technically produces no sound: conducting.
He’s conducting in four, but at times switches to two, then builds to a passionate stop. He swivels away from his computer, to the left, to focus on fictional violins. He swivels right, to cue the oboes, or maybe flutes, and opens his eyes.
“Fuck,” he shouts. “How long were you there?”
I try not to laugh at his panted breaths and panicked face. I fail. “You’d think I just caught you jerking it.”
He thaws a bit with a laugh. “That would have only been mildly more embarrassing. I guess I’m not used to having people around.”
“Sorry, roomie. You’re stuck with me. What were you conducting? Brahms? It felt like Brahms.”
He shakes his head. “Care to try again?”
“Well, it was way too loose to be Bach. Beethoven?”
“Close. Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto.”
This makes sense, as he leads a double life as a pianist. And a triple life as a good horn player. Actually, he can kind of play everything. It makes me sick.
The looming conversation also makes me sick, but I have to do it. I can feel the layers building around him after catching him in such a weird, vulnerable moment. He’s turned back to the computer, and the silence has filled the space.
“Sorry if I was short with you earlier. Are you annoyed with me about what happened with Pierce today?”
He sighs, and begins to speak. “I’m not annoyed with you. I’m a bit peeved at Pierce for making a move on you, but it’s my own fault. We’ve been planning this, you and I, for a year. I should have asked for a different audition date, or something. But he told me he could do it, and you seem to really like him. I guess I’m just being …”
“Overprotective?” I ask. The Shane of my trip last year was so much less serious, more carefree. Until the end, at least. “Is this because of what happened last year? Like, that sucked, obviously, but I’m here now.”
The silence between us expands, and I worry I’ve said too much. Guilt gnaws at me, and I get the very real urge to flee.
“You were so good at pushing us out. I thought you got grounded; then I was worried maybe something worse might have happened. It was just like what you did to me after your coming-out catastrophe. Mate, you panic when I don’t respond to your email within a day, even when I’m, like, working. Could you imagine if I dropped off the face of the earth after our families got in a huge fight?”
A pause. I don’t really know how to respond to that.
“Yeah, I would be majorly freaked,” I say, taking a seat on his bed. My body faces the door, and I realize even now I’m looking for an escape. “I didn’t want to make you worry. But it was so bad.”
“I know, I know.” He rolls his chair over to me and wraps me up in a hug. “It’s just, you’re basically the only family I have. At least, the only family I have born in this generation.”
“I was all in my head, but you and Aunt Leah were there for me. I don’t have much of an excuse, but I am glad you two clawed your way back into my life.”
“We always will.” He smirks. “But truly, it’s fine. I’m being cautious for no reason. Pierce is just a bit of a heartbreaker. And you know I’ll support you through anything, but I need you to physically stay here in order for me to do that. I’m not going to lose my cousin again.”
“Until you become that famous horn player from the Les Mis orchestra and get too good for me,” I say, deadpan.
“Precisely.” He sticks out his chest and spins gracefully away on his rolling chair. “I’m already starting to forget who you are.”
A key clicks into place in the front door, interrupting the moment. I stand and walk to the doorway, so I have a direct line of sight when Aunt Leah comes in. She sees me and drops her groceries on the table hastily in a near sprint to welcome me with open arms. Literally.
I’m about a foot taller than her, but I’m still squeezed into her embrace so tightly I’m not sure I could get out if I tried.
“How was the flight? How have you been? You’re a secondary—I mean, high school graduate now. Your mum showed me all the pictures.” There’s a pause as the weight of their strained relationship barrels into the conversation. “Well, I saw it on your dad’s Facebook.”
“That counts,” I say to lighten the mood. “Flight was as good as it could have been. I’ve been fine, doing better now that I’m here. Shane’s friend Pierce picked me up and took me to see Parliament and Big Ben, and now I never have to be a tourist again.”
“Pierce? Pierce Reid?” She looks to Shane, who’s just met us in the kitchen. “Why weren’t you there?”
He blushes. “About ten minutes after you left this morning, I got a call from, uh, the Les Mis orchestra casting director. She liked my portfolio, I suppose.”
“Shane? Did you have an audition?”
Her hands come up to cover her gaped mouth. He offers a shy grin in response.
“So that’s why you’re wearing your nice M&S shirt. I thought you were just trying to make a good impression with Marty.” She shakes her head. “But more important, oh my god! Congrats, honey. Well done.”
She nearly barrels him over with a hug, but I see his awkward expression from here. We’ve both always had trouble celebrating our successes, so I should definitely find a way to drop this jealousy and be more supportive of him.
“Let’s celebrate tonight,” she says. “I’ll pop by the shop and get some bubbly. Oh, that reminds me—I got you groceries that should last for a while. I was going to cook, but between your audition and Marty’s big move, let’s do a proper Sunday roast down at the Alexandria. What do you say?”
We agree to dinner, and Shane and I start packing away the mounds of groceries. I see a few American staples slipped into the mix—boxed mac and cheese, peanut butter—which makes me smile.
“I had to raid the tiny American section for those,” she says with a laugh. “Want you to be as comfortable as possible. I’m really nervous about leaving you boys alone here all summer, but I’m so happy you’re here to keep Shane in check.”
She winks and Shane groans. I try not to let my anxiety show. Three months is not a long time.
“I’m just so glad Lizzie was okay with this. She still won’t return my calls, but I’ll do for a nice email every once in a while.” I flinch at the mention of my mother. At the mention of the email I wrote from my mom’s account, assuring Leah I’d be fine in London alone, all summer, with Shane. Somewhere, just outside my mind’s reach, is the knowledge that this is all going to crash down on me. But …
Once everything’s already crashed down on you before, how much worse could it get?
EIGHT
I have no idea what time it is. Strike that, I know it’s ten in the morning. But my body has no idea whether the sun is rising or setting, and the cloudy sky doesn’t help the confusion. Aunt Leah just left, and I’ve spent the last hour trying to get sorted, which is another British term I’ve decided to lift. “Sorted” sounds much more proper than “organized.”
My phone’s all set up, so naturally I’m already on an early-morning FaceTime call with Megan. She’s talking about her upcoming breakfast plans with Skye. I don’t bring up the fact that she outed me to him, and she doesn’t either. She’s got to know she made a mistake, but now that I think about it, she’s never admitted to a mistake before. So I
don’t know what I’m expecting.
The whole time I half participate, focusing more on the new reeds I’m making for my oboe. Though I tell her briefly about Pierce. She goes on and on about how I should “kiss that bloke” and live my gay life to really stick it to my parents. But Shane comes in, and I don’t feel like talking about him anymore. I end the call and continue the meticulous process of making my own reeds.
It takes forever, and makes me wish I’d taken up the clarinet or something a little less hands-on, but it grounds me. There’s nothing that makes you feel more connected to your instrument than crafting the piece—shaving the thin pieces of wood, tying them together with string—that you use to actually make the music.
“You’re really in the zone there,” Shane says. He’s warming up his own instrument. Actually, just the mouthpiece, running a high-pitched duck call up and down in pitch until he feels his lips are warmed up enough to try it for real. He puts the mouthpiece in his French horn. “Duet?”
“Oboe and French horn?” I laugh. “That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Fine, a solo it is.”
He’s not the best technician, and I don’t think he’d ever claim to be, but you can tell he really gets music. He puts more feeling in what he performs than most, and it’s necessary—having the ability to emote makes him the perfect fit for a subtle, harmony-driven instrument like the horn.
His phone lights up with a text.
“That’s Pierce,” he says. If he’s feeling weird about Pierce after our conversation yesterday, he doesn’t say it. “They’re doing a jam session in the park after classes end. Want to join? They’re usually quite fun. Dani knows a marching band teacher from the States, and she gets sent all this commercial pop music. It’s not super challenging, but after the days they have at the academy, it’s nice to unwind.”
“Oh, um, sure.” I think back to something Megan told me before I got out of the car at the airport. “Say yes to everything. Even if it makes you shit yourself. Be the Nike swoosh.”
I embody the Nike swoosh. I just do it.
I’ve been up since, like, four in the morning, thanks to jet lag and my crash nap yesterday, so while Shane goes to shower and get ready for the day, I pack my laptop and take a walk. A sourness gnaws at my gut, because I know I need to call my parents before they freak out, but I don’t want to FaceTime them from Aunt Leah’s place. They bolted out of here a year ago with no remorse, so they don’t get to see it.
Any of it.
It’s a Costa Coffee, a chain I’ve seen often enough around here, even though I’ve only been here one day. I order a hot chocolate and take a seat near the back. As I connect my laptop to Wi-Fi, I idly swipe through my phone and ignore the woodsy tea smell that invades the entire space.
It’s around noon here, so seven at home, which means Mom’s already left for work. I send a FaceTime request to Dad’s phone.
Under the table, my legs shake, as I wait for the call to light up my laptop. Each time I force my legs to stop shaking, they start again. It’s the only thing that eases the worry inside me, the panic pouring through my body. I try to sort out what’s causing the anxiety:
I’m not really missing them, but shouldn’t I be missing them already?
Is it that my shoddily made tower of lies could crumble at any second?
Will just hearing his voice invoke some sort of trauma?
Either way, this is a shitty situation. Dad’s face fills the screen, and his voice tumbles into the speaker.
“Hiya, Mart.” He leans back and flips the camera to the side, then back, to try to get the view. He’s never really gotten the hang of this. “You’re not at your aunt’s?”
“Decided to take a walk and went to a Costa Coffee. That one we went to last year a couple times.”
“How was the flight? How’s London? I think you’re starting to pick up the accent already.” His voice is almost perky, which brings my guard down a bit. It’s always hard to remember that even if they were shitty to me about certain things, they do genuinely care about me as a human. Even if they don’t act like it all the time.
Dad’s on the porch with a glass of orange juice. I recognize my home—my old home—in the background. A bit of warmth fills my insides at the familiarity of it all.
“It’s all okay.” Vulnerability creeps into my voice. “Just, you know, different here. It’s finally starting to hit me just how far away I am from Avery. I’m not homesick or anything, but, you know.”
He nods. Takes his time in forming a response.
“Hold on.”
He taps on his phone to check a message. Or at least, that’s what I thought he was doing, but when he looks back at the camera, he says, “Okay, you’re at that Costa Coffee, right? I’ve got their menu up. I want you to go and get yourself, let’s see … a sausage roll, a Bakewell tart—remember when they had to make those on that British baking show?—and a mince pie.”
“Mince pie, like, a meat pie? No thanks.”
“I’m on the dietary page and it’s marked vegan, so I’m pretty sure this is a fruit pie. Or it’s one sick joke by the baristas. Go ahead, do it. Or get something different that looks good. I’ll put some money in your account later; this is our treat.”
I laugh. “Noted.”
A couple of minutes later, I come back to my table in the back corner with the goods.
“Okay, now what?” I ask.
“Well, you eat them.”
“Sure. A sausage roll, here goes,” I say. I take a bite, and the flaky pastry crust and boiled, reduced, or otherwise tortured meat hits my tongue. I chew. Consider. “It’s not bad. It’s actually better than it has any right to be.”
“Exactly. Next, what do we have?”
“I got the mince pie,” I say. “And some kind of tart. I can’t believe you’re force-feeding me junk food.”
“They call them sweets there,” he says. “Get it right or you’ll never fit in.”
After tasting both, I look into the camera and arch an eyebrow. “Okay, they were both proper delightful treats. The point of this?”
“The point is that everything you just ate? You can’t really get them in Kentucky. It doesn’t exist, even at the fanciest of coffee shops.”
“You mean Starbucks?”
“I mean Starbucks.” He smirks. “These pastries are different, but it’s okay. You’re still here. Life still moves on.”
Nike swoosh.
“Look, your mom didn’t want you to go. You know I didn’t want you to go. But we can’t help but think this is good for you. There’s so much to experience. It’s a different world, maybe too different for us, but I think you might like it.”
I look down.
“I guess I’m just scared,” I say. And I already feel vulnerable for saying it, but I have to. “I don’t know how to make this—um, this school stuff—work. It’s like I have this idea of a perfect life all planned out, but I’m not sure how to get there.”
He laughs. Pauses. Then his voice drops. “I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”
We share an awkward glance—you never know when a parent’s going to decide to be way too honest about their feelings—then I avoid his eye contact, even if it’s digital.
“That reminds me,” he says. I watch his smile fade. “You might have already found this, but Mom slipped your necklace in your bag while we were at the airport.”
“Oh, she did?” I groan.
I have not found that, or I would have been dreading this call even more.
“It’s part of the deal,” he says. “We can’t keep an eye on you over there, and we know Leah’s not religious so I assume Shane isn’t either. But you know how important it is to us. How it’s always been to you. Wear the cross, find a good church nearby. Be the person God wants you to be.”
There’s so much he isn’t saying. So much lies beneath the idea of who he thinks god wants me to be. But I’m seventeen, for the next three months,
at least, and I know that I have to keep the charade going.
So I keep lying.
“I will. Tell her I said thanks.” I sigh. “I’ll find a church, don’t worry. There’s one just across from here.”
“What kind of church?”
The kind with pentacles all over it.
“I don’t know, Dad.” I’m over it, and he can tell. “Can’t really be picky here.”
I’ll never understand how we can be so open, and how they can be so kind, then close up so quickly. How their version of god can drive a stake through the heart of our relationship, and they don’t even realize it’s happening.
We mumble our goodbyes, but it’s already too awkward. I try to hold on to the good parts of our conversation, and our relationship. But it’s hard, sitting here godless and alone, looking at a blank screen.
NINE
“Are you ready to meet the crew?” Shane asks as we walk down the tree-lined path to Green Park. We’re both carrying instrument cases—his is a bit large and awkward to fit the size and shape of his French horn, and mine’s petite and contained. Though I’m also carrying a little cup of water with my new oboe reed resting in it, tip down in the water to soften it before playing.
“Ready as I’ll ever be. Remind me of the names again?”
“Right. Rio, clarinet. She’ll likely boss you around. Dani, flute, and her boyfriend, Ajay, who’s a pianist but he’s not much of a public performer. He just sits around with us.” A beat, and then he says, “And Pierce, of course. That’s more or less our group.”
I say the names and instruments in my head like I’m practicing with flash cards.
“That’s a small group, I can handle that.”
“Actually, a lot of people join this thing. Like twenty, maybe more—that’s just our crew. Pierce and Rio can be a little protective of our circle, but you’ve already passed Pierce’s test, clearly.”
The way he says it makes me think I’ve done something wrong again. But am I being too sensitive? Am I reading into things?
“When did you start getting close with Pierce?” I ask, hoping to gain more insight into their friendship.
