“You need to join chorus!” the girl sort of shouted when Layla paused for a breath. Layla’s eyes popped open and she looked at me, and then at the girl, clearly a little embarrassed.
“What?” she asked.
The girl had long red hair that was pinned back on one side, revealing an earlobe pierced by two tiny gold hoops. There was another hoop through her right nostril. Her eyes were the green of hard pears, her cheeks the mottled pink of soft peaches. She had just a dusting of freckles (while I had a little over a million), and she was wearing a short denim dress that I instantly wanted.
“You really think I’m g-g-g-good enough?” Layla asked.
The girl smiled wide, showing her braces. “Are you kidding? Your voice is kind of unbelievable.” She seemed completely unfazed by Layla’s stutter, which made me love her for a second. She didn’t even blink.
Layla looked over at me again, and I smiled and nodded, because I’d been telling her the same thing for forever. I pushed my glasses further up my nose.
“I’m Layla Hassan,” Layla said to the girl. “And, this is C-C-Cl-Cleo B-B-Baker.” Layla normally hated saying my name because it’s so difficult for her (she was always more fluent with soft sounds than the hard ones).
I grinned. “Hey,” I said quietly.
“I’m Sloane Sorenson,” the girl said. “Valeria’s cousin. I just moved in here, with her, my aunt, and uncle. I’m gonna be starting at Chisholm in the fall.”
“That’s awesome!” Layla replied a little too enthusiastically. Her mouth hung open for a second before she was able to continue. “And you’re g-gonna b-b-be in chorus?”
“That’s the plan,” Sloane replied. “You know Valeria and everyone else, right?”
“I kinda know Valeria, b-b-but nobody else,” Layla said, and before I could react, Sloane was pulling her away.
I stood there awkwardly for a second, wanting to follow but feeling a bit like I wasn’t invited. Then Layla looked back at me. Come on, she mouthed. I grinned and followed her.
THE CHORUS GIRLS
In the living room, the chorus girls were laughing.
Sloane introduced Layla to everyone, and then Layla introduced me. Sloane sat in the center and pulled Layla down beside her.
Valeria smiled at me, but the other girls just kept talking. I stood there for a second until Layla said, “You-y-you mind scooting over for C-Cleo?” They did, a bit begrudgingly, and I squeezed in. But my hips aren’t small, so it wasn’t the most comfortable seating arrangement. And I was right on the edge, barely a part of them at all.
Though the chorus was much larger than these five girls, I learned over the next twenty minutes that they were the most popular. They were the five you wanted to impress if you were going to successfully infiltrate the theater kids clique, and they were the queens of the Shirley Chisholm Charter Girls Chorus.
Dark-haired twins, Cadence and Melody York, were sitting dead center telling a story about some new boy they’d just met. “He’s gorgeous,” one was saying. “He just moved here from Atlanta,” said the other. They were pale and petite and pretty, sopranos who never did solos, only duets, and the biggest gossips in school. They knew everything and they told everyone, and the only thing they cared about more than the latest rumors was music.
Sage Robertson had skin the color of gingerbread and long, relaxed hair. She was a mezzo-soprano, though she bragged that she could go lower. “I have range,” she assured us (though I had no clue what mezzo-soprano meant), and then she started talking about a concert she’d seen by a band I’d never heard of. Layla knew them, though. Sage was poised and measured in everything she said, maybe seeming more so as she sat next to the twins, who bounced and squealed and tossed their hair when they talked about anything. I could imagine her in Paris smoking a cigarette, or at a gallery talking about art with college students. I felt like a little kid as I sat next to her.
Valeria was a contralto (didn’t know what that was either), and had the prettiest voice, according to them all. A cloud of auburn curls surrounded her light brown face: based on the pictures all over the apartment, a perfect blend of features from her white dad and Puerto Rican mom. There was nothing about her personality that screamed Queen Bee, but she’d gotten into a prestigious summer program at Juilliard, so the girls just kind of made her the one everyone else listened to. That was, until her cousin Sloane arrived.
When Sloane started to talk, everyone listened even though she was the new girl in town. And Sloane talked to Layla like she was the most interesting person at the party.
“You’re cool,” she said to Layla, after Layla told them about getting one of her sister’s college friends to pretend to be Valeria’s mom so she could come to this party. Sloane said it with a small smile, like she was pleasantly surprised.
“Not really,” Layla said. “I stole the idea from a TV show.” But when Sloane laughed, I could tell Layla was proud of herself.
I just sat there, not completely left out, thanks to Valeria, who asked me a few questions, and Layla, who sort of gestured at me to agree with her about certain things, but definitely on the outside. And that was what I’d been afraid of—Layla spreading her wings and leaving me grounded.
I was happy for her, I really was. But I felt a little like I was disappearing.
* * *
—
The stars were out when I pushed my way onto the roof, and the sky was as dark as it could get in a city as full of light as ours. I wrapped my arms around my torso, though it wasn’t cold at all.
I’d gone up alone to see the fireworks, which soared from Coney Island every Friday in summer. I made an excuse about having to call my mom and then headed up the back stairwell on my own. I did have two missed calls from my mother, but I had no intention of calling her back. It was just nice to be out in the fresh air; to be alone instead of lonely; to be physically above it all.
I was taking a picture of the skyline when a text notification slid onto my screen.
Daddio: Having lotsa SOBER fun?
I smiled a little and sent him a quick one back.
Not really? I’ll tell you about it later.
Not really SOBER??
No. No. Jeez. Relax. I haven’t had a sip of alcohol. Not really having fun.
PHEW. I mean, I’m sorry the party sucks I guess. But Jesus, Baby Girl. Don’t give your father a heart attack.
I rolled my eyes, and because I felt a little guilty texting him and not returning her calls, I shot a text to my mom.
I’ll be home by 11.
Why didn’t you pick up when I called?
It’s loud.
Call me.
“Ughhhhh,” I said aloud. I started typing another text to my mom, Aren’t you with Daddy? He knows where I am AND what I’m doing, when I realized she probably wasn’t. She’d been working late a lot lately, and they’d been barely speaking even when they both were at home. I was trying my best not to think about it.
Before I could hit send, though, I got a message from Layla.
Where’d you go?
Roof. You coming up?
Just then, someone bumped into my arm and my phone slipped out of my hand.
“No! Shit!” I shouted, fumbling for the phone. A large brown hand snatched it up, when it was, I swear, centimeters from the ground.
“Holy…,” I said, staring at the magically quick hands.
“You’re welcome,” said a voice that was, without a doubt, baritone—maybe even bass (the one vocal range I did know). It made me think of thunder, and all the Shakespeare plays that start, ominously, with storms.
When I took my phone and looked up, I saw that the voice belonged to a beautiful black boy in a spotless white T-shirt. There was a small bronze key hanging around his neck from a navy blue shoestring, and because my brain is the worst, it was at that
exact moment that I remembered how Layla said some people would love me coming to the party as close to naked as possible.
I blushed. Hard. Then, to try and recover, I cleared my throat and shot back, “I didn’t say thank you.”
The beautiful boy smirked. His teeth were as white as his shirt; as white and shining in his dark face as the stars were in the night sky.
He crossed his arms. “Guess I’m sorry, then? For saving your phone from what was sure to be a screen-shattering fall.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Um. You bumped into me. If anything, you should have saved my phone.”
He laughed then, and I grinned and looked away from him.
“My bad then, Shorty. Glad I could be of service.” He reached out his hand. “I’m Dom,” he said.
“Not a shorty,” I replied.
“Damn, sis, can you give me a break?”
Then I laughed. “Yeah, sorry.” I grasped his hand. “Just not having the best night.”
“You are mad short, though,” he said, grinning again while our hands were still touching. I pulled away and swatted at him. He took a step back and I just ended up grazing the soft fabric of his shirt, dangerously close to his collarbone. (I’ve always had a thing for collarbones.)
A voice I’d recognize anywhere interrupted us. “Cleo Imani Baker!”
“Jase!” I shouted, turning to hug him. Jase Lin and I had dated most of ninth grade. We ended it on mostly good terms on the last day of school, but I hadn’t seen him all summer.
His thick bangs were hanging over his narrow brown eyes and he was wearing the tiniest bit of eyeliner. The neck of his black T-shirt was stretched out, so I could see how golden the skin of his chest was from playing soccer, presumably shirtless, since June. I was very well acquainted with his collarbone.
“I see you’ve met my dude, Dom,” he said, clapping Dom on the shoulder. “He went to soccer camp with me and Mason.”
Mason, Jase’s best friend, stepped out onto the roof next, with roughly half of the kids who’d been in Valeria’s apartment. It was suddenly very crowded and very loud.
“Yeah, she and I are old friends,” Dom said. He turned to look at Jase and Mason, and I noticed a swirling design cut into the close-cropped hair on the back of his head. “I saved Shorty’s—I mean Cleo’s—phone from near-certain demise.”
“Oh God,” I muttered.
“So by now you know,” Mason said, “that Cleo used to be Jase’s girl.”
“Really?” Dom said, sounding more interested than I thought he should.
I made a pukey noise. “Um, excuse me. I’m a lot more than that, Mase.”
“Right, right, right,” Mason said, thinking. He threw his arm around my shoulder. “Dom, this is Cleo Baker. Old-ass books and music lover; horrendous soccer player and all-around unathletic human; the shortest person I know.” He paused like he was searching for some positive thing to say about me and was having a hard time coming up with anything. I slapped his arm, and as he flinched, he added, “Oh, and English-tutor-extraordinaire!” probably because I was the only reason Mason was still on the soccer team. Before I had the chance to say you’re welcome, he turned to Dom and said, “And, you know. She used to be Jase’s girl.”
Both Jase and Dom cracked up, and I punched Mason so hard in the shoulder he genuinely winced. “I hope you find cooler people than these losers to hang out with, Dom,” I said.
“Well,” Dom said. “I did just meet you.”
I blinked. I bit my lip to hide an inexplicable smile.
Layla came out a few minutes before the first fireworks exploded above our heads, and joined our little circle. I moved aside to let her in and tried not to dwell on the way she’d excluded me on the couch.
“Where’d you g-g-go?” she whispered to me. “Why’d you leave me?”
“Because…I didn’t know who the bands were you guys were talking about. I can’t sing, so I don’t know what mezzo-alto means or whatever. And no one was talking to me,” I whispered back.
“Mezzo-alto isn’t a thing,” Layla said. She sighed and pulled out her phone, like she was mad at me.
“Have you met Dom?” I asked her, to try to melt whatever was making her so icy, and when she shook her head and waved, I introduced them. Mason flicked Layla’s collar and made a funny face at her, but she just stayed quiet.
I took out my phone to text her, though she was right beside me. We did that sometimes.
You good? I sent.
She sent back a shrugging emoji.
Were those girls bitchy after I left? Do you want to leave?
No, they were nice.
So what’s wrong?
Layla typed. I watched the fireworks while I waited for her to text back.
Sometimes I just wish I didn’t stutter.
I just wish this wasn’t a thing I had to think about all the time.
Like I’m at a party, having fun, and I don’t want to have to think about this.
Did someone say something? It usually doesn’t bother you this much.
It’s just, a lot of new people, you know?
I guess?
Usually I was the one nervous around new people, not Layla.
You don’t get it.
I looked over at her. She was staring up at the fireworks, and the bursts of color were reflected almost perfectly in her wide, dark eyes.
We suck at parties, I sent, and Layla smiled at the message a little.
When I turned around, Dom was watching us.
He stepped a little closer and said, “You wanna see a magic trick?” I kind of frowned at him. But then Layla nodded and started watching his hands. We all did.
Dom pulled a coin out of his pocket and held it up in one of his hands for us to see. “I’m gonna make this disappear,” he said. Mason crossed his arms like he’d seen this a million times, but the rest of us were riveted. Then Dom rubbed his arms, I guess to point out to us that he didn’t have any sleeves, and when he opened the hand that was holding the coin, it was gone. He held up both hands next, and the coin wasn’t in either. I gasped and clapped.
Layla said, “How d-d-did you do that?” even though she’d been mostly quiet since she came out onto the roof.
Dom’s eyes got big like he was offended. “C’mon, girl. A magician never reveals his secrets,” he said.
“Magic?” I asked, after everyone else had gone back to watching the sky. But what I really meant was Thank you for making my friend less sad. Dom shrugged, like what he’d done wasn’t a big deal.
“You seemed to enjoy it,” he said. “Cleo of the ‘old-ass books and music.’ ” He paused and angled his body more toward mine. “Exactly how old is this old-ass music?”
I shook my head. “Mason’s an idiot. But he’s talking about the jazz-age stuff I listen to. Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong—stuff like that. My grandmother used to play it all the time so it’s kind of comforting to me, I guess.”
Dom nodded and said, “My pop likes Nina Simone. You listen to her?” I nodded too, and he smiled his thousand-watt smile. I could see the design cut into his hair more clearly now that he was up close. It looked like the swirling blues in Van Gogh’s The Starry Night. As he stood there set against the real night sky, talking to me about music, something about him felt heavy with inevitability.
“Where’d you come from anyway?” I said, because I was almost certain he didn’t go to my school.
“I just moved here from Atlanta,” he said. “So I came from Georgia, I guess.” He must be the new guy Cadence and Melody were gossiping about earlier.
His eyes were full of something, but I didn’t know him well enough to say what. The night was young, and so were we, and everything else felt bright in the dark all around us. So I just smiled at him. This party had kind of sucked, but I
felt happy to be under the same sky with Layla, watching fireworks on a warm summer night. I looped my arm through hers, holding her close. And as the night ended, it felt more like something new, just beginning.
now
EXITS AND ENTRANCES
I spend most of the weekend after the snowstorm in Daddy’s warm apartment. Since the divorce, I’m officially supposed to spend every other weekend with him, and I squeeze in a little more time whenever I can. We mostly sit around in our pajamas when I’m over, drinking hot beverages, talking about the books we’ve read recently, and listening to music. But this weekend is a little different.
On Saturday, I spend most of my waking hours planning new-memory-making strategies. When Daddy sees me making a long list of all the places that remind me of Layla, he says: “You can’t approach your whole life like it’s a homework assignment, Baby Girl.”
This is such a Daddy thing to say that I have no trouble ignoring it completely. “But I can, though,” I say, before turning back to his laptop, where I’m reading articles about friendship dissolution and typing out my list and watching videos about how to get over a breakup. “As a librarian,” I tell him without looking away from the screen, “you should value research as much as I do.” He just shakes his head and pours me more tea.
By Sunday afternoon, I feel poised and ready to overwrite some memories. I decide to head to Dolly’s—Layla’s and my favorite diner. We’d meet there every weekend, usually on Sundays, to finish up last-minute homework, so it seems like a fitting place to start. Sundays are always a little sad because I have school the next day, and for Daddy and me, because we both know we probably won’t see each other all week. Now that I don’t end my weekends with Layla at Dolly’s, they’re extra depressing.
“Wanna come with me?” I ask, but he doesn’t seem into the idea. “I don’t want to think about her every time I walk past that restaurant,” I tell him as I slip my arms into my coat.
When You Were Everything Page 3
