This Song Will Save Your Life

Of course, this was normal, I reassured myself. Char and I didn’t have a talking relationship. We had the other kind, the kind where you don’t talk. So his silence meant nothing.

  My dad sat in his armchair, fiddling with his guitar. He strummed a few chords and mumbled to himself. It mostly sounded like, “Hmm, mmm, mmm. Yeah yeah yeah. Mmm la la. Yeah yeah.”

  “New song?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I was thinking the Dukes could play it at Solstice Fest, if I could figure out some lyrics. What do you think?”

  What I thought, silently, was that no one at Solstice Fest, or anywhere for that matter, was interested in hearing a new Dukes song. They just wanted to hear “Take My Hand,” and they would put up with other songs if they had to.

  I had traveled with my dad to a lot of his shows. The best destination concert was when I was twelve. I got to go on an oldies cruise to Jamaica with him. I got my hair done in dozens of tiny braids with beads on the ends, and I swam in the Caribbean.

  But what I remembered most clearly about this trip was the Dukes’ set. They played a bunch of new songs and B-sides while the audience sat there politely. Then they played “Take My Hand,” and the audience went nuts for it, obviously.

  Once the song was over, the lead singer said to the crowd, like it had just occurred to him, “Hey, do you want us to play it again? It’s only two minutes and twelve seconds long, after all.” The crowd roared its approval, and the Dukes started “Take My Hand” right back from the beginning.

  Even as a twelve-year-old primarily focused on eating a pineapple popsicle, I felt that there was something heartbreaking about this. Because the Dukes knew the truth: that nobody at all gave a shit about what they’d been up to over the past thirty-five years.

  The Dukes seemed just as happy to be playing their hit single the second time around, and the audience seemed just as happy to hear it. Somehow I was the only one who wasn’t happy.

  After that, Dukes concerts just weren’t as fun for me. Mostly, I tried not to go at all anymore. It felt like watching a magic show after you’ve already learned how the magician does all his tricks.

  “The song?” Dad prompted me now, as he strummed out the chorus again. “Do you like it?”

  I checked my cell phone again. Still nothing. “It was nice,” I said.

  “Oh.” Dad cleared his throat. “I’m still working on it.”

  I had missed my cue somehow. I could tell. “I think it’s going to be really good, Dad. I think the hippies at Solstice Fest will eat it up.”

  He half smiled and ran his thumb over one of the guitar strings. “Hey, do you want to go with me? To Solstice Fest.”

  “Um, when is it?”

  He gave me a weird look. “During the solstice.”

  I guessed that made sense.

  “We could drive up on Friday night and camp out. I think the Dukes’ slot is around noon on Saturday.”

  “I can’t,” I said.

  “Oh,” Dad said. “Of course, you probably already have plans. Are you and Sally and Chava going to that school dance?”

  I had told my parents about Sally and Chava because I wanted them to know that I was a normal person with friends. I had never told my parents about the Freshman/Sophomore Summer Formal because I wasn’t insane. Apparently my father had been reading the PTA newsletter.

  “The dance is that night,” I said noncommittally.

  “Do you have a date?” Dad asked.

  “God, Dad. No.” I thought about what that could possibly look like: Char showing up on my doorstep in a tuxedo, slipping a corsage around my wrist, posing for photographs in front of the fireplace? He wouldn’t even call me.

  Dad nodded sagely. “We guys, Elise, are easily intimidated. When I was sixteen, I would not have had the guts to ask a girl like you to my school dance.”

  This was a lie on multiple levels, since 1) the reason why boys weren’t asking me out was absolutely not because they were intimidated by me, and 2) by the time my dad was sixteen, he was already playing sold-out shows at his local concert hall, and any girl in Philadelphia would have given her left arm to go to a dance with a Duke.

  “Dad,” I said, “would it be okay with you if I spend Friday night at Mom and Steve’s house?”

  He paused in his strumming. “You mean the weekend that I’m at Solstice Fest? Of course that’s okay. I was going to suggest that myself.”

  “No, I meant, like…” I hugged my knees into my chest. “Every weekend.”

  He set his guitar down. “So I would only get you on Wednesdays? And you would stay with your mother six nights a week? Every week?”

  “Well … We could rearrange things so I could spend some other weeknight with you … like Tuesdays?”

  “Why?” Dad asked, his voice raw.

  I couldn’t answer that. I opened and closed my mouth, but I had nothing to say.

  “Okay,” Dad said, “forget ‘why.’ How’s this? No.”

  “What?” I stared at him.

  “I said, No. No, you can’t stay with your mother six out of every seven nights. No, I am not going to rearrange my work schedule just because you feel like it. I don’t care if you don’t want to be here, or if when you are here you don’t want to talk to me, or if your mother’s house has all sorts of marvelous puppies and children and swing sets and fresh-baked goods. I am your father, and that means I am every bit as much your parent as she is. No, you can’t spend Fridays there, too.”

  I stood up. “Look, this has nothing to do with Mom or swing sets or anything like that. It’s just that her house is a lot more conveniently located to … well, to … stuff.”

  Dad stood up, as well. “I don’t really care,” he said. “What I’m hearing you say is that you don’t want to spend time with me. And what I am saying to you is, you don’t have a choice.”

  I felt panic bubbling up in my chest, and my breath started coming out in short gasps. What was I supposed to do, go to Start next Thursday, hope that Pete was there, and tell him, “Hey, look, my dad won’t let me go out on Friday nights. Good luck finding another DJ!” I might as well just wear a sandwich board proclaiming, I AM ONLY 16. I couldn’t do that. I didn’t want to do that.

  “You can’t stop me,” I said, my voice shaking. “Don’t you love me at all?”

  “Don’t I love you?” Dad’s words got louder and louder. “Jesus Christ, Elise, are you kidding me?”

  I felt my face puckering like a prune. “Mom wouldn’t keep me from doing something I care about.” And even as I said it, I knew it was a cheap shot. One of the unspoken rules that I did understand was that my parents were not supposed to criticize each other in front of me, and I was not supposed to play them off each other.

  Plus, Mom would absolutely keep me from doing something I cared about, if it came down to that. The only reason why she hadn’t stopped me from going to Start was because she didn’t know that was happening. Not because she was the superior parent.

  “So that’s why you want to spend Friday nights with her, too?” Dad asked. “Because she doesn’t get in your way as much as I do?”

  “No!” I protested. “It’s just that … this is important to me. You don’t understand.”

  “I don’t,” he said. “Explain it to me.”

  He looked at me closely, and I thought for a moment about telling him everything. What Start was, why I needed it. After all, he was on national tour with his band when he was just two years older than me. Maybe he would be cool with it.

  But what if he wasn’t?

  I shook my head. “I can’t explain it to you.”

  Dad kicked his guitar, and I flinched at the sudden atonal squawk as it hit the ground. “You know what, Elise?” he said. “Do what you want.”

  I stood still, hardly breathing.

  “You want to spend every single night at your mother’s house? Fine. I’ll be here if you ever decide that you need me.”

  He lunged to pick up his guitar and lifted it over his shoulder like he
was about to smash it into something. I clapped my hand to my mouth. Then slowly, painfully, he laid the guitar down on the armchair and walked out of the room. I heard his footsteps hard on the stairs to the basement. And a minute later I heard the sound, unmistakable to anyone who has heard it before, of a softball bat whacking a futon.

  * * *

  “Look, if you want to go to Start tonight, you should go,” Vicky said over the phone the following Thursday evening.

  I lay down on my bed, my cell phone pressed to my ear, and glanced at the clock on my bedside table. Nine o’clock.

  “I think I want to stay home,” I said.

  “If you want to, sure.” I heard the sound of spritzing through the phone, like Vicky was putting on hair spray or perfume. “But you shouldn’t not come tonight just because of Pippa. You’re the DJ. You do what you want.”

  “Does she want me there?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Well, whenever she’s mentioned you over the past week, it’s been as ‘that slag,’ so I’m thinking probably not.”

  “What’s a slag?”

  “I asked her that,” Vicky said. “It’s British for slut.”

  “How am I a slag? Char is the first and only guy who I have ever…” Kissed. Seen naked. Slept in a bed with. “Anything,” I finished.

  “I don’t think she means it literally,” Vicky reassured me. “And for whatever it’s worth, I’m on your side. They weren’t together. Pippa can’t call dibs on every guy who she thinks is hot, because that would be every guy. Except for the Dirty Curtains. She thinks Dave looks like a caveman, and not in an ‘I will protect your young’ way. And Harry isn’t ‘man enough’ for her. You know, because he’s not actually a legal adult.”

  “Oh, so speaking of the Dirty Curtains,” I said, “I have a proposal.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You know how I get to DJ Friday nights now?”

  “I’m so excited,” Vicky replied. “Goddammit, I am so excited. Glendale’s hottest DJ. Do I or do I not keep saying that?”

  “Well, Glendale’s hottest DJ wants the Dirty Curtains to play a set at her first-ever gig next Friday.”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “What do you say?” I asked.

  Vicky let out an earsplitting shriek. “I say yes!” she squealed. “Harry and Dave also say yes, or they will once I tell them, since they do basically everything I say. Elise, this is awesome. I can’t believe you would share your big night with us.”

  “There’s no one I would rather share it with,” I told her.

  “You have to come tonight, then,” Vicky said. “So we can celebrate together our impending fame. Honestly, Elise, don’t worry about Pippa. You need to understand, the past few weeks have been hard on her.” Vicky’s voice grew quieter. “Pippa likes being in the action. Like the sun, with everyone revolving around her. When she was in Manchester, I think she felt like she was completely in the dark, closed off from her own solar system. So to come back here and discover that all of us kept orbiting without her … well, she’s not happy. It isn’t about you.”

  “Isn’t she in the room with you?” I asked. “Aren’t you two getting ready together?”

  “I locked myself in the bathroom.” I heard the sound of a toilet flushing. “See?”

  I sighed. “I don’t want her to hate me. Enough people already hate me.”

  “I don’t know if this matters, but I want you to come tonight.”

  I pulled my quilt over my head.

  “This will all resolve itself on the dance floor,” Vicky told me.

  “Oh, really?” I said. “How’s that going to work?”

  “How could anyone hate anyone when we’re all out there together, moving to the same song? How can we not be united? Come out tonight and join in—it’ll be good for you. Oh, and wear that top you got from Calendar Girls. The lacy one.”

  “It makes me look like a snowflake,” I mumbled.

  “Just trust me!” Vicky chirped. Then she hung up the phone.

  I sat for a moment under the fortress of my quilt. Tiny flecks of light peeked through the stitches. I could just live the rest of my life under here. I could pay Neil to bring me food three times a day.

  I groaned and threw the blanket off my head. Unfortunately I hadn’t thought to make feeding time arrangements before hiding in my bed, and now I was hungry.

  Before I went to forage for a snack, I glanced at my computer to see what Fake Elise was up to right now. I hadn’t checked in on her since right after coming home from school this afternoon.

  June 10:

  nobody likes me. sometimes i think people like me, i pretend that i have real friends, but i know i’m just kidding myself. why would

  they really like me? why would anyone ever

  really like me??? whenever someone is nice to me i know it’s just because they’re taking pity on me. xoxo elise dembowski

  I looked in the mirror on the back of my door. I stuck my fingers in the corners of my mouth and pulled my face into a hideous grimace. Then I practiced some affirmations.

  Lots of people really like you!

  For example … your mom!

  Alex!

  Neil!

  People who gave birth to you or who still have most of their baby teeth totally like you!

  Sure, the only thing your dad said to you during the entire time you were at his house last night and this morning was, “Well, I’ll see you again one week from now, since that’s what you want.” But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you. He’s just mad at you. And he will get over it, if only because he is your legal guardian!

  Vicky likes you! She is not just taking pity on you. Really. Her kindness to you is genuine.

  How do you know this?

  Because you’re awesome at reading a crowd!

  Char likes you! Okay, he kind of ignored you at Start last week, and okay, you haven’t heard from him since then. But this situation with Pippa is delicate. He doesn’t want to hurt her. Who does? You don’t want to hurt Pippa either. Why would he have taught you to DJ if he didn’t like you? Why would he kiss you? Because he likes you!

  You are a likable girl, Elise Dembowski!

  Affirmations complete, I headed toward the kitchen to make myself a hot chocolate. On my way back, I noticed my mother sitting on the couch in the sunroom. Alex was with her, which surprised me. Neil’s weeknight bedtime is 8:15 and Alex’s is 8:35, so the fact that it was past nine and Alex was still awake was definitely not fair.

  “What’s up?” I asked them.

  “We’re just admiring the poetry castle,” Mom answered. She took a sip of her tea and gestured at Alex’s creation.

  I sat down on Alex’s other side, and the three of us stared contemplatively at the castle.

  It was massive. I had no idea how Mom and Steve planned to transport this thing to Alex’s school next Friday. It stretched well over my head, cardboard boxes and duct tape everywhere. She had painted the boxes all the colors of the rainbow, and streamers hung from every corner. I could see the poems stacked neatly inside, ready for sale.

  “It’s amazing, Alex,” I said.

  “It’s not done yet,” Alex warned me. “It’s not perfect yet.”

  “It’s going to be the best one at the fair,” Mom said proudly, and I remembered all the times she had said those same words to me. When I designed and sewed a dress for the Girl Scouts’ fashion show; when I practiced reciting a monologue for the Shakespeare competition in eighth grade; when I baked pecan-raisin-banana-chocolate bars, my own invention, for the Election Day bake sale three years ago. My mother always said this: It’s going to be the best one.

  “Does Mr. Berger give a prize for the best booth?” I asked Alex.

  Alex snorted and said, “Of course not,” like I was an idiot for not understanding the exact rules of the second-grade spring fair.

  “Well, if he did, you’d win,” I told her.

  “But for now, Alex swe
etie, it’s way past your bedtime.” Mom stood and lifted my sister from the couch.

  “But I’m not tiiired,” Alex whined, and I wondered if this was the curse of all women in my family, to never get tired.

  “It’s bedtime anyway,” Mom said. “You can work on it more tomorrow. Right, Elise?”

  “Right,” I said. “Even I am going to bed, Alex. See?” I picked up my hot chocolate, yawned dramatically, and headed to my room.

  Two hours later, I crept out of the house and walked to Start. I meant what I had said to Vicky. I meant to stay home tonight. But I wanted to see Char too much, and I couldn’t resist.

  Like Char himself once told me, we all want things that aren’t good for us.

  15

  When I got to Start, I didn’t immediately see Vicky or Pippa. Char was in the booth with his headphones on, playing a Marvin Gaye song, and this seemed a good omen; Char knew how much I liked old soul singers.

  I slipped into the booth next to him. “Hey, stranger,” I said. “Long time no talk. You miss me?” I was aiming for jokey, but it came out wrong, too honest. I saw Char flinch a little.

  nobody likes me, Fake Elise chanted inside my head. why would anyone ever really like me???

  “How was your week?” I tried.

  “Fantastic,” Char muttered.

  “Really.”

  “Oh, yeah. Probably my best week ever. Have you ever been to Disney World?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My week was like that, only about eighty times better.”

  He stared down at his computer. The song playing was “Panic” by the Smiths, which is the one where Morrissey repeats the line “hang the DJ” for about a minute straight.

  “Sure, it totally seems like you’re having an eighty-times-Disney-World week,” I agreed. When he didn’t respond, I said, “So what exactly happened with Pippa last week?”

  “We frolicked through rainbows together,” Char answered in a monotone.

  “Char.”

  He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up in tufts. “I don’t know, Elise. She was pissed.”

  I fought the urge to smooth down his hair with my hand. I never touched Char first. I always waited for him to touch me.