Here, There, Everywhere

  My aunt directed a meatball-tipped fork at her sister. “I think you’re onto something.”

  Mom continued. “So at first, classical music may taste like broccoli, but after enough tries it may taste like, I don’t know . . .” She held up her food tray. “Spaghetti and meatballs.”

  Aunt Willow walked over to my mom with a bottle of wine and refilled her glass. “Little sister, you get wiser by the day. Cheers.”

  Across the lake, a crescent moon rose like a neon-white thumbnail clipping. Eventually, Mom and Aunt Willow took Grub back to the cottage to play Monopoly, but Rose and I stayed by the water a while longer. Though it had gone unspoken, both of us had been waiting for this moment of privacy for what seemed like an eternity. I’d been eyeing the hammock hovering between two trees near the shore.

  “I have an idea,” I whispered.

  “Hammock?”

  I smiled back at her. “You read my mind.”

  As we stood, I noticed the half-full bottle of wine my aunt had left behind. I glanced over my shoulder. Coast was clear. I snagged the bottle.

  “What are you doing?” asked Rose in a way that was not so much accusatory as complicit and excited.

  “Come on!” I whispered. I took her by the hand and led her between the ancient oaks to the waterfront. We kicked off our shoes and stood on either side of the hammock. After a brief discussion over the best way not to catapult each other into the water, we counted to three and fell into the yarn-like mesh. It folded us into the middle like a couple of netted codfish.

  Not such a bad thing.

  I pulled the cork out of the bottle with my teeth, which made a loud THOOP!

  “Shhh! I don’t want to get caught,” whispered Rose.

  “Don’t worry, they’ll never know.” I offered her a drink.

  Rose smiled, but shook her head. “You first.”

  I put the bottle to my lips and took a swig. It was much more sour than I expected, but it instantly made my stomach feel warm and tingly. “A very fine vintage,” I joked. “Now you.”

  Rose held the bottle with both hands, took a tiny sip, then flashed her eyes wide. “It’s good!” she whispered, then took another.

  We each took a couple more drinks before I put the cork back in the bottle and stuck it between us.

  “Thanks for bringing me here,” said Rose after a while.

  I gazed at Rose, her face painted inky blue from the dim moonlight. She looked like a movie star. I almost blurted out how I felt about her, something I’d wanted to tell her for a while, but lost my courage and laughed through my nose.

  “What?” Rose asked.

  I shook my head. “Nothing. Just you.”

  Rose moved her legs against mine. Her skin was so smooth. I could taste the wine on her lips.

  Around midnight, Rose and I walked back to my aunt’s cottage and buried the empty wine bottle at the bottom of her recycling bin. Rose had been given the downstairs guest room, while I’d be claiming an air mattress in the attic. We kissed good night in the kitchen.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  Eventually, Rose went to her room and I walked up the creaky attic stairs.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I WOKE TO THE SOUND OF A BIRD DIRECTLY OUTSIDE THE ATTIC WINDOW. Its relentless alarm came in question form: Po-tee-weet? Po-tee-weet? I decided the human translation was either “Are you up?” or “Where all the ladies at?”

  I opened one blurry eye to check my phone. 10:13.

  Shit!

  I overslept.

  I rolled off my half-deflated air mattress—a maneuver about as graceful as slipping on ice—and threw on trunks and a fresh shirt. Down the stairs I stumbled, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I burst through the door at the bottom expecting to see everyone at the breakfast table, but it sat empty.

  Not empty—there was a note.

  Zeus,

  Hope you slept well. We’re down on the pier. Feel free to heat up breakfast leftovers in the microwave.

  —A. W.

  After inhaling a cold vegetarian breakfast burrito, I headed for the water.

  The pier had already begun to fill with people. I zigged around beach chairs and zagged under umbrellas. At the end of the pier, Rose sat on a wooden bench with my family, wearing a bright yellow bikini that showed all the right things.

  “Hey there, sleepyhead. I like the new look.” She passed a hand over my hair as I sat next to her. “It goes well with the crease marks on your face.” She traced a line along my cheek where my face had been mashed into the pillow.

  “Very funny,” I said, smoothing my hair down.

  “Who’s ready for a boat ride?” asked my aunt, dangling the keys.

  Soon, Aunt Willow’s twenty-one-foot maroon Wellcraft Sportsman, which I’d nicknamed the SS Ron Burgundy, was backing out from its lift. Rose and I sat up front, Aunt Willow drove, Mom rode shotgun, and Grub sat crouched in the back with his Nerf gun aimed at the shore.

  As we made our way out of the bay and into the lake proper, we veered left, hugging the shoreline. Aunt Willow gave us a guided tour, pointing out various lakefront homes: the Wrigley Estate; the Playboy Club Hotel, Hugh Hefner’s original Playboy Mansion; the Driehaus Estate, famous for its million-dollar party every year with changing themes. I imagined their owners frolicking in diamonds and blowing their noses with wads of hundred-dollar bills. And then I pictured our Buffalo Falls apartment, and me riding Mom’s old Schwinn across the bridge delivering salads. The injustice I felt at that moment registered somewhere shy of jealous and a hair past envious, hovering around bitter. But the feeling soon passed when Rose crossed her bare feet over mine. I looked at her in that bikini, wishing I’d worn sunglasses. The curves, the belly button, the bouncing, the—

  “See that one?” My aunt pointed to another mansion. “The woman who lives there owns an art gallery where I sell some of my paintings. She’s having her big summer soirée tonight.”

  I looked at the labyrinthine landscaping that cut its way uphill, where a four-story brick house shadowed a sprawling lawn. A large white tent had been set up in the yard, and uniformed workers buzzed around it like bees. It was one of the fanciest properties we’d seen yet.

  “How cool would it be to go to that party?” said Rose.

  My aunt laughed. “We can go if you like. All I have to do is let Sylvia know. She invited me, but I didn’t want to cancel plans with you guys.”

  Rose looked at me eagerly. “Want to go?”

  “Are you sure you want to hang around a bunch of old artsy people?” I asked.

  “Watch it, buster!” said my aunt with a wink. “We’re not all ancient. Besides, Sylvia mentioned her grandson and his friends would be there. They’re about your age, I think.”

  I looked back at Rose, who had plastered a cheesy smile on her face and held her hands folded under her chin—a face you couldn’t say no to.

  “All right, count us in,” I said.

  Rose squealed.

  “Don’t keep them out too late, sis, we have to be up early,” Mom said. “I’ll stay back and read my book. Manny, maybe you can work in Aunt Willow’s studio and draw one of your supersized maps on a canvas?”

  “Roger that!” he shouted from underneath the beach towel fortress he’d constructed in the back of the boat.

  “Party starts at eight, so we should leave by seven,” said my aunt. “We’ll take the boat over. How about we head back and grab some lunch, then you guys can have the rest of the afternoon to yourselves before we go?”

  “Great!” said Rose. She grinned and spun to face me, propping her legs up on my lap.

  “Great,” I agreed, trying not to appear as crazy-happy as I felt.

  That evening, after a brief panic over dress-code concerns, Aunt Willow drove us across the lake to the party. The sun hadn’t set yet, but the eastern sky had begun to grow a deep violet. Yellow sparkles peppered the lakefront as homes turned on their lights for the night.

  Once there
, a group of men in polo shirts greeted us at the pier, offering free valet docking service. While some of the vintage wooden boats and small yachts had been granted mechanical lift access, smaller boats, such as the SS Ron Burgundy, were moored to buoys a small distance from the pier.

  We walked up a winding pathway, lit on either side by small, solar-powered lights. Ivy-covered stones tiered the hill into three levels. Near the top, we began to hear the buzz of conversation. As we cleared the summit, dozens of people came into view, talking, eating, and drinking, while servers with silver trays circulated between them. The imposing house behind everyone looked more like a resort than a home—the windows alone were twenty feet tall.

  A white-haired woman came waltzing over to us as we took it all in. “Willow! So glad you could make it, darling. And this is your niece and nephew?”

  “This is my nephew, Zeus, and this is his—” My aunt looked to me for confirmation.

  “Girlfriend. Rose,” I confirmed, taking Rose’s hand.

  “Zeus and Rose, now isn’t that marvelous? It reminds me of the theater, I don’t know why, ah-ha-ha-ha! I’m Sylvia, it’s a pleasure.” She shook our hands. I got the impression she loved playing hostess. “Zeus, your aunt is an incredible artist, you do know this, yes?”

  “I do,” I replied.

  “The best. Come, follow me. The other young people are just over here.”

  Sylvia led us across the lawn to the veranda, where her grandson and his friends sat in a circle staring at their phones. “Jake, darling, this is Willow’s nephew, Zeus, and his friend, Rose. They’re here visiting from Illinois.”

  “What’s up,” said Jake, never looking away from his phone.

  “Won’t you introduce your friends?” asked Sylvia.

  Jake continued looking at his phone, but pointed to the others. “J. B., John, Dave, Todd, Mikey, and Domingo.”

  “What’s up,” they all muttered, more or less in unison.

  “Willow, come with me,” said Sylvia. “Let’s get you a glass of champagne.”

  “Have fun,” said my aunt as Sylvia whisked her away.

  I looked at Rose and offered my arm. “Shall we mingle?” We approached the group, whose names I’d already forgotten except for Jake. They all wore various colors of deck shorts and boat shoes and all of their faces remained buried in their phones. I wondered if they were communicating with one another, or simply existing in the same physical space separately.

  “Where’re you from in Illinois?” asked the one in pink shorts.

  “Buffalo Falls,” I said.

  “Never heard of it,” replied Pink Shorts.

  “Me neither,” said Yellow Shorts.

  “I have.” Blue Shorts momentarily put his phone down to inspect us for the first time. “My parents used to take me to that state park lodge when I was little.”

  “Metea State Park,” I said.

  “Yeah. It was lame,” said Blue Shorts. Then he went back to his phone. None of them offered us a seat, so we continued to stand.

  “So, what do you do in Buffalo Falls?” asked Jake, big emphasis on the second do. From the way he held his phone, I could tell he was positioning for the perfect selfie.

  “Uh, it’s small, so . . .” I thought about what we’d done that summer—polka dancing, palm reading, salad deliveries, geriatric puzzle assembly—not acceptable answers. “We usually just hang out.”

  Rose took over. “Do all of you guys live around here?”

  “My parents have a place across the lake,” said Pink Shorts, “but we all live in Chicago.”

  “Oh really? Zeus is from Chicago originally,” said Rose.

  That made Jake look up from his phone. “Yeah? Where at?”

  “South Side, by Midway,” I replied.

  “Oh,” he said, making me feel like I’d answered wrong.

  “Where in Chicago are you guys from?” I asked.

  “Highland Park,” said Orange Shorts, who hadn’t spoken until now. I was about to inform him that Highland Park, an affluent suburb home to the likes of Michael Jordan and other multimillionaires, was decidedly not in Chicago, but I bit my tongue.

  “Right on,” I said.

  We stood in silence for a moment. Then Rose spoke again. “You guys must love it up here. It’s beautiful. This house is amazing.”

  “Yeah,” said Jake.

  “It’s decent,” said Yellow Shorts.

  It was beyond clear that Jake and the colorful-shorts crew had zero interest in us.

  Rose whispered in my ear, “Maybe we should go mingle with ourselves, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do I ever,” I whispered back. “Let’s go.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  ROSE AND I WANDERED AROUND THE PROPERTY UNTIL WE FOUND A wooden bench swing facing the lake. We sat, my arm around Rose while she rested her head on my shoulder—a move we’d mastered at that point. Her hair smelled like lilacs with a hint of lake water. The sun had just begun to sink beyond the horizon, painting the clouds in deck-shorts pink.

  “Seriously, how can their phones be more interesting than this place?” asked Rose.

  I shook my head. “I guess when you’ve grown up with all this, you take it for granted.”

  Rose let out a soft sigh and stroked the hair on my arm. We watched the last wink of sunlight slip out of view. Lightning flickered across the lake. We waited for the thunder, but it was still too far away.

  “Maybe it’s like what we talked about before, about heaven,” said Rose.

  “Like, if everything’s great all the time, how can you tell?”

  “Exactly. I bet those guys grew up with everything they ever wanted. Coming here is probably just another day. An inconvenience, even.”

  Two ducks flew across our view.

  “I wonder what their heaven is?” I asked.

  Rose chortled, then in a ditzy valley-girl accent said, “Probably, like, the perfect selfie.”

  I laughed, then mimicked a bro voice. “Dude, did you notice my deck shorts match my phone case?”

  “Uh, yeah! Hello? I just tweeted about it.”

  We both laughed and I pulled her closer.

  Thunder rumbled across the water. God either disapproved of our heaven talk or had just bowled a perfect strike. The surface of the water seemed to blur where the rain made contact. Another flash of lightning, this time with only a three-second delay before the CRACK! and rumble.

  “Holy shitballs,” I said. “We’re going to get drenched!”

  The wind picked up as we turned for the house. The temperature felt like it had dropped fifteen degrees. Ahead, the partygoers scrambled to rush inside. The first fat, cold drops hit our heads, followed by a whoosh as the downpour swept up the hill after us. Lightning cracked again, this time with no delay between flash and sound.

  “Hurry!” yelled Rose.

  We made it inside just before getting soaked. Everyone crowded into a marble-floored foyer. The catering staff scurried around with serving trays and carts, getting everything inside, out of the storm.

  Sylvia climbed a few steps up the central staircase and addressed the party. “Everyone! Everyone! We won’t let a little storm get in the way of a good time. If you’d all follow the hall to the right, we’ll resume in the great room. Eat! Drink! Be merry!”

  Rose and I followed the herd into the great room, which was aptly named. We sat in a corner on two mahogany-colored leather chairs. The party guests filed in, and the murmur of conversation grew to a low buzz. I noticed a grand piano in the opposite corner.

  I nudged Rose, pointing to it with my chin.

  She looked, squinted, then her eyes went wide. “Is that a Steinway?”

  “No, it’s a piano,” I said.

  Rose swatted my leg. “Let’s go look!”

  We shuffled through the crowd to the piano. Embossed above the keys was Steinway & Sons. “You were right,” I said.

  Rose ran her fingers along the smooth, polished wood. “God, this probably cost si
xty thousand dollars.”

  “Eighty,” said Jake, who had walked up behind us with a couple of his friends.

  “That’s insane,” I said, shaking my head.

  Jake shrugged. “We have one at home. It never gets used though.”

  Just then, Sylvia showed up with my aunt. “Zeus, I’m told we have quite the pianist in our presence.” She smiled at Rose.

  “Yeah, play them a little Tom Jones,” I said, poking her in the arm.

  “I don’t think this is a Tom Jones crowd,” she said under her breath.

  “Just one song!” Sylvia urged. “There’s sheet music inside the bench.”

  Rose thought for a moment. “That’s okay, I don’t need it. There’s one I’ve been working on.”

  “Marvelous!” said Sylvia, splashing around her champagne. “And what’s the song?”

  “Raindrop Prelude by Frédéric Chopin,” said Rose. She sat at the bench, uncovered the keys, and began.

  The first notes hung in the air, soft. Then her right hand drummed two repetitive notes while her left hand climbed around a dark minor melody. It got louder. It got darker. I glanced over my shoulder to see interested heads turn; a few walked toward the piano. Halfway through the song, Jake and the deck-shorts crew had turned their phones away from themselves and toward Rose, filming. I looked back at Rose. Rain trickled down the windowpane behind her as the music dripped from her fingertips. She hit some of the chords so hard I felt them in my chest. A crowd had now formed near the piano. All were silent.

  Aunt Willow whispered in my ear, “What the hell is that girl doing in Buffalo Falls?”

  It was then that I knew. More completely than I’d ever known anything before. My aunt was right; Rose didn’t belong in Buffalo Falls. All this time, I’d known she was good, but I truly had no idea just how good she was. She’d made an entire room of people—hell, an entire wing of a mansion—go silent. She was that good. She was brilliant.

  The last chord resonated throughout the room. For a moment, the only sound was the rain on the window. And then the room erupted into applause. Rose turned her head and blinked as if just remembering where she was.

  Jake and his crew moved in with a barrage of compliments and questions.