Every day for the next week, I was attached at the hip to the boy. Whether it was at school or after, on the breaks we synchronized at work, or just directly after classes ended - we were by each other's side.
He came over three times to practice a little, but we'd always end up in my room, listening to music. One day he brought over some records and a portable player, and I lay on my back staring up at the ceiling while he went into detail about why that particular song was meaningful. Who it influenced. And how, had it not been made, we wouldn't have certain bands today. I just took it all in, feeling like maybe I was getting a specialized education. His passion and dedication to it filled me with awe.
“Without Chuck Berry, Elvis, Buddy Holly . . . there would be no Beatles. If there was no Beatles, we wouldn’t have had Nirvana.”
“And without Nirvana, there’d be no Foo Fighters?”
He shook his head and put on a new record. “Smart ass. You’ll learn. Just you wait. I’m going to make you a music master.”
Two days later, he showed up with a guitar and we practiced while he strummed and I sat cross legged in front of him, wishing I had the nerve to reach out and touch him while he played. But with his head bent over and his hair obscuring everything except his nose, I simply leaned back on my hands and watched. His voice was so hypnotic that it lulled me into a sense of calm that I hadn't really experienced since before my parents divorced.
And then, on the third night, Thursday to be exact, he asked if he could play the wall piano that had sat untouched in my living room for more years than I cared to recount. We sat, shoulder to shoulder as he lifted the lid and scanned the keys. He played a couple notes and listened.
"It needs to be tuned, but it's not bad."
"I have no idea how to do that so . . ."
He nudged me and continued to play a little. "Did I tell you that I've written some stuff?"
"No."
"Well, I did. And I've been thinking about putting them together to send out to a few places. Maybe get some professional feedback to see if it’s good enough. I already gave it to Mr. Bates."
It seemed odd that he’d want an opinion from our old Choir teacher. "Really? That's great. I mean, it's amazing. Is that what you want to do, you know, after school?"
"It could be an option. Writing music for plays and stuff." He reached over and placed my hand atop his and began to play something I'd never heard before. My eyes locked in on the tendons in my hand as they jumped above the movement on the back of his.
"How did you get so good at this?"
He didn't miss a note. "I don't think it's something that I want to talk with you about, Mal."
I pulled my palm from him and turned on the bench to look at his profile. "Why? I'm genuinely curious."
He stopped playing and gently placed the lid back on the keys, his eyes trained on the painting of a ship at sea above us on the wall. "I don't want to tell you anything about . . . my family or whatever."
"I'm not going to judge you."
"You might." His eyes flicked to me before he looked away again. "And honestly, it's taken five years for you to look at me again. I don't want to mess that up."
"Oh my God, Tucker." I scooted back as far as I could and crossed my arms defensively. "I can't believe you'd think that about me."
"Come on. You can't say that's not the truth. You were so stuck up your friends’ asses for years and now you're you. And I like you. I don't want to fuck it up with stories about . . ."
He stopped and closed his eyes and I could see him contemplating on whether or not he could say the words. His voice came out softly, almost dropping to inaudible. "You really want to know? Because if you do, I’ll tell you.”
I nodded, suddenly feeling very nervous.
“Okay. Since you want to know, I have a learning disability and it made me really angry when I was younger. They put me in music therapy for a while to see if it would harness some of that emotion and make it easier for me to learn at school."
"I had no idea."
"We weren’t exactly friends."
For the first time, the tension between us was uncomfortable.
"Anyway. That's how I learned all of this. Then we found out that my sister had Palsy; she had to get these leg braces on, and then she was in therapy.” He stopped and eyed me, defeated. “Want me to stop?”
“No.”
He nodded and faced the painting again, like he couldn’t bear to see my face. “It was a lot for my parents to take on. My dad works long hours, so the brunt of it was on my mom. And then one day she said she had to go get gas and she just never came back.” He got quiet and I stayed completely still, unsure of how I was supposed to respond to such an enormous confession.
“So . . . that's my family story. A kid who can't learn and another that can't walk and a dad that has to care for us both, but can't move beyond the woman he's still married to. Even though she's probably dead or has a new family or whatever. I have always felt like it was my fault. Like, if I’d just been a better kid she could have handled the shit with Eliza. She might have stayed."
"So you work and take care of Eliza when she needs you. Because you think you owe it to her?"
"Yeah. Pretty much."
The truth was sitting on my tongue and I couldn't stop from asking, "Is that why you stay here? Do you want to go to community college?”
His shoulders stiffened and he turned slowly to meet my gaze. “I can't leave yet. With as much as I'm gone, here I'm only a phone call away. I was accepted somewhere, but I turned it down.”
"I think you're amazing,” I whispered, fighting against the tears that were building in my eyes. "I would never, ever . . ."
Before I could finish the sentence, he had his lips on mine. We sat knee to knee on that piano bench and my tears disappeared while our mouths touched. His hands were warm against my sides, awkwardly holding me at an angle until I pulled away and straddled the bench to get closer to him. His lips were full and fit perfectly between mine, the gentle pressure making my whole body tingle. I parted mine and slipped my hands up the side of his neck into his hair, inviting him to kiss harder, longer. He did and his hands splayed open against my back, pulling me into him tightly.
The first time our tongues met, I lost my breath and pushed against him with more force than I intended. The bench swayed beneath us and we pulled apart, eyes wide, wondering if it would topple.
The kiss was so good it almost broke a piano bench.
"It's okay," I said quickly and he reached up to run his finger along my lower lip.
"I should go."
"You should stay," I whispered.
"What if your aunt comes home?" He motioned toward the front door.
I leaned over again and pressed my lips to his, long, lingering until his hands found my sides again.
I broke away and sighed. “Do I look like I care?"
We stood, and kissed. We made it to the stairs, and my foot got caught on the carpet, so we fell and he never let go, his mouth persistent even as I shifted against the staircase, trying to find a comfortable spot. Finally we broke apart and I tried to walk backwards up to my room but ended up tripping and almost taking him out, so he turned me around and held my hand to lead me there. I wasn't even nervous. He made my brain foggy and my hands sweat.
He made me want.
We kissed against my door, across the room, on top of my desk - and when I pushed him across the floor, he landed without a sound on top of my bed. Seeing him there would have made old Mallory stop in her tracks. My mom would have had something to say about this. But she wasn't here. Neither was my dad. Or Sam. Or anyone else, for that matter. It was just Tucker in his black t-shirt and jeans that were ripped across the left thigh.
I approached cautiously, sliding across the bed on my knees. We didn't speak, just settled into one another, chest to chest, our heads against my lilac covered pillows. His touch was gentle, cradling my cheek and sliding across my arm. I held him tightly by the waist, o
verwhelmed by how much I wanted to touch his skin. When his fingers found the hem of my shirt, I didn't reach down and stop him. Instead I sat up a little and kissed him again, lifting my hands above my head so that he could remove my shirt. He did the same and we pressed in tighter, skin to skin, fingertips trailing. Mine found his spine and he erupted in gooseflesh, his tongue darting out to taste mine again.
His thumb was circling just above my ribs and I shifted a little so that they grazed higher, just below the wire of my bra. "It's okay," I repeated. "I won't break."
He sighed and opened his eyes to appreciate my light blue bra. "I might." His hips pressed into me and I could feel his erection against my thigh.
"Oh. I mean . . . I don't know what to do here." My cheeks flamed at my confession but his eyes softened and he placed a kiss on my nose.
"It's fine. I like this." His mouth found mine again. “Just this.”
He didn’t even acknowledge my confession, and it made me feel like I wasn’t so hopeless after all.
Mal,
Do you ever wonder what life would have been like if you’d never gotten sick? If you would have been able to go away to school with those friends of yours. Away from your mom. From the room you love so much now.
I know you do. I can see it sometimes when you're on the couch watching television or on the computer pretending not to be interested in the lives of your old friends.
I don't know if you realize yet how much more living you've done since. Someday you'll look back and wonder about this wasted youth - these halcyon days of teenage foolishness - and wish that you'd done even more. You might even wish that you'd been someone different. But I can see who you're going to be. You're the girl. The one they write books about. The one that they'll say they saw emerge from out of nowhere to take the world by storm.
And I have to admit that I'm glad you didn't graduate last year because it has afforded me the opportunity to be here with you for this time.
I wish I'd done it sooner.
I wish we had more time.
We'll just have to do what we can with what we have left.
Sam
~*~8~*~
The Kick was packed on Friday night. The manager made sure to let us know it was the first time ever that the building had reached maximum capacity.
And that made me want to vomit.
"You'll be fine,” Berkley reassured me as we waited for our cue to go on.
Sara pulled me in for a stiff hug and patted my cheek. "Don't puke."
I tried to calm myself with the breathing exercises that Tucker had taught me, but then I started to think about his hands on my belly and my stomach flipped again, though for a very different reason.
Berkley's outfit felt foreign on my body and I tried not to feel like a fake - some girl in someone else's clothes, hanging out with someone else's friends. These were my friends. I belonged here just as much as anyone. They thought I had talent. They were willing to take a chance on me. I had to remember that.
Tucker slipped through the door, his eyes wide. He let out a low whistle. "This is huge."
I put my hand to my mouth to swallow bile.
Concern washed over his face. "It's not that huge."
I nodded and crossed to the side of the room to face the wall and give myself a pep talk. He followed, his chest meeting my back timidly while he wrapped his arms around me. I held onto his wrists and breathed deeply.
"Breathe," he reminded me and I rested my head against his shoulder inhaling deeply. "There you go. Better?"
I couldn't find the words to tell him that he made it better. That he calmed my nerves. So I just nodded and waited for him to let me go.
"Is Sam coming?"
I shook my head no. "She said she wasn't feeling well and didn't know if she could handle, and I quote, 'a bunch of hormonally deprived youths.'"
"They're not all deprived," he chuckled and I elbowed him in the stomach, turning to give him a glare.
The manager, Dave, stepped into the room. "Ready?"
Everyone nodded.
I took one last look at myself in the mirror on the far wall. The short skirt and bright red tights made my legs look curvy. And the baby-tee with the embroidered flower on the chest made my boobs look bigger than normal. I hoped I didn't fall in the shiny Mary-Jane’s Berkley let me borrow. And I hoped that I could even get one note out of my traitorous throat.
We were introduced to the sound of the entire building clapping and letting out concert whoops. I took my place in the back, behind and to the side of Tucker. Berkley took center, and to her left was Marcus, behind him Sara. We held microphones, our heads tilted down until the lights came up. When they did, the mix Tucker had slaved over started - our prerecorded voices pumping in over the speakers - above the sounds of the swelling applause from the excited crowd below the stage.
We'd assured ourselves that the pre-recording wasn’t cheating.
Because we were the show.
On the eight count Berkley began to sing, swaying in time to the beat that we created. Each of us met her with our parts, and within the span of a minute, the crowd was losing it. The sound of our voices lifted toward the rafters and across the sea of people that I could barely make out beyond the stage lights. I was stiff and concentrating on my notes, not even paying attention to the other people on the stage.
I needed to pee.
I needed water.
I needed to throw up.
But after the second song, a miracle happened.
Sara had just finished her part and I was coming in on mine, when I closed my eyes and held onto my microphone, singing my solo with every ounce of passion in my body. I don't know when it happened but I could feel my hips begin to sway and I bent a little at the waist to get one long note out.
Opening my eyes, I could make out Tucker just in front of me, turned with his face angled over his shoulder, a look of complete surprise etched into every back-lit feature. "Holy shit," he laughed into the microphone.
The room exploded with cheers and Berkley pointed her finger, calling me to the front by her side. She continued to sing and pulled me close, swaying in time to the music. We moved together while she sang to me, and I did my part back until everything faded out and it was just the two of us holding out the last notes of the song. When we stopped, I inhaled raggedly, and she leaned forward to give me a sweet kiss on the cheek.
I thought the walls would collapse under the sound of the applause from beyond the stage.
Two more songs went like that and then we said goodnight. I practically ran off the stage, almost tripping in those stupid heels. Ripping them from my feet, I propelled myself through the back door and out into the night, gasping for air under the endorphins that were racing through my blood.
Tucker followed, his arms snaking around my back as he placed his chin on my shoulder. It was so natural. I couldn't fight it.
"That was so good," I said while tears started to fill my eyes. "I didn't think I could do it. That we could do it."
“I did."
I spun around in his arms and locked my fingers behind his neck, angling up on my toes to kiss him breathlessly. He responded by slamming backwards into the brick wall and I held on tightly as he bent at the knees and secured my hips to his.
Stepping away, I placed my palms to his face. "I feel like we should go on a run. Or . . . I don't know. Let's find a trampoline. I need to get some energy out."
He lifted his eyebrows. "I could think of a way . . ."
"Guys!" Sara crashed through the door. "There are no words for what just happened up there. They want us back for one more show . . .” She stopped and appraised the two of us locked in an embrace and let out a high pitched laugh. "About time."
We were called back inside and we went begrudgingly to regroup and meet up for the after-show meeting. But back at Berkley’s house on that Friday night, everything was about to change. Within hours a portion of our performance was loaded onto the internet. Then a
nother. And one more that included the kiss from Berkley. Her phone was blowing up with texts.
"We're on Youtube," Marcus said. His face was drawn with worry and his dark lips had gone pale.
"Is he going to pass out?" I asked from where I was sitting in Tucker's lap.
"Maybe." Berkley held her head in her hands and then slid them up over her eyes. "I hope this doesn't affect anything for college."
"Like what? Proof of your talent?" Tucker spoke from behind me, his knees bouncing under my butt. "If anything, it's a video resume. We wrote those mash-ups. Recorded the mixes. And performed the hell out of them."
"You're right. It's fine." She finally smiled, patting Sara's knee. "I guess the last show is going to have to be even better."
Sara groaned and flopped over to bury her face in one of Berkley's fancy sofa pillows.
Tucker squeezed my side and whispered, "Look who just became the overdramatic one."
Mal,
I don’t know if you noticed, but the girl I came home to is pretty much gone. She’s been replaced by a smiling, happy individual who seems to have accepted a bit of her worth. No more crying on the floor. No more spending days wasting away.
I’m curious to know if you’ve seen the transformation that I have. Or if it’s been so subtle that you’ve missed it.
It made me wonder what kind of stellar advice I can give to this new version of you. There has been a lot of thinking on my end. And I think the most important pieces of advice I can give you are these:
Think before you speak. Don’t be an asshole. Show kindness when it’s warranted and walk away when it costs you more than you’re willing to give. Don’t be an ATM that people can take from but never deposit into. Be a depositor. And always, always give your best only to those that deserve it.
There are too many years that I let people take. I guess maybe that’s why I want to give now. Because life is too short.
Sam
~*~9~*~
We were slated to perform one more time as a band – if you could qualify us as that. The response was ridiculous and at The Kick we were treated like stars. It felt a little surreal. I felt out of my element under that much attention. But it was a lot easier to take being part of a group.