This Song Is (Not) for You

Because it does hurt like hell.

  It hurts like hell.

  There we were, sitting on the floor of my garage as if it were an ordinary Thursday, listening to the final mix on our best song. It’s the most professional-sounding thing we’ve ever done.

  Tom sat cross-legged and lamented our earlier and loooonger winter break. We’ll be off three days before him, but we go back to school only two days before him.

  Ramona had her hand on his knee.

  And it’s amazing how this simple fact changed everything.

  Her hand was so still.

  Still in a way that Ramona never is, never is with me.

  Her fingers draped over his kneecap and rested on the denim of his jeans.

  At school today she said, “Tom and I are together now.”

  And I said, “Cool,” as if it was, and then we talked about other things. Apparently Emmalyn has been ignoring Ramona, which she thinks is grand. But this was all I could think about: how later I would be sitting here. Sitting here with them.

  Ramona’s fingers had chipped nail polish on them.

  She never paints her nails. She must have done it last night (for him), but of course the polish was already chipped.

  I thought about her hand on my knee—a soft, quiet weight telling me that she’s mine. Now that I could see her with Tom, the picture was there in my mind, with me in his place.

  “Guys, this song is amazing,” she said to us. Her fingertips pressed into his knee, not mine. “We’re a real band now. Not just kids fooling around in a garage.”

  I guess that’s how she thought of us before Tom.

  April and the Rain.

  Just kids.

  In a garage.

  And maybe the band is much better now.

  And maybe I really like Tom.

  But right now I wish we’d never met him.

  Tom

  Another girl who wants something from me that I don’t know how to give.

  Another friend I’m terrified to lose.

  Another girlfriend.

  But maybe this time it’ll be different.

  Maybe I’ll be different.

  Maybe this time I’ll feel what everyone else seems to know how to feel.

  Maybe this time I won’t screw everything up.

  And maybe Sam won’t hate me for “stealing” Ramona.

  ’Cause that’s another thing I have to worry about.

  This is why sex seems like a big waste of energy to me.

  • • •

  The afternoon before Thanksgiving, we drive to Soulard together in my car, with Sam in the backseat. I’ve got the handheld recorder that has allowed me to capture everything from rain on the porch roof to my mother cooking bacon. We’re planning on walking around and asking different people what they’re thankful for and recording their answers. I’m gonna run some effects on the voices, and Ramona and Sam are gonna make the music to play under it.

  We park at Grift Craft because I know Teddy won’t mind. Teddy is the owner. As soon as I learned to drive, I became such a regular customer that Teddy and I got to talking. And talking led to long discussions about music and art, and now he gives me work on the weekends for cash under the table. I haven’t mentioned that I have a job to Ramona or Sam yet because I already feel so outclassed by them.

  (I know that’s dumb, and they aren’t snobby types at all, but emotions aren’t logical, okay? Plus, they might disapprove of me stocking yarn on the black market.)

  It’s a gorgeous autumn day, crisp and bright. The gold leaves glow against the redbrick buildings. College students back home and mingling with their high school friends are parking their cars and walking to the bars that fill the gentrified neighborhood.

  They are ripe pickings for our picking. Recording. (Whatever.)

  We do a few test takes to make sure the recorder is working, and then I jump in front of the first twentysomething I see.

  “What are you thankful for?” I shout at her. She jumps back, startled, and blinks at me.

  “My dog,” she says. Her friend laughs at her and tugs on her arm, dragging her away from the crazy kids with a microphone in the street. I pass the mic to Sam.

  “Do you have anything to be thankful for?” Ramona asks a passing man. He’s older—thirtyish. Sam readies the mic under his chin. He scowls at us.

  “Privacy,” he barks. This time Ramona laughs, and the sound registers on the recorder. She has such a pretty laugh.

  She grins at me and tucks some hair behind her ear.

  I appreciate how pretty she is, like a rambunctious sunset.

  I should feel something more than I do.

  I smile back at her.

  Sam isn’t looking at us; he’s holding the recorder out in front of a group of bleached blonds.

  “What are you thankful for?”

  “My friends,” one shouts.

  “Me too,” I say. I smile at Ramona and look over my shoulder at Sam. He glances at us and looks away. But he doesn’t look angry. He passes the recorder to Ramona again. She dashes off in the direction of an old woman walking an ancient poodle.

  “Hey, man,” I say. I can’t look at him, and I realize I haven’t figured out exactly what I want to say. “I don’t want to take her away.”

  “No…” he mumbles. Ramona grins in reply to the old woman and turns to run back to us. “We’re cool, dude.”

  We haven’t met eyes. We watch Ramona race back to us, her smile beaming at us both.

  I can do this.

  I can balance this.

  I can still have this.

  Ramona

  “So, you’re dating this Tom now?” Dad says.

  “This Tom?” I say. “He’s this Tom now?” We’re in the kitchen. I’m spooning jambalaya out of the Crock-Pot. Pretty much all of Dad’s cooking is Crock-Pot based. For most of my life, I had no idea that this was weird, but now I think it’s weird that it’s weird, because everybody should cook with a Crock-Pot. It’s so convenient and you can make almost anything.

  Anyway.

  “Yes, Moany,” Dad says. “He’s this Tom for now, but he’ll become that Tom if I see any trouble with him.” I roll my eyes and sit down on the other stool at the kitchen island, across from him.

  And yeah. Dad’s name for me is Moany. Or sometimes Moany-Moans. When he’s teasing me for being whiny, he calls me “Her Moaniness.” That one really drives me crazy.

  “He’s nice, Daddy,” I say. “You’ll like him.” Overall Dad really is cool. And he’s a good cook. Don’t let the Crock-Pot thing throw you.

  “Does Sam like him?”

  “Of course Sam likes him!” I say. “Do you think that I could like a guy who Sam didn’t like?”

  “It’s a common enough trope in modern storytelling. Almost as common as the platonic friends who are secretly in love.”

  Really, I can’t roll my eyes enough at the man. I mean, he always talks like he’s on NPR, and he also thinks that he’s subtle.

  “Sam and I are just friends,” I tell him for the forty-millionth time, because it is technically, my own feelings aside, true. “Tom is my boyfriend now, and he’s nice and smart and unique. And we’ve started a new band with him. We’re Vandalized by Glitter now. We have this fuller, strange, new sound now.”

  “Well,” Dad says, “I’m sure he’s decent enough if you like him, but bring him around again soon, okay? I want to get to know this Tom sooner rather than later. And make sure that he doesn’t cut into your piano practice. Your mother went on her first tour when she was twenty-one, remember.”

  “I know,” I say. “I practiced for two hours yesterday, and I can do three hours tomorrow.”

  “And don’t forget that you have finals at the end of the month. School is just as important as piano.”

 
“I know.”

  “You’re a talented pianist, Ramona. I just want you to live your full potential.”

  “I know, Daddy,” I say.

  But I’m a talented drummer too, Daddy, I do not say.

  Sam

  When I’m with Ramona, it’s not that bad.

  She’s so happy that it’s making her extra goofy, and I’m spending so much time laughing that I sort of forget why she’s so happy. When I pick her up for school, she’s awake and giggling and telling me about something she saw on the Internet the night before. At school Emmalyn has done at least one terrible thing to report on, and on the way to my place for band practice, Ramona is bursting with ideas and observations for Vandalized by Glitter. I want her, but it’s always been that way.

  When I’m with Ramona and Tom it’s worse, but it’s not that bad.

  They act almost the same, and they only kiss good-bye, so I can always try and miss it.

  It’s when I’m alone,

  (And it’s always dark by then.)

  It’s when I’m alone that it’s bad.

  And I think about how much I want to be with her. How much I want to touch her and kiss her. How much I just want to sit with her and say in an ordinary way, “I love you, Ramona.”

  Ramona.

  Ramona is with Tom.

  I can’t hate Tom. Tom’s a cool guy. Tom’s my friend.

  Ramona’s a pretty girl; of course Tom would like her.

  It’s just that I want to be with her. I want to be the one, the one that gets to have her love, the one who gets to touch her face. I want to be the one she wants to have with her. The one she calls her one.

  But he’s not me.

  Tom

  I love making things. I love taking paper and paint and creating an image that had only been in my mind but that now I can show people and try to explain. It’s my way of talking about my feelings.

  I love music. I feel it in my chest and in my hands and in my feet. Music is more than just something I hear; it’s something that happens to me. I can communicate better with music than with words.

  I love my parents and my brothers. Even though they don’t get me (they really don’t), they still love me. I know that I’m lucky to have a family, and I love them.

  And I love Sam and Ramona. We haven’t been friends all that long, but I feel like we were always meant to meet. I love the way Sam never speaks unless he’s thought for some time about what he’s going to say, so that he can say it just right. I love the way that Ramona is so alive and full of thoughts and emotions that the words just can’t wait to get out of her mouth.

  I love talking with them about music and art and the world. I love making music with them. I love it that they’re starting to make art with me.

  I have a lot of love in my life. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything.

  I don’t know why I don’t feel sexual urges, but I don’t.

  I didn’t have anything horrible happen to me as a child.

  I’ve told a doctor and been checked out. Nothing’s wrong with me.

  Except that something must be wrong, right?

  Right?

  So I should try to be with Ramona in the way she wants. I should try to feel sexual desire. Maybe it’s like a muscle that can be exercised. Maybe I can be jump-started, and then I’ll still be me, but I’ll have this thing that everyone else feels.

  Ramona

  Similar to eighth grade, my last class of the day, my advanced orchestra class, would be the best part of my school day if it wasn’t for the presence of one person.

  But if you think I’ll be hugging Emmalyn at the end of this year, overwhelmed by the life lesson I just learned, then, well, this story is not for you.

  Emmalyn plays the violin. She’s actually kinda good.

  But that’s not the point. No one said I hated her because she was a bad musician.

  At Saint Joe’s, advanced orchestra is basically just a study hall for music. People sit in corners and run scales, practice pieces for upcoming evaluations, that kind of thing. Normally, Emmalyn and I don’t interact much here, though I can still hear her obnoxious laugh from time to time, and I swear she does it on purpose every time I walk by.

  And today she stole my metronome.

  It’s the school’s metronome, but I was using it. I got up to go to the bathroom, and when I came back, it was not on the piano anymore. Emmalyn was practicing with it on the other side of the music room. So the only thing to do was to march over there and demand it back from her.

  “What do you mean, your metronome?” she said in the high pitch her voice gets when she’s being snotty. “It’s the school’s metronome, and we’re supposed to be sharing it. There are sixteen of us and four metronomes, and you’ve snagged one every single day all semester. That math says you’re hogging them.”

  “What are you talking about? Math?” My voice was probably starting to rise too, because I saw a few people glancing over. “I was using that metronome, plain and simple. And you can’t just take it from me.” I reached toward the metronome on the table next to her. Emmalyn squawked and swatted my hand with her bow. It didn’t hurt, but instinctively I pulled my hand back.

  “You are unbelievable. You’re like a five-year-old! Didn’t your mother teach you to share?” I said.

  “My mother is dead, you bitch,” she said.

  And I was so surprised,

  that I said,

  “Mine too.”

  We stared at each other, and then thankfully the bell rang.

  And I’m taking a metronome tomorrow. John has been pushing me hard on the scales, and Dad is counting on me. Emmalyn isn’t going to get in my way.

  (Even if her mother is dead.)

  Sam

  “Last night when I came in the garage, it looked like Ramona and Tom were holding hands,” Mom said. We were eating Korean takeout, and then we would have the crème brûlée Mom made for dessert.

  “Yeah, they’re doing that now,” I said. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “They’re going out?” she asked.

  “Yup,” I said. “But it’s not a big deal, Mom.”

  “You’re okay with that?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I kinda have to be. But it’s not a big deal.”

  “Tell me if you need to talk,” she said. I focused on finishing my food after that. The moment I was done, Mom started putting the leftovers away. She’s big on eating leftovers and only cooking when it’s fun.

  She used to say “Tell me if you need to talk” a lot after the divorce. I couldn’t really take her up on it though. She was too much of a mess for me to add to her burden.

  So I talked to Ramona instead when I needed to talk to someone.

  Mom pulled out the little blowtorch she bought for melting sugar. She fiddled with the knob and tapped it on the table.

  “Now how does this work?” she mumbled.

  • • •

  Once a month my dad picks me up on a Saturday afternoon. We go to a Cardinals game or to see a new exhibit at the art museum. Then we go to a late dinner at an expensive steak house. Dad asks me questions about school. He asks my opinions on current events. That night I sleep in the guest bedroom of his downtown loft.

  In the morning he drives me home. Even after he bought me my car, our routine never varied. He could see me more if he wanted to. He never calls me. He trusts that the money he spends will keep me safe for the next month.

  When he lived with us, he was hardly ever around, and he’d been satisfied with third-person updates. Now I actually have a period of focused attention.

  I used to be angrier about it.

  But talking to Ramona made me realize that being angry was pointless.

  All it did was hurt me, without any effect on the situation.

  So I’m
not angry with Tom for being with Ramona.

  Tom and Ramona care about each other; that’s a good thing.

  But I still don’t have anyone to talk to about it.

  • • •

  “I’m not angry at Tom,” I said. I watched my mother as she delicately ran the flame across the sugar snow. “But I guess I do wish I were in his place.”

  And my mom, she didn’t overdo it.

  “That must suck,” she said as she flicked off the torch. “Does Ramona know how you feel?”

  Tom

  So.

  There was just too much shit going on, and I fucking had to make some art.

  It’s almost Christmas, and all around us, people are equating material goods with love. (Some of these commercials scare me.)

  So I thought I’d make a statement about first-world materialism in the face of world hunger, ’cause you know, it’s Christmas.

  I’d make a poster for the mall parking garage. Something to shock people into knowing what I know—that some people are starving and other people are buying stupid stuff.

  I’d find the saddest image I could and put something under it like “Ask her what she wants for Christmas.”

  So I searched for “starving child” images.

  (Do not search for “starving child.”)

  And I learned that I knew nothing.

  I did not know that an infant could be stretched so thin that it would scare me.

  I did not know. I did not know.

  That babies have skulls and ribs and eyes that can scream.

  I did not know

  We all are skeletons,

  Corpses walking around with life-flesh encasing us for now.

  And all it takes is the tip of a scale, and you’re just living

  bones and

  paper skin.

  Ready to be forgotten.

  If it weren’t for journalists with cameras and teenagers with something to prove.

  • • •

  So.

  I didn’t do the project.

  Because my problems are that I have a girlfriend and a best friend, my parents want to talk to me while we eat dinner together (which we do every night), and I think going to school takes up too much of my time.