This Song Is (Not) for You

  Ramona

  It’s Valentine’s Day, and some girls had flowers that they carried proudly from class to class. I carried in secret the expectation of Tom.

  Emmalyn had balloons. Six big, red, rubbery-sounding ones and a giant Mylar one that loves anyone literate. Emmalyn’s boyfriend is captain of the debate team and class vice president. He’s the sort of boy who poses nobly during gym class. He does big, showy displays of affection for Emmalyn, but he never seems to pay any real attention to her. In the hallways, it seems like he kind of ignores her most of the time. It would make me feel bad for her if I cared.

  Anyway.

  Ten minutes before school got out, I went over to where Emmalyn was practicing and asked her if she wanted to use the metronome, because I was done using it. She nodded, so I set it down and walked away.

  I only did it because I was tired of running scales and ignoring the aching in my fingers. My hands have been cramping lately from practicing so much. John has been pushing me again, telling me that if I want to go pro, I have to work even harder now.

  “Your mother would be so proud of you,” Dad said to me last night. He doesn’t talk about her very often, so I knew that he meant it.

  I remember playing piano with my mother. She started teaching me when I was four. I can barely remember those early lessons. Since she died when I was nine, I only saw two sides of her, her mother side and her pianist side. I never got to hear her talk about politics or current events. I know what music she loved, but I don’t know what grown-up movies or books she would have shown me. It’s hard for me to predict how she would have felt about things.

  I’m not sure if she’d approve of what Tom and I are about to do, for one thing. I’m certain that my dad wouldn’t, so the odds aren’t good.

  We’re bombing St. Louis with love today.

  Tom and I walk down the sidewalk holding hands, just a young couple in love carrying a brown paper grocery bag. While at a nondescript street corner, Tom needs to stop and tie his shoe. He sets down the paper bag and fumbles with his laces. While he’s tying his left shoe and then retying his right, I bend down and reach into the bag for just a moment, then roll the top closed again. Tom finishes tying this shoes. He picks the bag back up, and we walk on.

  • • •

  “Here’s your valentine,” Tom said to me as he handed me the brown paper bag at my house. I looked at the bag and then back up at him. I knew there had to be something here, but I really didn’t get it yet. “Look at the bottom,” he added, and then I saw it. The bag was a stencil.

  “Sorry I haven’t colored it in yet,” Tom said. “You’re going to have to do that yourself.” He opened the bag and put a can of pink spray paint inside.

  • • •

  We’re just a young couple in love walking down the street together. Behind us,

  LOVE IS

  ALL

  YOU NEED

  is drying on the sidewalk.

  Sam

  It’s the late February thaw. Today the sun was warm and the gutters were full of melting, dirty snow.

  “Okay, okay, okaaaay,” Ramona said. “Maybe before we can come up with a definitive definition of ‘good music’ we need to come up with an ironclad declaration of what ‘bad music’ is.”

  She and I were lying on the hood of Tom’s glittermobile, just after noon. We drove to the parking lot of an abandoned church building not too far from Ramona’s condo, and now we were soaking up vitamin D and talking about music. Tom was doing what he called “some gentle, grounded yoga stretches” on the roof of the car. I recognized lotus and downward dog from Mom’s yoga days.

  “Bad music is…” Tom started. He breathed out slowly. “Bad music is insincere.”

  “Bad music is insincere,” Ramona repeated.

  “I’ve seen sincere musicians who are really terrible,” I said. I was thinking of my mother’s band, the Whatevers. Mom sang vocals for the Whatevers, but after two shows, she discovered reflexology and the band sort of petered out. At the show I attended, they sang an alt country song called “Catfight.” I don’t even want to describe it, but Mom was having fun, and the band really liked playing their terrible song.

  “Insincere music is bad music,” Ramona said, “but not all bad music is insincere music.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Tom said. I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic. He lay down in corpse pose on the roof. The sun was baking the car nicely, and my body was remembering what summer feels like. I closed my eyes.

  “Bad music doesn’t make you feel,” Ramona said.

  “Good music always makes you feel,” Tom said, “but bad music can make a person feel something too. Haven’t you ever seen a carful of people singing along to a generic pop song? And everybody has their secret song.”

  “Secret song?” Ramona and I said together. I opened my eyes and we glanced at each other as we chuckled.

  “Yes!” Tom said. Suddenly his head was peering down above us. He’d flipped onto his stomach. “That song you are too embarrassed to admit that you love! It goes against everything you stand for as a musician, but you can’t stand to not dance to it!”

  “Ooooh,” Ramona said. She reached up and poked his nose with her index finger. He pretended to bite it and she laughed. I closed my eyes again.

  “You mean the songs you don’t want to come up on random when your friends are with you,” Ramona said. “I don’t know if dancing is required for that. And I don’t believe that you only have one secret song, Tom. I have at least three. Four? It might be four in the summertime. Yeah, four in the summer. And you’ve convinced me that ‘Owner of a Lonely Heart’ should be a secret song. Gosh, that’s five.”

  “I am only ashamed of one song,” Tom said. “But my shame is so deep that I am never going to admit it.”

  As soon as he said that, I knew Ramona would never be able to go on with her life until she knew Tom’s secret song. I knew that I would be listening to them laugh and argue for the rest of the afternoon. So I kept my eyes closed. I listened to them, and I was able to laugh too.

  “Just tell me one thing about your secret song,” Ramona moaned.

  “You already know that it’s a pop song from 1978 that makes me feel inspired,” Tom said. “And I know nothing about your ten songs.”

  “It’s only four! I mean five!”

  When Ramona asked me, I told her that my secret songs were Meat Loaf’s “I’d Do Anything for Love” and “Just Like Heaven” by the Cure.

  “The Cure is amazing, man! That is not a secret song!” Tom cried as Ramona laughed and laughed, and gasped, “Meat Loaf!” over and over.

  When Ramona laughed, it shook the hood under us. All afternoon, my brain recorded (cherished) each of her subtle movements next to me. With my eyes closed, I didn’t have to see her look at Tom, but I could talk with them both and love the sound of her breathing. I heard them kiss once, though Ramona stayed next to me on the hood. He must have bent down, and as Ramona shifted, her thigh pressed against mine for a long moment. My body took in this contact like it was starving for her. With my eyes still closed, I imagined that it was me who had stopped her breathing.

  I felt the sun move behind the trees. I knew that if I opened my eyes, there would be glare off the glitter. Ramona admitted to singing along to “I Got You Babe” in the summertime, and Tom revealed that the backup vocals in his secret song were provided by members of Chicago. Their voices got quieter as the sun got dimmer, and the affection in her voice got easier to hear.

  And I recognized her tone.

  That’s Ramona’s tone when she’s explaining stuff about the kids at school to me, like why everybody thought it was so, so sad that Craig’s dad bought him a sedan after he wrecked his convertible.

  That’s how Ramona talks to me when I’m dropping her off just before her curfew, and I have the
engine running, but for some reason she just keeps laughing at all the things I say and smiling so beautifully, and I can’t believe that she even wants to just hang out with me. Make music with me.

  Her voice was tender, heavy with love.

  “‘My Life,’” Tom said quietly. There was a pause.

  “Frank Sinatra?” Ramona asked.

  “No,” Tom said, “Billy Joel.”

  I opened my eyes. The sun was starting to set.

  “You have got to be kidding me!” Ramona screamed.

  Tom slid off the roof of the car and rolled his eyes. “It’s not that weird,” he cried as we climbed into the car.

  “Yes, yes it is,” Ramona said.

  Tom turned the car toward my place. Mom was making beef Wellington for dinner and wanted Tom’s and Ramona’s help eating it, if it turned out right and we don’t end up ordering Korean.

  Ramona turned around in the front passenger seat to make sure I was listening in the back.

  “He uses sound effects. Do you two understand what I’m telling you? Sound effects. Like car engines and work whistles. Wait—is that why you like Billy Joel, Tom? Is it the sound effects?”

  “I don’t care what you say anymore, this is my life!” Tom sang, apparently over his shame. “Go ahead with your own life and leave me—”

  All I’m thinking about is Ramona’s voice.

  I always knew that she loved me,

  because you know, friends love

  each other. But her voice.

  For the first time in years, I wonder

  about the impossible.

  Tom

  Her number is still in my phone

  (and all her old

  messages).

  “Hey,” she says. Her voice sounds strange, cautious and new again.

  “Hey,” I say. “How are you?”

  “Good!” There were a few phone calls in the first two weeks after she broke up with me. Those conversations were horrible and entirely my fault. I’m relieved that she even answered. She sounds relieved that I sound civil. “How are you?”

  “I’m good,” I say. “I was wondering if you maybe wanted to get a cup of coffee sometime? Just a friend thing. I’m seeing someone.”

  “I would love that, Tom,” Sara says. “I really would.”

  • • •

  We agree to meet at a coffee place in the Central West End, the neighborhood Sara’s family hails from. Tennessee Williams, T. S. Eliot, and William S. Burroughs all grew up here too. I don’t think Sara will end up a writer, but she’s going to make a mark on the world. I’m certain of that.

  I get there first and go ahead and order our coffees. Sara likes heavy-tasting Ethiopian coffee, no sugar, no cream. Sara is always on time, so I know it will still be piping hot when she gets here. I parked right outside the shop, and as she approaches the glass door, I see her notice my car and grin.

  Inside, her eyes search the room and find mine. I’m at our table, where we always used to sit.

  “Hey,” she says, not cautious, just happy to see me. She sits down and reaches behind her head to tighten her ponytail, just as I knew she would. She’s still wearing her Saint Joe’s uniform even though it’s four thirty in the afternoon, because she had student government after classes, and then she stayed even later to deal with some sort of emergency with the upcoming spring bake sale. I already know that before Sara came along, there was only one charity bake sale a year at Saint Joe’s. Now there are three a year, and each focuses on a different issue. Under Sara’s direction, all the baked goods sold now come with a flyer about the need for mosquito netting and vaccinations, or the continuing need for support in regions where earthquakes and tornadoes happened a year ago.

  This is the thing about Sara that makes her so special. She sips her crazy caffeinated coffee and talks excitedly about educating her wealthy classmates about world poverty, and there’s no bitterness in her voice, no malice. She’s just using all the tools at her disposal to make the world a better place. Right now it’s student government, but someday it might be the world’s largest nonprofit organization. Humans need people like Sara. We need sincere people who are able to work within the system and get people organized for the greater good. I’m pretty sure that there are not a lot of people out there who can do that.

  And I love talking to Sara. She’s a great listener, which means she actually listens instead of just waiting for her turn to talk, and she nods and frowns and smiles, and you can tell she actually gives a fuck about what you are saying.

  I tell her about my idea at Christmas to do some sort of commentary of American consumer culture, and how I put that project aside after I realized that I was just a sheltered punk kid thumbing my nose at the grown-ups.

  “But you shouldn’t give it up,” Sara says. “The message is still a good one. You got a dose of reality when you saw that picture of the starving baby. Now use it. Speak up for that child.”

  I tell her all about meeting Ramona and Sam, and all about our band, how I’m making the best music I’ve ever made because of these guys.

  “Sam seems sweet. I don’t really know Ramona,” Sara says. “She just looks so intimidating. I feel like such a nerd next to her.”

  “Ramona is a badass,” I agree. “But she’s nice. Really. And Sam, he is sweet and quiet, but he’s more than that. He’s an amazing guy.” I nod and feel the corners of my mouth turn up as I think about them, my best friends.

  “Sam is amazing, huh?” Sara says. Her eyes spark up. She sets her cup down on the table and leans forward expectantly.

  “Yeah,” I say. “He’s definitely my best friend. And Ramona. She’s my girlfriend now.”

  The muscles around Sara’s eyes twitch.

  “Tom,” she says.

  “I want to be with her,” I say, because it’s true. I want to be with Ramona. I’ve become attached to holding her. I like the way she smells. Kissing her is nice, and I love her.

  “Why did you invite me here?” Sara says. “Are you trying to prove something?”

  “No! I missed you. I miss being friends with you.”

  “I’ve missed you, Tom. And I want to be friends with you. I’m ready to see you that way now. But you’ve got to come to terms with your sexuality.”

  “I don’t have a sexuality!” I tell her, and I shout it, so I guess I’m telling everyone.

  Sara looks around nervously and puts a finger to her lips. “Tom—”

  “You were the first person I’d ever met who I wanted to see and talk to every day,” I tell her, lowering my voice. “You were the first person who ever seemed to understand and accept me. I wanted to be with you more than I ever wanted to be with anyone before. And I loved holding you. And I even liked kissing you, because I loved you. But because my body isn’t interested in doing more, you left me. It made my love less valuable to you.

  “I didn’t think I would ever feel that way about anybody again. Until I met Ramona. And Sam. I love them. I want to be with them.”

  “Them?” Sara says.

  “Yes,” I say.

  Sara shakes her head. “Tom, you’ve really got to get this figured out,” she says.

  “I know exactly who I am,” I say.

  “Does Ramona?”

  I am silent. I start to drink my coffee, and Sara lets the silence sit. She picks her cup and takes a large gulp.

  “I should go soon,” she says. “It was nice catching up, Tom.”

  Ramona

  Have you ever met someone and you could feel that they were going to be important to you? It’s like you never knew it, but you’ve been waiting your whole life to meet this person, and you recognize him with the same ease that you recognize your reflection.

  That happened to me twice.

  • • •

  There isn’t a love poem fo
r this.

  Sam is playing his video game, and Tom has hooked up his kaosolator so that he can make music with the game’s sound effects. Needless to say, this music sounds nothing like the original Foleys, yet this music matches the adventure story in a funny, poignant way.

  Sam’s quiet laugh. Tom’s mischievous chuckle.

  Oh, how I love both of them.

  I’m stretched out on the couch behind them after an amazing practice where we took our music to another level again. My triceps and biceps ache, and when I get home I need to practice Liszt’s Transcendental Étude No. 10 again because John says that I should have it perfect by now. Really, I’ve never been happier because my life has never been more full of music and love, even though, yes, it hurts.

  Sam strikes the killing blow with his sword with his game controller, and Tom’s music swells dramatically, hilariously. The boys high-five.

  I love how they laugh together. I love how Tom is able to get mellow, dreamy Sam excited. I love making music with them in pairs and as a trio. I love listening to them as they make music together. I love how Sam can get hyper Tom to stop and think, just like he can with me. I love it when they tease me together.

  I love them. Their friendship is at the center of my mind’s maze, and their love is the highest-flying banner on my heart. Loving one does not take love away from the other. There isn’t a limit to the amount of love I can feel.

  There isn’t a limit to how much I can love, and this knowledge makes me want to fly. Lying here on the couch, I feel as if I could lift off and away.

  The boys laugh and grin at each other.

  This love makes me want to love everyone more. Everyone.

  It makes me want to at least stop hating Emmalyn.

  “You got this, man!” Tom says. “Now back to Hyrule!” The electronic music seems to cry with encouragement too. Sam squares his shoulders and leans over the controller in determination. My arms relax into the couch; my breathing slows. I watch them together and feel my heart beating steady, steady, steady.