Again, But Better(100)

She rolls her eyes.

“Like really though. I’m not just saying that,” I finish assertively.

She huffs a reluctant laugh. “Uh-huh. How do you know? You can see the future?” she retorts sarcastically.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Shane, you’re something else,” she answers, like she’s aged fifty years and become my great aunt.

I smile at my hands. “Proud to be something else. Normal’s overrated.”

“Amen to that.” She turns to look out the window. I reach over and wrap her in a quick, awkward side hug, and we fall back into silence.





18. Break Your Walls



January 24, 2011 (take two) Mom and Dad, When I write these, all I can think about is 2017. I’m so confused about my life. When did I stop manning the wheel? Was it here? Was it when I came back home? Was it a gradual process or did I let go all at once?

Last night, we Skyped before you went to dinner at Aunt Marie and Uncle Dan’s. When was the last time we did that?

We don’t even try anymore. When did you stop trying? Why did you stop trying?

XO,

2017 Shane





* * *



After class, I knock on Pilot’s door with my digital camera. It swings in after a few seconds. He openly smiles at me, and it’s wonderful. His guitar lies on the blue bedspread.

“Hey!” He steps aside so I can come into the room.

“Hey, have you been guitar-ing?” I ask.

“Yeah, doing some light guitar-ing, working on some new stuff.” I watch as he catches sight of the camera in my hand. “What’s that?”

“This is my blender. I thought we could make smoothies.”

He presses his lips together and takes a step back. “Did Shane Primaveri just make a dry, sarcastic remark?”

“I’ll have you know, I make more than one dry, sarcastic remark per year now.”

He drops back on the bed with a chuckle. I lean against the doorframe.

“So?” he asks with raised eyebrows.

“Oh yeah, so!” I do a little hop as I stand up off the wall I was leaning on. “I’m here to jumpstart your musical career.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I have an evil-genius foolproof plan. It worked for Justin Bieber, and it’s going to work for the Swing Bearers.”

He rolls his eyes, but humors me.

“We’re gonna start your YouTube channel.” I walk over and sit next to him.

“You know YouTube and all that stuff really isn’t my thing.”

“Is music your thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want people to hear your music?”

“Yes,” he says with a small smile.

“Would you want to potentially make music for a living?”

He glares at me with a cynical grin and half-lidded eyes.

“This is just a platform to jump off. YouTube is huge. People can discover you there; you can build an audience there; it’s a portfolio when you’re trying to get a job. It can provide endless possibilities! I spend a lot of time on the internet. I’ve watched it with my own eyes!”

“And what exactly are you planning with the camera?” he asks, amused.

“We’re going to record your first video!”

“Right now?”

“Why not?” I raise my eyebrows. His lips come together as he ponders this. After a moment, he picks up his guitar.

“I was thinking a duet.” I scoot back so I can lean against the wall and sit crisscross applesauce.

He grins now, guitar in position. “You sing-sing?”

“You doubt me?”

“I would never,” he says matter-of-factly.

We stare at each other for a moment before I clear my throat. “Okay! So, I think we should do a duet of ‘Wrecking Ball.’”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Still set on that?”

“Just this one song. Come on. We’ll call it a cover. We won’t take credit. Humor me here,” I ramble incessantly.

He smiles at the ceiling for five seconds before he turns to look at me again. “Give me half an hour to work out the chords.”

I grin. “See you in half an hour.”



* * *



When our slightly altered version of “Wrecking Ball” comes to an end, we smile at each other for a good long moment. I get up quietly and stop the recording before retreating to my spot next to him on the bed. During the half-hour break, I dressed up a little fancier and threw on some red lipstick for my YouTube debut. Now I feel a smidge overdressed.

“You have a nice voice.” He carefully sets down his guitar by his desk.

“Thank you, O musical one,” I say, crossing my legs. “Are you happy with that take?”

“I think that’s going to be our most genuine take.” We only did one take.

“I agree. It’s 2011 YouTube; we can get away with that performance.”

I hand him the memory card. He pops it into his computer and drops the file to his desktop before giving it back to me. I replace it as he lies down on the bed. He puts his hands behind his head and watches me. I stay seated on the edge, legs hanging off the side.