Love Songs & Other Lies(13)
“To everything. To anything.”
Silence.
“Unless you’ll end up dead or on a MISSING poster, I want you to say yes.” There’s another long silence, and I hold my breath, waiting. “You’re a smart girl, you’ll know the right choice. The world won’t fall apart if you make a mistake.”
“Nonni—”
“I want you to do this for me.” Ginny doesn’t say anything. I wish I were one of those people who could swim the length of a pool underwater. All I can hear is my breathing. “Do it for your old, dying grandmother.”
Boom. Just like that Evelyn goes nuclear. Old people love to play the I-won’t-be-around-forever card. It trumps everything. There’s a long silence and I’m starting to think maybe Ginny left.
“Fine.” Her voice is strained, like she’s been asked to put her hand in a blender, but is still trying to sound happy about it.
Habits/Mannerisms: Puts up a good front. Brave in the face of blendered hands.
“But I’m not even missing out like you think I am.” She’s calmer now, her voice gaining some confidence.
“Well, I certainly hope I’m wrong, honey. But you’ve made me very happy. I look forward to hearing about your adventures … big and small.”
Ginny stays for another hour, making small talk and playing one more song. There’s still no laughter or teasing—none of the brightness she arrived with. When she finally leaves, this overwhelming feeling fills me; the desire to run after her and see who she is. To know her name, her story, ask her why she won’t play that amazing song for anyone. Why she doesn’t want to play it out in the hallway or on the goddamn street corner, so everyone can hear it. But that’s impossibly complicated, of course. What would I even say? “Oh, hey, I’ve been hanging out in your grandma’s room for hours, listening to you. I just thought I’d say hi. Maybe you could fill me in on the details of your life? Oh, and I’m also writing about you.” If I was lucky it would get me pepper-sprayed. Worst case, I’m labeled a stalker and watched by all three hundred students at Riverton High, who would no doubt hear of my treachery by morning bell.
I stay for a while, giving Evelyn some time to fall asleep before I make my exit. There has to be an easier way to satisfy my curiosity. I pull the poster out of my bag and dial the ten-digit number scribbled at the bottom.
*
I’ve been sitting on the edge of my bed for the last hour, letting my fingers run over the cold strings of Betty, my long-neglected Fender. Each strum and pluck chases away another piece of the nervous energy that’s been rushing through me, setting me on edge. A sort of panic had rushed over me the second I sent that text. I expected some time to think things over. To talk myself out of it. Convince myself it’s a horrible fucking idea to meet her. The guy, Anders, was so excited he insisted I come to their practice tonight to try out. I’ve played in bands since middle school—I think the spot could be mine if I want it.
Do I actually want it?
At nine o’clock, I pull up to the house, set deep in the corn-filled farmland that lies beyond the beaches and downtown shops of Riverton. The driveway is full of cars, and the pumping rhythm of bass filters out of the house. I try the knob and when it gives way I let myself in, following the music to a set of stairs that leads into a walk-out basement. The first person I see is someone I recognize.
“Cameron?” His hand shoots out toward me. “Hey, man. I’m Anders.” He’s severely skinny and in my World History class. Logan, a guy with a black Fender slung over his shoulder, nods up at me when Anders runs off his name. He never moves from his place behind the microphone stand. Donut Guy. The bassist is a junior named Steve and one of the few people in Riverton I feel like I haven’t seen before.
Disappointment sets in when the introductions end. Where the hell is she? I scan the large space, hoping I’ve missed someone. “This is everybody?”
Anders is sitting behind his drum set, a black stick in each hand, twisting one around the tips of his fingers. “Yup.”
“Who sings?”
“We all do. A little.” Anders is only half paying attention to me as he taps one of the brassy cymbals. “Mostly Logan, but he could use help. Our old guitarist, Phil, sang most of the backup. He was crazy good, too. Dad got transferred to Minneapolis a few months ago.” His voice holds the same distress as the guys on the national news who deliver hurricane death tolls. “In Florida, three people were killed today in a tropical storm that swept off the west shore. In other news, a Michigan band has lost their beloved guitarist after a devastating job relocation. Details at ten…”
“I sing.” The words spew out before I can think it through. Shit. I don’t even want to stay. She’s not even here! “A little. I mean … depends on the style.” This may be the most words I’ve voluntarily said to anyone in the two months since I moved here. And look how well it’s going.
Anders continues tapping the cymbal. “Okay, let’s play. See how it feels.” Logan and Steve are tuning up as I plug in.
This is a stupid idea.
I spend most of the first song—a punky-pop cover I know well—wondering what I’m still doing here. I should just leave. I came to satisfy my curiosity about Ginny, and apparently she isn’t even coming. I make a mental note: