Not Today, But Someday(50)

Am I really going to perform, right now, for her?

When I get to my room, I take the guitar and sit on the bed, strumming a few chords of a Nirvana song I’d been practicing ever since I got the album a couple months ago. I’d taught myself the song by ear, not that it was difficult. Eight chords. Simple lyrics. A guy looking for a friend... possibly more...

Shit, I can’t sing that song to her.

I mentally go through my personal repertoire and realize every song I know is a love song. “About a Girl” is probably my safest bet, so I decide to go ahead and play my original choice. I can’t believe I’m about to do this.

“Do you take requests?” she asks as soon as I step back into the theater.

“I don’t know a whole lot of songs,” I tell her. “What would you want to hear?”

“Fall Down,” she answers. “Toad the Wet Sprocket?”

“I can’t play that,” I laugh, thinking of the guitar riff in my head. If that didn’t play such a prominent part in the song, I know I could get through the rest of it. “Think rhythm guitar. Not lead.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” she says, looking confused.

“Chords, not solos,” I try to clarify.

“So... no Jerry Cantrell,” she states.

“You knew what I was saying,” I challenge her, surprised that she knew what I meant. “Right. I was thinking a Nirvana song.”

“That works,” she says, taking a seat on the front row. She sits cross-legged, tucking her boots beneath her legs, and leans forward, her eyes expectant. I grab a barstool and put it on the raised platform and take a seat.

When I look at her, my anxiety disappears. She smiles as I strum the first few chords and starts mouthing the words with me when I start singing.

“Sing with me,” I encourage her, skipping a line of the song to talk to her.

“I can’t sing,” she says. “Plus, I want to hear you.” I roll my eyes but continue. A few times, she lifts her eyebrows, looking surprised at my performance. She sways with the music, and is so into it that she doesn’t notice when my mom comes into the room quietly and takes a seat behind her.

Through the entire song, Emi’s lips move with my lips. I can’t stop looking at her, and her eyes don’t leave mine, either. She gives me confidence. She makes me feel like I can do anything.

As I play the final chord, sing the final words, Emi stands up and claps, giving me my first standing ovation. I can feel the heat rush to my cheeks, but I stand up and bow for my audience.

“That... was f*cking amazing!” Emi exclaims. “Holy shit, do it again!!”

I nod at my friend, then look behind her at my mother, who looks moderately startled. “Hey, Mom,” I say to her. Mom waves at me, as Emi stills, her face ashen.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” she says. “Please tell me Donna’s not in here...”

“Do you like strawberries, honey?” my mother asks.

“I am so sorry,” Emi says, turning around quickly and covering her mouth.

“No, it was... amazing,” Mom says, avoiding Emi’s adjective. “Don’t worry about it, sweetie.”

“I would be so grounded at my house.”

“So would Nathan,” she says, “but this isn’t your house.”

“Which means I should be on my best behavior,” Emi says. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Emily, please.”

“I never would have said that if I had known–”

“It’s fine.”

“Emi, it’s fine,” I try to assure her. “You can’t help what my music does to you,” I tease her.

“Right, we’ll blame the music.”

“I’m happy you liked it,” I tell her, carefully setting my guitar aside.

“I thought you two had to rehearse for your English class,” Mom says as she finally hands Emi a bowl of strawberries. She takes one and carries the bowl to the edge of the stage, offering me one. We both sit down on the platform.

“The squire is a poet and a musician,” I explain to her.

“And what role do you play, Emily?”

“Well,” Emi starts, looking at me.

“She’s the knight.”

“That’s progressive...” Mom says thoughtfully. “A female knight.”

“Actually,” Emi says, “I will be telling my story as the heroine of the Knight’s Tale.”

“Really?” I ask her, surprised. “You’re going to be Emily?”

“I am,” she says.

“So no armor?”

“Not even a sword,” she says.

“I was looking forward to a duel,” I say, nudging her shoulder with mine.

“There was never going to be a duel,” she says. “The knight and his son are both good men. Respectable. They fight for honor. They fight for what’s right.”

“Not over the strawberries?” I ask her as I watch her devouring the fruit my mom had brought us.

“You ruined my lunch,” she says. “We might be fighting over these.” She pulls the bowl to her right side, as far away from me as she can get them. I reach around her, struggling with her to get a berry or two. We’re both laughing in our struggle.