The Music of What Happens(42)

“Maybe a little,” I say. “I don’t think he was actually dying, but yeah. Carried him.”

“Oh my God,” Kayla says. “I’m embarrassed for you, sweetie.”

Now she is the recipient of a middle finger from Jordan.

I look at the pen Kayla hurled at me. “So what do we need the pens for?” I ask.

“We’re going to throw dreams. We put our dreams on the paper, and we put them in balloons, and we send them out the window to wherever they are needed,” Kayla says.

I cannot imagine any situation in which Betts would be a party to throwing dreams. Even Zay-Rod, slam poet that he is, seems like a poor candidate for dream throwing. But I don’t want to not be a part of it, so I hide my fear and discomfort and say, “Sure.”

I look at Pam. I can’t help it. I don’t know her, but I subconsciously look at her for backup, because even though I hate it when people label stuff in this way, it truly does sound like some white shit.

Pam doesn’t seem to share this opinion. She is looking up and down my body. “You are so not about this.”

I shrug.

“It’s okay,” she says. “We just. You don’t have to, is all I’m saying.”

“No. I want to,” I say, and she gives me a hardcover book called Don’t Let Me Go, hands me some scraps of paper she’s torn up, and throws another ballpoint pen — this one pink — at my chest. I catch it.

“It can be anything,” Kayla continues. “You can write a dream you have for the world, or a love poem. Something that will make the world a better place.”

I tentatively sit on the floor near the door and stare at a blank piece of paper that Pam has put in front of me. A love poem? What the fuck do I know about love? Jordan writes poetry. I draw, I guess. So I start to draw. With two pens — one green, one pink — I don’t have much, so I start drawing a landscape. A sun setting over the ocean. I create waves, peaceful, and a palm tree forms, and I make a story in my head in case they ask what my dream is. A perfect day with a loved one. A boyfriend. Cracking jokes and having adventures and chilling out. And a lump grows in my throat because maybe he’s not a boyfriend, but today. Today was like my dream day. And I realize: It is a dream. I have created a dream to throw.

“This has to be so weird for you,” Jordan says, looking over at me from the bed.

“No,” I say. “It’s cool.” And it is cool. I mean, it’s just not what I’m used to. I smile at Jordan and his look over at me lingers a second, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m really okay with this or not.

“I hope I still have balloons,” Kayla says, standing up and going to her closet.

“Otherwise you can use condoms,” Pam says. “God knows you have enough unused ones.”

“Wait. Are you prude-shaming me?” Kayla says, and Pam cracks up. “We actually are going to have to use condoms, because, yeah. I didn’t replenish my balloon supply since last time.” She riffles through her bedside table drawer, and then she throws condoms at all of us. One lands right next to my knee. It says Project Hard Hat and the foil packet is yellow.

Jordan tears into his blue packet and pulls out a blue condom. Watching his delicate fingers unroll it is about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen and I can’t look away. Then he starts to blow into it like a balloon. It inflates a little, and he holds the air in for a moment before allowing it to pour out like a fart.

“Throwing dreams in a condom seems a little on the nose to me,” Jordan says. “Since me getting laid is a dream that will never come true.”

My face gets all hot. I don’t even look up to see if anyone’s looking at me. I can’t.

“I’ve missed this so much,” Pam deadpans. “You talking about how hopeless you are.”

She jumps up and gets on the bed with Jordan. She turns him toward the wall and spoons him, and this nice warmth passes through my chest, watching someone give Jordan affection.

“You are not hopeless,” Pam says softly to him. “You dress horribly and you need a makeover and maybe a new hairstyle, and your personality is … not ideal … but, I mean, you’re hygienic, I guess. So you have that going for you.”

That makes me laugh, and Kayla comes and sits next to me. “I think I like you,” she says.

I’m imagining spooning Jordan. Feeling the warmth of his thin legs against mine. My stomach against his lower back. I’m dizzy thinking about it.

“Um. I think I like you too,” I say to Kayla, and she leans her head against my shoulder and I keep my eyes trained on the bed, imagining changing places with Pam.





“You take me to all the best places,” I say, trying to shout over the thump-y music at Lo-Lo’s Chicken and Waffles in Scottsdale.

Max doesn’t even look up. He just keeps wolfing down his fried chicken thigh. He has crumbs all over his face. “They have damn good chicken,” he says, still chewing. It sounds like, Thev am gud icken.

“Apparently. Though I might have preferred Gloria’s Salmon and Donuts. Or maybe Fi-Fi’s Steak and Biscuits.”

He groans and pulls a chunk of meat off the side of the thigh and stuffs it in his mouth. “Some of your jokes are cheesy as fuck,” he says.

Other than a quick shower at home, I have now been with Max for fifteen straight hours. I’m not even tired, to tell the truth. It feels a little like the world has stopped. Like our housing problem doesn’t exist. Like tomorrow doesn’t matter. I kinda love it. Especially right now, as I watch him massacre a piece of fried chicken like the dude he is. Especially after I introduced him to my wives, and we threw dreams in a condom out the window.