Being Friends With Boys (8 page)

Fabian lifts the amp in a kind of greeting to both the Sams.

“So, we’re just going to”—Oliver rubs his hands together, looks at me—“try some things out, I guess.”

I think, again, how much I wish Trip were here. If for no other reason than to wink at me or something. Stick out his tongue and remind me to loosen up.

“How should we do this?” Eli says, already wiping his plate clean with his finger.

“Well, we just wanted—” I start.

At the same time, one Sam asks, “Together or individual?”

I’m not sure what he’s getting at, and I’m not sure my face doesn’t show it.

Abe butts in, absolutely out of character. “It’d be decent to do a song or two with each of you on bass. So we can, you know, get a sense. Fabian, you should just play the whole time for consistency.” He clears his throat and nods at Oliver, who, after a second, nods back. Oliver doesn’t know what to think of Abe speaking up, either.

The Sams glance at Eli and Fabian, and they all nod together. Quickly they decide on some song I don’t recognize the name of—not one of ours, anyway. I don’t think Oliver knows it that well either, because he has to ask Eli what key it’ll be in.

I sit in the ivory leather recliner to watch, knees tucked up under my chin. Oliver hasn’t told them my part in this at all, which is annoying but maybe also makes me that much more interesting. Here I am, the lone girl who is obviously important but who also is clearly not some ho-bag attached to Oliver’s hip. I’m like a mystery. I hope.

The curly-haired Sam plays with them first. He and Oliver start together ably, simply. Fabian barely looks at anyone while he plays, staring down at his keyboard instead. Out of his synthesizer come some piano chords I feel like I should know. Next to them, Oliver’s own chord changes are a little stumbly, but it’s nothing too awkward and his voice sounds good. They stop and
it’s fine. Abe nods; Oliver nods back. So much nodding. The next Sam steps up. It’s mostly the same thing, though Fabian’s added a windlike layer of sound. At the end of it, Fabian smiles a little at the straight-haired Sam, who shrugs. He doesn’t seem to care, but I like that Fabian is acknowledging him.

Eli steps up. “One two three, hit me,” he counts off like James Brown. Within the first few measures, it’s like all of us have straightened up a little, even Abe. Eli’s playing is fierce, but so is his entire demeanor. He’s biting his lip almost hard enough to draw blood, and his ferocious jerking arms and elbows are wiry and sharp.

Fabian responds to Eli’s energy too: adding new things, looking happily over at Eli with eyebrows up. It’s like Eli somehow brings out both what Abe is doing on the drums and what Oliver’s doing on guitar. On top of that he gives Fabian a foundation to pile all that pretty, complicated synth stuff onto.

They drag it out in this crazy jam for at least two minutes past the end of the song.

“All right, then,” Oliver says when they finish. The two Sams pick up the video game controls without saying anything.

We switch to one of Oliver’s racing games for a while. When Abe destroys me in our final lap and it’s my turn out, I run upstairs to bring the rest of the food down. As soon as I do, Eli grabs a plastic fork and finishes off the macaroni salad, straight
from the bowl. It’s like he already knows he’s going to be able to make himself comfortable here.

It’s nearly five thirty when they all finally leave. Abe, Oliver, and I wave good-bye to them from the front door and then head back in to discuss how things went. It’s pretty clear who the new members are going to be, but we do have to make it official. I’m glad Fabian was so good, for a couple of reasons. And whether I like to admit it or not, it’s actually really interesting how the sound is going to change with these new guys. Though Trip killed on guitar, its absence feels okay. I think even Trip would think so, and I wonder if there’s a way for me to invite him to a rehearsal.

“You think they can do it?” Oliver asks. We are back in the kitchen. Abe’s sitting on the counter while Oliver and I load the dishwasher together.

“In time, you mean?” Abe asks.

Oliver nods. “In time.”

I picture the way Fabian just
went
with Eli, improvising all this remarkable stuff over Abe’s rhythm and Oliver’s chords.

“They’ve obviously played together before,” I say.

“Right?” Oliver is excited.

“Eli is
boss
.”

Abe. “So let’s tell them they’re in,” I say, putting the last plate into the rack. We grin at each other, huge.

“I think we should practice every day next week, if they can,” Oliver says. Abe nods from the counter. “Spider?”

I picture Lish and Bronwyn and their new lives, Trip taking karate classes, Jilly in her college seminars. I don’t care who I used to be. Right now, meeting eyes with Oliver, glancing at Abe, all three of us are electric with the possibility of the new sound that just came out of that rec room.

“I’m yours. As much as you need.”

Sunday afternoon Oliver texts.

1st practice tmrw @ 4:30. They can only do 3 days but it’s ok. I sent the MP3s.

I picture Fabian, Eli listening to “Disappear,” to “For Your Face.” To everything else I’ve written, have given up to Oliver’s voice. I picture their hands—okay, Fabian’s hand—against his earbud, holding the sound in tight.

You sent them r songs? Already?

How else will they know what to play?

I chew on the ragged end of my thumbnail before I type:
Right.

U have new stuff?
he sends next.

New stuff?

For the dance. I thought?????

Of course.
I’m lying. Maybe.

Cool.

How many?
I write.

Abe thinks we need 5 at least.

I sit up straight.
Tell Abe to write them then
.

:P Urs are better.

I feel a weird tingle in the back of my throat. Praise from Oliver always feels like this—like some kind of victory. Even though it’s dumb.

Whitney still off limits as material?
I can’t help teasing him.

Shut up.

See u in the morning.

When I drop my phone to the floor, the numbers of my bedside clock are all I see. It’s 3:50. There’s homework to do, reading to catch up on, notes to memorize—none of which I did yesterday because I was at auditions the whole afternoon, and then I had to write in the notebook to Trip, since he wasn’t answering his phone. Now there are, at least, three songs to write (Oliver won’t expect all five tomorrow), on top of that. Though I’m not sure I have anything very poetic to say beyond “Apparently it’s going to be okay” and “New guy, you are so cute”—for Oliver, for the new band, and for (eeek) Fabian, I need to get over my writer’s block. I open up my photo albums, grab a pen. Ready or not, there’s work to be done.

I
n the morning, I shove the sheets of legal notebook paper into Oliver’s hand as he rounds the corner from the parking lot to the main building. We are in a stream of students, moving toward class.

Oliver doesn’t even look down. “Cool,” he says. Whitney is there, in the hook of his arm. She’s making sure I see it, which doesn’t even make sense anymore.

“No, I mean—” I start. But then I realize Eli is there, right behind Oliver, between Abe and a couple of other guys. From Oliver’s face, I know this is not the time to discuss any of it. I picture my trash can at home, overflowing with all the lines
that were no way good enough. I wish I could tell him how hard it was, since I had to do them so fast. But obviously he can’t hear it right now. I think the songs are all right. I think they are, but it would be better if Oliver could just even look at them for a second, nod or something in approval. It’d be better if I’d shown Trip first.

The first one’s about this ideal girl who turns out to be way more empty and cruel than you think. A girl who deceives you. Like most of the songs I’ve done, I had no idea I even had thoughts like that until they were written. Always, for my ideas, I can’t come up with things on my own; I have to look at pictures. But looking, I can somehow hear how the photo feels, and then start writing. This one was from a photo of Lish. The second song is about animals and the things they think about the people watching them. That one came from a blurry photo of a panda I took when Jilly and I went to the zoo over spring break one time.

“There’s only two in there” is all I say, half apologetic, half a warning, as we head toward Oliver’s locker, which is the wrong way from mine.

He nods, neck tight, and it occurs to me that the new guys don’t know who actually writes the lyrics. He wants me to stop talking about it in front of Eli. I feel a flare of annoyance, followed by one of silent pride—my songs are so good he wants Eli to think he wrote them.

“See what you think,” I say last, stopping because going all the way down the hall with Oliver would totally make me late.

As I head back up the stream of other people needing to get where they’re going, I do catch Oliver looking back, giving me a small, grateful wave. Which is when I also see Trip slipping by us both, over on the far side of the hallway. I want to stop him, tell him about the new songs, about the photos that inspired me. I want to at least give him the notebook, since he still doesn’t know anything about the auditions. But he doesn’t even look up. If I weren’t going to be late, I’d totally call out to him. But I guess I’ll see him during our notebook handoff after first period, which’ll have to be enough.

Between first and second, though, Trip doesn’t show up. Waiting for him, I feel anxious and exposed. In case he’s just talking to a teacher, I wait, but it’s awkward. Other kids pass by, their eyes sliding away from mine. I try to keep my face aloof, pray to god that Lish doesn’t turn the corner, see me standing there without anyone. After twenty more unbearable seconds, I hurry off.

After lunch he’s at my locker, apologizing. “Had to ask a question about this new project,” he explains, which is what I figured, I guess. I know how he has to make good grades to keep his father off his back. But I still feel slighted somehow.

“There’s a lot in here,” I tell him, pulling the notebook out. “But I think you’ll like it.”

“Cool.” He slides it into his bag. “May take me a while to get through it all.”

I nod. “So where were you all weekend? I thought I’d get to thank you for Friday night at least.” I try to make it sound jokey, but I feel—“hurt” is too strong a word, but I don’t know what else—that he’s acting like he doesn’t even care.

He shrugs, shouldering through people in the hall. “Friend of Dad’s came into town. I had to play Dutiful Son. And he’s cracking down on Internet time.”

It’s weird he said
nothing
about this on Friday. “I didn’t know your dad had anyone coming to visit.”

“We didn’t either. Army friend. Stopping over on his way to somewhere else. We went to Bambinelli’s. They had a lot of beers.”

I try to picture Trip sitting there, listening to his dad’s friend’s stories, smiling while being clapped on the back a hundred times.

“Sounds wretched.”

He shrugs again as we round the corner and the thick crush of students opens up. “It actually wasn’t that bad.”

I stare at the back of his jacket. Normally he’d be cussing and groaning, making a show for me. And, I mean, he could’ve at least responded to my texts.

“Are you
okay
?” I slit my eyes at him as we get to his next class. Mine is four doors down.

“I’m fine.” He looks at me like I’m Whitney-needy to even ask. “Just, fuller weekend than I thought, you know.”

There’s something stiff about him, something defensive, but I’m obviously not going to find out what’s wrong in the next fifteen seconds.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you.” My eyes are half-slit, still watching.

He points a finger at me like a gun, pulls the invisible hammer with his thumb.

After school I ride with Oliver to practice, and look at my lyrics again. There’s some stuff I want to add, cross out, change, though I can’t tell if he’s had time to read them or not.

We park in Whitney’s driveway. They go inside, Whitney needing to
talk
to him. The way she said it, I wanted to lean over the shoulder of the passenger’s seat and tell her to quit giving girls such a bad name. Instead I pretended I wasn’t there.

Finally, Oliver trudges from around the back of Whitney’s house.

“She doesn’t let you out the front door anymore?” I snark as he gets in the car.

He just sits there, staring at the steering wheel. “Goddamn,” he finally says, looking at me. “That girl. You know?”