Falling Under (12 page)

“That your first kiss?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’ve kissed a couple guys. I mean, I kissed them back. Not…those two guys I told you about, the ones who kissed me. These were guys I kissed because I wanted to. But…it never felt like this. It was okay, but not…so intense.”

I allow myself the liberty of skating my palms over her back, down to her hips and back up. She shivers at my touch. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never had a kiss like that, either. Like you said, it was intense.”

“Why ‘for what it’s worth’?”

I roll my eyes and shrug. “I dunno.”

“You
mean
something to me, Oz. Everything about you means something to me. You make a difference to me.”

“Why?” I toy with a lock of her hair, spinning the ends in my fingers. “I don’t get it.”

“You’re different.” She sits on my legs, reaches out to put her palms on my chest, smoothing and touching. “So different. And I like that. There’s…something real about you. Everyone else I know seems like they’re…putting on a show.”

I blink at that. “I’m just me.”

She smiles at me. “Exactly. And that’s special. To me at least.”
 

Her T-shirt has hiked up a bit in the back, and when my hands make a circuit from shoulders to spine to lower back, I feel her warm, soft skin. It’s like a compulsion then, to slip my fingers under the cotton and find more flesh, just her back, the knobs of her spine, brushing the lower edge of her bra strap. No more, neither lower nor higher. I’m careful, hesitant. But temptation is a powerful thing, and I have to fight it, for her sake. I tear my hands away, curl my fingers into fists to keep from devouring her flesh with my palms and fingertips and lips. I’ve never felt such need before, never had to fight it so hard, never denied myself the luxury of touching if the girl was willing.

This girl? She’s different, and deserves better.

But Kylie has different ideas. “I liked that. It felt nice.” She arches her back. “Do it again.”

“I shouldn’t.”
 

“Why not?”

I sigh, close my eyes so her hot hungry eyes don’t see so deep into me. “I shouldn’t, because I don’t want to stop at just…touching your back. Won’t want to, won’t be able to.”

“So don’t.”

“You don’t mean that.”

She curls her fingers into my hair, leans in. “I’m a virgin, Oz.”

I laugh. “Yeah, sweetness. I know. And that’s why.”

“I’ve had opportunity. Choices. I decided not to. I waited.” She shifts forward, her hips closer to mine. “Just because I waited didn’t mean I didn’t want to. I
did
want to. I
do
want to. I’ve wanted to for a long time. But I wanted it to be with the right guy. To mean something. I know it’s not always, like, true love the first time. I’m not naive. And I know…I know it’ll hurt. And I know it will probably be different than I’m imagining. But I want it. And Oz?” She leans in and kisses me, so hot and so hard and so hungry, clutching me to her and crushing our bodies together, kissing me with such frenzy and such desperate abandon that I feel myself going hard, and I know she feels that, too. “I want it with you.”

SIX: Performances and Gestures and Ghosts

Colt

The open mic night is kind of dumb. I mean, most of the kids just aren’t talented.
 
It feels like bad karaoke, only no one is drunk. There are a few people, aside from Kylie and Oz, who have a modicum of talent. One kid did a pretty decent cover of Jack Johnson, and the rest is just blah. Shitty covers of crappy songs. So, by the time Oz and Kylie go on, near the very end, I’m antsy, irritated, and ready to go home. The coffee shop is packed, the tables and chairs pushed back to make a small circle of space to one side of the counter where the baristas continue to make drinks, slamming the espresso wand, steaming milk, making the blender whir.
 

The second-to-last act finishes butchering U2, and Kylie and Oz take their place in the center of the open area. Oz is holding Kylie’s black Yamaha by the neck, and a beat-up black and tan Stratocaster is slung by the strap behind his back. There’s a tiny black upright piano that someone shoved into the corner, and Kylie slides onto the bench.

I’ve heard them practicing in the basement over the last couple of weeks, and I have a feeling they’re about to slay it.
 

Kylie pulls the mic stand over to the piano, adjusts the arm so she can sing and play at the same time. Oz, meanwhile, drags a stool and a mic stand and sits near Kylie, partially facing her and partially facing the audience. He leaves his electric guitar hanging at his back and settles the acoustic on his knee, does some unplugged strumming and tuning.
 

Kylie glances at Oz, offers him a shaky smile, and takes a deep breath. Oz just nods at her as he plugs in, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, and this tiny excuse for a smile seems to reassure my nervous-looking daughter. “Hey, guys,” Kylie says. “I’m Kylie Calloway, and this is Oz Hyde. I hope you’ll like what we’ve got for you. We’re actually going to do two songs for you guys. As long as you don’t boo us off-stage first.”

She nods at Oz, who sucks in a deep breath, and then starts playing. It’s a slow, lilting melody, rolling like deep ocean waves. After a few beats, Kylie joins him on the piano, playing the same melody but with piano embellishments sliding above and below and weaving through Oz’s bass line. The crowd has gone silent, realizing they’re about to hear something good. Even the coffee shop employees have stopped working to listen. You can sense it, smell it, feel it. You can see it in the way Oz plays the acoustic guitar with easy skill, hear it in the rising beauty of Kylie’s piano.
 

And then Kylie starts singing:
 

“
Watching this unfold, watching hours become moments

Become weeks become days,

It’s all a game, all a trick, hopeless despite my intents.

I’m watching you close and I’m lost in your maze

I can’t find my way, don’t have a map of your terrain.

I’m trying and I’m diving in, but I’m caught up in your pain,

I’m lost and I’m looking for you, but your secrets are a stain,

They leave a shadow on the clarity of what I feel.

Your secrets and the hidden scars
 

Are holes in your skin, but light shines through, bright as stars.
”

Her piano goes muted, quiet, and Oz’s melody continues, dark and deep and slow. Then he sings, and I’m blown away. His voice isn’t…
good
, but it’s rough and mesmerizing, something raw and fascinating.
 

“
You wish you knew me,
 

You wish you could see me,
 

Maybe you think a few kind words will free me.

But darling, they won’t.

Darling, they won’t.

Your eyes betray your fear,

You come close to me, draw near,

Afraid, maybe curious, maybe thinking you can save me.

But darling, you can’t.

Darling, you can’t.

Your world and mine,
 

They’re a million miles apart,

And baby, maybe you think you can bridge the gap,

But darling, you can’t.
 

Darling, you can’t.
”

Oz lets the melody play out once more, and then strums three harsh, muted chords, a waiting beat, one-two-three, and then with a sudden crescendo, they’re playing together, full volume, their melodies intersecting and weaving and complementing. Together, then, they sing, each singing their own chorus, overlapping and competing and harmonizing:

“
I want to know you—
”

“
Baby, you don’t—
”

“
There’s no darkness too dark, no scars too deep—
”

“
You can’t save me, darling you can’t, darling you can’t—
”

“
I’m not afraid of you, I’m strong enough, if only you’d let me try—
”

“
Darling, I can’t, darling, I can’t
—”

“
Let me love you, let me love you, let me let me let me love you—
”

“
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, darling I can’t, Darling you can’t
—”

“
Let me—
”

“
Darling, I can’t
—”

“
Let me please—
”

“
Darling, I can’t—
”

This goes on, a musical argument, sung back and forth and back and forth, their voices rising in volume and intensity until they’re both shouting, pleading, singing exactly in unison, but singing different words. It’s an incredible performance. There’s an element of folk-style simplicity to the song, the way the notes themselves and the chords and the sequences aren’t complicated, but they’re haunting and compelling.
 

They end abruptly, mid-chorus, his guitar striking a muted chord.
 

There’s a fraught moment of tense silence, and then the audience loses it, howling and screaming, shocked and awed.
 

They don’t silence the screams and applause, they merely wait, and then Kylie gives Oz a nod. Oz unplugs the Yamaha and sets it on the floor by his foot, and then swings the Fender around, plugs it in. Slides off the stool, adjusts the strap to a more comfortable position, turns it on, and then touches the strings. I haven’t heard him play electric, and I’m curious. The way he strokes the strings at the fret board before he starts playing, the way he seems to fall inward, makes me think he’ll be pretty good.

He hits a chord, a low, discordant thrum, and he nods, jerks a thumb up. The guy at the little mix board recognizes this signal, turns a knob, and the thrum become a roar. Kylie is sitting at the piano, just watching. Oz renews the chord, and it fills the room, and he’s nodding as if to a beat no one else can hear. Then we’re all struck, assaulted, battered by a sudden frenzy of notes, all played up high on the neck, near the bridge, and it’s a kind of sustained hailstorm, relentless and chaotic, but there’s a rhythm to it, or there’s a rhythm falling out of it, the way the notes slow and lower, becoming a melody. It’s as if he’s dragging a melody by main force out of the chaos, and then Kylie’s piano joins the frenetic mass of sound, which somehow becomes tune, becomes melody, becomes something unexpectedly lovely. She’s playing fast, all tapped high notes, mirroring his flying fingers. I don’t think any of us can believe what we’re hearing. Oz is a magician, an artist. He’s lost, subsumed within the music. Kylie? She’s lost, too, but as much in
him
as she is the music.
 

Then Kylie sings, and it’s…perfect. And I again cannot believe how talented my daughter is, the beauty in her lyrics and the purity of her voice.
 

“
Flaws are the fabric of a soul,

And yours are deep,

Twisted thick into the damask of who you are

But I see past the flaws.

I’m not blind, I’m not blind, I’m not blind.

It may not be love,

It may be love,

It may be something else,
 

Maybe something in between love and not

I don’t know, and I wouldn’t be writing these words if I did,

I wouldn’t be lost and drifting and scribbling at three in the morning,

If I did.

So your flaws, the tangled web of secrets and sins and scars,

They’re you, you, you,

And I see you,

I see you

I see you.

You hide behind the hard and impenetrable flesh of your scars,

You hide behind the things that make you human,

And that’s all I want,

The human, the inside and the outside, and the good and the bad,

It’s all I want,

The everything,
 

The ugly and beautiful and the gray in between

All mixed up like a slush and a slurry of pieces.

I don’t miss the way you look at me,

The disbelief that I could see through the mask you wear,

The truth you wield like a disguise,

The weapons of your fists and the ink of your tattoos,
 

They’re you, you, you,

But not the whole, not the entirety, not the everything,
 

And don’t you know,

Don’t you see,

Can’t you understand that all I want

Is only the everything,

Only the everything,

Only the everything
 

That is you.
”

While she sings, Oz is playing with the kind of desperation and fervor that tells me he feels the words, hears every single one, and he’s playing to sustain his disbelief. I’m watching him play and watching him deny. It’s an intimate moment between them, and I’m stunned by the bravery it takes to play something so revealing on stage, to sing so openly and, for Oz, to play along knowing the words are about him, for him, to him.

Kylie’s voice fades, and Oz’s guitar fades, and only Kylie’s piano remains, a repeating melody, something short and high, communicating wistfulness and longing.

The applause is deafening. There’s a huge crowd standing everywhere there is a space; people drawn from the hallways have come by to listen. When the noise doesn’t immediately die away, Kylie speaks into the mic, grinning. “Ya’ll wanna hear Oz play a solo?” There’s a chorus of agreement, and Kylie’s grin grows brighter. “Yeah, me too. Oz, what do you say? How about that piece you played for me the other night?”

This is a community college open mic night that has somehow become a concert.

Oz looks frozen, stunned, and uncomfortable. He stares at Kylie, who just gives him a nod and a smile. Oz lets out a nervous breath, and then sits on the stool, closes his eyes, strums the strings almost idly, thinking, falling under and into the zone.