How They Met (19 page)

the dance, but suddenly I am seeing all the things

I will never be able to give him. I am seeing

that I cannot be a part of the music that sets him

free. And it’s seeing it in those terms that does it,

that makes me fill with loneliness. I will stand here

for the rest of the night, and he will dance there.

He has listened to me for hour upon hour, and so

I have dressed the part, I have made the appearance,

I have tried the groove. But in the end he will say

I closed my ears to him, and he will not be wrong.

I take out my notebook, take out my pen,

but the lines remain empty. I cannot think,

I am thinking so much.

For the first time ever, we drive home in silence.

He is sweaty, ragged, angry, beautiful.

I reach out my hand to say I’m sorry.

He takes it, but gives nothing else away.

That night I go to the basement and play loud

enough to wake the neighbors, but not loud enough

to wake myself. I once read some guy who said

we listen to songs to figure them out, to unravel

the mystery of the words and the tune. I am writing

in order to unravel myself, to find out what

exactly I’m doing, and why.

the windows are closed

but the family’s still inside

lighting candles in the blackout

walking by the glow

I’m singing to myself. I’m singing to him.

I am standing on the street

the lamplights are a darkness

I’ve lost my sense of direction

I have nowhere to go

what do I know?

The next day I return to my bedroom, leaving

only for food, and barely any of that. I sing

the whole day away, playing the guitar

when my voice leaves me, using my desk

as a drum when my fingers start to hurt

from the strings.

the windows are closed

but I can feel you on the other side

from the dark of my bedroom

you’re just out of reach

At midnight I hear someone outside my door,

hovering. I yell
GO AWAY
in an ugly voice.

The someone goes away without a word,

but the hallway light stays on.

I am pressing on the walls

no stars around to guide me

I’ve lost my sense of direction

falling into the breach

what do I know?

He doesn’t call. I know

he is waiting for me to call.

But I don’t, and I don’t

even know why.

On Sunday my mother finally finds

the courage to stick her head in.

She asks me if everything is okay,

and I laugh.

Monday is the night I am supposed to play at

the open mic. I’m ready to abandon it, but

people keep stopping me in the halls, telling me

they’ll be there. I shouldn’t have come

to school. I see Caleb before history and can tell

he’s upset, or maybe angry, or maybe both.

He asks me what’s going on, and again I use

the least appropriate word, which is

nothing
. He asks me if I’m ready

for tonight, and if I still need a ride, and I say no,

and yes. We don’t know what to do

with each other, except make plans.

I stay late in the abandoned stairs

by the auditorium, practicing. I’ll have

three songs to make an impression,

so I play at least a dozen trying to figure out

which three. As I sing, I realize

how much I miss him. As if the boy

who wrote the words is reaching

across time to point me back

in the right direction. He’s saying

either you were wrong when you wrote this, or

you are wrong now
. I close my eyes, I sing

a song that was not for a stranger

When I’m in his arms.

I feel that I could fit

in this world

for now.

I feel that I could love

this world

for now.

No other places.

As life embraces.

When I’m in his arms.

In his arms.

and I see him.

There’s no song that says what I have to

say to him, but it feels like a song,

in that it is something I must express—

there are words inside of me that I must

release. He picks me up at the school,

his radio blaring, and when I turn it down

he shoots me a look. And I tell him I missed

him. I tell him I missed him when he was

on the dance floor, and in our silence

ever since. I tell him our music doesn’t

have to be the same, and he tells me

he already knew this, but wasn’t sure

if I ever could. He says he doesn’t know

if he could ever make me as happy

as finding the right word, the right bridge,

the perfect refrain. And I tell him that music

cannot be separated from life, that you

can’t have one without the other, that

he is my love song as much

as anyone can be. But I am still not sure

that I can be his dance. He parks the car and

kisses me softly and says
this is the dance

and I kiss him hard and
say this is the song
.

Because all of the chords are in a crescendo

and he is their source.

When I show up at the coffee place I see

my friends have arrived on time, which is

nothing short of a miracle. It makes me feel

like I belong to something, that somehow

I have drawn these people together to hear me,

because I know they wouldn’t be here together

without me. That means so much.

I am the second act on the list, so while

the first singer torches some standards, I make

a quick dive to the restroom. When I emerge,

Caleb is waiting for me. I can see he’s nervous

on my behalf, which makes me want to kiss him

again (so I do). He looks surprised, and

before I can ask why, he tells me my mother

is here. And sure enough, I look over his shoulder

and there she is. Without missing a beat, she

waves. I am now nervous on my own

behalf. I ask Caleb what she’s doing here,

and he says
I think she’s come to see her son sing
.

I hear my name over the low-grade speakers

that have been set up. I hear the cappuccino machine

burping behind the counter, the sound of mugs

settling on formica, the murmur of strangers.

I stand up on the makeshift stage, really just

an area where the tables have been cleared away.

When I look to my side I can see Caleb

standing right there. And when I look to

the makeshift audience, I see my mother there,

a table to herself, nervous, too, and proud.

I tune for a moment and realize the song

I need most is the one I’ve just finished,

the one I played all weekend.

the windows are closed

but the family’s still inside

lighting candles in the blackout

walking by the glow

I am standing on the street

the lamplights are a darkness

I’ve lost my sense of direction

I have nowhere to go

what do I know?

As I sing to Caleb, I know that this song is

no longer about us. Or if it’s about us,

it’s not about now. I turn to my mother

as I hit the refrain

when you hear me,

listen to what I’m saying

when you see me,

look me in the eye

when you know me,

try not be frightened

when you speak to me,

tell me everything

is going to be fine

and the most astonishing thing happens, which at first

I can’t believe—my mother, in her own quiet way,

is singing along.

Her mouth is moving with mine, she knows

all the words. I am almost thrown from

the second verse, because I am realizing how

deaf I have been. I have misinterpreted the

footsteps in the hallways. I have not seen or

listened or known. And I am near tears, looking

at Caleb, looking at my mother, because for a boy

who has been spending all his time on music,

it’s not until now that I know what a song can do.

The second refrain switches a little, but my mother

knows that. We are looking at each other right in the eye

and we are singing to the end

when you know me,

try not be frightened

when you see me,

look me in the eye

when you hear me,

listen to what I’m saying

when you speak to me,

tell me everything

is going to be fine

it’s going to be fine

the windows are closed

so we stumble to the doors

follow the sound of my voice

saying everything

is going to be fine

At first I don’t understand the applause, because

that’s not where I am. I am making a new song

out of my mother’s expression, the devotion

I’ve been too caught up to notice, and Caleb’s music,

the dancing that we’ll do.

This is what a song can do. Our moments are

music, and sometimes—just sometimes—

we can catch them and put them

into some lasting form. If I didn’t

have music, I don’t know if

I could ever be truly happy,

and if I didn’t have these moments,

I would never find music. It is everywhere,

in the air between us, waiting

to be sung.

WITHOUT SAYING

You are in her room, on her bed, as she paces angrily and tells you about Ridiculous Boyfriend #9 and their relationship, which (mercifully) has just ended. She is walking around the room as if she’s still in a race with him. She is telling you the story even though you’ve been hearing it all along.

In a few minutes, she’ll fall into the bed and laugh to the ceiling. She’ll wish you next to her, and you’ll comply. You’ll agree with her when she says that guys suck. She’ll say you don’t count. She’ll say you’re not like that.

You’re only half listening to her. Half listening and three-quarters watching. Ridiculous Boyfriend #9 was a snob, a jerk, too rich, too shallow, too straight, not enough of a pagan. Haven’t you said this all before? Hasn’t she?

You never say “I told you so,” because she knows that you did, and you know that she did it anyway.

“Arrrgh!” she yells in a mock fit of frustration. She’s the only person you know who says “arrrgh!” (Charlie Brown doesn’t count.) You calm her down. You offer her chocolate.

Does it go without saying that you love her?

Yes, of course it goes without saying.

Milo does not notice Ramona at first. She’s like the rest of Michelle’s friends. None of them can believe that Michelle is having a Sweet Sixteen. Milo was invited because they needed more boys. But he seems more interested in the centerpieces than in the girls.

Ramona sees him staring at the tulips. He senses he’s being watched and blushes.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says.

“Tulips,” he says. “In January.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. Her eyes move to the dance floor, where Michelle is making out with Alex Park.

“She’ll end the night pregnant,” Ramona observes.

“Good thing I got her a stroller for a present,” Milo says.

She doesn’t even look at him.

“That’s an expensive gift,” she says.

“Only the best for my little girl.”

They both look back to Michelle, whose bra strap is showing. It’s bright pink.

“You don’t belong here, and neither do I,” Milo says.

They leave the ballroom and head to a couch in the hotel lobby. The conversation begins. It lasts for more than two weeks. Milo and Ramona can’t seem to keep their words off each other. Ramona especially. She is surprised—surprised and pleased—by the intensity of this new whatever-it-is. She enjoys their whatever-we’re-doing, although the is-this-or-isn’t-it nature sometimes confuses her. She waits for a sign. Then she looks harder. He calls her his “brand-new friend” and she can’t help but wonder,
Is that it?
Then she is ashamed of her ungratefulness. Because what she needs more than anything else is, in fact, a brand-new friend.

You wish you could undo your love for him. It’s awkward. It’s embarrassing. You can’t tell anyone about it, because even the fact of it would alter things—perhaps irreparably.

You wonder if he knows. You pray that he doesn’t. You want him to read your mind. You send him messages. The telepathy never works.

You try to fall for other people, because maybe he’ll like you then.

He tries to set you up with one of his friends. Jim, you’re told, is interested in philosophy. Your philosophy, you tell him, is to not be interested in Jim. Because—it’s true—Jim blows his nose more often than normal people do. He laughs (his remarkable laugh) and jokes about your ridiculous standards. “There’s nothing standard about your standards,” he says, and you say that someday your prince will come. More than anything, you want him to reply, “But what if your prince is right under your nose?” Instead he says, “Well, as long as he’s not one of those
deposed
princes….”

You wish he’d get a clue. But you’re not about to give him one.

You wish he weren’t such a prince. You wish he were a frog.

Milo confesses his love to Ramona. (Ramona imagines this as she walks to the subway.) He proclaims, declaims, and just plain claims. He compares his love to oxygen and then describes her in terms of fire. He confesses that she mixes his metaphors and pervades his imagery. He has seen their future written in clouds, transcribed in dreams. His feelings are unanimous, and his friends are, too: He must be with Ramona. He says this—he says it all aloud. Then he turns off the shower and gets ready for dinner. (Note: she does not picture him explicitly in the shower. It’s steamy. She can’t really see anything.) Ramona will be coming over in twenty minutes.

He, who is rarely befuddled, cannot decide what to wear. (She goes through the options as she boards the train and it moves forward.) He puts on a tie, and figures that’s too formal. He puts on a T-shirt, and feels it’s not enough. Blue isn’t right and red makes his eyes look stoned. He puts on a turtleneck, rolls up the sleeves, puts them back down. He looks at his watch. He makes sure his phone is on, just in case she calls. (Ramona smiles as she steps out of the subway.) He continues to clean the kitchen, happy his parents won’t be home for hours. There is a single glass in the sink. He washes it, puts it in the dishwasher, looks at his watch. She is late. His heart feels trepidation. Then he remembers his watch is fast. He checks himself in the mirror again. He switches his shirt, and then changes out of jeans. “Ramona…,” he rehearses. He proofreads himself, again in the mirror. He doesn’t like the way his mouth looks when he speaks. (She loves his mouth, lingers on it for a second.) He tries to say “Ramona” with his mouth shut. He hears footsteps. He composes himself, opens the door. It is someone he’s never seen before, heading to another apartment. (Ramona rings the buzzer.) The buzzer rings. It startles him. His feet lift in the air. No, they just feel like they’re lifting in the air. “Ramona?” he asks as he presses the
TALK
button. And now
LISTEN
. It is her. (Ramona pictures him expectant.) He closes the dishwasher. He looks at his reflection. He repeats her name. There is so much he has to say. (She knocks. He opens the door.)

Carefully, very carefully, you begin to send signals. You ask her to make most of the decisions, with the hope (but not the expectation) that eventually she will make the right one. You imagine (ha!) that the usual rounds of “I-don’t-know-what-do-you-want-to-do?” will end up with her leaning over and kissing you and saying, “There—that’s what I want to do.”

This does not happen.

Instead, your “signals”—which seem to you to be so obvious and fat, so loud and behemoth—are as remote to her as the shift of an atom. The conversation does not halt—it does not thin itself and become a conversion. You falter, fall back to asides, to jokes—she laughs, you are amusing. She doesn’t know. You wonder if it’s better that way. Enlightenment is scary. Sometimes things look better in the dark.

You could stop her laughter in a second. Force it.

You don’t want to.

You back away from an awkward pause.

These are some of the things you cannot say to her:

“When I am with you, there is nowhere else I’d rather be. And I am a person who always wants to be somewhere else.”

“I see you in my dreams. And not just in fourth-grade classrooms or underwater Tupperware parties or other nonsensical dream places. I see you in reality most.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t choose this. It just happened.”

Milo is distracted, struck, left without a center of gravity. His shoes don’t match, and neither do his socks. He doesn’t notice. He lights candles and forgets about them, only to find the wax and ashes the next day. He puts CDs in the washing machine and throws recyclables in the sink. He is haunted by a muffled ringing. (His cell phone is in the laundry basket. It will take him three days to find it.)

Ramona is on her way over. Milo regrets this, because really all he can think about is William.

Two hours ago, he almost said something. To William, not Ramona. He does not say as much as he should to Ramona, and he says even less to William. Or, rather, he says too much to William—everything except those three words, although at least he can use the
I
and the
you
in other contexts. He can avalanche William with words—stories, litanies, tangents, anyways—without letting the biggest boulder loose.

And yet, two hours ago. They were at a gallery, seeing the work of a Japanese photographer who has traveled the world to capture seascaped horizons—the ocean meeting the sky without any land or ship or human in sight. Night and day, calm and storm—gray, black, and white indivisible.

Milo could have looked at the photographs, but he looked at William instead. The glass on the frames was reflective; Milo could see William’s eyes move to find the border between sky and sea. Milo saw his own hand moving to William’s shoulder—but, no, that was just a daydream mapped on the glass that Milo was placing over reality. They moved from one photo to the next—William covered the placards with his palm and asked Milo to guess the place they were seeing. Milo was invariably wrong—he guessed Cape Horn for the Carolinas, Alaska for the south of Wales. He even guessed Switzerland. William didn’t point out that Switzerland doesn’t touch any oceans; Milo realized it himself. “Guess guess guess,” William asked, playfully tugging at Milo’s sleeve, patting his back tenderly after the third consecutive miss.
Guess guess guess,
Milo thought, patting William likewise, looking at his eyes in the next reflection. When William was quiet again, when he resumed his immersion in the photography and let out a sigh, Milo felt his heart lurch. It was a strange and heretofore unknown feeling—but it felt perfectly natural, as if Milo had nothing to do with it. It was tidal. Milo wanted to tell William about it—which would mean telling William about everything.

But William was already speaking, talking about the length of the exposure and the solitude of the near-daybreak. Milo could not find a transition. He was afraid of souring what had been a wonderful afternoon. William spoke on—of apertures and natural light and the point where the eye is directed. Milo’s urgency subsided into a light, bearable sadness.

He tried to look at the pictures.

There comes a moment of decision, if not many. He is talking to you about his morning and suddenly more than anything else you want to kiss him. Or it is night and you are staring at her upturned face, wondering wondering wondering. You share a bed, you share a glance. He changes his shirt in front of you, and you think:
You have no idea how much I love you.
He has no idea. He is the lucky one.

The question is there in each silence. The question is there in the space between you. But you cannot bring it aloud. He is lending you his sweater. She is hugging you hello, and you try to measure for that extra beat. You linger in his apartment, he lingers in your thoughts. When you touch her arm, you feel a charge. You are lying on the floor, watching TV, your legs intertwine with his. You are on the couch laughing. You are breathing in the night sky, lying on your backs. She is pointing out Orion. Your head is on his shoulder, you are riding on the train. You are walking arm in arm through a snowstorm. Singing.

There are good reasons, there are bad reasons—but most of all, there are too many reasons. They cloud, they crush, they deceive. They are too much and never enough.

There is an avoidance in everything. Avoidance, and invention. Ramona rings Milo’s doorbell. Milo watches William’s mouth as he mentions the still point of morning. Ramona rings the doorbell again. She sits alone in her kitchen. Milo imagines what William would be like as a boyfriend. Ramona invents Milo. Milo invents William. They are all invented.

And you…you are not invented. Who do you invent? It goes unspoken.

To love—to fall—is not a question.

To touch—to kiss—to speak—those are questions.

There is nothing worse than a ruined friendship. There is nothing better than a companion. Somewhere in between lies risk.

Somewhere in between, lies.