Blowin' My Mind Like a Summer Breeze, page 19
And why? Let’s start with the fact that I’m the world’s worst mingler. All my life I’ve had to mingle, but what are you supposed to say to people you don’t know that well? What do you talk about? It all feels so forced and fake. What’s strange, too, is that I’ve spent the last two months around all these people, but somehow, everyone seems different in this massive basement that goes on and on and is bigger than my whole house.
There’s a table cluttered with bags of chips, chocolate chip cookies, carrots and dip, and two-liter bottles of five different kinds of soda. I try Fresca for the first time. I eat some Ruffles. The Stone Temple Pilots song “Plush” blares from a boom box. There’s a massive, big-screen television, and some kids are playing Mario Kart. Skinny, hysterical theater boys are lifting weights on Chris’s Gold’s Gym weight set with their shirts off, then flexing in front of a wall-sized mirror, not an ounce of body fat between them, like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
After a half-hour, I’m ready to go.
“What time did you tell your mom to pick us up?”
“Eleven,” Evan says.
I check my watch. Eight-thirty. How am I going to survive two-and-a-half more hours of this?
“Relax,” Evan says.
“I am relaxed.”
“You seem weird lately.”
That’s because my heart got blown up. Sue me.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“If you would tell me what’s wrong, maybe I could help.”
“I’m fine.”
Evan’s friends, Ryan and Bianca, arrive. Bianca is rail thin, half-Chinese, and has a shelf of silky black hair.
“I love your nose ring so much,” she whispers to me in a strangely confessional tone. “I kind of want one, but Ryan thinks they’re really ugly.”
“Oh.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Yeah.”
“A lot?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God, I could never. I’m such a chicken.”
Try letting someone stab you in the foot with a needle hundreds of times, I think.
Bathing-suited bodies occasionally run through the basement cooing with excitement toward a hot-tub outside.
“Mary!” someone shouts, and I catch a glimpse of the one and only Mary Hanson rounding a corner in a red bikini, her long legs sturdy and gliding, her body something out of a swimsuit catalog. The sight of her makes my breath catch in my chest.
We play some Mario Kart and some ping-pong. I relax a little. But only a little.
Evan never strays far from my side and, as usual, I wonder if people think we’re a couple, hoping they don’t, but feeling bad for feeling that. I’ve tried. I really have. But I can’t see Evan as more than a friend. Can’t make my heart feel what isn’t there. What I can tell so clearly he feels for me.
The four of us wander into a side room where a boy named Luke is playing Pearl Jam’s “Black” on an out-of-tune acoustic guitar to a small crowd by the light of assorted lava lamps. We sit down on the floor.
“You should play something,” Evan whispers into my ear.
“No way,” I say, more forcefully than I mean to.
“Okay, okay.”
A reaching hand passes Evan a 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. He takes a sip, smiling as he winces slightly, then passes it to me. I take a small swig and nearly spit out the fruit-flavored alcohol that fills my mouth.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “What is it?”
“Peach Schnapps,” Ryan says, taking the bottle out of my hands and drinking, then passing it to Bianca, who does the same.
Try the Mountain Dew.
We clap when Luke finishes “Black,” then starts strumming the chords to “Wonderwall,” which always sounds to me like a fake Beatles song. The Mountain Dew bottle comes back and we all drink and pass it on.
Out of the corner of my eye, Ryan and Bianca start kissing. Right in front of us as if they don’t even care. It’s gross and mesmerizing at the same time, their lips all smashed together. My eyes have adjusted, but the room is still dark-ish by the glow of the red and purple lava lamps.
Evan puts his gigantic hand on top of mine, moist and humid as if it’s been dipped in something. The room grows tight and hot. Evan slowly works his fingers between mine.
I’ve been waiting for this moment to come, for Evan to act on the look he’s always giving me. Now that it’s happening, I don’t know what to do. I should have decided what I was going to do. Why didn’t I decide? What should I do? I’m so stupid. My heart tightens into a fist. I can feel Evan’s face close beside me. Smell the fake ocean breeze of his deodorant, the hot sweetness of the schnapps as he breathes hotly into my ear. He tilts my face toward his and kisses me on the mouth. I taste fake peaches and ranch dip.
I pull my face back and shake my head.
“Don’t,” I say.
“What?” he says.
The room slowly transforms. The guitar vanishes. A strangely large closet on the far side of the room is revealed and opened. Chris Zimmerman, the host, takes over, announcing that only people “who want to have fun” should stay, and bodies slip into the room, including Mary Hanson, who’s changed into dark jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt. Chris closes the door.
“I want to go,” I say.
“This is going to be fun,” Evan says.
I want to get up and run out of this room, but I don’t. I’m frozen to the floor.
“Girls on this side,” Chris instructs, parting the room with his hands, “boys on this side.”
We separate as instructed.
Chris writes all of our names on little strips of paper and drops them into his Yankees hat. The Mountain Dew bottle goes around, and I take a small swig of something watermelon flavored. My head is swimming.
“The game,” Chris says, “is simple. Two names. Seven Minutes in Heaven. What happens in there is up to you. Nobody ever has to know.”
Chris unfolds a piece of paper from the hat and says my name, pronouncing it “Rhi-nee,” then reaches back into the bowl, “aaaaaannnnnndddd,” he says, drawing out the word like a game show host, digging around as if the pile of names is bottomless. “Mary! Wait a second.”
“That’s not fair!” someone says.
“It’s supposed to be a boy and a girl, you dumb ass.”
“Yeah, draw another name.”
“Crap, I think we were supposed to split up the names,” Chris says. “Let me get another hat. Hang on, you guys.”
But Mary pops up, grabs me by the hand, loudly declaring that rules are rules, and pulls me into the closet after her. I can just make out the rosy bloom on Mary’s cheeks before someone shuts the door, plunging us into absolute darkness.
Rap music starts up from the other side and Chris shouts, “Your seven minutes in heaven starts…NOW!”
For a few seconds, I’m hyperventilating, unable to breathe, in shock and disbelief at what just happened. At where I am, and who I’m with.
The darkness swallows us. I fan my hand in front of my face. Mary must be doing the same thing because our fingers lightly collide out in space, and I yank my hand back nervously. Along with the smell of old clothes and ancient dust, I can smell chlorine from the hot tub in Mary’s hair.
“Oh my God, it’s really dark in here,” Mary says, laughing.
“I know. I can’t see anything.”
I wonder if Mary is as nervous as I am. Every breath I take is filling up a balloon that’s about to pop.
“I used to be so scared of the dark when I was little,” Mary says. “I still sleep with a nightlight.”
“Really?”
“But it’s a mood light for meditation that changes colors. Not like for babies.”
I wait for my eyes to adjust, for Mary’s elegant form to emerge, an island in the fog, but there’s nothing. Not even the faintest outline of her broad shoulders or her pointy chin or the rest of her perfectly formed body. She might be a foot away or ten and I wouldn’t be able to tell. When Mary speaks, her voice is everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
“How long do you think we’ve been in here?” Mary asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe a minute. It’s so hard to tell.”
“I’m just glad I didn’t have to come in here with some gross freshman,” Mary says. “I’ll bet Evan is pretty disappointed, though. I’m sure he was hoping to be in here with you. How long have you guys been going out?”
“We’re not going out. We’re just friends.”
Mary laughs. “Does Evan know that?”
“Yeah,” I say, but then I remember Evan kissing me a little while ago, and I realize how much he does not know that. How that is the farthest thing from his mind. “He’s my friend. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“I think that’s inevitable at this point,” Mary says, as if Evan’s feelings aren’t worth worrying about. “I heard you guys are in a band with River McRae.”
“Oh. Yeah, we are.”
Where did she hear that?
“Now he is cute.”
“I guess.”
Mary asks what kind of music we play. I do my best to explain.
“Jesus, you write your own songs, too?”
“Sometimes.”
“Well, aren’t you just the little prodigy.”
Her tone has become edged with bitterness. I realize that even though I’ve been staring at Mary for months, this is already the longest conversation we’ve ever had.
“When I told my parents you went to my school, they freaked. They worship your mom and dad.”
“Oh.”
I’ve thought this whole time that Mary didn’t even know my name. I hear Evan’s words in my head. Everyone at this school knows who you are, Rainey.
“I really don’t get you,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“You hardly ever talk to anyone. You look like you’re afraid of your own shadow half the time. But then you put on your little concerts like it’s no big deal and when you sing, you turn into Tori Amos.”
I shrug, but a shrug is invisible in the dark. “I’ve always been like that.”
“Like what? More comfortable singing than talking?”
“I guess.”
“That’s really weird, you know.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Mary says, her voice a little wobbly. She must have tried the Mountain Dew too. “I don’t mean it in a bad way. And everybody thinks you have a nice voice.”
I can’t think of an adequate response, so I don’t say anything.
“Why didn’t you try out for Oklahoma!? I’m not the only one who wonders that, by the way.”
“I didn’t want to,” I say. “I like doing crew.”
“Sure,” Mary says, sounding utterly unconvinced. “You just love being where nobody can see you.” I’m thrown off by the hard edge of Mary’s personality.
“I have my own theory,” she says, but stops there, choosing not to share it. “So, who do you like, since it’s not poor Evan Becker?”
“Nobody.”
“Yeah, right! C’mon, tell me. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
“Honestly.”
Caught in some kind of web, I’m anxious to change the subject.
“Do you? Like anyone?” I ask. “Or have a boyfriend or something?”
“High school boys are way too scared of me,” Mary says. “They can’t stop staring at me, but then they’re too afraid to ask me out. Apparently, I’m a little intimidating. I get more attention from my dad’s creepy friends than the boys in my own grade.”
“Gross.”
“You have no idea. My parents had this big party last summer. They were all totally hammered, as usual, and I woke up and my dad’s boss was sitting on the edge of my bed.”
“What? What did he want?”
“What do you think? He was fifty and really fat and he was sweating. He smelled so bad. He started telling me how beautiful I was. How I was right out of an old Hollywood movie and that I was going to be a star. He said he would take care of me and I could live like a princess. It was so weird.”
“I think I would freak out.”
“I lock my door now when they have parties.”
Chris calls out, “One more minute, better get those clothes back on!”
I hear hysterical laughter.
“That’s why you wouldn’t have gotten the lead, you know,” Mary says, her voice tightening.
“What?”
“Even if you would have tried out for a speaking part, I mean. You still wouldn’t have gotten it. You’re not pretty enough.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay.” Her voice is like a parent who’s decided it’s time to teach me a hard lesson.
“It’s not your fault,” Mary says. “Red hair and freckles, you know. What are you going to do? So, don’t feel too bad. People are born how they are. But I thought you should know that.”
The door opens. The light floods my eyes.
Track Fourteen
I Have Something to Say
At band practice two nights later, I drive the band hard, like my mom does when she’s mad, as if we’re being forced to atone for all the world’s evils.
I’ve been unsettled and agitated since the party, and I take most of it out on Evan, who seems flustered and keeps speeding up during songs. Even River can barely keep up with my corrections and suggestions, but Evan gets the worst of it.
“Make it a little more, you know?” I say.
“No, I don’t know,” Evan says. “A little more what?”
“It just doesn’t sound right. We’ve got our first gig soon and we’re going to sound like crap.”
“Then tell me how to make it sound right.”
“Stop speeding up and slowing down all the time. It’s messing everything up.”
“I’m trying.”
“You have to find the center,” I say. It’s something my dad sometimes says when a song isn’t quite there.
“The center of what?”
When practice is over, nobody is smiling. River says, “Well, that was really fun,” and slips off the way he does.
Evan and I watch MTV and eat microwave popcorn. On the screen, Axl Rose is struggling to adapt to city life.
“What’s wrong with you?” Evan asks. “You’ve been acting weird ever since the party the other night. Before that even.”
“Nothing. I just want us to sound good for the show.”
“You don’t think we sound good?”
“Sometimes I do.”
“But…?”
“Well, it’s hard when one of the three people in your band doesn’t really know what they’re doing half the time.”
I regret the words even as I’m still saying them. Even as the syllables are being formed, even as my breath is being drawn. But they slip out all the same. Finally, the tears come.
I cry for what feels like a long time. Though I’ve just mercilessly insulted him, Evan still puts his arms around me. My tears leave wet spots all over his gray T-shirt.
“Oh no, I’m sorry.”
“Forget it. Are you okay?”
I shrug.
“What’s wrong, Rainey?”
“I don’t know,” I say, “I’m just going through something I guess.”
“Do you want to talk about it? You can tell me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I lie.
Evan mutes the TV and stands up. His pale cheeks are flushed with red splotches. He takes off his glasses, then immediately puts them back on. He looks like he’s about to give a class presentation.
“I have something to say.”
Oh no.
“You probably know how much I like you,” he says. “Do you know that?”
“Yes. I know.”
“So, what I’m asking is, do you like me back?”
“Of course, I like you. We’re together all the time.”
“Stop it. You know what I mean, Rainey. As more than just friends?”
All night I’ve been barking orders at Evan and River, but now, when I need them the most, my words dry up and shrivel. How can you be honest with someone without hurting them? Can you be? If I could tell Evan about Juliet, it would be so much easier. Somehow, I think Evan might even understand because he’s such a compassionate person. But I can’t make myself say the words. They’re right there, but they won’t let me touch them. So instead of telling the truth, I mumble some clichéd bullshit about how I like him, but only as a friend.
Drooping like a flag on a windless day, Evan sits down on the couch and stares at the TV where Axl Rose is being electrocuted and silently screaming.
“But is that so bad?” I ask. “If we’re just good friends? Really good friends.”
“I don’t know,” Evan says.
Track Fifteen
How to Be Happy Anyway
That night, into the wee small hours, I make Evan a mix. It’s all I can think to do. I scour my small CD collection and our family records and fill the mix with songs that I think he’ll like. Songs like “Over the Hills and Far Away” by Led Zeppelin and “Bang a Gong” by T. Rex and “Northern Sky” by Nick Drake.
I think about how Evan likes to listen to music lying down on the floor and I want to make sure he won’t have the urge to get up and fast forward because he always complains about that. “Why don’t bands just leave the bad songs off the album? Don’t they know it will be better that way?”
For the cover, I use a picture of me that Evan took. The sun is in my eyes, and so I’m wincing and looking away, my mouth open in a laugh. I think it’s an awful picture, but Evan went on and on about how much he loved it. He said it captured something essential about my nature, but I’m not sure what. All I was thinking about was that I didn’t want my picture taken because the sun was in my eyes. As usual, Evan saw something beautiful in me I don’t see in myself.
Since every good mix should have a title, I think about what to call this one for a long time. In the end, I settle on one of my favorite Ma Rainey lyrics. Sun Gonna Shine Through, I write for side A, Someday in my Backyard I finish on side B.
Because I know the combination, I leave it in his locker the next day with a note.
