How They Met and Other Stories Read online

  Where are the indigo boys, to show me the way?

  Caleb teases me, because while

  he has a gay music collection—pop queens

  and piano boys—I am, he insists, a closet

  lesbian. So I play him some Dylan, some Joni,

  some Nick Drake, and I tell him there is

  room for me to sing about the two of us

  tangled up in blue under a pink pink pink

  pink moon. Music, like love,

  cannot be defined, except

  in the broadest of senses.

  My father complains, my mother stays silent.

  My father says it’s not the music he minds,

  but that I play it so loud. They want me

  to sing in the basement, but I can’t think

  with the laundry and the cobwebs—

  down there, all my songs begin to have

  pipes. So I become a bedroom Cinderella

  on a tighter deadline, allowed to sing loud

  until the hour-hand tips the ten. Then I strum

  softly, sing in a whisper.

  I think they would like the songs better

  if I left out the names, or changed

  the pronouns.

  No more danger.

  Time’s a stranger.

  When I’m in his arms.

  In his arms.

  He could break me.

  But instead he wakes me.

  When I’m in his arms.

  In his arms.

  I am not the first person

  to avoid the second person.

  But I am certainly the first person

  to do it in my house.

  I never thought I would end up with

  someone who wasn’t possessed

  by music in the same way I am.

  I imagined a relationship of duets,

  of you play me yours and I’ll

  play you mine. Caleb doesn’t

  even listen to the music I like. He dances

  instead, frees himself that way

  while I prefer the quieter corners,

  the blank pages. Part of my music

  is being alone, having that time

  to shut down all the other noises

  to hear the tune underneath.

  Sometimes I retreat when he

  wants me most. Sometimes

  he wants me most when I

  retreat. I will let the phone ring,

  let the IM blink, and he will know

  that I am there, not realizing I am

  also in another place. I still sing him

  songs before I am ready, sing him

  back the moments he has missed.

  as if to say, this is where I was

  when you couldn’t find me.

  The sound of my voice means

  I have returned to him, ready

  for a different kind of duet,

  that delicate, serendipitous pairing

  of listened and sung. He accepts that,

  and wants more.

  black ink

  falls on the blue lines

  spelling out silences

  harboring words

  you think

  my love’s not the true kind

  unanswering questions

  do not disturb

  but I’m not leaving you

  when I leave you

  I’m not forgetting

  that we’re getting somewhere

  I’m just trying

  to figure my part of this

  my place in the world

  with you standing there

  with you standing there…

  Our local coffee hangout decides to throw

  a weekly open mic night. I decide to go

  as a member of the audience, unsure

  about playing in a town that knows me

  unwell. A local band snarls through

  three songs, then a girl from my school

  recites poems from a long black book.

  I realize I can do this, that I want to be heard,

  that it’s possible I have something to say.

  Word spreads, and all the next week,

  my friends tell me to do it, convince me

  they’ll be there next time. And that is perhaps

  the most surprising thing, to feel such support

  for this secretive calling. So I sign my name

  to the roster, and Caleb makes fliers

  on his computer. He slips them into lockers

  and strangers from school tell me they’ll be there.

  Sometimes I’ve skipped study hall and

  practiced in the abandoned stairwell by

  the auditorium. Now I’m seeing how many

  people have overheard. They have listened in.

  I practice past my curfew, past midnight,

  into dreamtime. In a moment of weakness,

  to fend them off from laying down the law, I tell

  my parents I have a gig coming up, as if

  they would be proud of me singing in public.

  My mother, polite, says it sounds nice.

  My father tells me it had better not interfere

  with my homework. I tell him it won’t,

  in a voice that’s so ready to leave.

  Doors do not slam, but they do not stay open

  as I sneak music into the house, as I whisper

  my longings to the furniture, my fears

  to the ceiling, my hopes to the line of

  hallway light that goes off beneath my door.

  silent night

  stay with me

  hold me tight

  then set me free

  daylight will

  blind me still

  the child’s dream

  not what it seemed

  we search for safer passage

  we pray our eyes adjust

  we cling to all that’s offered

  we do what we must

  storm outside

  thunder warns

  deepest fears

  since we were born

  take me now

  show me how

  to fight the dark

  to find a spark

  you are my spark

  Who is the you? Sometimes when I’m writing

  I don’t know. I am singing out to the stranger

  of my songs.

  On Friday, Caleb won’t take no for an answer.

  We are going out to the club he loves, the one

  I’ve always managed to avoid. He wants to dance,

  and he wants me to dance with him. I can’t

  say no. Even though I dread it, even though

  it’s not my thing, I will do it for him, because

  he has done so much for me. He asks me what

  I’m going to wear, and I tell him I was planning

  on wearing what I wore to school. He laughs

  and tells me to go home and put on something

  a little more clubby. For him, this means tighter.

  For me, this means darker jeans. When I go home

  to change, I don’t pick up my guitar, because

  I know if I do, I might never leave it.

  It’s under-18 night at the Continental,

  which means there’s no drinking,

  except for the few hours beforehand.

  I carry a small notebook in my back pocket,

  although I can’t see the music coming to me

  here. It is too loud. A singer-songwriter

  nightmare. Speakers blasting the thump-thunk-thump

  of a dance floor mainstay, while the singer belts

  the same three lines over and over and over again.

  I love this song! Caleb cries, pulling me into

  the flashing lights. He looks hot, and everyone else

  seems to be noticing. I am lost. It feels like the music

  is being imposed on me. I struggle to sway while

  Caleb soars. This is his pl
ace. This is the liberation

  he’s found. And there is something beautiful about it,

  this closed room where boys slide up to boys

  and they find a rhythm that defies everything outside.

  The music elevates them, takes their cares away

  and gives them only one care in return—this movement,

  this heat, these lights that turn them into a neon crowd

  feverish in their release, comfortable in their bodies

  as they leave them in the synthesized rush.

  I observe this without feeling a part of it.

  Caleb holds me and pulls me into him and I feel

  nothing but the ways my body can’t move,

  the songs inside that are being drowned out

  in this rush. Caleb asks what’s wrong and I say

  nothing and keep trying until Caleb senses it again,

  says what’s wrong and this time I know what’s

  implied—that the something that’s wrong

  is me. I tell him I need some water, and when I go

  he does not follow.

  I get some water and stand on the sidelines.

  I watch him and don’t recognize him

  as the boy I have felt love for. He is joyous

  in his movements, holding and groping and swaying

  in time with his new partner. And I know it’s not

  that he likes this other boy, I know it’s just part of

  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