Principles of Love (19 page)

With my towel wrapped toga-style (hey, I’m not going anywhere for two (2) days — I may as well settle in) I sit at my desk and ponder the meaning of the school motto. Based on the reality-slap I’ve been given, I should have profundity coming out of my ass (an interesting image), but I don’t. I have only
disciplinary action
, alarms ringing, and the smarmy musak from that baby diaper ointment (kudos to morning television) stuck in my head.

Even though I have good intentions — I sit with the pen poised and plan on writing the essay Chaucer’s so insistent I attempt — I can’t find any words. I can’t seem to live up to the expectations in my own mind.

Disk four (aka the Sad and Mopey one) spins out melodramatic monologues of pining and pouting — I feel right at home. Like Eric Carmen’s
All By Myself
. Like
When Will I See You Again
. Like
Just When I Needed You Most
(this one I sing while crying — a seriously pathetic memory of myself I will have to flush down the toilet — and then clean with Shiny Hiney).

I wish I had occasion to play disk six (aka happy and horny), and thump around the room readying for a big night out with Robinson, but I’m not. So instead of dancing to T. Rex’s
Get it On
, I’m pulling an Olivia Newton-John
Hopelessly Devoted to You
and sinking — wallowing, more like it — in my own stupidity and self-marginalization.

Never will I have golden hair, nor will it be trellis-strong and long enough to merit a prince climbing on it — besides, I think I’ve had enough window action for a while but from my Rapunzelesque tower I can see the bus waiting to take people to the Valentine’s Day dance. And like the lame-o fairy tale girl who just sits there, I do the same. Just my luck that today is actually the fourteenth — so I don’t even get a make-up cheese-fest holiday session in school. No chocolate hearts from the Student Government trying to earn some money, no love notes on the day. I haven’t left the house in forty-eight hours and won’t until this evening.

Boys in tuxes stand puffing the cold air out, eyeing the girls who would rather show their strappy dresses off and freeze than cover themselves with jackets. A couple have wraps that will get trampled on and snow-soiled — particularly if they claim a seat at the back of the bus. I’m not filled with contempt — just longing.

Lila texted me from Newbury Street today as she slipped in and out of shift dresses and empire waists (a look I will never pull off — chesty and small = no boob-emphasizing formal wear). She finally settled on a simple sage green silk number that no doubt brings out her incredible eyes and complements her skin tone. She sweetly said she kept finding things she wanted me to try on. I didn’t text back my poutiness — where would I wear a gown?

Times like this, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a mother whisk in and give her sage advice. Sure, Mable’s on her way to get me for our open mike night at Slave to the Grind and she’ll insist on doing RLG in the car, or making me sing my ads or show tunes to encourage a smile across my face, or she’ll tell me how she was stood up for the prom one year — but it’s not the same. Wouldn’t a mom try not to just distract me from my misery but make me feel like everything will work out in the end? And my dad won’t try to appease me, not tonight. He’s been moping as much as I have been. And he made it perfectly clear to me that the only reason I’m allowed to go to the open mike night at all is because I made a commitment to Mable and he needs to reinforce my following through. Sometimes it’s impossible to imagine him as a young guy, being cool and laid back. Maybe he never was. But if he still had some of that when the school year started, he’s packed it away for the winter.

I feel like I have no perspective. I can rattle of explanations and justifications about dances being a tiny blip on life’s radar, or my punishment not meaning the end of my promising (promising = not mathematically bound) academic career, but the fact of it is that tonight still sucks. One thing I really hope changes as you get older is the feeling that every day encompasses a year’s worth of emotion and change. When I had pneumonia in the seventh grade, I was out of school for a week and when I came back, it was as if the entire world had shifted. People I thought were my friends decided they weren’t, classwork made no sense, and the boy I thought liked me (surprise surprise, I was his FRIEND) had already kissed and declared “going out” status with Olivia Greenbrier (who later moved to Idaho — but I digress).

In some ways, that’s how chapel Sunday night will feel. We’ll all be in our proper outfits and blazers, eating family-style dinner (think massive plates of manicotti you inevitably drop onto your white shirt), and the talk will be of the dance. Who wore what, what songs played, funny incidents and coded stories — all going over my head. And while I wish — at least I think I wish — I were someone who would shrug this whole thing off to life experiences, I’m just not. At least not yet. Maybe with some more effort in the “personal development department” (the only department store Dad is fond of) I will reach the Zen-like status of Sting, able to cleanse myself of triviality and the trials of teenagehood. Whatever. Fuck.

“Oh my God,” Mable says when we’re in her car. After I got the Saab, she went and bought the next in a long line of cars under a couple thousand dollars. Mable’s always working out deals like if you give her five hundred off the car, she’ll give you a coffee pass which basically entitles you to free coffee for life. Or she’ll do your gardening or sew curtains for your office. This time, her wheels of choice are an old orange Volvo with room enough for cases of filters and milk in the back, or, when the back seat is down, some drummer’s giant bongos.

“What? What’s so great?”

“Guess who’s opening the show?” she turns off the radio for concentration.

“Elvis?”

She gives me a soft hit on the shoulder. “Seriously.”

I shake my head and look out the window. Somewhere, Robinson is slow-dancing with a pretty girl. Will he think of me? “I don’t know, Mable. Who?”

“Jonatha Brooke!” Mable squeals. A real squeal. She and I have had a thing for Jonatha Brooke since we first heard her on the local radio station. Now she gets lots of airplay, but she’s from a suburb near Boston and is about the coolest singer ever to emerge from our locales (apologies to Steven Tyler).

“How did this happen?” I ask.

“She’s come into Slave before — you know, just to grab a soy venti and run. But I guess she saw the poster and is back home for the weekend and called up to see if it was okay.”

Regardless of my mood, I have to let myself be excited. She has the sort of music career I’d love to have — not in it for the fame and fortune, just making really great music and developing a fan base that is so loyal. But I wish I didn’t have the lurking dread of disappointing my dad hanging over me. When you’re the only child of a single parent, there’s so much extra pressure to be great, to be like this rock for them. Sometimes I feel like Brick, my bummer of an alter-ego, stems from the — the responsibility I feel to just make everything work out okay for Dad, even though I am an aware enough person to know whatever my mother’s deal was had nothing to do with me. But it affects my dad and thus dribbles down to me and thus the psychiatrists of the world make enough money to go on vacations. But anyway. Back to Jonatha!

“Ugh,” I say out loud. “I hope I manage not to drool on her and act like a stalker fan.”

“You’ll do fine,” Mable says and smirks like she’s got some plan up her funnel-shaped sleeve. “I hope we get a good crowd.”

Mable didn’t have to hope too hard. Slave to the Grind is filled to capacity and the steamed drinks are flowing, each topped off with either a chocolate heart on top of the foam or a sprinkling of red cinnamon powder. The posters look great and make me think of Jacob — who — king of kings — shows up with his guitar and plays a song which the crowd loves but which I miss half of by being on the door collecting the five dollar cover charge and handing out vouchers for future lattes (Mable’s way of ensuring repeat customers). I catch the end and go up to him.

“You’re really good,” I say.

“That one’s kind of Rufus Wainwright meets James Taylor — I just wanted to try it out,” he looks around. Did he just check out that woman in the jean jacket? Wait — not my problem, Friend-Girl step into action.

“She’s cute,” I say and nod to the girl.

Jacob nods. “I guess,” he smiles. ‘Anyway, I asked Mable if I can close tonight. You think you’ll stick around?”

“Of course,” I say.

“Good. I want you to hear this one.”

Just then, Mable grabs my arm and leads me over to the back table near the kitchen where, unbeknownst to me, Jonatha Brooke is sitting quietly sipping and chatting away with a friend.

I’m introduced and then Jonatha plays to a happy crowd and then the mike is open — some funny singers (tone-deaf yet enthusiastic) and some serious (is there a record scout in the audience?) take the stage. A couple hours later, Mable and Jonatha lure me up, but I’m too embarrassed to sing. I know I’ve done it before, but the idea of singing a cover tune again makes me feel like shit. Why can’t I write my own song and get up and show people? But then Jonatha asks me to sing with her, and this I can’t refuse.

She plays guitar and I stand near her, singing her song
Better After All
. The words and melody flow out of me, blending well with her voice, and the whole thing seems so poignant, I might cry. Later. Jacob listens to the music and I wonder if he dissects the lyrics. If this were Radio Love Gods, whom would I be singing to? Robinson? Jacob? Someone I’ve yet to meet? Splitting myself into two people — the Love on stage and the Love observing the scene from the corner, I project myself into the words and wonder.

I am trying to read your mind

We have stopped to smell the roses

I am trying not to lose mine

The roses or my mind

You are going to break my heart

I can see it in your eyes and I can

Feel it when the rain starts

Falling with my heart

I will watch the rain fall harder

I will stay and you will go

I won’t beg and I won’t barter

I won’t say I told you so

Oh, oh

You are stringing me along

You’ll pretend that you're not going

Try and comfort me but you're gone

And there’s another song

And this is better after all

I will keep the holy sweater

Tend the roses when the leaves fall

It’s better after all

I will watch the rain fall harder

I will stay and you will go

I won’t beg and I won’t barter

I won’t say I told you so

Oh, oh

I am trying to read your mind

You are going to break my heart

You are stringing me along

And this is better after all

Yeah this is better after all

It’s better after all

See, this is a complete song. With lyrics that last a whole page and a tune that carries its weight. With the applause comes a blush and the feeling of both shame at myself for not committing to following through with my own songwriting and still feeling proud at my efforts here. Then, as the crowd asks for more, which Jonatha obliges while I notice something — someone — outside at the window.

Still in his tux, Robinson has one palm pressed to the glass and the other cupping a single rose. With the street light in back of him, he looks illuminated and other-wordly. He is other-wordly, from the planet of dances and formals from which I’ve been banned. He motions for me to leave the stage and come outside. I thank Jonatha and replace the microphone and try to squeeze through the crowd to get out to the sidewalk. Clearly, all the signs I posted — two in the student center included — did the job of spreading the open mike at Slave. Yay for glitter. And for me, I think as I smush against people to get to tux-clad Robinson.

Amidst the accolades and the coffee spills, I maneuver my way toward the front door. With a breath if freezing air, I’m outside — alone. Robinson isn’t there anymore, but the rose is leaning against the building. The flower is apricot-colored, not dissimilar from the summer version of my hair. I’m glad it’s not red or pink — although I’m sure I’d be psyched about any rose at this point. But the unusual tone reminds me of — me, I guess. Maybe Robinson really did pine for me (do guys pine?) at the V-dance. Possibly he held onto a girl he wished were me, twirled her and spun the edges of her dress out, all the while imagining me in his arms.

I take the chilled and slightly wilted rose inside with me. Packing up, all the singers and coffee aficionados begin to clear out.

“Your friend left,” Mable says.

I smile. “Yeah — but look what he left.” I hold out my non-corsage.

“No,” Mable says, “Not that guy — the other one. Mister sensitive artist.” And when I clearly look befuddled she adds, “The guitarist. Jacob.”

Jacob. I didn’t hear his song. “Did he play again?”

Mable wipes the crumbs and spills from the counter up with a rag. “He sort-of vanished, to be honest.”

We stack saucers and fill massive black trash bags with the soiled paper ups and heat-sleeves (Mable had hers printed up to read —
caution: hot drinks are hot — you spill it, you deal with it)
, napkin wads and sugar packets.

“So, what’s the deal with you and these men?” she asks.

“There’s no real deal,” I laugh. “I wish there were.” Mable raises her eyebrows, disappears to the back where she flicks on a disk and comes back. “Did you ever just wish your life would be spread out in front of you where you can see it?”

Mable sits down in the chair. She looks really tired. With her mouth twisted she shakes her head. “What’s the fun in that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want fun. I know, I’m sixteen, I’m supposed to want to — what — frolic? But I just want to know what happens.”