September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series (3 page)

We both missed the bus that day and on
the long walk home, we decided to stop at Joes for a slice. In the
middle of splitting a second wedge of greasy triple cheese, we saw
this really cute guy; tall, baby-faced and a little dirty-looking
but in a good way. He was hauling in pieces of a drum set. We
watched as he stacked them in a far corner at the back of the
restaurant. And kept staring, sipping rootbeer, and asking Joe
Junior—the owner’s son—what was going on.

Joe didn’t answer. He had
his eyes turned up at a television set mounted on a high bracket
behind the counter. He was saying, “Come on. Come on, come on,
baby,” ending with a disappointed sigh. His answer came by way of a
piece of paper. A flyer he slapped down onto the ring stained
counter in front of us. The plain white sheet decked in black
marker spelled out,
Joes Pizza Pub— live
music every Friday night!

“Every Friday?” I squealed. Music was
always a big part of my life. It was like therapy—the notes always
helped clear my head.

“So cool.” Avery’s green eyes
sparkled.

Joe just nodded at our enthusiasm, as
if it was old news. And, since Avery and I had nothing better to
do, we stayed to watch. The foster family I was with at the time
didn’t care what I did, as long as I kept my room clean and never
asked for anything.

Avery and I grabbed a couple of chairs
and pulled them over to the area where the guys were setting up
their equipment. There wasn’t even a stage. It was a tiled corner
at the back of the long room that made up the pizza pub. Someone
had laid out a square of black carpet across the tile. It had blue
bits of tape all over it. As we watched, a second guy appeared. He
was lanky, thin and awkward. He kept his head down so I couldn’t
really get a look at his face. The two guys were setting up the
drum set, placing each stand so that the legs set directly on a
blue piece of tape. We stayed there watching and whispered comments
amongst ourselves until Jake walked in.

“He is gorgeous,” I remember saying
and surprising myself. It wasn’t one of those sentences I imagined
saying out loud because I wasn’t one of those girls that watched
sappy movies or read romantic books about meeting the perfect guy.
I never went out on dates looking for Mr. Right Now. It was just
true—he was gorgeous—and so it popped out.

Jake had the most perfectly
put together face and body. He actually had a
look
. From his semi-sloppy but
stylish clothes, to his big combat boots, and most of all, his
strong jaw that held steady two delicious lips that gave him a
slight puckered look when he was quiet. His eyes were bright,
gleaming the exact same color as his coppery-brown hair.

For most girls in high school, good
looking or cute was an easy determination: if they weren’t ugly,
they must be cute. But no one should be called good-looking just
because they aren’t ugly. No cute by default. Guys are either hot
or they’re not, in my book. Avery’s method was a little more
complex. She used to say that all guys fell into three categories:
deliciously gorgeous, take’m-or-leave’m, and butt-ugly. To her,
nearly all boys fell into the last two. But remarkably, when I
motioned to Jake, Avery didn’t roll her eyes or respond with
snark.

She looked back at me with
her wild, mossy gaze and straight black hair, giving a devious
smile. “I
dare
you to talk to him.”

Had I known at the time just how
deliciously gorgeous Jacob Haddon was inside and out, or how
talented—if I had seen him play the guitar or sing first, or had
remembered him from that house party—I never would have had the
courage to speak to him. But I didn’t realize and in my ignorance,
stumbled over to him on a dare.

Our talk began when the place was
still near-empty and didn’t stop until it had to. He asked me to
sit with him at the counter while he grabbed a drink.

I was staring intensely at his
profile, sipping a cool Diet Coke. He was staring at his sweating
glass of water, set atop the sticky counter. His thumb grazed the
side, joining the beads of moisture into a stream that crept down
the outside glass and pooled on the countertop.

I rested my elbow up on the bar,
trying to concentrate on the heels of my shoes caught on the middle
rung of my stool. I didn’t know I loved him, I just knew that I
couldn’t stop staring at the perfect slope of his nose, his sharp
jaw that literally looked as if it were carved from marble. He was
a masterpiece.

“What are you after?”

Jake looked back, eyeing me, so that I
could tell his eyes weren’t brown, but hazel. He leaned in, almost
conspiratorially, and our shoulders touched. “What do you
mean?”

“With your music—at what point will
you look at your band and think, ‘we are successful.’ Are you
seeking world domination, platinum records—what?”

The curtain of music that kept our
conversation private shot up in volume before suddenly cutting off.
Neither of us started. It was just a sound check of the Pubs’ PA
system and someone was screwing around. I heard Avery laughing from
somewhere in the background.

Jake grinned, showing his naturally
straight teeth. There was something about the way he looked at me
that made my heart race, but also eased the tension that lived in
my stomach. It was a look that made me feel like the only person in
the room.

“Not the
whole
world,” Jake
smiled.

“So, Nirvana’s got nothing to worry
about? What about Beck? Should he be worried?” They were some of my
favorite bands. Up until that night, anyway. They were always in
heavy rotation. Every radio station—all two of them—bumped their
music. Actually, most of what I listened to back then was rock
music. Any and all. But I had no CDs, so I had to take what the
radio stations gave me.

“Beck? No.” Jake laughed. Not the type
of empty chuckle he’d start doling out to convenient fans that
flocked to him as the bands popularity would inevitably grow. It
was not the grin he would give to chicks who asked him to sign the
free flyers they picked up at the door. Jake’s affection was
earned. And he must have seen how anxious I was to invest in him.
That laugh was unguarded and genuine. It held something—not simply
appreciation, but fire, too. Oh, how I wanted it to consume
me.

His face scrunched, and
lips pressed together, his head rocked playfully from side to side.
“Maybe
my
part of
the world. Yeah, I’ll be happy to rule a little chunk. The Analog
Controller Section.” He paused, thoughtful. “Nirvana can keep their
sound and I’ll stick with my screamy, progressive one. As long as
what I do—what I make—is important, I’ll be satisfied. It has to
mean
something
or
it won’t mean
anything
. I’m sure Mister Beck understands that.”

As we talked, I found Jakes’ release
lever: family. I asked if he was an only child, like me, and the
flood gates opened. Jake told me he was a middle child. He had two
older sisters—twins—that were off at college and a younger brother
who’d just started junior high, but was in a special education
class.

“Henry’s got this thing. The doctor
calls it autism. Gets teased a lot because he doesn’t act like
other kids his age.” Jake wiped his palms across his jeans. “He
doesn’t know how to stick up for himself. I tried helping him, but
he’s afraid, you know?” He shook his head, looking at
nothing.

“I can understand that.
It’s hard enough to fit in when the doctor calls you
normal
. And it’s even
harder to make yourself do something you’re afraid of.” I poked my
index finger into the bulge of muscle on his bicep. “He’s lucky
he’s got you.”

Jake turned to face me, touching his
knees to mine, and kept talking. Venting, really, when I asked how
he got into music. His parents were recently separated and in the
midst of an ugly divorce. His mom went back to work because of
financial problems. His sisters used to care of his younger
brother, but since they moved away to school, the responsibility
had fallen to him. Music was his outlet. His dad lived twenty miles
away, and still came around from time to time, but not
enough.

We eased from one topic to the next
until a guy tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey man, time to warm
up.”

I nodded when Jake introduced lanky
Andrew, the bass player, and noticed he did not introduce me. Jake
simply smiled, “Check you later, Angel,” and took Andrew with him
as he walked away.

Analog Controller was going on first.
They were the smallest band and weren’t getting paid, but Jake was
fine with it, because it wasn’t about money. At that time Analog
Controller was just beginning to understand the importance of going
on at the right time. Second and third are always the best slots in
an area where you want to build a fan base, but that was one of
those little kernels you had to learn. Other bands playing at your
level were always going to compete: lie, cheat or steal, for a
cherry spot in the line-up. Analog was supposed to play second at
that show, but the band that was to go first said