Read This Song Is (Not) for You Online

Authors: Laura Nowlin

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Love & Romance, #Social Issues, #Emotions & Feelings, #Dating & Sex

This Song Is (Not) for You (10 page)

BOOK: This Song Is (Not) for You
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Tom

Her number is still in my phone

(and all her old

messages).

“Hey,” she says. Her voice sounds strange, cautious and new again.

“Hey,” I say. “How are you?”

“Good!” There were a few phone calls in the first two weeks after she broke up with me. Those conversations were horrible and entirely my fault. I’m relieved that she even answered. She sounds relieved that I sound civil. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” I say. “I was wondering if you maybe wanted to get a cup of coffee sometime? Just a friend thing. I’m seeing someone.”

“I would love that, Tom,” Sara says. “I really would.”

• • •

We agree to meet at a coffee place in the Central West End, the neighborhood Sara’s family hails from. Tennessee Williams, T. S. Eliot, and William S. Burroughs all grew up here too. I don’t think Sara will end up a writer, but she’s going to make a mark on the world. I’m certain of that.

I get there first and go ahead and order our coffees. Sara likes heavy-tasting Ethiopian coffee, no sugar, no cream. Sara is always on time, so I know it will still be piping hot when she gets here. I parked right outside the shop, and as she approaches the glass door, I see her notice my car and grin.

Inside, her eyes search the room and find mine. I’m at our table, where we always used to sit.

“Hey,” she says, not cautious, just happy to see me. She sits down and reaches behind her head to tighten her ponytail, just as I knew she would. She’s still wearing her Saint Joe’s uniform even though it’s four thirty in the afternoon, because she had student government after classes, and then she stayed even later to deal with some sort of emergency with the upcoming spring bake sale. I already know that before Sara came along, there was only one charity bake sale a year at Saint Joe’s. Now there are three a year, and each focuses on a different issue. Under Sara’s direction, all the baked goods sold now come with a flyer about the need for mosquito netting and vaccinations, or the continuing need for support in regions where earthquakes and tornadoes happened a year ago.

This is the thing about Sara that makes her so special. She sips her crazy caffeinated coffee and talks excitedly about educating her wealthy classmates about world poverty, and there’s no bitterness in her voice, no malice. She’s just using all the tools at her disposal to make the world a better place. Right now it’s student government, but someday it might be the world’s largest nonprofit organization. Humans need people like Sara. We need sincere people who are able to work within the system and get people organized for the greater good. I’m pretty sure that there are not a lot of people out there who can do that.

And I love talking to Sara. She’s a great listener, which means she actually listens instead of just waiting for her turn to talk, and she nods and frowns and smiles, and you can tell she actually gives a fuck about what you are saying.

I tell her about my idea at Christmas to do some sort of commentary of American consumer culture, and how I put that project aside after I realized that I was just a sheltered punk kid thumbing my nose at the grown-ups.

“But you shouldn’t give it up,” Sara says. “The message is still a good one. You got a dose of reality when you saw that picture of the starving baby. Now use it. Speak up for that child.”

I tell her all about meeting Ramona and Sam, and all about our band, how I’m making the best music I’ve ever made because of these guys.

“Sam seems sweet. I don’t really know Ramona,” Sara says. “She just looks so intimidating. I feel like such a nerd next to her.”

“Ramona is a badass,” I agree. “But she’s nice. Really. And Sam, he is sweet and quiet, but he’s more than that. He’s an amazing guy.” I nod and feel the corners of my mouth turn up as I think about them, my best friends.

“Sam is amazing, huh?” Sara says. Her eyes spark up. She sets her cup down on the table and leans forward expectantly.

“Yeah,” I say. “He’s definitely my best friend. And Ramona. She’s my girlfriend now.”

The muscles around Sara’s eyes twitch.

“Tom,” she says.

“I want to be with her,” I say, because it’s true. I want to be with Ramona. I’ve become attached to holding her. I like the way she smells. Kissing her is nice, and I love her.

“Why did you invite me here?” Sara says. “Are you trying to prove something?”

“No! I missed you. I miss being friends with you.”

“I’ve missed you, Tom. And I want to be friends with you. I’m ready to see you that way now. But you’ve got to come to terms with your sexuality.”

“I don’t have a sexuality!” I tell her, and I shout it, so I guess I’m telling everyone.

Sara looks around nervously and puts a finger to her lips. “Tom—”

“You were the first person I’d ever met who I wanted to see and talk to every day,” I tell her, lowering my voice. “You were the first person who ever seemed to understand and accept me. I wanted to be with you more than I ever wanted to be with anyone before. And I loved holding you. And I even liked kissing you, because I loved you. But because my body isn’t interested in doing more, you left me. It made my love less valuable to you.

“I didn’t think I would ever feel that way about anybody again. Until I met Ramona. And Sam. I love them. I want to be with them.”

“Them?” Sara says.

“Yes,” I say.

Sara shakes her head. “Tom, you’ve really got to get this figured out,” she says.

“I know exactly who I am,” I say.

“Does Ramona?”

I am silent. I start to drink my coffee, and Sara lets the silence sit. She picks her cup and takes a large gulp.

“I should go soon,” she says. “It was nice catching up, Tom.”

Ramona

Have you ever met someone and you could feel that they were going to be important to you? It’s like you never knew it, but you’ve been waiting your whole life to meet this person, and you recognize him with the same ease that you recognize your reflection.

That happened to me twice.

• • •

There isn’t a love poem for this.

Sam is playing his video game, and Tom has hooked up his kaosolator so that he can make music with the game’s sound effects. Needless to say, this music sounds nothing like the original Foleys, yet this music matches the adventure story in a funny, poignant way.

Sam’s quiet laugh. Tom’s mischievous chuckle.

Oh, how I love both of them.

I’m stretched out on the couch behind them after an amazing practice where we took our music to another level
again.
My triceps and biceps ache, and when I get home I need to practice Liszt’s Transcendental Étude No. 10 again because John says that I should have it perfect by now. Really, I’ve never been happier because my life has never been more full of music and love, even though, yes, it hurts.

Sam strikes the killing blow with his sword with his game controller, and Tom’s music swells dramatically, hilariously. The boys high-five.

I love how they laugh together. I love how Tom is able to get mellow, dreamy Sam excited. I love making music with them in pairs and as a trio. I love listening to them as they make music together. I love how Sam can get hyper Tom to stop and think, just like he can with me. I love it when they tease me together.

I love them. Their friendship is at the center of my mind’s maze, and their love is the highest-flying banner on my heart. Loving one does not take love away from the other. There isn’t a limit to the amount of love I can feel.

There isn’t a limit to how much I can love, and this knowledge makes me want to fly. Lying here on the couch, I feel as if I could lift off and away.

The boys laugh and grin at each other.

This love makes me want to love everyone more. Everyone.

It makes me want to at least stop hating Emmalyn.

“You got this, man!” Tom says. “Now back to Hyrule!” The electronic music seems to cry with encouragement too. Sam squares his shoulders and leans over the controller in determination. My arms relax into the couch; my breathing slows. I watch them together and feel my heart beating steady, steady, steady.

Sam

Earlier today I sat next to Ramona on the piano bench and turned pages for her. Since I can read music it wasn’t too hard, but she still had to give me a nod sometimes. It was distracting, seeing how nimble her fingers had to be to take the notes I saw on the page and make them into the notes I was hearing, stretching out her thumbs, third and fourth fingers so far across the keyboard.

Between runs, she’d shake her hands and stretch, stretch her arms over her head, stretch her fingers all the way to the very tips, her whole being focused on her body, tranquil and strong, Ramona.

Her boob sometimes brushed my arm when she did this too.

When she was done practicing, Ramona pushed herself off the bench and flung herself onto the living room floor. The condo’s living room is not that big, and the piano takes up a lot of space. She would have been in danger of hurting herself if she wasn’t so practiced at doing it. I think she’s been flinging herself off that piano bench her whole life.

“Tom wants to teach me yoga,” Ramona said. Her tone gave these words more gravity than the statement should have had.

“Oh?” I stayed seated on the piano bench. I had a good view of her there.

“Yeah. He always wants to do physical things with me.” Hopefully, I didn’t make a face when she said that, but she added quickly, “We do a lot of urban hiking. The River des Peres was fun. We made a wind chime out of the bicycle wheel and glass bottles we found there.”

“That’s cool.”

“We make a lot of art. And listen to music. And we talk a lot. Then he drives me home.”

I felt like Ramona was trying to tell me something, or maybe she’s trying to tell it to herself, but neither of us was getting the message.

“Sounds fun,” I said.

“It is,” she said, but something was wrong. She scooted over. I pushed off the piano bench and lay down next to her.

We were quiet. She breathed. I listened. I wanted to be closer to that sound.

Her arm brushed mine as we relaxed into the floor.

My eyes closed.

“It’s nice to be still,” she whispered. “I’m never still with him.”

I was so focused on her that I could hear her hair against the carpet as she turned her head in my direction. I thought that she was looking at me. I kept my eyes closed and waited for her to say something.

She said nothing. She was still with me again.

With me.

Looking at me. Her breath slightly quickened. I couldn’t stop the slow smile that creased my face. Ramona sighed, and I thought it’s for me. Ramona sighed, and I was sinking into the floor as my soul flew up past the ceiling. Ramona sighed, and I realized that I never knew how she felt about me, because I never had anything to compare it too, because it was always just the two of us, being still together.

Tom

Suddenly it is spring. It is the time of spring when

people say it has sprung. Birds are building a nest

on the roof of my parents’ porch, and even

crabgrass is green again.

It’s been windy too, the kind of wind that makes me

want to run, to drive long distances.

At school the teachers leave the windows open, and

the rest of the world, the rest of my life,

feels so close and so far away.

We’re all lying on the concrete floor of the garage with the door open for the breeze, and just a few moments ago Ramona said,

“In four months, we’ll be moving into the dorms at Artibus.” And no one said anything. We all just thought our thoughts.

• • •

I’m not going to Artibus College. It’s crazy that

I ever thought I might go there, because I’m not

going to go to college anywhere. It’s crazy

that I ever thought I would. That I could.

I want to be educated. I want to read books at the

time of my choosing. I want to listen to classical

composers and modern jazz and drive across the

country. I want to make my music and my art, and

give it away as gifts to the people that I meet.

I don’t want a career, just to be able to find work

when I need it.

I don’t want to buy a house.

I don’t know if I’ll ever want a family.

I want to figure out my life as it happens to me.

I want to make my own way.

I want to find my own ambitions,

and to strive for what
I
value.

Yes.

Someday my mind may change, but I can’t make myself

plan for a future I know I don’t want right now. And

making plans doesn’t make you safe; it just makes

you feel that the future owes you something.

• • •

I squeeze Ramona’s hand, and she squeezes mine back. I owe her an explanation for why I did nothing after she placed my hand on her left breast last night. I owe her something. That’s what being in a relationship is, and if I can’t give this to her, I need to tell her now. Soon.

And I know, that if I want to live the

life of my choosing, it’s time

I’m honest about myself.

“I’m not going to Artibus,” I tell them.

“What are you talking about?” Ramona cries. “You have to go to college with us!”

Ramona

“I can’t,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

I sit up too quickly. My head spins.

On either side of me, the boys push themselves up.

“We have to go,” I tell them. “We
all
have to go.”

We have to stay together. We have to

keep the music together.

I can’t free fall into adulthood without them.

Without Sam, how will I stay sane?

Without Tom, how will I be brave?

“I’m not going to college. I think I’ve

known that for a while now.”

“Oh no, Tom,” I say.

“Ramona?” Sam says. “There’s something

I have to tell you too. I’m sorry, but I’m—”

Sam isn’t coming to Artibus. Tom

isn’t going to college at all.

I’m falling. I’m melting. I’m barely listening.

My security has been shattered, my

safety net pulled loose. My head has filled

with cement; my heart’s been set on fire. It’s

all too much to handle, far too much to hold.

“Guys,” I say, “I don’t feel well. Somebody

needs to take me home.”

And we go together, just the way

I thought we were supposed to be,

except now I am

alone.

BOOK: This Song Is (Not) for You
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