This Song Is (Not) for You (13 page)

Back at the kitchen table.

This is where my parents sat and talked with my brother Matt after he got his then-girlfriend, now-wife pregnant for the unplanned first time. Now we spend Christmases at their house with their four kids. A picture from the hasty wedding hangs on display. Everybody is happy, and nobody remembers that the existence of my nephew Cody started out in such contention. I don’t remember it either. I was only two at the time, but I’ve heard the stories, and everybody knows this is where we go for Big Talks.

This is also where my favorite brother, Steven, told my parents he was gay. That conversation was just awkward. I hope that in the future, kids can just bring whomever they’re dating home without any sort of announcement. There are already enough awkward puberty conversations with parents. Adding a “So, I only like people with these kinda genitals” conversation is just cruel and unusual.

My other brother, Jack, sat with my parents here when he told them he wanted to go to Artibus College and study art. My parents had always stressed that pursuit of a practical career was the only choice they would support. Jack convinced them that he would only be happy working in the arts. He went to Artibus. He’s a graphic designer now, and he seems pretty happy.

This is what my parents were hoping for with me. I told them I wanted to study art and music. They said, “Fine. You can go to Artibus like your brother.” They sent me to the audition. They reminded me to mail the application. They envisioned me in some sort of job like Jack’s.

They thought that they had avoided this conversation. This table.

• • •

“You don’t know what you’re going to want in the future,” Mom keeps saying.

“No one does,” I say. “And if I want to go to college in the future, then I will.”

• • •

“I don’t understand why you can’t just go to Artibus,” my mother says later.

“Do you understand why I can’t just go into the military? Or just go to seminary?” I ask. “It’s not right for me.”

“Everyone has to work, Tom,” my dad says.

“I going to work,” I tell them again. “I’m going to be working hard. And educating myself. And living frugally. Listen to my plan again.”

• • •

They critique the plan. I make adjustments.

It gets late. We’re still at the table.

In the end, it’s gridlock. I agree to take one community college course at a time while I’m working at Grift Craft. We agree on rent. They tell me that if I ever want to go to school full-time and work part-time, the rent would be suspended. I thank them and manage not to declare that the offer is unnecessary. I promise them that when I’m on my travels, I’ll call, email, maintain a bank account, and keep up my hygiene. My mother presses her lips.

I know they’re hoping that my priorities will change after I meet a nice girl. Or boy. But I won’t. I’ve already met them, and we’ll stay in touch when I travel.

I know that my next two years will be full of research on vehicles, hostels, communes, and couch surfing.

It’s late. We push in our chairs. Mom hugs me, and Dad sighs and claps me on the back. They love me, even if they don’t understand me, and the conversation has ended well enough for all of us.

“I really cannot emphasize enough how beautifully you played tonight,” my father says to me. “Every day I think, ‘I wish her mother could see her,’ but tonight—”

We’re soaring toward the Arch on the highway. The summer solstice is six weeks away; the sun is only just setting, the lights only just starting to glow. Night is beginning. My father clears his throat.

“Tonight it felt like your mother was here,” he says. Tonight was the Saint Joseph Symphonic Exhibition. I’m actually wearing makeup—and the pearls my mother wore when she was touring Europe. In my lap I have three sets of roses.

Red ones from Sam. Yellow from Tom.

Orange from both of them.

I took an orange one and found

Emmalyn in the lobby.

I handed the rose to her.

I said, “I was always just trying to be myself.

I’m sorry we didn’t get along.”

She said, “Sorry I talked about you out loud like that.

You’re right. That was lame.”

And now we won’t have to hate each other at graduation.

“Thank you, Daddy,” I say. He’s never told me before that every day he wished Mom could see me. He doesn’t mention Mom much—hardly ever, really—but I played Bach tonight, and he was her favorite.

“I’m proud of you. You’ve worked hard.”

“Music is the second most important thing,” I say. That was something my mother would always say. We’ve stopped saying it out loud, but I think it all the time.

The most important thing is love.

“That’s true,” Dad says, his voice quiet again. After a pause, he adds, “Though for me, it’s novels. Novels are the second most important thing.”

“Oh. Right,” I say. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Dad’s not a musician, and he isn’t one of those high school teachers who just couldn’t do what they want to do. He’s really dedicated to teaching teenagers to appreciate Jane Austen. “That’s really specific. Not books or literature. Novels.”

“I care about all books. I have tenderness for all literature. But novels are at the heart of my work. They are the reason I chose this career.”

This is more like normal Dad. Rhapsodizing about novelists is far more common than talking about the weather.

“For me, it’s just music,” I say, feeling as if I am taking a bold step. “Not piano specifically. The music I make with Vandalized by Glitter is really important to me too.”

“Yes, but remember that there isn’t a career for you in that.” He turns the wheel and we glide off the highway toward our destination. “You’ve played piano since you were four. You’ve been groomed for this. I’ve kept up all your mother’s connections. Music is a competitive field, and you’ve got an advantage in piano.”

“I’m going to pursue an emphasis in percussion from Artibus’s conservatory,” I say. “I’ll still be studying under their piano master, but I’ll also meet with masters of xylophone and marimba and make compositions with claves and congas—”

“I—” He shakes his head, still looking at the road. We’re almost home. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Moany. You need to focus on the instrument you could have a career with, making an impression on the masters who could help you. An emphasis in percussion sounds fun, but it’s not practical for you.”

“Dad, I really—I’m going to do this. I know it ups the risk factor of this career path, but it’s my calling. Mom was called for the piano. I’ve got something different going on. I love piano, and I love drums.”

(I love Sam and I love Tom.)

Dad drives. We arrive home. He doesn’t turn off the engine.

“It’s scary for every parent when their child leaves the nest. All I want is to feel like you’re safe. But I don’t think I’ll ever feel that way. We used to wake up in the middle of the night terrified that something had happened to you, but there you were, asleep in your bed, safe and sound. If I have trouble believing that you’re okay asleep in your own bed—”

He clears his throat again.

“I’m gonna be okay no matter what, Daddy,” I say. “I have love in my life. And music. I’ll find my way.”

“Your mother was headstrong too,” he says, and he is finally crying a little bit. I let myself cry too, so that he doesn’t feel alone. Plus, he has to comfort me then, and he forgets to be embarrassed about crying in front of his daughter, which should totally be an okay thing, but men are weird.

Anyway.

Love is the most important thing, even when you’re both feeling kinda silly, crying in a car with the engine still running.

“And Ramona is going to start being affectionate with Tom again after a few weeks?” my mother asked. She was working on a Baked Alaska tonight. This gourmet dessert phase is actually kinda sticking around, the way yoga kinda did. Mom’s also starting to talk a lot more about the environment. There’s a protest she might attend this weekend.

“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t mind. She’ll still be my girlfriend. I’m just telling you so that if you see something, you won’t think Ramona is cheating on me.”

“This is a very…mature arrangement. Are you sure about this, Sam?”

“Definitely,” I said. “I love her. My love doesn’t come with strings attached. Tom’s a part of her life. He’s part of my life. I don’t want to mess with what they have. I just want to be Ramona’s boyfriend.”

Mom sighed.

“I’ve heard of stranger arrangements,” she said. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see how this turns out for you.”

“Thanks for being open-minded,” I said. “I’m not even going to mention Ramona and Tom to Dad.”

She sighed again.

“Your father does tend to see conventionality as a moral obligation.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Remember how he acted around me after I shaved my legs for swim team in eighth grade?”

Mom laughed at the memory, then frowned. “In his own way, your father loves you very—”

“It’s okay, Mom. I know,” I said. I shrugged and smiled for her. “I do know that he loves me in his own way. And I think I’ve figured it out. Dad didn’t want children, did he? He just felt like he was supposed to have them.”

Mom’s frown deepened. It looked as if she was furious with the meringue.

“He told me that he wanted two children. One boy and one girl, as if we could control that. He told me this on our third date. I thought that he was moving our relationship so fast because he was so enamored with me. I understood later that it was simply that he’d met me when he’d decided it was time to get married. He was so much older, and I was swept off my feet.

“I mean it when I say he loves you. He cried when you were born, and that was the only time I ever saw him cry. But he didn’t know what to do with you. He didn’t understand babies and he didn’t want to learn—and he was shocked by how much you intruded on his adult life.

“I think that if he’d listened to his intuition, he would have realized that he didn’t actually want to be a father. But you’re right. To him it was questionable to not have a child. It’s what a person is supposed to do.”

The meringue layer was finished. The cake glowed white and pristine. It was supposed to go back into the freezer at that point.

“I’m sorry,” Mom said.

I shrugged again. “You’ve been a great mother, so I’m good.” She laughed and ruffled my hair, something she used to do when I was a kid. I ducked away. “Mom! I’m eighteen!”

She sighed for a third time, but this time it’s a happy sigh.

“And that means you’re all grown up?”

“Obviously.”

“Growing up isn’t summiting a mountain, you know. There’s no end point.”

“Sure there is. Maybe you could argue that I’m not an adult because I couldn’t afford to live on my own. But I’ll get there.”

“Yes. But you’ll never stop growing. At least, I hope you never do. The people who stop growing are cruel to strangers on the Internet. They’re the people who cut you off in traffic and then honk at you.” She was cleaning up the kitchen mess now, almost talking to herself.

“They’re mean because they’re unhappy, and they’re unhappy because they’re stuck. They’re stuck because they’re refusing to open their minds, to consider changing the way they live their lives.

“You gotta keep growing and changing, Sammy,” Mom said. “You have to listen to new ideas. You have to read up on the other side of the argument. Pain is a part of growing, and you have to learn to forgive yourself as your values change. But if you keep growing, then every year you’ll find that you’re more comfortable with yourself, with the life you’ve built, and that makes it easier to be a kinder person to others.”

She reached over and ruffled my hair before I could stop her.

“And I’m never going to stop being your mother, no matter how old you are.”

“Okay. Wisdom dispensed, Mom. I’m going to my room. Call me when we get to eat the cake.” She rolled her eyes and let me head upstairs, and I felt lucky and loved.

My school doesn’t have much of a green room. It’s really more of a storage space that’s connected to the stage. Most of the stuff that they store back here is related to theater. Most of the stuff. Right now, we three are sitting crammed next to a pair of discarded punching bags from the gym. Ramona has her snare drum in her lap and her tom sitting between me (Tom) and herself. She’s still keeping a bit of space from me for now, and I get that. She’s holding hands with Sam, but she’s smiling a lot at me.

“And then I’ll probably go to grad school,” Sam is explaining. “I want to go to a school that will allow me to focus on sustainable chemistry, green chemistry that creates products without environmental impact.

“This is something I’ve thought about for a long time. I’m really good at chemistry, and I want to make the world a better place. But music will always be a massive part of my life. A part of my life’s work that I want to look back at on my deathbed. It’s just not the only work that I feel called to do.”

I nod. Ramona squeezes his hand. This conversation is overdue, but I think he was hesitating because of all the times Ramona and I talked badly about people who wanted to pursue a normal career. I’m not going to make that mistake again. We’re all just trying to find our way, and you know, it takes all kinds of people to make a world.

People like Sara.

I’m going to send Sara an email with some links to sites about other people like me. I’m going to tell her about how Ramona and Sam and I are making a go of it. I’m going to tell her that I want us to be friends, that it’s up to her whether she can accept me or not.

And hopefully she and I will be friends again soon.

If not, then,

oh well.

Ally has appeared next to us, her clipboard in hand.

“Okay, okay, okay, okay,” she says. “Do you have all of your equipment ready? Your setup has to be fast. We’re on a tight schedule!”

“Ally,” I say, standing up. “Have you met my girlfriend, Ramona, and her boyfriend, Sam, who’s also my best friend?” I gesture to them. Ramona waves.

“Hi there.” Ally says. “Yes, Tom, you’re very weird. Now focus. You’re about to go onstage.” She reiterates the importance of a quick sound check and hustles us to the wings of the stage. Some boys are finishing up Monty Python’s coconuts skit, and King Arthur comes galloping (sort of) toward us.

“Wait for the applause to finish…” Ally tells us. “Okay, go. Quick sound check!”

• • •

The lights are too bright for me to see much past the stage, but I know my parents are out there, and Ramona’s dad and Sam’s mom. We’re going to be showing our music to the world tonight. Sure, we’ve posted it to the Internet, but the Internet is practically anonymous. This is our first live performance, and live performance will always be one of the most important aspects of music.

We set up quickly, like Ally said we needed too. I mic us all and run it all to the AV teacher’s soundboard. We test our instruments. We look at each other.

I look at beautiful, crazy Ramona, her spiky hair sticking out of her head every which way. She looks at Sam, solid, tranquil Sam, smiling at her and then looking toward me. I nod at him, at her, and we turn to face the audience.

“This is Vandalized by Glitter,” I say. “Ramona Andrews on drums, Sam Peterson on guitar, and I’m Tom ‘the Chaos Maker’ Cogsworthy.” Sam strikes the opening chord and it floats out over the crowd. Ramona taps one drumstick to the rim of the tom, the other dead in the center. Time speeds up; something is coming. Sam floats us away on the melody. We just can’t keep our feet on the ground; we just have to fly. I start in on the kaosolator, playing a preset countermelody that I’m improvising effects on. The something has come. It’s trying to drag us down.

We do battle with the forces pulling at us.

Vandalized by Glitter is Victorious Glorious.

Which is why that’s the title of that song.

I silence the kaosolator; next to me,

Ramona’s drumming slows to a stop.

Sam hits the last note, and the song winds down.

Silence.

One person starts to enthusiastically

clap just as someone else shouts,

“What the hell was that?”

If he says anything else, it’s drowned out by polite applause.

Vandalized by Glitter is already getting set up for the next

song. Ramona needs the snare drum now; Sam switches to

his beloved acoustic guitar.

I turn to face the crowd.

“Hey,” I say. “Some of you may not like our music, but

we’ve got one more song to play for you, and

this song is not for you.

We aren’t playing it for you.

We’re playing it for ourselves

and anybody out there who might like it.

So.

Just be cool. Okay, guys?”

I look over at Ramona and Sam. Sam gives me a

thumbs-up. Ramona winks.

“This song is for us,” I say,

and we play our song.