Yeah. That’s what I would’ve said.
I’m not sure why I’ve deemed this Cord guy my rival, seeing as all signs point to him being in an actual relationship with Maggie, unlike my imaginary, grasping-on-to-shreds-of-evidence relationship with her. I just don’t trust him.
When I shake out of my Cord-loathing spiral, they’re deep into a more upbeat song, Maggie pounding on the keys. She and Shana are singing in a harmony thatalmostworks. I think Shana’s a littleoff-key. The drummer is absolutely wailing away. It’s drowning out Maggie and Shana a bit, but it’s still pretty sick. Cord cheers and whoops when the song ends. He’s evenmorevocal after their next two songs.
“I think that dude had too many espressos,” Bodhi says.
“Right?” I say, greatly appreciating that I’m not the only one who thinks Cord sucks. “Like, tone itdown, man.”
“Yeah. Someone should tell him the show is happening onstage, so we don’t need him putting on another from his seat.”
“Seriously!” I notice Maggie and Shana having some kind of quiet argument before the next song starts.
“Their band is pretty good, though,” Bodhi says. “Sorta messy, but I would totally stream these songs.”
“I know!” I’m again deeply gratified to have my own feelings validated. “I didn’t know what to expect, but this is genuinely killer music.”
I whisper the last three words because a new song has started. It’s another quiet one, Maggie alone on the piano. She plucks out a gentle melody and sings, her voice wavering a little. She seems less nervous, though, and more sad.
“That look in his eyes,” she sings. “Like he doesn’t understand. Breaks my heart, so I take his hand.”
Probably wrote this song for Cord. He seems very dense, like he doesn’t understand things. Also like he’s a jerk who cheers too much. But that’s unrelated to the lyrics.
“He’s the boy who got stuck,” Maggie continues, her voice the slightest bit hesitant, her eyes cast down at the stage. “He’s shit out of luck. ’Cause no one gives a fuck, about the boy who got stuck.”
There’s a jolt in my stomach.
Is it narcissistic to think this song might be about... me?
The guitar and drums come in on the next verse, and I’m listening to the words like a spy trying to decode foreign intel. The lyrics are all pretty vague, but theycould,in theory, apply to my situation. I am a boy who got stuck!
“And he’s funny,” Maggie sings, “makes me laugh like wow. But will he know that five months from now?”
It’s me. It has to be about me.
I look to Bodhi for confirmation. He nods and whispers, “This song slaps hard.”
I want to screamI THINK IT’S ABOUT ME!but I just nod and whisper back, “Totally.”
The song builds into a huge repeating chorus, including a three-part harmony that really does slap, and my throat tightens. Am I seriously about to cry right now? That’s insane. And embarrassing. I down the rest of my hot chocolate.
The song ends, and as Maggie holds out the final chord, her eyes land right on me. I freeze. She’s surprised.
But maybe it justseemslike she’s looking at me. Maybe she was so deep in the song that she forgot there was an audience, and that’s why she looks stunned.
Either way, her eyes flit away within seconds. The crowd of about forty people roars louder than ever. Maggie, Shana, and the drummer are all glowing as they walk awkwardly to the front of the stage and take a sort-of bow. Cord starts shouting “Bravo!” and Maggie’s possibly seen me already anyway, so screw it: I fling my hat onto the table and scream, trying to outcheer his ass.
Maggie
I can’t believe he came to my freaking show.
I also can’t believe wehada freaking show.
And that it went well.
Like really well.
I want to bask in that, but I can’t help but be the teensiest bit distracted by the fact that, just before we were about to start “Stuck,” I spotted The Boy himself in the back of the room. FREAKING CARTER. AT MY SHOW.
