“So do you have a list of songs with which to stump our patrons?” I ask, leaning against the plastic table. I need to stop thinking about this. I need to stop thinking about everything.
She stares at me for a few long seconds, a thousand emotions playing over her face. Finally, she presses her lips together and looks down at her feet, nodding.
“Songs?” I ask again.
“Yeah.” She reaches under the table and pulls out a glass fishbowl filled with folded-up pieces of paper. After setting it onto the table, she grabs her guitar from its case on the ground and strums a little, twisting the tuning pegs. “They’re all pretty basic. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
I sift through the bowl and pull out a slip of paper, unfolding it and rolling my eyes.
“ ‘Let It Be’? If you can’t guess that within three notes, you don’t deserve the glow-in-the-dark bracelet or edible necklace or whatever crap we got donated as prizes this year.”
Charlie pretends to be affronted. “Everyone deserves a fair shot at a temporary Wicked tattoo, Mara.” She grabs a wicker basket full of quarter-size Elphabas and Galindas and sets it next to the fishbowl. “Everyone.”
I laugh, so glad to be joking around with my best friend again.
Soon, we start getting a few customers and Charlie strums the tinny strings while I hum “Hotel California” and “Billie Jean.” In between customers, she shows me a few chords on the guitar.
“It looks like I’m flipping someone off,” I say as she places my fingers on the frets.
“It’s a G.”
“Still looks like I’m flipping someone off.”
“Well, they probably deserve it.”
She releases my ring finger and it immediately pops out of place.
“Dammit,” I say. “My fingers don’t bend that way.”
She laughs. “Yes they do. They just have to learn how.” She scoots her stool behind mine and my insides flop when I feel her breath on my neck. Her chest presses against my back as she wraps her arms around me so she can manipulate my hands on the guitar, her legs wide on either side of me. I clear my throat as she concentrates, peering over my shoulder as she pushes my fingertips to the strings.
“Ow,” I say, but it’s a whisper.
“You need rougher fingers. They’re too soft.”
“My fingers are plenty rough when they need to be. Besides, what’s wrong with soft fingers?”
When she doesn’t answer, I turn my head toward her and nearly collide with her face. I didn’t realize how close she was, but my mouth is inches from her reddening cheek, which completely confuses me until I retrace our conversation in my head.
“God, way to make it awkward, Mara,” I say, feigning conversing with myself to cover my embarrassment.
Charlie laughs and her flush deepens. She’s so pretty, I have to take my gaze away, remove my hands from under hers. I wish this would go away, this constant desire to go back on what we said we wanted, what we said was right for us.
I feel Charlie’s hair against my cheek, as if she’s shaking her head, and she inhales deeply. She’s still the color of a beet, but she takes my hand back and runs her fingers along mine, setting them on the frets again. “This is G.” She folds my fingers into a new position, gentle and careful. “C.” Her voice is soft in my ear and her callused fingertips glide over and under my own, moving them easily. “D.” Another bend, another feathery touch. “And E minor.”
I hold my breath and my blood pounds out a rhythm in my veins. I’m not sure what Charlie’s doing, but it’s not just a guitar lesson. There’s a Tess out there somewhere, but in here, there’s just a Mara and a Charlie.
And that—?us—?is my normal.
“Learn those four and you’ve got a song,” Charlie says, her mouth still close to my ear.
“Okay.” I’m out of breath, out of thoughts. “I’ll practice those.”
“You do that.” Her voice has a flirty lilt to it and I don’t know what to do with that.
Charlie and I separate when a tired-looking mother ambles up to our booth with two little kids in tow. I hum “You Are My Sunshine,” and we pass out a few more tattoos. Several more parents and students visit our tent, all of them easily guessing the songs. Even Principal Carr comes by and leaves with a Galinda, though I’m almost positive he leaned over the table to check the length of my skirt. He pretty much harrumphed under his breath when he spotted my jeans.
Around five, we start closing down the booth. Everything in me feels like kindling. I’m placing the fishbowl into a cardboard box full of stuff that needs to go back into the school, but I can’t stop thinking about Charlie’s fingers on mine over the guitar, guiding me, helping me. Her voice in my ear. A voice I’ve always trusted.
