And by the time I’d made it to the wooden doors, I’d finished my ice cream.
Oh no!” Freddie gasped as he stared at my dress.
“It’s fine,” I said immediately, maneuvering him around the puddle of Scottish orange soda.
“It’s not—Your dress—”
I smiled at him. “Tell you what?—buy me an ice cream and all is forgiven.”
“Are you sure? Your dress is ruined….”
“It happens all the time,” I assured him. “Shall we?”
This time, I got the cookie dough. Freddie got the rocky road as usual, and I smiled at his expression when he took his first bite. “Good?”
“Amazing,” he said as he grabbed some extra napkins. “You should really try this.”
“Next time,” I assured him as we stepped outside. “I promise.”
We started to walk side by side, our feet falling in sync. “Are you having a fun Grad Nite?” Freddie asked. I let out a short laugh at that, and his face fell. “You’re not?”
“It’s—had some real highs and lows,” I said, after thinking about how I wanted to phrase this.
“I bet it’s going pretty fast, though?”
I smiled at that and took a bite of my ice cream. “That isnothow I’d characterize it.” I turned to him. “But tell me about you. What is it that you love about playing music?”
Freddie shrugged and shifted his messenger bag to his other shoulder. “Who said I love it?”
“Well—don’t you?”
He grinned at me. “More than anything.” He raised an eyebrow. “How much time do you have?”
“I have,” I assured him with a smile, “a lot of time.”
Iwas working my way through all the flavors at the Ghirardelli ice cream parlor. I tried the vanilla bean, and the chocolate, and the salted caramel. I had the coffee, and the moose tracks, and something called San Francisco Fog.
Every time, Freddie had the rocky road. And in the window we had before his phone beeped and he had to go get ready for the show, we walked around, ?ate our ice cream, and talked.
I’d been getting to know him before, of course—filling in the list of facts about him. But now the list was getting longer and longer as we chatted. We weren’t trying to figure out my time loop, or to rescue his band from disaster. I’d given up on ?attempting to change the outcome of this, since it was pretty clear to me that I wasn’t going to be able to. So I was just getting to know more about Freddie Sharma, filling in the picture of him a little more with every cup of ice cream, every conversation.
I was adding these things to my Freddie list, but I honestly I wasn’t sure I needed to. I knew I’d remember these stories and facts about him? that he was sharing with me. These details were starting to feel like they were inscribed on my heart, unforgettable. The lyrics, though, were a different matter.
I’d been trying to keep track of them ever since our first conversation, when he’d come up with the first couplet. But unlike simply ?knowing what his favorite TV show had been when he was a kid (something calledThunderbirds?)?, the lyrics were precise and specific, and almost every time we talked, something reminded him of a new potential lyric. I did my best to record them, typing them into my phone when I couldn’t find paper, even though I knew everything would disappear the second I walked back through the doors. But ?the act of writing it was helping me remember.
In addition to learning more about Freddie and making sure to keep track of his lyrics, I was also sharing more about myself. It had felt so good to tell him about my dads—the truth about how I felt—that I’d started doing it more and more, the two of us exchanging information and opinions and truths as we walked around with our dessert. I told him about my friends—about Bryony, of course. But also about the other friends I’d left behind, the ones I’d tried to forget about?…but truly never had. About how I’d treated Bruce, and how much regret I had about it. Things ?I never normally shared with anyone,? I somehow felt like I could tell to Freddie, and know that he would listen to me.
And I was aware that everything started over for him each time—that this was always all new for him. That he wouldn’t remember any of this.
But I would.
Freddie
-Brother named Jack
-From Croydon
-Loves Excalibur!/poster above bed/Geraldine Bewley school project
