PJ pours us more soda, and Carole reaches for her wineglass.
“Sorry!” she says. “This old lady fell asleep again.”
“So, what’s his excuse then?” PJ says sarcastically.
I elbow him playfully in the stomach. “Stop being a ballbuster, Pajamas. Come on, let’s have a toast.”
Ten, nine, eight…
We stand up and raise our cups.
Seven, six, five…
PJ stands next to me, and I take his hand and hold it firmly.
Four, three, two, one…
Happy New Year!
On TV, the ball drops in New York City, and we watch everyone cheer and embrace. We both hug Carole, and PJ and I share a brief kiss. It’s weird to kiss in front of Carole, and I catch her watching us out of the corner of my eye. But she’s smiling, and I can tell she is happy for me. We pull apart and sit back on the couch. Carole has tears running down her face. My eyes are wet too.
“I wish she was here with us,” Carole says, wiping away her tears. “She would be so happy for you, Simon. You were the greatest joy in her life.”
PJ cries, too, and now all three of us are bawling. But no one tries to suppress it. We let the tears flow as we ring in the New Year. The only thing is, I can’t tell which are the happy tears and which are the sad ones.
38
Edge of Seventeen
It’s 7:00 a.m. and after another night of little sleep, I creep into the empty living room. Carole must be sleeping in again. I search through the shelves of old vinyl that Mom and Carole have collected over the years. I run my finger over the rough edges, the paper tickling my skin. I can barely make out some of the titles, but it’s clear the albums are well loved. The jackets are dog-eared and faded. The records pop and scratch, but they refuse to replace them. For Hanukkah last year, I got them reissues of some of their favorite albums, but they are still shiny from the tight plastic wrap surrounding them. They seem to prefer the originals for some reason, scratches and all. I don’t get it. Is it nostalgia? These new versions have been remastered and sound great. Why listen to an old, scratched copy?
Searching through the records for the one I want, I come across Mom’s favorite. Joni Mitchell’s Blue. I take it from the shelf and examine it. The record falls to the floor from a worn jacket that can no longer contain it. In an instant, I’m overcome with a strong memory—Mom crying to this record as she prepared our meals, cleaned the apartment, or just sat with a cup of coffee. I know every word of it; I’ve heard it so much. It’s funny how when I was little, I didn’t like Mom’s music, but as I got older, it became my music too. I rejected the current music other kids listened to and found myself gravitating back to Mom’s music from the sixties, seventies and eighties. Now I’m obsessed with it. I return Joni to the shelf and continue searching for the one I want. Ah, here it is.
I pull out the record and put it on the turntable. At least they upgraded to a nice new turntable instead of the old, crappy, suitcase-style player from their teenage years. I flip the record to the B side, put the needle on the first track, and crank the volume. The unmissable chugging of a sixteenth-note guitar riff rips through our apartment. Stevie Nicks’ smoky voice rasps of white-winged doves and the innocence of seventeen.
Carole flies out of her bedroom, clasping her bathrobe.
“What the hell! Simon, the neighbors are going to call the police.”
She rushes to the turntable and turns the volume down to a whisper.
“What time is it? What are you thinking?”
I shrug my shoulders and give Carole a mischievous grin. She collapses onto the couch and laughs.
“Aren’t you the clever one? Happy early birthday, Little Bug. Edge of seventeen, my ass! Ha! What time is it? I had my alarm set for 7:30 a.m.”
“It’s seven. What time do we need to leave?”
“Sooner rather than later. It’s not a bad thing you got me up early. I’m mostly packed. I just need to freshen up a bit, and we can be on our way. Have you picked out where you would like to go for your pre-birthday breakfast?”
“I have. Let’s go to Silver Diner. I might get a black and white milkshake. And don’t say anything negative, it’s my birthday, and you’re skipping town on me. This means I can have a milkshake for breakfast.”
Carole throws up her arms in defeat. “I’m not saying a word. Great choice for a restaurant, though. Silver Diner won’t take us out of the way as we head toward the airport. We should have plenty of time for a nice leisurely breakfast.” She ruffles my hair on her way back to her bedroom. “Time for another haircut for you. These curls are out of control again. Oh, and don’t forget to keep the volume down, please. I know you’re excited for your birthday, but we don’t need the neighbors knocking on our door.”
Back in her room, I hear water tapping on tile from beneath the crack of the closed door. Carole is in the shower. Sammy appears from the kitchen and joins me on the couch. He settles into my lap as we listen to Stevie sing us into the still of the night of the next song.
The alien churns in my stomach as I rock back and forth with the music. Sammy leaps off me, unhappy with my restlessness. “No!” I whisper out loud. “Leave me alone! Tonight is my night with PJ. The whole night. No chaperones, just him and me. We’re going to do it, just like in the movies! We’re going to have sex and then fall asleep in each other’s arms. Give me one more reprieve like you did when Mom died. Give me tonight. Please.”
