“I play everything.”
“Aha! There’s your incredible talent appearing.”
“Shhhh.” He held a finger to my lips. Only for a second. But I was aware of it, the weight, warmth, there and then gone. “There’s nobody around for our sound check, because all the girls are off clapping and chanting or whatever. But then they all come back in, all pepped up and flushed. Suffice to say they were not expecting Visceral Pantylines.”
I felt my jaw drop. “That was yourname?”
“Unfortunately.” He sighed. “They hated us from the first note. You know that thing about how that if you’re onstage and nervous, you should pick one person and focus on only them?”
“Maybe?”
“I went with this one girl off to the left, in the second or third row. She became, like, my visual barometer. First she was cheering, waving her arms. Then she got still and tilted her head to the side like she was confused. The last time I looked at her before the rush chairman literally pulled the plug and kicked us out? She feltsorryfor us. Which, honestly, was the worst part of the whole thing.”
I had to take a beat. “Wow,” I said finally.
“Right?” He sighed, shaking his head. “Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, the whole thing replays on a loop, cringe by cringe, in my head. That girl excited, confused, pitying. The only thing that makes it stop is literally leaving the apartment and going out to the loading dock. I’ve basically worn a path there.”
“I think everyone has a few of those.”
“True. But not everyone feels compelled to share themwith a girl who already thinks they are awkward and weird.”
That odd charm again. I realized it was really growing on me.
“I don’t think that,” I told him. “In fact, if you remember, this whole thing started because I said you were talented.”
“A mistake I bet you don’t make again,” he replied. “Meanwhile, I will wake up tonight around two a.m. with not only that girl’s face in my head, on cringe-repeat, but also yours when I said the words ‘Visceral Pantylines.’?”
“Please don’t,” I told him. “The last thing I want is to be part of a shame reel. I mean, other than my own.”
“Maybe you should share one,” he suggested. “Might make you feel better.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Do you feel better right now?”
“More than if we’d discussed my talent.”
I thought of the waves that kept hitting me, unexpected. My mom in profile, telling me her diagnosis as the road unfolded ahead. Colin:I’m so sorry, Idaho.“Well, these past few days it’s mostly getting dumped. And my mom’s illness. They kind of take turns.”
“Shame reels are by trademark efficient,” he agreed. “So what do you do?”
“When it happens?” He nodded. “Lie there and freak out, usually.”
“You might want to try a change of scenery, just FYI. Tends to shake them off. Or so I’ve found.”
“So you’re saying I should come to the loading dock?”
It was like someone else said these words, that surprising. I’d never considered myself anything like bold.
“Sure,” he said. “We can run those reels together. Who knows, they could cancel each other out.”
Now I was making a plan to meet up with a guy in the middle of the night. Maybe I resembled my mom as a teen more than I’d realized.
“Okay,” I said. “Maybe I will.”
We sat there for a second, both of us looking the water. In the distance a boat was puttering by, lighting up the water ahead of it. Someone’s summer, going on as always.
“Well,” Ben said after a moment, “I have to say, I feel better already.”
It was the weirdest thing, really. So did I.
