Eitan laughs. “No aux cord. Just CDs.”
I remember the engagement party and Eitan’s walkman. I thought it was part of his F.R.I.E.N.D.S. costume, but maybe heisactually a manic pixie dreamboy who only listens to CDs. “How…alternative of you.”
He shakes his head, laughs, and reaches down to unlatch the center console. A pile of CDs is stuffed in the compartment, in their scratched plastic cases.
Suddenly, I love this idea. I get to see the inner workings of Eitan through his music collection? Sold. It’s like scrolling someone’s iPod in the cafeteria before school.
I bat his arm out of the way and greedily pick up as many CDs as I can hold.Who’s Nextby The Who;The Miseducation of Lauryn Hillby Ms. Lauryn Hill;CTRLby SZA;good kid, m.A.A.d cityby Kendrick Lamar;OK Computerby Radiohead.
I nod. “Very nice.”
“Glad I have your approval,” Eitan says dryly, but his lips curve up in a soft smile, like he really is pleased that I like his music. I get the sense that he doesn’t offer this front row seat into his music soul all that often. Something warm blooms in my chest.
I reach for more.Nevermindby Nirvana.Jagged Little Pillby Alanis Morissette.Riot!by Paramore. And?—
“Oh my God.”Loverby Taylor Swift. The original Broadway recording ofWicked.West Side Story.Funny Girl. More Taylor Swift: a double case withFolkloreandEvermore. “Oh my God,” I say again, thanking the Universe for being benevolent for once and showing me this.
Eitan glances away from the road to the CDs. “Those are my dad’s.” He clears his throat. “Were his, I mean.”
I think about an older version of Eitan, headphones spread over a head of hair peppered with gray, eyes crinkling with well-deserved crow’s feet as he listens to Taylor Swift. The thought is adorable. Unbearably so. “Your dad had great taste.”
“He did,” Eitan says, his words thick.
The last CD in the pile is one I don’t recognize. The cover is a collage of Boston landmarks with a title made of cut paper:Mazal. I hold it up, questioning.
“That’s for my sister, Mazal. She’s starting college at Boston University in the fall. I burn her a CD every year for her birthday because she didn’t get to osmose Dad’s incredible music taste as much as I did.” He grins. “As any experienced mixed taper knows, you have to listen to your own mixes in the car to make sure the cadence is right.”
I hum in agreement, trying to quell the butterflies in my stomach at the thought of Eitan burning CDs for his little sister. It’s not like that would have been my ultimate daydream in high school or anything.
I gently place the mixtape back in the console, not wanting to intrude further. We’re quiet for a moment, but it doesn’t strum the chords of my anxiety. It’s a quiet that’s been earned through opening up, just an inch.
I know exactly what music I want to listen to. “Funny Girlis my favorite musical,” I explain, “butWickedis calling my name.”
I push the disc into the slot, a heady dose of nostalgia hitting me with the motion, and skip ahead to “Popular.” I hold my water bottle as a microphone, and channel Penelope as I sing. I imagine myself as a perfectly done-up blonde Galinda, looking at a dreary green version of myself. Elpheba-me watches skeptically as I explain how to make her popular.
Eitan watches, amused, tongue firmly planted in cheek.
As I finish the second round ofla-la’s, Eitan reaches for the CD control.
And presses the back button.
He begins singing “Dancing Through Life,” slipping into Fiyero like he was born for the part.
I gasp. My hand shoots to my mouth, and my eyebrows are in my hairline. Eitan keeps going, watching the road but singing his heart out.
A laugh hiccups out of me. It’s too perfect, Eitan singing about dancing through life.Couldn’t have said it better myself.
Eitan looks at me as he sings, and I’m thirteen again—giddy, blushing, lovestruck.He’s singing to Galinda, I remind myself.To the pretty, perfect character.
The show must go on. I join in, and we dance our way through Shiz University, all the way to the Ozdust Ballroom. It’s the final chorus, building to the final note. Eitan’s eyebrows are pushed together, lips parted, giving it his all.
The sight alone could cause spontaneous ovulation. That is, if I ovulated.
Eitan closes out the final, lingering note, his face awash in carefree joy. But I don’t feel bitter, or jealous, because singing showtunes gives me the same feeling. Eitan’s happiness isn’t a magnifying glass on my own misery. It’s a candle, gentle warmth radiating in all directions.
Maybe this is the foundation of a friendship: recognizing your joy in someone else’s eyes.
I like beingfriends with Eitan. It’s like being let in on a small miracle, knowing that he listens—and sings along—to musicals. That he keeps his dad’s CDs in his car. That there is a rare and precious side of him I’m now privy to.
