Carter
Bodhi is talking to me, but I’m not really hearing the words.
I’m sipping my hot chocolate and staring at the empty stage—it’s nothing fancy, probably just a foot or two off the ground,
with a piano, acoustic guitar, and drums set up and ready to go. I wonder which instrument Maggie’s going to play. I bet the
drums. She seems pretty intense, like she could really whack the shit out of those cymbals.
“Are you keeping those sunglasses on the whole time?” Bodhi asks. “Probably gonna be hard to see.”
“Oh.” I wore them along with my Knicks cap when we came in so I could be as inconspicuous as possible. It’s been all too apparent
this week that Maggie wants nothing to do with me, so I don’t really want to be spotted. “No.” I pull off the sunglasses.
Bodhi and I have planted ourselves at a table in the very back. It’s not that big a place, but this spot gives us the best
chance of getting lost in the shadows.
“Anyway, what do you think about that?” Bodhi asks. “Like, with Lizzy. Should I text her again or wait some more?”
“Uh,” I say, having taken in none of the context for this question. “Probably makes sense to—”
“All right, folks,” a woman with gray hair in a dark blue blazer says, leaning over slightly into the microphone near the
guitar. “We are very excited to be hosting the debut of a new band. They’re called . . .” She squints down at her phone. “Angry Baby! Isn’t that a killer name? I just love it. So let’s give these three a warm hand! Angry . . .” She looks down at her phone again. “Baby!”
Shana emerges first from a door next to the stage, followed by an Asian kid with short pink hair, and then Maggie, who’s wearing
jeans, dark blue Converse, and a light green, short-sleeved button-down that looks so good on her, it makes my chest go floaty.
Shana goes to the guitar and confidently flips the strap over her head. I assume the pink-haired bandmate is headed to the
piano, but instead they sit down on a stool behind the drums while Maggie slides slowly onto the piano bench.
Wow. She plays piano. And, from the way the microphone is set up right next to it, sings too.
There’s complete silence as Maggie arranges her fingers on the keys. They’re shaking in a way that makes me nervous for her.
She begins, her hands plunking out gentle chords as the other two musicians watch. After thirty seconds and a few bungled
piano notes, Maggie opens her mouth and starts to sing.
Her voice comes out thin and quiet, even with the microphone. It’s hard to make out the lyrics until she gets to the chorus
where she repeats the words No, thank you a couple times. With a resonant strum, Shana announces herself on guitar, followed moments later by the drummer, who comes
in with this cool shuffle sound.
As if buoyed by the arrival of her bandmates, Maggie’s voice gets slightly more powerful, her fingers more decisive. Her singing
has a ghostly quality, and there’s also, like, an honesty to it. Like I could just listen to her for hours and believe every
word.
I start to get lost in the song. I wasn’t expecting the music to be this . . . good. I look over at Bodhi. He’s got his phone under the table, texting. Annoying. When the song ends, I join the crowd in applauding, though not too loudly, as I’m still trying to stay under the radar.
“Whoa,” Maggie says into the mic, blinking into the crowd. “Thank you.”
“You mean, NO, thank you,” Shana says, which gets a laugh.
“As you heard, this is our first-ever show,” Maggie says. “And we are all very afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid, you’re killing it!” some dude shouts from the other side of the room. Maggie smiles and blushes. I glance
over, and, wouldn’t you know it, it’s Glowy Adult Guy from the party.
So they’re some kind of thing now.
I hate Glowy Adult Guy.
No, wait: Cord.
Maggie said his name is Cord.
That’s even worse. He looks every bit as handsome and adultified as he did at Shana’s house, and he’s sitting with three other
similarly adult-looking people. College people.
I should’ve been the one to shout something to Maggie. Definitely would have said something more original than Cord.
We’re afraid of how talented you are!!!
Yeah. That’s what I would’ve said.
I’m not sure why I’ve deemed this Cord guy my rival, seeing as all signs point to him being in an actual relationship with
Maggie, unlike my imaginary, grasping-on-to-shreds-of-evidence relationship with her. I just don’t trust him.
When I shake out of my Cord-loathing spiral, they’re deep into a more upbeat song, Maggie pounding on the keys. She and Shana
are singing in a harmony that almost works. I think Shana’s a little off-key. The drummer is absolutely wailing away. It’s drowning out Maggie and Shana a bit, but it’s still pretty sick. Cord cheers and whoops when the song ends. He’s even more vocal after their next two songs.
“I think that dude had too many espressos,” Bodhi says.
“Right?” I say, greatly appreciating that I’m not the only one who thinks Cord sucks. “Like, tone it down, man.”
“Yeah. Someone should tell him the show is happening onstage, so we don’t need him putting on another from his seat.”
“Seriously!” I notice Maggie and Shana having some kind of quiet argument before the next song starts.
“Their band is pretty good, though,” Bodhi says. “Sorta messy, but I would totally stream these songs.”
“I know!” I’m again deeply gratified to have my own feelings validated. “I didn’t know what to expect, but this is genuinely
killer music.”
I whisper the last three words because a new song has started. It’s another quiet one, Maggie alone on the piano. She plucks
out a gentle melody and sings, her voice wavering a little. She seems less nervous, though, and more sad.
“That look in his eyes,” she sings. “Like he doesn’t understand. Breaks my heart, so I take his hand.”
Probably wrote this song for Cord. He seems very dense, like he doesn’t understand things. Also like he’s a jerk who cheers
too much. But that’s unrelated to the lyrics.
“He’s the boy who got stuck,” Maggie continues, her voice the slightest bit hesitant, her eyes cast down at the stage. “He’s
shit out of luck. ’Cause no one gives a fuck, about the boy who got stuck.”
There’s a jolt in my stomach.
Is it narcissistic to think this song might be about . . . me?
The guitar and drums come in on the next verse, and I’m listening to the words like a spy trying to decode foreign intel.
The lyrics are all pretty vague, but they could, in theory, apply to my situation. I am a boy who got stuck!
“And he’s funny,” Maggie sings, “makes me laugh like wow. But will he know that five months from now?”
It’s me. It has to be about me.
I look to Bodhi for confirmation. He nods and whispers, “This song slaps hard.”
I want to scream I THINK IT’S ABOUT ME! but I just nod and whisper back, “Totally.”
The song builds into a huge repeating chorus, including a three-part harmony that really does slap, and my throat tightens.
Am I seriously about to cry right now? That’s insane. And embarrassing. I down the rest of my hot chocolate.
The song ends, and as Maggie holds out the final chord, her eyes land right on me. I freeze. She’s surprised.
But maybe it just seems like she’s looking at me. Maybe she was so deep in the song that she forgot there was an audience, and that’s why she looks
stunned.
Either way, her eyes flit away within seconds. The crowd of about forty people roars louder than ever. Maggie, Shana, and
the drummer are all glowing as they walk awkwardly to the front of the stage and take a sort-of bow. Cord starts shouting
“Bravo!” and Maggie’s possibly seen me already anyway, so screw it: I fling my hat onto the table and scream, trying to outcheer
his ass.