Maggie
I can’t believe he came to my freaking show.
I also can’t believe we had a freaking show.
And that it went well.
Like really well.
I want to bask in that, but I can’t help but be the teensiest bit distracted by the fact that, just before we were about to
start “Stuck,” I spotted The Boy himself in the back of the room. FREAKING CARTER. AT MY SHOW.
I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed him and Bodhi sooner; Carter doesn’t usually wear baseball caps, so that’s one thing. Also
I was intentionally avoiding looking into the audience as to not add to my already considerable nerves.
But he came. To see me.
WHY DID I TALK TO HIM SO MUCH AT SHANA’S PARTY?
So stupid. I should’ve just silently pulled him away from his car when he was trying to leave, then waited for Roberta to
get there without saying a word. Or I should’ve acted like a huge asshole, like making fun of his clothes or his hair or something.
Or his face. Instead, he’s, like, intrigued by me.
And probably even more after hearing the GODDAMN SONG I WROTE ABOUT HIM.
Maybe I should also blame Chord.
Sweet Chord, loudly whooping it up after each song.
It was endearing at first, but then it started to feel like a little much.
He was more boisterous than ever after we finished “My Big Ego,” which is what drew my attention into the audience, where I happened to notice two dudes talking and looking in Chord’s direction, also seeming to be observing the too-much-ness.
For a brief moment, I felt defensive of Chord, but that was soon replaced by the horrifying realization that the people I was staring at were Carter and Bodhi.
“Psst!” I whispered across the piano to Shana and Ember. “Let’s just end our set there.”
“What?” Shana said. “Why?”
“Just because! I can’t do this last song.”
“But we’re destroying! And this is probably our best one. We have to do it. We owe it to this audience.”
“Yeah, we gotta do it,” Ember said.
“I really don’t want to, though.”
“Fine, then I’ll just start it myself on guitar,” Shana said, raising her pick in the air.
“Argh,” I grunted. “Forget it!” And I began to play, feeling like I was walking the plank, soon to be chomped into bits by
a crocodile.
But I somehow got through it.
On the final note, I couldn’t help myself: I had to look at Carter, see if he understood the song was about him.
He did. He definitely did.
And the shocking thing was, he looked sort of devastated.
Goddammit. Should have ended the set early like I wanted to.
But now I’m standing up and moving to the front of the stage with Shana and Ember, and everyone is flipping out for us—Chord and his whole table are standing—and Shana starts a bow, so Ember and I follow her lead, which feels ridiculous, because it’s a concert, not a school play, but once we do it, it feels kind of good.
We did a show. And it didn’t suck.
There’s a startlingly loud scream of approval from the back of the room, and I see that it’s Carter. I involuntarily smile
even bigger—damn you, Carter Cohen—before looking away.
The applause dies down, and the coffeehouse puts on some indie-folk transition music so Linda Schweitzer can get set up, and
Shana, Ember, and I hug and hop our way off the small stage.
“Ohmigod, that was so good,” I say.
“We fucking rule!” Ember shouts into our faces.
“Seriously,” Shana says. “That went even better than I thought it would.”
“What. A. Show,” a nerdy voice says from behind us. It’s Ron, standing with Mom, the two of them beaming.
“That was so wonderful!” Mom says. “I had no idea you could play music like that, Mags.”
“Not to mention write music like that,” Ron adds.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. I’m annoyed that Ron is here and Dad isn’t, but still, this warmth spreads through my chest. “Thanks.”
“Really, though,” Mom says. “I knew Vivvy could sing, but it turns out you can too!”
I’ve been waiting so long for her to say something like that. I shrug and smile.
“Wish she could’ve seen this,” Mom says. “I know she’ll be so proud.”
“Yeah,” Ron says. “I leaned over to your mother in the middle of the set and said, ‘When can we get the album?’ And I really meant it!”
“Well, guess we’ll have to make one,” I say. It’s hard to be annoyed by Ron’s presence when he says something like that.
“I have to ask,” Mom says, leaning in closer and speaking in a hushed voice. “I saw who was sitting in the back of the room.
Did you invite him? Are you getting back together?”
“Mom, no,” I say, my mouth going completely dry. “I didn’t invite him. I don’t . . . I don’t know why he’s here, but don’t
worry, it’s not— It’s just not.”
“Okay, fine, fine. And look, you can date whoever you want to, of course, I just think it’s a tricky road to—”
“Mom!” I shout-whisper. “Not here, okay? Everything is fine. We’re not dating. Or even talking. Be chill!”
“I’m chill,” Mom says, shrugging and looking to Ron for confirmation. He nods, as if to remind her of something else entirely.
“Oh, right! On another note, sweetie, Ron and I had an idea that we want to talk to you about later.”
“Oh?”
“A big idea,” Ron says, raising his eyebrows and dork-smiling.
“Ah, what the heck, we’ll just ask you now,” Mom says. “We want Angry Baby to be the entertainment at our wedding this summer.
We’ll pay you and everything.”
“Wait, what?” Ember leans toward us from where they were talking to their older brother, Lee, pulling in Shana by the arm
from a separate conversation with her mom.
“We want you three to play our wedding,” Mom repeats.
“What do ya say?” Ron asks with a wink (which unfortunately nudges him back into annoying territory).
“Oh hell yes!” Shana says, looking at me and Ember like we just won the lottery.
“We are so in!” Ember says.
I wish they would’ve consulted with me first, as I’m not sure exactly how I feel about this. But it is another gig, one that
actually pays money. And Mom and Ron loving our set so deeply that they want us to perform at their wedding is incredibly
meaningful.
“Sure, yeah!” I agree.
“Woo!” Mom gives Ron a cute but overwhelmingly corny high five. “This is the best!”
“We really lucked out, my dear,” Ron says.
“This is such an honor,” Shana says, taking Mom’s hand. “We won’t let you down, Laurel, we promise.”
“Oh, I know that,” Mom says.
“Hey.” A hand taps me lightly on the back, and there’s Chord behind me, grinning so big his shiny white teeth temporarily
imprint dots onto my retina.
“Oh, hey,” I say.
“That was so damn good.”
We hug, and he smells fantastic, like pine tree and coffee, and he asks me why I never told him I was a total rock star, and
I say I guess I forgot, and this feels like a dream. How is all of it actually happening? Mom is looking over at us, and I
can tell the shallow part of her is impressed that this super attractive guy is hugging her daughter. It leaves me simultaneously
proud and furious. Like it’s such a surprise someone like him would be attracted to me.
Chord introduces me to his friends, whose names I don’t have a chance in hell of remembering, and they’re all very sweet. I try my best to be sweet back to them. As cool as this is, it’s a lot to take in.
I excuse myself to the bathroom so I can take a moment to decompress. I’m almost there, nodding and smiling at some random
people who tell me it was an incredible set, when Carter appears in front of the bathroom door.
An ambush.
“Hi,” he says, adjusting the bill of his Knicks cap. “And sorry. That I’m here. I get that you don’t want to interact with
me for . . . reasons. Which remain mysterious. But I just wanted to say that was ridiculously awesome.”
“Um. Okay. Thank you.”
“And also, like . . . Was that song about me?”
Shit.
“Which one?” I ask, like an asshole.
“Come on.”
“Oh, the last one, you mean? About the stuck boy? That’s actually based on . . .” I try to think fast. “A New Yorker article I read. About this kid who survived an earthquake. In Morocco.” This feels like an offensive lie. I dunno, I’m scrambling
here!
Carter narrows his eyes. “Interesting. I tried reading The New Yorker once. It overwhelmed me.”
I laugh without meaning to. It just pops out. “You always hate when I bring up The New Yorker,” I mutter.
“I always hate that?”
“Uh.”
“So we do completely know each other!”
“Dammit.” I shuffle to the side to get around him, but he grabs my hand before I can.
Oh.
His fingers. Brushing the back of my hand.
I pull away.
“Sorry,” Carter continues. “I just— I could use someone in my life right now who knows me. And knows that I hate The New Yorker.”
This is not good. Vulnerable Carter is my kryptonite. I can’t look directly into his eyes. I might start making out with him.
In the same room as Chord. In the same room as my mom.
But if I don’t cut this off now, he’s just going to keep trying. Finding me at school. Coming to more of our shows.
“I can’t be in your life, Carter, okay?” I say, eyes trained somewhere to the right of his Nikes. “You’re right. We know each
other. We dated. Last year. But we can’t do it again. I really can’t! I thought maybe I could save you, but—”
“Save me? Like, get me unstuck?”
“Yes, but it didn’t—”
“How were you going to do that?”
“Just by . . . It doesn’t matter, it didn’t work!” In my peripheral vision, I can see Chord staring over this way, deciding
whether or not to intervene. I hope he doesn’t. Against my better judgment, I look into Carter’s eyes. “If I tell you everything
I know, will you please stop?”
“Stop what?” Carter asks, desperation in his voice that reminds me of our last night together in his car. “I just want to
know what you know! Please.”
“I mean, I don’t really know anything. It’s just, like, a theory.”
“So tell me the theory!”
I put my hand on a small table nearby to steady myself. The triumphant vibes from the set are a distant memory. I can’t believe we have to have this conversation again.
“Okay,” I say. “The night before you first started looping, like five years ago or whatever, you and your girlfriend broke
up. Well, she said I love you, and you didn’t say it back. And you said you wanted to break up. And then . . . The next day . . .”
“Ohmigod,” Carter says, taking a step backward. “That’s why I’m stuck in this hell? Because I dumped my girlfriend? Who was
she?”
“I’m . . . I’m not sure.”
Carter gives me a skeptical look and twitches his head like What? “Then how do you even know for sure that that happened?”
“It’s complicated,” I say, desperately wishing there was a teleportation app on my phone.
“Everything all right here?” Chord asks, putting a hand on my back as he steps up next to me.
He’ll suffice, I guess.
“Yeah, totally,” I say. “We were—”
“Wait, was it Layla Banerjee?” Carter asks, ignoring Chord completely. “Was that who I dumped?”
I feel the color spill from my face, splashing a Jackson Pollock onto the floor. “Why would— How do you—? Who told you that?”
“So it was Layla!” Carter says, one finger pointing in the air like he’s just had the idea for a new invention. “She is the key!”
“Maybe you should give Maggie a little space.” Chord puts his arm in front of me like he’s a tollbooth.
“Seriously, how do you know about Layla?” I ask Carter. Did he remember what I told him that last night in December? (Mental note: That would make a great lyric.)
“Let’s just say a little friend told me,” Carter says, stepping closer in spite of the tall, muscular fellow blocking his
path. “A little friend named ME! Ha!”
He left a message for himself about Layla. Not great.
“All right, all right,” Chord says, putting an arm around me and directing us away from Carter. “Maggie, you want to come
with me over here?”
I definitely want to exit this conversation, but I could use that decompression time in the bathroom more than ever. Explaining
that to Chord, though, seems like more hassle than it’s worth.
“Um, sure,” I say.
“So was that everything?” Carter asks.
I look back at him. “Yeah,” I lie. “That’s everything. I’m sorry, Coco. I mean Carter.”
The crowd cheers as Linda Schweitzer takes the stage. Chord takes my hand, and we hunch over and run to his table, where his
friends shift around to make a spot for me.
I feel weird that I didn’t even say bye to Carter, but when I glance back over toward where we were standing, he’s already
gone.