Maggie
“Coco!” I say, laughing as Carter kisses me. “I seriously need to go.”
“It’s all good,” he says, gesturing to his baseball cap and sunglasses. “I’m in disguise, remember?”
We’re in his car, parked on my street, and I’m late to band practice. At my own house.
“Yes, and it’s so effective even I can’t tell who you are,” I say. “But since my mom thinks I was just hanging out with Shana,
who is now literally in my home without me—undoubtedly super pissed that I’m late—I must leave this car.”
“At least you have the apology Munchkins.” He points to the box in my lap that I just raced into Dunkin’ to acquire.
“And thank god for that. Now I go.”
“Okay. I’ll miss you.”
Carter kisses me again, one hand on my cheek. His lips are so soft.
I finally extract myself from Toro and run as nonchalantly as possible into my house, then down the basement steps.
“I know you’ve been late a lot recently,” Shana says in between string plucks while tuning her guitar. “But you live here.”
“I’m really sorry,” I say, walking into our practice area, which, until recently, was the part of the basement that’s meant for storage.
We lazily repurposed the space by pushing stacks of bins and boxes to the sides, so it’s kind of like playing music in the middle of a hoarder’s fort. “But look: Munchkins!”
“Hooray!” Ember shouts as they shift their bass drum into place.
“I’ve literally been gluten-free since September,” Shana says.
“Ah shoot, you have!” I say, passing the box to Ember. “My bad, Shane. I don’t think Dunkin’ does gluten-free Munchkins.”
“I don’t care about the Munchkins!” Shana lifts her hands from the guitar like she wants to strangle me. “I’m just annoyed.
That you’re late again.”
“I know,” I say, taking off my coat and sitting down at my keyboard. “I suck, okay? I said I was sorry.”
“But I’m more annoyed that you’ve been back together with Carter for weeks and haven’t bothered telling us.”
“Oh.” It’s like she just pointed out I’m wearing nothing but underwear. “Well. How did you know?”
“Uh,” Shana says, “because we have eyes? And brains? And because it made very little sense to me why you would break up with
Chord until I put the Carter thing together.”
“That’s not the only reason I broke up with Chord!”
“So, you’re, like, doing this again?” Shana gives her guitar a big, boisterous strum that bounces off the basement walls.
“And you’re okay with that?”
“I am. I think.” I know I should have told Shana and Ember sooner. But I was worried—correctly, it turns out—that Shana would
disapprove and try to convince me to stop. “I mean, being with Carter feels . . . right. So, yeah. But I wasn’t . . . When
it started again, it was because I had just ended up at his house, and—”
“You went to his house?” Shana says. “What did you think was going to happen at his house?”
Ember laughs as they step on the bass drum’s pedal and make adjustments.
“I know, I know.” I play a quick G major scale on my keyboard, as if that might somehow reboot our entire conversation. “But
I actually went over there to tell him the truth about . . . You know.” I point upstairs.
“The truth about your mom? What is the truth about your mom?”
“No! My sister,” I whisper.
“You told him about that?”
“Well, no, I didn’t, because we ended up making out instead.”
“I see the logic,” Shana says. “If I had to choose between making out with the tragic boy I’m in love with or telling him
a long-kept secret he might not like at all, it would be a very easy decision.”
“I know I need to tell him. I will.”
“Wait, what is this about your sister?” Ember asks, lightly tapping a cymbal with their drumstick.
“Carter used to, like, date her,” I say. “A long time ago.”
“Right before he developed his disorder,” Shana helpfully adds.
“No way!” Ember says. “That’s insane!”
I don’t go out of my way to tell people about Carter and Vivian. Took me a long time before I even told Shana.
“And Carter doesn’t know that?”
“Not yet.”
“Whoa.” Ember shakes their head, as if they can’t believe their bandmate is such a psychopath. “That’s . . . Did you tell
him in the fall? The last time you were dating? And he’s just forgotten?”
“No,” I say. “But what does it even matter?” This band practice is feeling more like an intervention. I don’t like it.
Ember answers with a shrug and a bite of a glazed Munchkin.
“Marigold says Chord is still gutted, by the way,” Shana says.
“‘Gutted’?” I say. “Seriously? We dated for like a month. People are overusing that word.”
“I’m just telling you what she said.”
I let my lips puff out as I exhale, trying not to let myself feel as horrible as I know I should. I pop a powdered Munchkin
into my mouth.
“She also said he still can’t believe you broke up over text.”
“All right,” I say, trying not to wince, crumbs bouncing out of my mouth. “Chord looks like an adult and acts like an adult,
so why can’t he deal with this like an adult? Life sucks sometimes. Get over it, dude. Stop passing messages through your
friend to make me feel guilty.”
I do feel guilty. Obviously. But I couldn’t handle making my breakup with Chord into a big, dramatic thing—I’ve had plenty
of those as it is—so I just told him in a text that he’s great but I didn’t think it was working out and I was really sorry.
Oh, he texted back. Could you explain why exactly?
It felt like a homework assignment. Or a standardized test.
I did not respond.
But hey, I could’ve not texted at all. I could’ve just ghosted the guy!
I’m not a bad person.
Am I?
I might be a bad person.
“He’s not passing messages, Maggie,” Shana says with this fire in her eyes that scares me. “He’s expressing his feelings to a friend, who is then mentioning them to her friend. You don’t have to be so mean about it. You dumped the guy in a text, what did you expect?”
I know there are probably legitimate points buried in what she’s saying, but I’d prefer not to dig them up. “I’m not sure,
Shana. I guess I didn’t expect one of my best friends to so vehemently defend this random dude instead of me. But maybe that’s
too much to ask.”
Now Shana looks like I’ve smacked her with a dueling glove, and I’m straight-up terrified. Ember, seated behind their drum
kit, looks pretty freaked too.
“I have been here for you in every possible way,” Shana says, her left hand gripping the neck of the guitar so tight, it looks
like it might snap. “Keeping your secrets. Cheering you on. Having your back. Trying to stop you from having any interaction
with Carter, including when he showed up at my stupid party. So don’t talk to me about not defending you.”
“Fine,” I say, trying to seem like a tough, brave person. “I won’t. Can we start rehearsing some of these songs?”
“I dunno.” Shana shakes her head. “I might be too annoyed by you right now.”
“I’m sorry! I’m an annoying person, what can I say?”
“Yeah, okay.” Shana pulls the guitar strap over her head, kicks open the case on the floor, and places her acoustic inside
it.
“Uh. You’re leaving?” I feel tears quivering, threatening to jump ship.
“I am.” Shana clicks shut the case’s latches one by one, a devastating barrage of snaps.
I look to Ember for help. They look petrified.
Is it weird that I had minimal awareness of what a shitty friend I’ve been? Maybe being with Carter has led me to develop
my own strange disorder. Of the brain.
“I’m sorry I offended you, Shana,” I say, standing up from the keyboard. “I really am. Don’t leave. The wedding is like a
month from now! You haven’t even heard this new song yet.”
“Thank you for that very genuine-sounding apology”—she sounds sarcastic, so I must not have sounded as genuine as I was trying
to—“but I can’t rehearse right now. The vibes are wrong. And bad.”
“Are you quitting the band?”
“No, I’m not quitting the band, I just don’t want to be here right now! Stop talking!” Shana walks out of the storage area of the basement with her guitar.
We hear her marching up the carpeted steps.
I turn to Ember again, still frozen behind the drums, drumsticks crossed on their lap. “You couldn’t have tried to stop her?”
“I don’t know, man,” they say. “You’re both in full beast mode right now.”
“Yeah.” I sit back down at the keys. “That’s fair.”
“I do think it’s cool that you and Carter are back together,” Ember says.
“Thanks. I think so too. But I’ve—”
“Hey there,” Mom says, popping her head in and totally startling me. “Are you already done rehearsing?”
“No,” I say. “Shana just had to go do something.”
“Oh. All right. How’s it been going?”
“Great. Really good.”
“You’re going to be all set for the wedding, right?” Mom seems nervous, like she’s regretting asking us to do this. Like she wishes she’d asked Vivian to sing some jazz standards instead.
“Mom! Of course. Yes. We’re going to honor your and Ron’s love in an epic fashion. We will be the musical equivalent of fireworks
spelling your names.”
Mom smiles. “Well, you don’t have to be that. I just want to make sure you’re not in over your heads.”
This is how my mom sees me, as perpetually in over my head.
Maybe she’s right to see me that way.
“We got this, Mrs. Spear,” Ember says, this time heroically stepping in to get my back, even though they don’t realize Mom
goes by her maiden name now. “You were at our gig—it’s gonna be like that, but way more amazing. Because we keep getting better.”
“Oh, good,” Mom says, sighing and wiping imaginary sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “That’s nice to hear.”
Of course she believes it now that she’s heard it from someone who’s not me.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” Mom says. “Let you keep getting better.”
“Thanks,” Ember says.
Mom is staring at me as she walks out, as if waiting for my response, but all I can do is nod because I’m too angry to talk.