Chapter Seventeen Just a Boy and His Guitar
When we get to Gordon Park, Noah goes straight to the bandstand.
Seeing it up close, it’s in better condition than it seemed from far away.
Yeah, there are a few wood planks that are rotted through, but the paint is the biggest issue.
I have no idea what color it was originally, but now it’s a dirty gray-brown.
The bandstand is basically a big octagon-shaped gazebo with a shingled roof and decorative wood at the roofline.
There are two sets of stairs to get onto it and a short wood railing around the perimeter.
Noah climbs onto the stage, sits on the worn wood floor, then leans against one of the corner posts.
He takes out his guitar and starts tuning it.
I pull out my camera and take some pictures of the bandstand while he’s setting up.
We’re going to start restoring it in CROP on Monday, so this will probably be the last time anyone documents what it’s like now.
I can’t wait to get all this chipped paint off it, but right now it’s got…
personality. Like, it looks lived in, not neglected. It’s actually quite beautiful.
And the most beautiful thing about the bandstand is Noah, sitting cross-legged in one corner, playing simple chords on his guitar. “Can I take your picture?” I ask.
He smiles and nods but doesn’t glance up. “Go nuts, Noorani. Make sure to get my good side.”
I laugh as I start snapping pictures of the bandstand and of Noah playing his guitar.
Some close-ups, some distance shots. I play around with the settings, trying out different effects.
Noah is pretty much ignoring me, just playing chords and stopping every once in a while to write something down in a notebook.
“What is it you’re working on?” I ask while shooting him from the other side of the bandstand.
“New song. Figured out the lyrics last night, so now I’m getting the chord changes nailed down.” He writes something in his notebook.
“Can I hear it?” I ask.
“Yeah, give me a few minutes… I’m almost done.”
Since we first met, Noah has always struck me as someone who was so sure of himself. But with his music, the confidence radiates off him. I smile. “I love how you have no stage fright. You’re instantly ready to let someone hear your brand-new song.”
He smiles, still not looking at me. “I’ve been in music lessons for years, and play at Donut Den almost every week. I’m way beyond stage fright by this point. I’d rather sing for most people than talk to them.”
Finally he tells me he’s ready. I ask if I can record him, and he agrees. He even tells me to send him the video after because he can use it to figure out how to improve. I shake my head, amazed. Noah needs to get out of this town and play music professionally. He was born for it.
I switch my camera to video mode and sit in front of him. I’d prefer to have a tripod for this, but since I don’t, I lean down and rest my elbows on the floor to keep the camera steady.
After I hit Record, Noah starts playing.
The song isn’t what I expected. The tempo is slow, and it almost sounds haunting.
His voice, that soulful, smooth voice I first heard at Donut Den sounds even better with this song.
The lyrics seem to be about longing and feeling unworthy of someone.
The chorus has the words “I want to be more, to be magic like you, more like the stars, more magic like you.”
The song is gorgeous. Noah is gorgeous. And I’m in so deep, I can barely breathe when he’s singing.
After I record his song, we head to Donut Den. Noah says Clara, his vocal teacher, doesn’t get off work for a bit so we can get a coffee first. When we’re at a booth with apple fritters and coffee in front of us, he waves at Clara behind the counter.
“Do you do your vocal lessons here?” I ask incredulously. This is the last place I would’ve thought held music lessons. “Yeah. The owner lets Clara use one of the back rooms. She teaches a bunch of people in town. Clara is the one who started the open mic nights, mostly for her students.”
“That’s very cool. How did you meet her?”
He smiles. “Through my mom. There aren’t a lot of Filipinos in Cherrybridge, and when Mom lived here, a bunch of women used to get together regularly. Clara was born in Canada, though, unlike my mom. She grew up in Toronto.”
I nod along but remember the gossip that Noah was the father of this woman’s kid, just because he spent time with her. It’s quite ridiculous. He’s part Filipino; of course he would spend time with other Filipinos in town.
“Does she work with you on guitar and vocals?”
“No, just vocals. I go to the music school for guitar. That’s what Jason pays for. Clara plays a little piano, but she’s a trained vocalist. She even has musical theater experience in Toronto.” His eyes shift to a spot behind my shoulder. “There she is. I think she’s done her shift.”
Behind the bar Clara is taking off her apron. She comes to our booth holding a plate with a sandwich on it. “Hi! It’s Meera, right? Nice to meet you.” Her smile is friendly and warm. She looks at Noah. “You mind if I eat before your lesson, Noah? I couldn’t take a break today.”
“Of course not,” Noah says.
She sits next to me. Up close I can see that she’s older, easily over thirty. And she’s even prettier than when I last saw her here with Sadie and Liv.
Noah asks her how her kid is, and soon they’re talking animatedly about Clara’s son, about Donut Den, and about how bored her husband has been since he got home from his last deployment.
“We’re not letting your friend get a word in,” Clara says with a laugh before turning toward me. “Meera, Noah told me you’re a photographer. What do you take pictures of?”
When I tell her Toronto buildings, we end up talking about the old theaters in the city. I like Clara. She’s got an animated, enthusiastic way of talking. She reminds me of the musical theater kids at my high school.
When she’s done with her sandwich, Noah and Clara head to the back room for his music lesson, and I call an Uber to take me home.
At dinner that night Mom and Jason are talking about the LeClair picnic the next day.
Mom is freaking out again. Apparently some of the other LeClair executives’ wives were rude to her recently at the club, and she’s worried about having to socialize with them.
It sucks that these women were rude to her, but I don’t understand why Mom won’t take her own advice.
Whenever I’ve told her that kids were rude to me at school, she’s always said those people don’t matter and to ignore them.
There is one thing about the picnic I want to bring up. “Noah told me that most plant workers don’t bring their families to the picnic. Why does management bring their families?”
Jason looks annoyed at the question for a moment, before his smile returns. “Everyone is welcome to bring their families. No matter what their role is.”
“Okay, but don’t you find it weird that the people who work in the plant don’t want to bring their partners and kids? I mean, Noah’s never been to one of these picnics, and his dad’s worked there for years.”
“Are you bringing that emo boy as your guest?” Mom asks.
I roll my eyes. “He’s not an emo boy. His name is Noah, and yes, he’s still coming as my date.” I narrow my eyes at her.
Jason takes another chapatti from the stack on the table. “As the son of a LeClair employee, he’s welcome either way.”
“But if he wasn’t the son of one of your employees, would you forbid me to bring him?” I ask.
“We’re not forbidding anything,” Mom says. “As long as you stay out of trouble and follow our rules. We’re not trying to make living in Cherrybridge a prison for you, Meera.”
Could’ve fooled me.
“Good,” I say. “Noah and I are looking forward to the party.”
“And we’re looking forward to seeing him again,” Mom says. I don’t think she’s looking forward to this party at all.
Noah calls me later that night to ask if he should wear his Crash on Jupiter shirt to the picnic, which I say yes to.
I really want to see Jason’s face when he sees the son of Mike Jacobs—his former best friend and bandmate—wearing the logo of the band that broke up because of Jason.
Noah then suggests that I emo myself up a little too, and maybe wear some of the clothes I bought at the thrift store.
It’s a fantastic idea. I really do love that skirt I bought, and I love the idea of not dressing like a respectable politician’s daughter.
I grin when I tell him about the new nose ring Kennedy found too.
We talk a bit more about his vocal lesson, and about some harder songs that Clara is helping him with, and I still have goose bumps thinking about his voice when I get off the phone.
I’ve got it bad. This is the biggest crush I’ve ever had.
And now I know that it’s not exactly unrequited either, based on that almost-kiss at the thrift store.
Nothing like that happened between us when we hung out today, but I might be playing with fire here.
I’m supposed to never date again. The curse says I’ll have bad judgment, so does that mean Noah isn’t as sweet and kind as I think he is?
Or as good-looking? Or musically talented?
How much of my feelings are because of the curse?
I sigh. Even though I know that I’m playing right into the curse’s hands, I honestly don’t think I’m capable of separating myself from Noah now. It’s far too late for that.