Chapter 3
three
. . .
Curious
Seventeen years ago
desiree
thirteen years old
The place was an overcrowded and unbearably hot concert arena. I ran my tongue over my braces, a nervous habit of mine, and shuffled alongside my parents and older brother. Music thumped in the distance as we made our way through the lobby toward the usher, who paused momentarily to reply to the voice that crackled on her walkie-talkie, before scanning tickets and telling my parents how to navigate to our seats.
We shuffled in down our row, me apologizing with every bump and collide to the attendees already in their seats. The thick air enveloped me in suffocation, the smell of booze polluting the innocence of my adolescent pores. The opening band was still playing, the check-in lady had explained. It was nothing I recognized. I remember being surprised by the small size of the venue. I expected something much larger, more like the massive stadiums I had seen on concerts on TV. The main band we were seeing tonight was on the rise, apparently. I hoped their music would be good. Soulful and emotional poetry to speak to my melancholy spirit, with any luck. I could get on board with that.
I was conjuring hopes of a Fiona Apple-type sound to come, fighting my real wishes of being home and curled up in bed with a book. Had I known what lay ahead of me, I’m sure I would have been more excited. Had I known I’d be starting a new friendship with a boy—our not-so-coincidental meeting about to happen at that concert—I might have worked a little harder to pull a brush through my hopelessly lifeless blonde hair. But I didn’t know that yet, and so I followed along with my family and tried to ignore my flared anxiety at the chaotic setting.
Why was my meeting with the new boy not-coincidental? I’ll get to that soon.
I saw him—my soon-to-be crush—immediately. You know how it is when you’re a kid, surrounded by grown-ups. There’s an eagle eye you acquire for anyone else your age, even if you’re far too shy to ever utter a word to them. My eyes found him. He looked to be the only other kid there, which made me feel not so out of place.
And a boy, no less.
I immediately wondered if I had the dreaded food particle stuck in my braces, if my hair was a frizzy mess, and if my outfit made me look as frumpy as I felt in that moment. It’s like I was auditioning for the part of Apple of His Eye, yet he didn’t even know I existed.
As I’m sure you’ve gathered, I had been dragged to this concert unwillingly. So when I saw him—Taven Carlisle—I was not exactly in the best of moods. Yet my little crush on him was instantaneous. He was cute, he looked to be about my age. My interest began as soon as I laid eyes on him, the pull of intense infatuation, accompanied by a flutter in my belly.
The objects of our crushes always start out being perfect in our minds, don’t they? It’s all curious intrigue, and you imagine them to be charming and funny and everything you’re not, even though chances are they’re just as ridiculously awkward as you. But we love to put our crushes on a pedestal.
If to crush is to compress, (or if you want to get technical with it—subdue to the point of distortion), then yeah, that kind of thing tracks. The rock-bottom moments of my Taven Carlisle crush distorted me and sent me into a tailspin of self-deprecating thoughts I’m rather embarrassed to admit.
Just you wait.
The problem with me and Taven was always timing. That, and—in the early days with us—my own insecurities of the gangly limbs attached to the straightness of my thirteen-year-old frame.
But the other big problem with me and Taven was something far worse.
Our parents.
Earlier that evening, I had been snuggled up beneath the comforts of my blankets, ready to go to sleep. My parents, dressed to the nines, had sailed into my room, beaming.
Mom was already in placate-and-strike mode. “You’ll love the music, Desiree. Trust us.” I pretended not to see the tiny pill she popped into her mouth, swallowed dry. Her cloud of perfume wasn’t doing enough to mask the stale smoke clinging to the fabric of her dress. I loved my mom, but my annoyance with her that evening was making it hard to see the best sides of her. We can do that sometimes with the people we love. See all the flaws as if we need to prove to ourselves that our discontent with them is warranted.
My mom could sometimes look like a washed-up Barbie, which always worried me. Too much Botox, not enough meat on her bones, that kind of thing. My dad, on the other hand, was always very polished and poised. A good-looking man, I could objectively see that. They were a passionate pair, and I often felt like they were a puzzle I couldn’t quite make out. All smiles and ambition, but even as a child, I could sense some underlying turbulence.
They had natural vitality, though. My big brother did, too, which left me as the odd one out, lost in the shadows of the family in all my introverted awkwardness. I liked to think of myself as beautifully misunderstood and underestimated. The exquisiteness in the tragedy of adolescent thoughts, in full force.
My dad approached my bed and I turned my head to avoid the stench of whiskey on his breath. He pulled my arm and hoisted me out of my cocoon. “Up you go, don’t give me that look.”
“It’s a school night,” I argued.
Dad gave me his signature tinny grin and waved me off. “School? What school? It’s just eighth grade, live a little.”
Begrudgingly, I quickly dressed and tagged along with them. Followed them into the concert, feeling more like a rag doll being carelessly dragged into bright, bouncing chaos than a willing participant with her own thoughts and opinions.
My brother Dylan came with us, thankfully. An ally in all the madness. I had no doubt that my parents had made us both join them so that Dylan could drive. Which meant my parents could imbibe without caution. Since my father’s business venture—medi-spa clinics—had recently taken off, my parents had apparently decided they had too much to lose and risking a DUI was not on the menu. I always hated when they would drink and drive, and I’d be in the back seat, gripping the handle of the car door, praying we’d make it home safely. I never had the guts to protest or express my concerns to them, though. At least now my parents were more careful.
But once at the concert and having spotted the cute boy just one row ahead, I settled into my seat, a spark of hope filling me that maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all. The crowd was swaying to the music, and I looked at Dylan, then over his shoulder and to my parents. They were loose-limbed and laughing as my father remained standing, pulling my mother up just as soon as she sat down and prompting her to twirl in a spin.
Their candor unsettled me. I didn’t know my parents to be music lovers, but since our lives had recently changed, money now raining down on us in copious amounts, there had been a lot of new “loves” they’d dumped into our world with promises to my brother and me that we would love too.
Let’s see, there was the new home we’d moved into that summer—away from all my old friends.
“You’ll love it, just wait,” my father had promised.
I found the mini-mansion to be cold and loud, every noise echoing off the cavernous walls.
There was the new school I’d be attending—the very next day, in fact. A private one, meaning my old comforts and familiar routines were now obliterated. I pictured plaid and permanently turned up noses, a Rory Gilmore experience in my future.
There were the new earrings my brother Dylan had allegedly given me for my birthday, accompanied by my mother gushing at how beautiful and thoughtful that was. (Later, after the birthday celebrations had wound down, Dylan gave me his real gift, almost apologetically. An enticing box set of special editions from my favorite fantasy author. I could always count on him to know what I actually loved.)
Now, it was this band we were seeing.
The concert was the next thing we just had to do, we’d surely love it. My brother and I just had to attend it with my parents. We had to look our best, we had to be sure we were seen, the sturdy Hatson family of four, on the scene.
Had to, had to, had to .
Crowds were never my thing, but I was determined to be a good daughter and play along. I would try, for my parents. What choice did I really have? I was a kid; autonomy was beyond my reach.
My father firmly believed in two things—working hard, and meeting the right people. “That right there is the key, ladies and gentleman,” my father would say, a glimmer in his eye. “It’s the ladder climbing, the zip code jumping. You’ll learn soon enough.”
His eyes would widen in calculating wonder, as if he had unlocked the secret to everything.
The frenetic swirl of stage lights popped around us in flashes, filling the darkness in perfectly timed spurts. I fought a yawn and looked at Dylan. “How long do you think this will be?”
“ What?! ” He looked down at me with a bemused laugh.
I cleared my throat and tried to match the noise level. “ How long?! ” I swirled my finger around us. “ This?! Tonight?! ” I was met with a shrug and Dylan’s large palm patting my head.
I dropped my shoulders in resignation, my eyes scanning the crowd again, trying to be casual as I landed my gaze on the cute boy, my temporary crush for the night. I couldn’t help but study him. He had this little curve in his ear and was wearing a black t-shirt with something printed on the front, though I couldn’t make out if it was the band name or what. There was no one else with him, but he was definitely a kid like me. Where were his parents? I pulled my eyes away, willing myself not to stare.
I glanced up at Dylan, and couldn’t help but laugh at his permanent slight smile. He was just as lost in the sound of twangy strings as my parents were, swaying slightly and nodding his head in rhythm to the drum beats. He shot his eyes down to me, and he threw me a wink, then leaned down to speak into my ear so he could be heard over the deafening noise. “Relax, Little Dez! Try and have some fun!”
“I am!” I insisted. I tried to slip in a smile in return.
He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and I instinctively glanced back over to the kid, wondering if he at all noticed me. He was looking at the stage, drumming his fingers on his leg, oblivious to anyone around him. It made me wonder how often he went to concerts and what kind of music he liked .
Dylan gave me a slight squeeze. “Good! And tomorrow’s going to be fine, don’t worry about it!”
“Aren’t you worried?” I shouted back. Switching schools in middle school was one thing, but for Dylan, it had to be worse. He was getting ready to start his senior year of high school.
He turned his eyes straight ahead, then pulled away from me and crossed his arms over his chest, expression now forlorn. “Nah,” is what I think he said, but I couldn’t really hear him anymore. I studied him, already knowing what he was thinking. One more year and I’m out of here . He’d play football, showcase his talents at his new and smaller school, then be swept away to college. I dreaded thinking about it.
My eyes wandered back to the cute boy, and I watched as who I assumed to be his parents finally made their way down the narrow space between seats and towards him, drinks in hand.
His father was sliding past the other people in the row, stern-faced and silent as people rose around him to allow him to pass. His mother, a tall and sturdy woman with dark hair like her son’s, was dressed like she had just walked out of court. She had on a button-down shirt dress nipped at the waist, with a stylish suit jacket draped over her shoulders. She stopped just short of reaching the object of my imaginary affection, her face twisting to what I think was supposed to be a smile. She turned to face behind her, grinning now at?—
My mother.
That’s when it dawned on me.
So that’s why we were here, for these people, whoever they were. The mom passed her drink to her husband, then turned back to my beaming mother. The two women air-kissed, then attempted an awkward hug over the row of seats. I strained to listen to them, but I only caught about every other word of their exchange.
“ Here…looking for you…so great!… ” a bubbling of laughter, my mom doing that signature hair adjusting that she does. She pointed a finger in my direction. “ Daughter…Dezzie….same age…Taven! ” Her attention shifted to my crush.
“ Wonderful….soon !” the other woman exclaimed. More laughter. The men were on the other side of their wives, so I had to lean forward to see them, but it was all more of the same.
I looked back at the cute boy, who now had a name—Taven. He was looking at me and smiling. “ Hey, ” he said to me in a similar shout that seemed to be the necessary tone of the evening, accompanied by a small wave.
My heart thudded. His parents knew my parents. This wouldn’t just be a one-time meeting where I could longingly gaze at the adorable boy in front of me, never to be seen again.
This was someone I’d have to get to know. Someone who would see my insecurities. Someone I could fantasize about on a regular basis. It meant I was entering official crush territory. Phase one: intrigue.
I smiled back at Taven and hoped to God it looked sweet, and not lopsided as I tucked my lips around my teeth to hide my braces.
It was hard to see much, you really only got quick flashes of red whenever the maniacally moving lights landed on something. But from what I could tell, Taven had friendly eyes. His face revealed the slight awkward spray of pimples that mirrored mine, which made me feel better. He was still in that boyish phase right before the transformation of several inches of height and a deepening voice. You know how it is at that age, the guys surrounding you are all either still boys, or suddenly looking far too much like men, which would leave me a stammering fool when forced to talk to them.
Instinctually, I glanced over to my parents, then back to Taven. That’s when his small smile turned to a full grin, and he rolled his eyes. I loved that eye roll. It said to me all kinds of things about our joint discontent, like we were in on something together. He pointed a finger in my parents’ direction, said, “Y our mom and dad? ” as he raised an eyebrow.
My cheeks flamed as I mutely nodded. I glanced up at Dylan just in time to see him shaking hands with Taven’s dad.
I looked back at Taven. “ Same ,” he said, shrugging a shoulder in understanding, perhaps. “ You’re Desiree, right?” He knew my name. That felt wonderfully exciting, yet terrifying at the same time. What had he been told about me? And by whom?
I gave another silent and slightly stunned nod. He put his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor, probably bored to tears with me, wondering if I had any verbal communication skills. When he looked back up he said, “Have fun,” and then returned his attention straight ahead. I cursed my awkwardness at not having been able to utter a single word to him in return.
A few minutes passed, all with me in a personal battle with my eyes as they wandered every two point five seconds toward Taven. I was thankful his back was to me so I could admire his profile without notice, enjoy the swoop of his dark hair, cut short at the sides with a small wave at the top. His hair looked far too perfect for a boy our age.
The glow of his phone screen caught my eye, and I chanced a peek at it. It was one of those fancy new iPhones, a small tablet right in the palm of his hand.
I tried my hardest to be subtle as I watched him, the glow a beckoning call to me. I itched to know who he was talking to in the clear bubble stream of text exchanges.
I watched as Taven’s fingers typed furiously away, wondering what he was writing, who he was writing to, fantasizing he would type that frantically to me , that I could be the one to receive such fervent attention. I had only just gotten my cell phone (one of the few perks of our new lifestyle), and would take far too long to text people, overthinking my responses to the point of setting the phone down and walking away.
But there he sat, just ahead of me and taunting me with his presence. I watched his shoulders bounce with a chuckle at whatever was happening on his screen. Then he exited out and a Lock Screen popped up. It was a photo of him, his boyish arm draped awkwardly around a beautiful girl.