19
Sasha
I’m already in bed when my phone vibrates on my nightstand (which in this case is an old stool I found by the sidewalk). My nervous system reacts fight or flight, because the only person with this number who’d text me at this time is Isabelle, and only if something’s wrong.
I sent her my new number but told her not to message me unless there’s an emergency. I told her that I won’t reply, since it’s safer for her messages to come to me than mine to her. Heather Erin has grabbed my phone before to see who I was talking to. Isabelle already took a risk for me, and now we have to make sure that risk doesn’t put her in a position where she has to choose between her career and exposing me.
Instead, it’s a voice message from Lillian, four minutes long, no text explaining it. When I think of her and I on the back steps of the school, pressing play on the recording only makes me slightly less nervous than opening a message from Isabelle would.
“Hey, Sasha.”
Lillian’s talking quietly, and her voice sounds tired in a smoky sort of way. My phone finds my Bluetooth speaker in the dark, so it’s like she’s in the room.
“I started writing a song on the steps earlier today, and I just finished it. I thought since you were there you should hear it first. Sorry it’s so quiet. My family’s already gone to sleep so I don’t want to plug in my guitar. Okay.”
She starts playing a slow part with her fingers on an unplugged electric guitar, then stops.
“And, um, thanks for being there. It helped a lot. Anyways, here goes.”
This time the guitar part continues. When she starts singing, her voice has a withheld power. The growl is there, but latent. It feels like an amplifier turned all the way up with a guitar being played quietly. Push harder, and it will distort.
I’m in the shadow where everyone smokes
Where the concrete pools the cold
Cigarette butt leaves
Plastic bottle greenery
Please, please
Keep my vices close to me
I have that feeling
When the elevator starts moving
Give me a handrail
The bottom’s dropped out
Mix me a screwdriver
For the way down
I’m playing she loves me, loves me not
With no flower petals to rip off
Coke can tabs torn away
Jagged nothings left to say
Please, please
Keep my vices close to me
I have that feeling
When the elevator starts moving
Give me a handrail
The bottom’s dropped out
Mix me a screwdriver
For the way down
Give me a minute give me an hour
It takes a heart to get back up
In five or six years
Ask me why
I always take the stairs
I have that feeling
When the elevator starts moving
Give me a handrail
The bottom’s dropped out
Mix me a screwdriver
For the way down
Mix me a screwdriver
For the way down
There’s a soft scuffling sound and the recording ends.
It was rough, brand-new. She made some mistakes. Yet it held me in place, made me feel known. I want to listen to it again right now, closer, until I’ve memorized all of the words. She hasn’t sent anything else. I should reply right away in case she’s nervous of what I think of this rawness. I half-write a couple things, delete them. They’re too gushy, but that’s how I feel.
Lillian
Spit it out already
Those bubbles have me in suspense
Sasha
I just … today?
You wrote that today?
Lillian sent a photo
It’s four pages of crossed-out words and arrows and chords and tab and circled sections moved to new places and others marked with stars. It’s the words all tangled together and smudged.
The last song I wrote on had eight songwriters. It was a number-one hit that got its heart from the people who loved it. This song showed up with its heart on its sleeve.
Sasha
The song’s amazing
It absolutely wrecked me
But
Lillian
But?
Sasha
The most impressive part is that you can read that
Lillian
Then the most impressive part is fiction
I have no idea what half of it says
Sasha
So will the words be different next time I listen to it?
Lillian
A second listening
What a tremendous honor
And yes they’ll probably change
Want to hear it in person?
I don’t know what exactly she means by that. It doesn’t give me enough information to jump to any sort of conclusion.
My body has its own thoughts. It responds with a small flip inside me. It’s not bad — anticipation, nervousness, curiosity, some combination. I can’t tell. My body knows more than I do a lot of the time, so I pay attention to it.
Sasha
It would be a tremendous honor
Lillian
Christ I’m awkward at self-promotion
But Cyprus will kill me if I don’t invite you to our next gig
Sasha
Count me in
Lillian
It will be terrible
Sasha
Time and date pleeeeease
Lillian
Those are terrible too
Or the time is
Midnight this Sunday at Initialism
It was the only slot Christensen had this week
Sasha
Initialism?
Lillian
It’s a bar
I mean technically it’s .
“concert venue”
But really it’s a bar
You’re going to love it
Sasha
Not sure I trust you …
Lillian
When have I ever led you astray?
I’ve got to do another take of this to send to the band
Goodnight Sasha
Sasha
Go to sleep Lillian
Lillian
You
Can’t
Make
Me
I can’t make myself sleep either. I lie in bed listening to the song another few times and try to choose an outfit for Sunday. But I don’t know the place and I don’t know how I’ll feel that day.
I pick out four different sets of clothes.
By the time I fall asleep, I’ve also picked out harmonies for the song.