Chapter 16
chapter
sixteen
Pen supplements the wedding to-do list bullet of Curate wedding music with additional thoughts over text.
Something classically romantic for the first dance, and reception entrance to “We Found Love in a Hopeless Place.” Josh and I really bonded over Calvin Harris.
Also, Josh’s mom is insisting we have a traditional Jewish processional, so please pick an arrangement that isn’t too depressing.
I itch to type out, Out of luck there. Depressing is Jewish music’s middle name, just to be spiteful. Yes, our music is somber. At the same time, it’s beautiful.
Ruby, she texts thirty minutes later.
Yes? I respond.
Good, you’re seeing this. Saul is insisting on meeting us tomorrow. He needs to ‘get to know us’ and said he can help with picking the first dance song. Can you also make sure he can actually play the cello?
I rake my hands through my hair. Normally I try not to do this because it makes me look like a poodle, but lately it’s been hard to avoid.
Eitan will go with you, Pen adds, like this is some kind of consolation.
I can go by myself! I say. The last thing I need is more time with Eitan. It’s too confusing for my over-excitable heart. I don’t want to complicate things.
Saul is in Northbrook, it’s impossible to get there without a car.
I’ll Uber.
Thanks, Rubes!
Apparently my last text went completely unread (or ignored altogether), because a minute later, Eitan texts, Heard we’re going to meet Saul tomorrow.
I can Uber, I say to him, in case someone at some point decides to listen to me.
It’s not a problem. I have a car.
I grasp for any excuse I can find. It’s really okay, I try.
I’ll pick you up at 3 tomorrow, Eitan says, ending the short but disastrous conversation.
Google Maps says the drive will take an hour, since it’s the beginning of rush hour. Eitan has the radio on when he pulls up to my building, which is just as well. Talking to him always ends badly. We can listen to Top 40 in silence.
“Hey,” Eitan says, a few minutes into the drive.
I grunt. Maybe if I commit to being non-verbal, my wish for silence will come true.
“I feel like you’re mad about something,” Eitan continues, not getting the hint.
“Why would I be mad?” I ask, mad. About what, I’m not entirely sure. That Eitan thinks I’m complicated? Or that he’s right to avoid me, my feelings, and the many complications tied up with them.
“Not sure. Maybe I said something?”
I glance at him, and his last words ring out like it hasn’t been two weeks since we saw each other. I don’t want to complicate things. I blink. “Nope. All good over here.”
“Okay,” Eitan says, sounding unconvinced. “If you are mad about something, you can tell me.”
I stare straight out the window and give him one curt nod. “Noted.”
“How bout this.” He pokes my thigh. “You can pick the music for the rest of the drive.”
Handing over the aux is a brave act. It’s a peace offering. I run my teeth over my bottom lip, trying to reorganize my thoughts. Eitan is extending an olive branch of friendship, and I have no (legitimate) reason not to accept. I hold out my hand, avoiding eye contact. “Aux?”
Eitan laughs. “No aux cord. Just CDs.”
I remember the engagement party and Eitan’s walkman. I thought it was part of his F.R.I.E.N.D.S. costume, but maybe he is actually a manic pixie dreamboy who only listens to CDs. “How…alternative of you.”
He shakes his head, laughs, and reaches down to unlatch the center console. A pile of CDs is stuffed in the compartment, in their scratched plastic cases.
Suddenly, I love this idea. I get to see the inner workings of Eitan through his music collection? Sold. It’s like scrolling someone’s iPod in the cafeteria before school.
I bat his arm out of the way and greedily pick up as many CDs as I can hold. Who’s Next by The Who; The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill by Ms. Lauryn Hill; CTRL by SZA; good kid, m.A.A.d city by Kendrick Lamar; OK Computer by Radiohead.
I nod. “Very nice.”
“Glad I have your approval,” Eitan says dryly, but his lips curve up in a soft smile, like he really is pleased that I like his music. I get the sense that he doesn’t offer this front row seat into his music soul all that often. Something warm blooms in my chest.
I reach for more. Nevermind by Nirvana. Jagged Little Pill by Alanis Morissette. Riot! by Paramore. And—
“Oh my God.” Lover by Taylor Swift. The original Broadway recording of Wicked. West Side Story. Funny Girl. More Taylor Swift: a double case with Folklore and Evermore. “Oh my God,” I say again, thanking the Universe for being benevolent for once and showing me this.
Eitan glances away from the road to the CDs. “Those are my dad’s.” He clears his throat. “Were his, I mean.”
I think about an older version of Eitan, headphones spread over a head of hair peppered with gray, eyes crinkling with well-deserved crow’s feet as he listens to Taylor Swift. The thought is adorable. Unbearably so. “Your dad had great taste.”
“He did,” Eitan says, his words thick.
The last CD in the pile is one I don’t recognize. The cover is a collage of Boston landmarks with a title made of cut paper: Mazal. I hold it up, questioning.
“That’s for my sister, Mazal. She’s starting college at Boston University in the fall.
I burn her a CD every year for her birthday because she didn’t get to osmose Dad’s incredible music taste as much as I did.
” He grins. “As any experienced mixed taper knows, you have to listen to your own mixes in the car to make sure the cadence is right.”
I hum in agreement, trying to quell the butterflies in my stomach at the thought of Eitan burning CDs for his little sister. It’s not like that would have been my ultimate daydream in high school or anything.
I gently place the mixtape back in the console, not wanting to intrude further. We’re quiet for a moment, but it doesn’t strum the chords of my anxiety. It’s a quiet that’s been earned through opening up, just an inch.
I know exactly what music I want to listen to. “Funny Girl is my favorite musical,” I explain, “but Wicked is calling my name.”
I push the disc into the slot, a heady dose of nostalgia hitting me with the motion, and skip ahead to “Popular.” I hold my water bottle as a microphone, and channel Penelope as I sing.
I imagine myself as a perfectly done-up blonde Galinda, looking at a dreary green version of myself.
Elpheba-me watches skeptically as I explain how to make her popular.
Eitan watches, amused, tongue firmly planted in cheek.
As I finish the second round of la-la’s, Eitan reaches for the CD control.
And presses the back button.
He begins singing “Dancing Through Life,” slipping into Fiyero like he was born for the part.
I gasp. My hand shoots to my mouth, and my eyebrows are in my hairline. Eitan keeps going, watching the road but singing his heart out.
A laugh hiccups out of me. It’s too perfect, Eitan singing about dancing through life. Couldn’t have said it better myself.
Eitan looks at me as he sings, and I’m thirteen again—giddy, blushing, lovestruck. He’s singing to Galinda, I remind myself. To the pretty, perfect character.
The show must go on. I join in, and we dance our way through Shiz University, all the way to the Ozdust Ballroom. It’s the final chorus, building to the final note. Eitan’s eyebrows are pushed together, lips parted, giving it his all.
The sight alone could cause spontaneous ovulation. That is, if I ovulated.
Eitan closes out the final, lingering note, his face awash in carefree joy. But I don’t feel bitter, or jealous, because singing showtunes gives me the same feeling. Eitan’s happiness isn’t a magnifying glass on my own misery. It’s a candle, gentle warmth radiating in all directions.
Maybe this is the foundation of a friendship: recognizing your joy in someone else’s eyes.
I like being friends with Eitan. It’s like being let in on a small miracle, knowing that he listens—and sings along—to musicals. That he keeps his dad’s CDs in his car. That there is a rare and precious side of him I’m now privy to.
As we pull into the parking lot, I slap myself softly on the cheek, bringing myself back down to earth.
Friends, I command my heart. Don’t get it twisted.
This is exactly why Eitan is so dangerous.
I can’t lose sight of the wedding. Of Pen’s agent connection.
He probably serenades all the girls with Wicked.
It’s probably his go-to move to seal the deal.
And then he’s off, onto the next. Literally.
After the wedding, Eitan is leaving. Moving on.
And I’ll be right back where I started if I don’t keep my focus.
Saul the DJ’s studio is in a building mostly filled with medical offices. It’s gray and brutalist, with floor to ceiling windows lining the lobby.
Eitan opens the glass door, waving for me to go first. The receptionist watches us, a disapproving tilt to her lips, as we settle into two leather armchairs in silence.
“Hey!” A man with a soul patch, a fedora, and a baseball jersey sashays out of an elevator.
“How ya doing?” He shakes Eitan’s hand, then mine, handing us both a (sweaty) business card.
“I’m Saul.” I read the card: Saul Diamantis.
DJ, Cellist, Tastemaker. And on the back: Available for weddings, b’nai mitzvah, and funerals.
“Penelope?” he asks, looking at me curiously.
“No, no, I’m Ruby, the—” How do I describe my role? Unofficial wedding planner? Honorary co-maid of honor? Unlicensed therapist? “Bridesmaid.”
“Ah, I see. And you must be Josh’s best man.”
“Sure am. Eitan.”
Saul claps his hands together. “You two ready to make some magic happen?” he asks. Eitan and I both nod, unsure exactly what magic we are agreeing to make happen. Saul ushers us into the elevator, waving at the receptionist, who glares at him.