Chapter 9
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Nate
To get to Bev’s house, I drive in the direction of the sunrise. It’s a neutral wash this morning like spilled champagne.
There’s a heaviness in my heart. It’s not that I’m not excited to see her. Because as much as I hate to admit it, I am. In fact, that’s one of the few things I find myself looking forward to. Obviously, the circumstances could be better. As much as I don’t like animals and would never be caught dead with a pet, I still wouldn’t wish what happened on Cody on any living thing. But other than that, I’m very much looking forward to this. So why the heavy heart?
The stage fright question weighs on my mind. Where did it come from? Will it go away? I know gymnasts get the “twisties.” Is it like that? Is it a matter of just waiting, and eventually, the problem will sort itself out?
But it feels deeper than this. It feels like a splinter stuck somewhere deep in my core, maybe even deep in my heart, and I have to yank it out. Still, how the fuck did a splinter get there in the first place?
The stage fright problem worries me because music is my life. Performing is my life. I know no other way. Even though my parents were happy to shove me on stage, I found a solace up there under the hot, bright lights and the show’s routine. If someone could have gone into a lab and hand-picked the perfect life choice for me, it would have been this. How lucky am I to have found it? How lucky am I to have been in the right place at the right time? And now some fucking splinter in my soul is going to take it all away from me?
I’ve tried meds. All the meds. I’ve tried Xanax and Klonopin and beta blockers. None work. This somehow goes deeper. And even if I don’t know how to solve it, I do know that.
I haven’t talked to anyone about my stage fright. Not Arjun. Not my sister. Not my other band members and sure as fuck not my parents. Besides, they aren’t going to know any more about this splinter than I do.
In short, I’m getting nowhere.
And it consumes me.
So it’s no surprise it’s on my mind as I grip the wheel, turning from one small road to another, knowing the island the way you know a home. The roads you can speed on; the roads you can’t; that turn you always have to take slow; or the pothole you’ve got to dodge. And in my misery this morning, there’s a comfort in that. Sometimes there’s not, and I just want to leave. But today, it’s a comfort.
Whatever I do: on our ten-hour drive and our overnight at a motel, I need to keep this hidden from her—even if it consumes me, especially because it consumes me. She can’t sense my weakness. I need to figure out a way to box this up and stick it somewhere deep. Hide it in my shadows. She must not find out.
I feel good about it, like I can pull it off, as I turn into her driveway. She’s there in her living room window, waiting by the front door. She slings her bookbag over her shoulder and runs out, wearing a sweatshirt, jean shorts, and her yellow Converse.
“Hey,” she says, as she tosses her bookbag in the backseat. It lands next to Cody’s bag of supplies we packed up from the shelter last night, doggy travel water bowls, a few toys, and bags filled with kibble and treats.
“Hey.” My chest pounds. Too much coffee this morning.
And we’re off.
We make small talk on the way to the island’s south ferry, talking about our route. We’re picking up Cody in a CVS parking lot tomorrow morning at 10am.
We’re a second too late and miss the most recent ferry off the island, so we’ll wait another fifteen minutes for the next one. She squirms around next to me, searching for her phone, smelling like beach roses. It’s one of those smells that’s never enough. I want it more; I want it stronger; like a dog rolling in a dead animal scent, I want it on me; I want it on my skin.
It’s disconcerting these thoughts.
Beverly, I think, saying her name in my mind like I’ve come to do after reading REBECCA.
It makes me furious with myself.
She picks at some nail polish, and we sit in the silent car. Hell, the engine barely makes any noise either. I’d thought the quiet was pleasant, but now, it’s just getting louder .
“Why do I remind you of UFO music?” she suddenly asks.
I should be relieved that she splintered the silence, but I don’t want to answer her question either.
The ferry has returned, and one of the ferry workers in a yellow vest, motions for me to drive forward. It’s great timing because it gives me something to do. I don’t have to look at her. For some reason, that feels like too much right now. Like looking at her is somehow peeling off all my clothes and making me naked.
The worker motions for me to stop, and I do. Bev and I are the first car on the ferry, so when we stare out the windshield, navy water stretches in front of us. On the opposite shore, in the distance, there’s a stretch of trees and mansions nestled expensively between them.
She stares at me now. I can feel the weight of her gaze. So I have to look back. And when I do, it’s enough to take my breath away. The sun rises up behind her, backlighting her hair in gold. Her skin nearly glows.
“UFO music,” she reminds me. “Am I like…an alien to you?”
And there it is. A perfect opening for a joke. But I don’t take it. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the peaceful lighting. “Do you know what a theremin is?” I ask.
“Janice says it makes UFO music.”
“Do you know how they work?”
She shrugs. “Like a keyboard?”
“I’ll show you.” I take her hand, and she lets me. Her skin is like silk. I tug up her sleeve as my heart pounds. I place my hand a few inches above her skin. A warmth radiates from her forearm. A few of her small arm hairs shine gold in the light. My heart thuds even louder.
“Do you feel the energy there?” I ask .
She looks up at me, blinking. Her eyes are the color of bourbon in candlelight. She nods.
I try to ignore the whooshing in my ears. “I can pull my hand up.” I move my hand away. The warmth between our skin is less strong. “Or down.” The warmth is hot, charged. “And that’s similar to how you play a theremin. You play by resting your hand above it, and how far you move determines the sound it makes.”
“Oh.” She swallows as if nervous.
I move my hand closer, so it’s barely hovering over her skin. I’m nearly overcome with how fast my pulse races. “There’s an energy to you…”
The ferry shakes as we dock, and one worker opens the gate while another motions to drive forward.
The moment breaks.
An awkwardness fills the car that only seems to grow stronger. For a few hours, we listen to music and only exchange the occasional polite, “Need a rest stop?”
After we’re outside of DC, we finally do stop at a gas station. “Will you grab me some crackers?” I ask her. “And one of those long beef sticks?”
She looks at me like, “Don’t you want to go inside?”
“I can give you money.”
“Don’t worry about money.”
I pull out some cash and hand her twenty.
“That’s too much.” She hands it back to me.
“Just take it.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to go in? Get out of the car?”
“I forgot my hat,” I confess.
I can tell the moment it dawns on her. Her eyes widen with delight. “Oh, you don’t want to be recognized. ”
It’s true. Being recognized can take a lot of energy. It’s like staying in a house with a family that’s not your own, and you all bump into each other in the kitchen, overly polite, not able to just be.
Look, I’m grateful for fame. It gives me good money, which is a kind of freedom, even though fame cuts back in that freedom in another way. It gives you special access to people and places I wouldn’t have had otherwise. It lessens some big worries while potentially growing some smaller ones.
But the thing with fame: while you’re at your height, you can’t ever escape it. And right now, I’m worn down. I don’t know if it’s being in the car with Bev or my stage fright worries, but my well runneth dry.
I park away from the main building and off by some grassy area. I get out of the car and stretch my legs. I’m struck by how much warmer it is a few hours south. The sun feels wider, closer, like we’re the theremin, and it’s barely hovering above.
“Got you this,” she says from behind me.
I turn and she tosses a green hat at me. John Deere. Okay, I’ll take it. I don’t put it on now, but I can use it later.
“And snacks.” She jiggles some brightly colored candies in a bag.
When we get back in the car and continue on our journey, it’s like we’ve returned in a renewed way. The silence now feels weird, so we actually talk. “Do you plan to stay in Melody Bay?” I ask.
She inspects a blue Sour Patch kid before popping it in her mouth. “Gotta take care of my dad.”
“And you’ll stay at MBAS?”
“For some of us, it’s not a punishment. ”
Ugh, here we go. “But like what do you want? Do you want to stay there?”
She looks out the window and then turns to face me as if she’s decided to tell me. “My dream is to open an animal shelter of my own. P’awesome.”
I steal a Sour Patch kid from the bag. “I think you should consider rebranding.”
“What? Why?”
“Possum?”
“P’awesome.” It clicks for her. “Oh.” She chews on her lower lip. “I only ever wrote it.”
“Why start your own shelter?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Why not stay at MBAS?”
Even though my eyes are on the road and not on her—mostly—I can still feel the way she lights up when she talks about it. “It’s not like I don’t like MBAS. I love it. This would be a sister shelter. There are too many animals who need homes, which means some animals go into kill-shelters, and if they’re not adopted, they’re euthanized. So the more shelters we have, the more animals we can save. Which is why I want to open my own.”
Listening to her talk, the way her voice grows animated and passionate, it’s impossible not to warm up to her, even just a little.
It occurs to me I could tell her. Tell her right there about the stage fright. Tell her about the panic attack in the closet. Tell her everything.
But, of course, I couldn’t. If my parents taught me anything, it’s that information like that can be weaponized. Who wants to hand out a blueprint to someone saying, “Here, this is how you can hurt me the most.”
It’s grown later in the day, and the sun beats into the car. It’s not the full-on summer heat of July or August yet, but it’s a promise of what’s to come. If you look close enough, you can see the heat waves shimmering up from the pavement.
She takes off her sweatshirt, pulling it over her head. A few strands of hair stick to the fabric, as she yanks it off. She balls it up, rests it on her lap, and then seems to think better about it and stuffs it on the floor next to her feet.
As she bends, I catch a glimpse of cleavage. Because she’s now wearing a tank top. And it’s glorious. Pale blue spaghetti straps, with a scoop neck that doesn’t hang as low as I’d like, but enough where I get the faintest hint of curves. I harden in response.
Without thinking, I take the next exit.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Getting gas.”
“Isn’t this an EV?”
I don’t need a charge, and they aren’t particularly fast anyway. “Restroom.”
She nods as if that solves it, not realizing what she’s done to me.
They better have two rooms at the motel , it occurs to me.
I don’t know how I seemed to know then, but somehow, I did.