77
Sasha
I wake up early on Christmas morning and press play on my one and only mix CD.
I wear a red satin jumpsuit I’ve been saving for today and spend a long time on my makeup.
I put on delicate pearl earrings and look at myself in the tilt of my full-length mirror.
The second half of December’s been a soft blur of times with my friends and times alone with just Lillian, wrapped up in each other in every possible way.
Wavelength is in a lull where even Lillian’s resting a little on rehearsal intensity.
My friends all have cynical and accurate things to say about how Eurocentric it is to have our school schedule determined by Christian holidays, though Cyprus really leans into decorating for someone who says she hates Christmas.
Quinn sings parodies of carols and Lillian declares tha.
“all Christmas music is postcolonial noise pollution.”
Even though she says you can’t be anti-capitalist and love Christmas, she still got me these earrings from a pawnshop. And when I gave her a discontinued guitar pedal she’s been trying to track down, she said it was the most romantic gift she’s ever received.
She said love is distortion.
This December made me get what she means.
It’s in a memory of one of our practices when Lillian and I were sharing a microphone. I was close enough to touch her. To me, this is always remarkable, whether it’s on a stage or in Quinn’s basement. I’m a fan, a friend, a parallel heartbeat. Anywhere I go with her, it astounds me that I get to be beside her and see her face.
Everyone can see my face now too. I could feel Lillian’s hair brush against my cheek when we stepped up to sing at the same time. An ordinary moment preserved perfectly, and unlike with Lark, I knew why right away. Because in that moment, I knew an era was done.
I won’t ever be putting the helmet back on.
Another was when the four of us were lying on our backs on Cyprus’s basement floor with all the lights off a few days ago, looking at the sea of glow-in-the-dark stars we’d stuck to the ceiling.
It was like staring at the embers of a campfire, talking about things that are easier to say from beside each other.
Cyprus started talking in a way where we all listened quietly, even when she’d pause for a while then pick up somewhere else.
At first it was about hanging mistletoe, then about how it confounds her how much people seem to think about sex.
How she thought she was supposed to want it or feel repulsed by it, but she’s been realizing it’s not either one for her.
She said maybe she didn’t notice because she’s all about romantic love and always wanted it.
For her, with a man.
And is she a bad feminist for not loving sex? And she wanted to bring this to us more sorted but here it is and also would Lillian stop looking at her like a proud parent?
Lillian sat up beside Cyprus and pulled her up into a hug that seemed like it was entirely about this while also holding a hundred other things.
“You don’t need to have it sorted for me,”
she said.
“I don’t require any certainty from you. People’s certainty changes all the time. You can bring me all your half-baked maybes and perhapses.”
“Thanks,”
murmured Cyprus into Lillian’s hair.
“Always, I told you. Also, there’s an album about this you should definitely listen to.”
“Is it Teleprompter Classroom?”
“It is Teleprompter Classroom.”
A few nights after that, me, Lillian, Cyprus and Quinn were at a show at Rolling Way Alleys, which is the sonically overwhelming combo of run-down bowling alley and music venue. We were lounging around eating fries between sets when I clenched inside.
My downstairs neighbor, the one who gave me advice about overwatering plants, was walking toward our table. He said hi to me then turned to Cyprus like he knew her and asked how that synth was working out for her. When she said she bought the synth from some local guy, I never thought of this. This scene is too small for my secrets.
Cyprus started into a technical conversation that stayed away from my living status at first. It sounded like she’s had it for a while, so she could forget the house. Then Cyprus asked about his daughter. It was getting closer, a sharp shock I’ve been afraid of since I met Wavelength.
Of all people, Emelia saved me.
Maybe this scene is just small enough. She came out of nowhere and slid into the booth to give Cyprus a hug.
“Look at you with a synth pretending you’re a bass player.”
My neighbor glanced down at his phone, out of the conversation. He waved at someone across the room and was gone. Not that I was without problems, but Cyprus was sitting between Lillian and Emelia, so that was something.
“I’m just heading out before these guys start,”
said Emelia.
“Me and TJ. He’s here somewhere.”
She reached across the table and took some fries.
The most remarkable thing happened. A minor miracle.
Lillian glanced at Cyprus, then looked at Emelia and said.
“It’s nice running into you here. Maybe I’ll try to get Wavelength a slot sometime.”
Like it was a test.
Quinn intercepted it.
“There’s nowhere with a more fabulous aesthetic. That certain murdery appeal.”
But Emelia responded.
“I’d come see you guys play here. Wave-
length’s my favorite band. This place … more Lil’s dingy vibes.”
“You calling my vibes dingy?”
said Lillian.
Quinn said.
“You insulting my favorite dive?”
Lillian was almost smiling. There’s a framework that says this development should have made me jealous and then anxious and then angry. Augustus would say.
“Are you just going to sit there?”
That’s exactly what I did. What are the classic alternatives? Emotionally punish Lillian? Fight someone? These are Augustus’s ways. I don’t dislike Emelia. I don’t hate her for having been with Lillian. Of course I’m jealous, but I can keep an eye on that and talk about it with Lillian if I need to.
All relationships create some tangled messes. Romantic, sexual, platonic, passionate. There are threads everywhere.
Love is distortion. I love Isabelle. I love Augustus, for fuck’s sake. You don’t have to have dated someone to hurt them, and people you’ve dated aren’t in some unique and unforgivable category. It’s not like all your love gets entirely fixed to a person you’re sleeping with then entirely ripped away. No clean transplants. Love is in lots of places at once.
There was some small talk. Comfortable-ish, less and less cautious. Lillian and Emelia showing hints of how well they know each other. A couple old band stories for my benefit. Emelia seemed to know Lillian and I were dating and didn’t make any direct comments about it.
Before she left, Emelia invited us to a big New Year’s Eve party her and TJ are throwing at his place.
“I hope all four of you can be there,”
she said.
“It’ll be good.”
“No doubt,”
said Quinn.
Cyprus, sarcastic.
“I hate parties. I always spend New Year’s Eve at home.”
I would go too, but this wasn’t my heartbreak or my friend. I gave Lillian a look that said this was her call.
“We’ll be there,”
said Lillian.
But New Year’s Eve isn’t for six days. Today, all my friends are busy, and getting dressed up is as far as my plans extended. I take some pictures of myself. Some like I’m showcasing the outfit, some like I’m showcasing how sexy I look.
A part of me wants to call Augustus just to hear him say merry Christmas. I go into my contacts and remember I don’t have his number anymore. I can’t even make a gesture at family. When I chose this, I never imagined I’d make it this far. I never considered this day and being alone in this room.
But I do see Isabelle’s number. I haven’t sent her a single thing. She should be off today, not around industry people, so I attach a picture without my face in it along with a merry Christmas for my oldest friend.
I send the sexy ones to Lillian, who responds with some explicit words she definitely shouldn’t be texting from her grandparents’ house.
I’m trying to figure out what to do now when Chrysanthemum knocks on my door and comes in at the same time. She’s been sent by my downstairs neighbors to invite me to have Christmas brunch with them, because they know my family doesn’t live here. I try not to tear up, tell her of course, say I’ll be down in a minute.
Before I go, there are two messages on my phone. The first is from Christensen to me, Quinn, Cyprus and Lillian.
Christensen
Have I got a gift for you four!
Got to discuss details. Come by Initialism at noon tomorrow?
Then there’s another, an almost instant response I open thinking of the banter and affirmation in the messages Isabelle and I used to send.
Isabelle
Emergencies ONLY
Things here are beyond tense
The Channel’s leaning hard on Heather Erin to find you
Think about what I said before ok? It’s only getting worse the
longer you’re gone
Got to clear these messages out quick
I stare at the two sets of texts.
In the one with Christensen, Quinn sends a series of question marks, and Christensen says he’ll have to wait until tomorrow.
I swipe away Isabelle’s texts and open the chat with Christensen.
Sasha
Can’t wait to find out!