The Music of What Happens Page 3

  “Can we just for a second focus on the fact that I will never, ever have a boyfriend because I am hideous, and because God forbid anything should ever go my way in this life, ever?”

  Kayla rolls her eyes theatrically, looking a little like her saucy grandmother character from the spring production of Pippin, and Pam, perhaps sensing that this is not a groundbreaking conversation as we talk about my burgeoning spinsterhood every day, looks up at the video.

  “Oh, look,” she says. “Sia was once a victim, but not anymore.”

  “That hardly ever happens,” I say, grateful the spotlight I asked for has been turned off.

  The talk subsides, which is excellent because I am partaking in my favorite pastime, which is ignoring my pathetic life by fantasizing about having my first boyfriend.

  I get pretty specific when I do this.

  This time he is a redhead with a slightly bent nose and eyes so light blue they actually have a vague ocean scent. He plays trombone and he used to be friends with these kids who are now Alt-Right-ers and now that he’s out they troll him online, and one day his dad, a construction worker, visits one of their fathers and says, “You make sure your Nazi son stays away from my boy.” He likes to play Frisbee and makes viral videos of himself lip-synching to Beyoncé songs. We go to the same community college and get an apartment in downtown Mesa along the light-rail, and every night I make dinner — he loves pasta primavera — and we watch British costume dramas on TV. We get married after college and he gets an IT job and I get a job waiting tables while I write my first screenplay, and when I sell it to Hollywood and it becomes a movie, we move to Southern California and get a place overlooking the ocean for us and our two children, Aimee (after Aimee Mann, of course) and Dale (after Dale Bozzio of Missing Persons) — both girls, thank God — and they take his name because it’s something with a little more kick than Edwards, like maybe Darlington. Yes! Dale Darlington. Totally.

  “Oh my God,” Kayla says, smirking at me.

  I realize I’m smiling like a dork, so I adjust my expression. “What?”

  “You’re doing that thing again.”

  “I am not,” I say, biting my lip and averting my eyes.

  “You totally are. And shouldn’t you have an actual date before you wind up with kids, living in Costa Rica?”

  “You could not be more wrong,” I say.

  She puts her hands down on the table and crosses them, like she’s waiting for proof.

  “Laguna Beach. And he’s Irish this time. Redhead.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You are such a ridiculous romantic. We need to get you your first boyfriend. This summer. Hey! We should do a makeover!”

  “Um. No,” I say.

  “No. We totally should! Right today. Don’t you trust us? Don’t you trust me to make you so beautiful that no boy will ever be able to withstand your gorgeousness?”

  “What would you do if I let you?” I ask her.

  Pam, who I thought was not paying attention as she is still staring over at Panda in between bites of something orange chickenish, answers simultaneously with Kayla.

  “Your hair,” Pam says.

  “Your clothes,” Kayla says.

  “I hate you both so much,” I say. “Like truly, utterly hate you to my innermost self.”

  We wind up back at my place, after a stop at Forever 21, where Kayla bought me a pair of flimsy midnight-blue sweatpants with the word “Star” written all over them and a yellow hoodie with a photo of Jesus, with the zipper running right through the middle of his face. Mom is holed up in her bedroom with the door shut, which suits me fine because I can’t with her right now. I put on the Thompson Twins on my turntable — I am obsessed with ’80s synth-pop and their song “Lies” is everything — and Kayla makes me change into my new outfit. Once I’m dressed, I look at my reflection in the mirror.

  “I look like a ten-year-old foreign exchange student,” I say, and Pam bursts out laughing. She’s taken the turquoise lava lamp off my desk and brought it over to my waterbed, where she’s propped herself up on purple satin pillows and is tilting the lamp back and forth to watch the ocean-like lava ooze back and forth.

  “Oh my God you do!” she says, and she rolls onto her back on my bed and just cackles. “We’re gonna call you Ludwig, okay? You are from the Black Forest and your Evangelical hosts took you out on your first weekend in the country and picked out your outfit. Ludwig!”

  Kayla is lying on my dark purple shag carpet, texting — Shaun probably — and I clear my throat a few times to get her attention. When she doesn’t budge, I go over to where she’s reclined and put my skinny, “Star”-studded butt in her face and wiggle it.

  “Whoa, whoa,” she says, looking up from the phone. “What’s with the unwanted lap dance?”

  “Your outfit is being besmirched,” I say, and she looks up and I can tell her first impulse is to break out in laughter but she holds it back.

  “Oh. Um. I think it’s very — stylin’ —” she says, and Pam throws one of my flip-flops at her. It hits Kayla in the side of the head. Kayla picks it up, dramatically rubs her forehead, and yells, “Hate crime!”

  “Against a cisgender white girl with blond hair,” Pam says. “Okay then.”

  I flop down on the carpet next to Kayla and enjoy this floor’s-eye view of my ’80s bordello-themed bedroom. A few years ago, I convinced Mom to take me to all the Goodwill stores in the area and we bought all the most depraved stuff — her word, once she got into it — which is why I have a disco ball with half the mirrored panels broken off above my bed, and one of my walls is covered in pink wallpaper with black velvet designs on it, and the others are adorned with album covers by Shaun Cassidy, Shalamar, and Duran Duran. It explains why the desk where I write my poems is replete with three lava lamps and vanilla candles. It’s why my night table is a brassy cocktail waitress, with the glass table resting on her ample boobs.

  “Let’s play How Many Bodies! Teachers’ Edition!” I say. It’s this game we play where we try to decide how many bodies various people have hidden in their backyards. Because apparently everyone is a serial killer.

  Pam laughs from the bed and puts a sequined pillow under her head. “I like how nothing ever gets done with us. We have literally done no things all day. We keep starting and stopping. We may be the least effective people ever.”

  “Speak for yourself. Mom and I did the food truck today for the first time,” I say.

  “Thank God!” Kayla says. “I was wondering if you were going through some teen boy phase where your pheromones smell like fried cheese.”

  I sniff my arm. I smell nothing. “Is it that bad?”

  “Depends,” Kayla says. “Are you looking to attract someone at a carnival?”

  I curl my lip as if I’m upset. I never am with them.

  “My mom freaked. She’s done.”

  Pam cackles. Like literally cackles. “Oh my God I love Lydia. There should be a reality show about Lydia.” She wraps herself in a pink feather boa that was hanging on my bedpost.

  “Yes!” Kayla says. “Vaguely Bipolar Housewives of Chandler.”

  I roll my eyes. “I didn’t even give you the most random part of all this. Guy Smiley. He’s taking my mom’s place.”

  Kayla inhales dramatically. “What? From AP Comp? Back-row dude? That’s not even random. That doesn’t make sense. How the? Why? Is he like a chef or something? Is there like an Uber app for chefs, and did you pick him because he’s hot?”

  “He was just there. When Mom freaked.”

  Pam raises an eyebrow. “Super random. I give it a day. You and Guy Smiley? You know when you hear something and you know it isn’t happening? This is one of those times.”

  Kayla nods and sits up. “Pam is right, for once. Anyway. We need to up the ante on this makeover, because if he doesn’t get a date soon and I have to hear more whining, even ONE MORE TIME, I am going to spontaneously combust.”

  She jumps up and goes to my closet.

  “Don’t!” I yell, and Kayla looks over at me, amused. Pam jumps to her feet and puts her arms out like she’s blocking me. She’s joking, but I’m not. That’s my private stuff. Mine. Whatever happened to asking permission?

  “Please don’t,” I say, my face turning red. When Pam sees this, she lets me go, but Kayla has already opened my closet door. Pam goes over and they both look inside, and I hide my face.

  They don’t see it right away. “It” shall be described only as a marital aid here, because I do not think I can bear to go into specifics on this particular aid to my nonexistent marriage.

  I didn’t hide It, though, after the last time It was maritally aiding me. I did wash it, thank you very much, but then I just put it behind its shoebox home instead of in it, because Mom wouldn’t step foot in my closet and I am so fucking stupid and lazy.

  “Oh. Oh …” Pam says, stretching out the second “oh” into three syllables. Low-high-low.

  “Oh …” says Kayla, elongating but staying on the same note at least.

  “Please just close the door and let’s not —”

  They look at each other, and it’s like they communicate something but I have no idea what.

  “Who cares?” Kayla asks as she sits back down on the shag carpet. “Do you really think I don’t have one? I got it at Castle Boutique. The saleslady hooked me up. Rabbit.”

  “Yeah, but —” My face has never been redder, and I feel particularly stupid in my current Ludwig outfit. It feels like steam could erupt from my ears.

  “You have tons of butt shame,” Kayla says, and Pam snickers until Kayla hits her in the arm. “You do, Jordan. It’s not a big deal. Lots of people have butt sex. It’s like, so what?”

  I go over to the closet, pick up the It that is currently making it a possibility that I might literally die of embarrassment, and stuff It back in its shoebox home. I close the closet door and sit down against it, as if there’s a monster in my closet and by sitting against the door, we’re momentarily safe.

  “I just … That’s where poop comes from.”

  Pam laughs. “Are we really talking about this?”

  Kayla isn’t laughing, though. “Did you know that biologically speaking, the rectum is cleaner than the mouth?”

  I roll my eyes. “What boy told you that, and what did you let him do to you?” I ask.

  Pam cracks up and shakes her head. “It’s true. My mom told me. Poop is like the great equalizer. There is not a person in the world who can say that they don’t poop.”

  “It’s just what makes you real,” Kayla says. “Guys like real. Remember Dennis? One time I had to go and you know how the bathroom in our house is right next to my bedroom? And I know he heard everything. I wasn’t, like, embarrassed, but I was a bit concerned because guys can be so stupid about stupid things. But I came back to the room and you know what he said to me? He said, ‘I like that you’re real. Real is sexy.’ ”

  “Amen, sister,” says Pam.

  “I don’t know. I think me and my friend” — I point behind me — “are going to be together for a long time. Because who the hell wants someone gross like me?”

  Kayla gets up and sits next to me. She puts her arm around me, which is not a thing we do at all. “You’re not … old.”

  I crack up and curl my lip at her like my feelings are hurt.

  “I am. I’m gross because I’m a human being and that’s the worst.”

  “If you’re gross, I’m gross. And I know you’re not calling me gross. You’re totally normal like everyone else.”

  “Ugh,” I say. “Normal is so boring.”

  Pam rolls her eyes. “What the fuck did Lydia do to you?” She comes over and sits down with us on my other side.

  “I have no idea.” I put my head in my hands.

  The street in front of Phoenicia smells like cumin and creosote even though the restaurant’s been closed for hours. Because ASU is done for the summer, it’s actually quiet beyond the bleating of cicadas and the occasional automobile heading down University, one block south. My heart is pounding because I’m walking next to Kevin, and I know what’s coming. Or I think I do.

  “Do you have protection?” I ask, not daring to look to my left but yearning to see his blue faux-hawk.

  He laughs a little and says, “Relax. I’ve only been with like five guys.”

  Flash forward two hours and I’m in his dorm room. It’s a night of firsts. First night after the end of junior year. My first college party. My first time in a dorm room. My first time turning off my phone and knowing that Rosa might freak if I don’t get my brown ass back home soon. My first time, period. It’s like I’m high, but I’m not. A couple beers. Things are getting real, fast. My heart is in my throat. My ears are stuffed up like when I fly to Colorado Springs to see my dad.

  Kevin’s shirt is off. Skinny-chested and narrow, with purplish nipples that stand out against his pale skin. He stands at the foot of his single bed, staring at me. I’m shirtless too. He shakes his head over and over, like I’m some beautiful thing, which is awesome and scares me shitless.

  He says, “Are you my dark-skinned boy?”

  A bubble of something slushy fills up my esophagus. I don’t answer.

  “Are you my Arabian prince?”

  My jaw tenses. I want to make a joke about how fucking stupid that shit is, but I don’t want to kill the moment. Too curious to see what’s next. Too excited. Still, I gotta say something.

  “My mom was born in Mexico City and my dad is from Indiana,” I say.

  He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. Don’t be so sensitive. It’s a fantasy, okay?”

  Time goes sideways. My head fogs. Nope. Nope —

  My eyes flash open. Even though it’s hot in my bedroom, I shudder like I’m freezing, and I wince. I’m not trying to think about that.

  I glance at my phone and press the button. 3:04 a.m. I sigh. Not a good hour to be up. Especially when you have your first day of work the next day. Food truck. With Jordan, who is — I dunno. His mom was a trip, but she won’t be there. That’s good at least.

  I spent the night studying up on how to run a food truck. Lots of YouTube videos. I have no idea, so I watched a few. Jordan will have to fill me in on the rest, which I’m worried about. Based on our conversation earlier, he’s not exactly the best communicator.

  I lie in bed until I can’t stare at the ceiling anymore, can’t explore for another second the slat of light that runs diagonally across my ceiling from the moonlight. Will I be able to see it shift if I stare at it all night? When does it disappear, and how?

  I get up, go into the kitchen, pour a glass of water, and chug it down. Then I wander outside and sit with my feet in the pool. It’s not yet bath temperature; it will be in about a month.

  I look up at the sliver of moon through the saguaros that flank our pool. Too bright for stars here, and I wish I could see them, wish I could ask them questions.

  Like, what the fuck was that with Kevin?

  It wasn’t cool, the whole thing, to the point I can’t really even — I don’t know.

  I need a do-over. I’m so stupid.

  I slosh my feet through the still-cool water. The ripples undulate, and the reflections of the cacti shimmer. I stare and stare until the ripples subside, and once the saguaros are back in sight and steady, I shake my head.

  Nope. I’m a warrior.

  Mom and Dad don’t agree on much, but they both have pretty much the same take on that; they just say it in different ways.

  Mom always says all sorts of shit goes down in the world, and it’s up to me to decide how to take it. The one way you’re sure to be unhappy is to frown your way through life, she says, and she’s right. Always look for the bright, vibrant color through the darkness. It’s always there, but sometimes hard to see.

  So I had my first time. Last night. I guess I’m a man now, right? Shit. Doesn’t feel — shut up. Shut up shut up. You got some. You’re being stupid. Dramatic. Dad says it’s okay to be gay; just don’t be a pussy. He’s a comedian and makes gay jokes in his act down in Colorado Springs, but it’s all in fun. He even has a joke about a guy licking his balls and how that’s one of life’s delicacies. That was sort of freaky when I heard him do it. I don’t exactly get my dad on this stuff, but I know he loves me. But I also know if he heard these thoughts I’m having, he’d screw up his face and tell me to shut the fuck up with that pansy-ass shit. Warrior up. Warrior up, dude.

  He’s right. I smile. I breathe until my jaw unclenches. I have the power to change my thoughts. Like I did when we moved here.

  I’m eight. We’ve just moved to Dobson Ranch, a suburban neighborhood in western Mesa near the canal. We had lived in central Phoenix. I’m tossing a Nerf football with my neighbor friend, Skeeter, and we’re talking about going to the park and waiting for the ice-cream truck so we could get Drumsticks. These other kids I don’t know so well come around, and they say, “’Sup, Skeeter.”

  “’Sup,” he says.

  I say, “’Sup,” too.

  “We’re gonna hit the park so we catch Mister Softee.”

  “Cool,” Skeeter says, and he tosses the football to me. I throw it over the side fence and say, “Cool,” too.

  “You’re not coming, Maximo,” this one kid says. He has a blond crew cut and he’s short and round. He says “Maximo” like he’s saying “dog shit.” I didn’t know he even knew my name.

  “You need to stay here in case the migrant-worker truck comes and your whole family gets a job.”

  Everyone laughs. Skeeter too. He laughs.

  A smile crawls over my face without my even trying. I laugh too. And then they all run off, leaving me there. I just stand there in the middle of the street until a pickup truck honks at me and I have to move. I go inside and play Grand Theft Auto. I don’t tell my mom. Next time I see Skeeter, we toss the ball again and we don’t talk about it. And it’s understood that when those kids come by, they’re gonna go to the park, and I won’t.