Authors: Anna Michels
I pull the plastic laundry basket out of my closet and start tossing clothes into it. My hand hits the familiar mesh of my running shoe hiding underneath the dirty clothes, and I freeze, closing my eyes against a wave of emotion, trying to hold on to the crazy feeling of triumph from just a few minutes ago. I pull the bright blue shoes out from underneath the pile, and toy with the frayed ends of the shoelaces, my chest tightening as I think back to three weeks ago, when Mark walked me over to a deserted corner of the high school gym after his graduation ceremony, took his black mortarboard off his head, and told me he wanted to break up.
He had to drive me home afterward because I didn’t have another ride. All I remember about those excruciating fifteen minutes is how I concentrated on staying completely silent, afraid if Mark could even hear me breathing, it would somehow make me more vulnerable to him, that he would be able to hurt me more than he already had. When he dropped me off, I flung myself into bed and didn’t get out for two days. After that, I didn’t even think about going running because I was moping and wanted the excuse to be lazy for once, but also because running was something we did together, and I just couldn’t face lacing up my shoes and heading out into the world alone.
I glance out the window. It’s past noon, sunny and hot, and I always run first thing in the morning, before the humidity sets in and the sun gets too ruthless. The adrenaline rush from kissing Dexter is gone, my body suddenly achy and tired.
Maybe tomorrow,
I tell myself. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be ready to get out there again.
I set my alarm to go off extra early the next morning with the idea that I’ll go for a run before work, but for some reason it doesn’t ring at all. Mom bangs on my door at eight thirty, startling me out of a dream where I’m running and running but not getting anywhere. It’s a relief to wake up.
“Why didn’t you get me up earlier?” I yell, dashing into the bathroom to brush my teeth. “I’m going to be late!”
“So am I!” Mom joins me at the sink and applies her mascara so quickly, I’m afraid she’ll stab herself in the eye. “I overslept too.” She’s wearing her favorite pair of scrubs, bright purple with little llamas dancing all over them.
I spit and rinse, grab my backpack from the floor of the hallway, and pound down the stairs, frustrated I didn’t even get the chance to decide whether I wanted to go running this morning. “I’ll be in the car.”
Mom only speeds a little bit while we’re still in town, but as soon as we hit the country road, she floors the accelerator, gravel spraying from beneath our tires and clanging against the car’s undercarriage. The Float & Boat parking lot is already half full when we pull in.
“Thanks, bye.” I slam the door and look around for Mel’s dad. He must still be in the office—maybe he didn’t notice I was late. I dash over to Killian, who has just pulled the minibus around for boarding.
“Sorry. Bad morning.” I toss my backpack inside the bus and bend over to retie one shoe.
“You okay?” Killian gives me a funny look, and as I straighten up, I realize my hair is still in the ponytail I slept in, and I didn’t wash my face.
“Yeah. Just overslept.”
“That sucks.” He tosses me the keys to the bus. “Why don’t you drive today, and I’ll help load everything up?” He turns away before I can even thank him, and I climb onto the bus and collapse gratefully into the driver’s seat.
Killian turns. “Do me a favor and don’t change the radio station, okay?”
“Of course not,” I say. “I wouldn’t dare.”
He shimmies his shoulders. “Thanks. Not sure I could make it through a whole day without my girls Rihanna and Taylor Swift.”
The day passes quickly. There are a ton of reservations, so Killian and I drive to and from the canoe launch a dozen times, grooving to his music and loading up as fast as we can before heading up the river again. We barely even have time to eat lunch.
“So, I just have to ask . . . What is up with your musical tastes?” I say while we’re loading more canoes and getting ready to drive a birthday party reservation up to the boat launch. Eight-year-old boys in neon swim trunks scatter in every direction, shouting and chasing after one another, and a shaggy golden retriever joins the fray as well, barking happily.
Killian gives me a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”
“Pop music. It’s what thirteen-year-old girls listen to. And you listen to it all day, every day. At first I thought you just played that stuff on the bus because it puts the crowds in a good mood, but you actually seem like you’re addicted to it.”
“ ‘If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.’ ”
I raise one eyebrow. “Shaw again?”
He nods. “Of course. My way of admitting that, yes, it’s a little weird that I have a deep, lasting love for Beyoncé, but at least I’m owning it.”
“I don’t think most guys would admit to that. Like my friend Seth, who watched the fireworks with us. He hates pop music.” I hold out my hand, and Killian shakes a couple of chips into my open palm.
He wrinkles his nose. “And I’m guessing Seth thinks his taste in music is better than everyone else’s?”
“Well . . . yes,” I say. “But he’s not as pretentious as that makes him sound. He’s a really talented musician.” I stuff the chips into my mouth and chew slowly.
Killian shrugs. “I love pop music because it’s easy to love. It sounds good and I can dance to it and our brains are programmed to enjoy the repetitive patterns and chord progressions. Anyone who says they hate pop music because of the way it sounds is lying.”
“Elmo!” One of the dads chaperoning the group calls after the golden retriever dashing across the grass, brandishing a leash. “Elmo, come!”
I react before I’ve even really processed what’s happening, an image of the alphabet poster that used to hang in our elementary school library flashing through my mind. E
comes after
D. “Hang on a sec,” I say to Killian, grabbing some more chips out of his hand as the dog trots by. “Good boy, Elmo.” I hold out a chip, and Elmo hesitates, his nose quivering. “Come on,” I say. “Want a potato chip?”
“Hey!” Elmo’s owner yells. “Elmo, get over here.”
“It’s okay!” I wave and smile—
no problem here, sir, just coercing your dog into giving me some love
. Elmo trots over and noses my hand. I slip him one potato chip and crouch down, hesitating for just a second before I let the elated golden retriever slobber all over my face in gratitude for the treat.
Killian wrinkles his nose and looks down at me. “What are you doing?”
I straighten up, and Elmo gazes longingly at the rest of the chips clutched in my hand before he bounds off toward his owner, tongue lolling. “Um, nothing. Can’t resist puppy kisses.” And now
E
is crossed off the list, although I’m sure Mel won’t be too happy to hear about my canine conquest.
“Oookay.” Killian cocks his head to one side. “Anyway. I was going to say there’s a great TED Talk— Do you watch TED talks?”
I wipe my damp chin on the sleeve of my T-shirt. “Uh, just for, like, school.”
“You should watch them. They’re like mini-studies in how to give an effective, informative speech, really useful for when you’re practicing for debate. Anyway, there’s a really great one that’s basically about why classical music is something any human can enjoy. The same principles apply to pop.”
“Okay.” I pop the last chips into my mouth and lean against the side of the trailer. “You’ve obviously put some thought into this.”
Killian shrugs. “I’ll tell you more about it later.”
“Later?”
“Yeah, later. After we’re released from this never-ending loop of torture. Do you want to do the Shaw-Off? Or go watch some informative-but-entertaining TED talks?”
I stuff the chips into my mouth and chew slowly. Mel and Seth are working on the album today and will probably be wrapped up in it all afternoon, and I don’t really feel like tagging along. Since Mr. Flaherty has finally arranged the schedule to give me a few days off in a row, I have nothing going on for the next two days until Dad and Lila’s party.
“Uh, I don’t have any plans.”
“So, do you want to hang out?”
I wonder for a moment if Mel is totally wrong about Killian liking me. He stands there, his arms at his sides, his eyes trained on me. If he wanted to be more than friends, wouldn’t he be more nervous about asking me out?
That’s when I realize
I’m
nervous—my palms are sweating, and I’m having a hard time meeting Killian’s gaze. What the hell is going on?
“Sure,” I say, cringing at the fake-casualness of my voice.
Killian nods and gives a beat-up red canoe a friendly pat. “Cool,” he says, and climbs onto the bus, motioning for the people lined up by the waiting area to go ahead and start boarding. I help carry a few coolers, suddenly self-conscious about the sweat stains under my armpits, and my frayed shorts.
I slide into my usual seat directly behind Killian, avoiding his eyes in the rearview mirror, and send a panicked text to Mel. Of course, the day Killian asks me out and I stupidly say yes would be the day she isn’t here to talk me down from my hysteria.
go, vee!!! but do not kiss him yet. you’re only on e!
actually, i’m on f now ;-)
But it doesn’t matter, I tell myself, because there’s no way Killian will try to kiss me. We’re just going to hang out, like friends do. And, besides, I’m pretty sure no one ever used their common interest in George Bernard Shaw quotes as a pickup line.
Elmo the Dog
Puppy kisses
l million/l0
(all dogs automatically get l million for everything)
Four o’clock comes faster than it ever has before, and then Killian and I are grabbing our backpacks out of the life jacket shed and walking to his Jeep.
“Where are we going?” I ask, hoping that wherever it is, it involves food. The only thing that makes me hungrier than working at the Float & Boat is running.
“It’s a surprise.” He hops up into the Jeep and leans out the top, arms dangling over the roll cage. “Does that work?”
I only hesitate for a second. “Okay,” I agree, tossing my bag into the back. “But just a heads-up that I’m starving and will probably get grumpy soon if I’m not fed.”
My joke is rewarded with a glimpse of his gapped front teeth as he drops back into his seat. “Got it. Let’s go.”
I open the passenger-side door and get into the car like a civilized person. I buckle my seat belt, trying to ignore the fact that my hands are shaking, and only belatedly notice there’s a blue plastic tarp covering the dashboard and steering wheel, anchored by a complex system of ties and heavy rocks holding down the edges.
“Sorry,” Killian says, leaning over to untie the corner in the passenger-side footwell, his chest brushing my knee. “I usually cover all this up before I go into work in case it rains, and to stop any idiots from messing with it.”
I’m about to ask why anyone would mess with his car when he pulls the tarp away. I gasp. Written all over the dashboard in gold and silver metallic marker are . . . words. Phrases, really.
Today I don’t feel like doing anything
Band-Aids don’t fix bullet holes
MMMBop
I run my hand over the dashboard and turn to Killian, who is watching me closely. “These are song lyrics.”
“Good observation.” He grins and starts the car.
I read more.
Can’t stop ’cause we’re so high
Imagine there’s no heaven
Shake it off
“What are they for?”
He shrugs. “I was listening to the radio one day a year or so ago, and I heard a song I really liked, but I knew I wasn’t going to remember it. I had one of these.” He picks up a gold Sharpie out of the center console. “It was from a school project, so I just scribbled the song’s hook down on the dashboard. I liked how it looked, and I kept going. Voilà.”
“Wow.” The contrast of metallic gold and silver against the dusty black of the dashboard is messy and beautiful. I recognize most of the lyrics, but not all of them. I fight the urge to pull out my phone and start googling the unfamiliar words, to hear the melodies that must elevate these broken phrases from flat nonsense to something profound.
Killian ducks his head and glances at me. “It’s just another way my quote obsession manifests itself. If I hear a lyric I like, I write it down. If I’m upset or sad and I know the perfect lyric to express what I’m feeling, I write it down and then listen to the song to get all my angst out.”
“I love this,” I say, running my hands over the words again, my fingers narrowly missing Killian’s as he reaches to adjust the stereo volume. I love it, and I would have never thought to do it in a million years. Writing on your dashboard is the kind of thing people who don’t believe in regrets do. You can’t go back. You can’t wipe it away. Everything Killian felt while he was writing each lyric is right here on display for anyone to walk past and see.
Killian turns on the radio, already tuned to the ubiquitous Top 40 station. “I love it too. But it means I’ll never be able to sell this damn thing.”
What the hell am I doing here?
Sometimes when I miss you, I put those records on
And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make
Take me to church
“What’s the last one you wrote?” I ask.
He ducks his head a little. “Um . . . I don’t remember.”
“You’re lying!” Without thinking, I smack him lightly on the shoulder, but then I quickly fold my hands in my lap.
Killian shakes his head as the Jeep accelerates. “I’m not just going to tell you. Try to guess.”
Seems to me if you can’t trust, you can’t be trusted
I’m bringing sexy back
“I have no idea.” I lean forward and look more closely. Some of the words run into each other, lines crisscrossing back and forth across the hard plastic. “I can’t even tell which ones were written first.”