How They Met, and Other Stories

three songs, then a girl from my school

recites poems from a long black book.

I realize I can do this, that I want to be heard,

that it’s possible I have something to say.

Word spreads, and all the next week,

my friends tell me to do it, convince me

they’ll be there next time. And that is perhaps

the most surprising thing, to feel such support

for this secretive calling. So I sign my name

to the roster, and Caleb makes fliers

on his computer. He slips them into lockers

and strangers from school tell me they’ll be there.

Sometimes I’ve skipped study hall and

practiced in the abandoned stairwell by

the auditorium. Now I’m seeing how many

people have overheard. They have listened in.

I practice past my curfew, past midnight,

into dreamtime. In a moment of weakness,

to fend them off from laying down the law, I tell

my parents I have a gig coming up, as if

they would be proud of me singing in public.

My mother, polite, says it sounds nice.

My father tells me it had better not interfere

with my homework. I tell him it won’t,

in a voice that’s so ready to leave.

Doors do not slam, but they do not stay open

as I sneak music into the house, as I whisper

my longings to the furniture, my fears

to the ceiling, my hopes to the line of

hallway light that goes off beneath my door.

silent night

stay with me

hold me tight

then set me free

daylight will

blind me still

the child’s dream

not what it seemed

we search for safer passage

we pray our eyes adjust

we cling to all that’s offered

we do what we must

storm outside

thunder warns

deepest fears

since we were born

take me now

show me how

to fight the dark

to find a spark

you are my spark

Who is the you? Sometimes when I’m writing

I don’t know. I am singing out to the stranger

of my songs.

On Friday, Caleb won’t take no for an answer.

We are going out to the club he loves, the one

I’ve always managed to avoid. He wants to dance,

and he wants me to dance with him. I can’t

say no. Even though I dread it, even though

it’s not my thing, I will do it for him, because

he has done so much for me. He asks me what

I’m going to wear, and I tell him I was planning

on wearing what I wore to school. He laughs

and tells me to go home and put on something

a little more clubby. For him, this means tighter.

For me, this means darker jeans. When I go home

to change, I don’t pick up my guitar, because

I know if I do, I might never leave it.

It’s under-18 night at the Continental,

which means there’s no drinking,

except for the few hours beforehand.

I carry a small notebook in my back pocket,

although I can’t see the music coming to me

here. It is too loud. A singer-songwriter

nightmare. Speakers blasting the thump-thunk-thump

of a dance floor mainstay, while the singer belts

the same three lines over and over and over again.

I love this song! Caleb cries, pulling me into

the flashing lights. He looks hot, and everyone else

seems to be noticing. I am lost. It feels like the music

is being imposed on me. I struggle to sway while

Caleb soars. This is his place. This is the liberation

he’s found. And there is something beautiful about it,

this closed room where boys slide up to boys

and they find a rhythm that defies everything outside.

The music elevates them, takes their cares away

and gives them only one care in return—this movement,

this heat, these lights that turn them into a neon crowd

feverish in their release, comfortable in their bodies

as they leave them in the synthesized rush.

I observe this without feeling a part of it.

Caleb holds me and pulls me into him and I feel

nothing but the ways my body can’t move,

the songs inside that are being drowned out

in this rush. Caleb asks what’s wrong and I say

nothing and keep trying until Caleb senses it again,

says what’s wrong and this time I know what’s

implied—that the something that’s wrong

is me. I tell him I need some water, and when I go

he does not follow.

I get some water and stand on the sidelines.

I watch him and don’t recognize him

as the boy I have felt love for. He is joyous

in his movements, holding and groping and swaying

in time with his new partner. And I know it’s not

that he likes this other boy, I know it’s just part of

the dance, but suddenly I am seeing all the things

I will never be able to give him. I am seeing

that I cannot be a part of the music that sets him

free. And it’s seeing it in those terms that does it,

that makes me fill with loneliness. I will stand here

for the rest of the night, and he will dance there.

He has listened to me for hour upon hour, and so

I have dressed the part, I have made the appearance,

I have tried the groove. But in the end he will say

I closed my ears to him, and he will not be wrong.

I take out my notebook, take out my pen,

but the lines remain empty. I cannot think,

I am thinking so much.

For the first time ever, we drive home in silence.

He is sweaty, ragged, angry, beautiful.

I reach out my hand to say I’m sorry.

He takes it, but gives nothing else away.

That night I go to the basement and play loud

enough to wake the neighbors, but not loud enough

to wake myself. I once read some guy who said

we listen to songs to figure them out, to unravel

the mystery of the words and the tune. I am writing

in order to unravel myself, to find out what

exactly I’m doing, and why.

the windows are closed

but the family’s still inside

lighting candles in the blackout

walking by the glow

I’m singing to myself. I’m singing to him.

I am standing on the street

the lamplights are a darkness

I’ve lost my sense of direction

I have nowhere to go

what do I know?

The next day I return to my bedroom, leaving

only for food, and barely any of that. I sing

the whole day away, playing the guitar

when my voice leaves me, using my desk

as a drum when my fingers start to hurt

from the strings.

the windows are closed

but I can feel you on the other side

from the dark of my bedroom

you’re just out of reach

At midnight I hear someone outside my door,

hovering. I yell GO AWAY in an ugly voice.

The someone goes away without a word,

but the hallway light stays on.

I am pressing on the walls

no stars around to guide me

I’ve lost my sense of direction

falling into the breach

what do I know?

He doesn’t call. I know

he is waiting for me to call.

But I don’t, and I don’t

even know why.

On Sunday my mother finally finds

the courage to stick her head in.

She asks me if everything is okay,

and I laugh.

Monday is the night I am supposed to play at

the open mic. I’m ready to abandon it, but

people keep stopping me in the halls, telling me

they’ll be there. I shouldn’t have come

to school. I see Caleb before history and can tell

he’s upset, or maybe angry, or maybe both.

He asks me what’s going on, and again I use

the least appropriate word, which is

nothing. He asks me if I’m ready

for tonight, and if I still need a ride, and I say no,

and yes. We don’t know what to do

with each other, except make plans.

I stay late in the abandoned stairs

by the auditorium, practicing. I’ll have

three songs to make an impression,

so I play at least a dozen trying to figure out

which three. As I sing, I realize

how much I miss him. As if the boy

who wrote the words is reaching

across time to point me back

in the right direction. He’s saying

either you were wrong when you wrote this, or

you are wrong now. I close my eyes, I sing

a song that was not for a stranger

When I’m in his arms.

I feel that I could fit

in this world

for now.

I feel that I could love

this world

for now.

No other places.

As life embraces.

When I’m in his arms.

In his arms.

and I see him.

There’s no song that says what I have to

say to him, but it feels like a song,

in that it is something I must express—

there are words inside of me that I must

release. He picks me up at the school,

his radio blaring, and when I turn it down

he shoots me a look. And I tell him I missed

him. I tell him I missed him when he was

on the dance floor, and in our silence

ever since. I tell him our music doesn’t

have to be the same, and he tells me

he already knew this, but wasn’t sure

if I ever could. He says he doesn’t know

if he could ever make me as happy

as finding the right word, the right bridge,

the perfect refrain. And I tell him that music

cannot be separated from life, that you

can’t have one without the other, that

he is my love song as much

as anyone can be. But I am still not sure

that I can be his dance. He parks the car and

kisses me softly and says this is the dance

and I kiss him hard and say this is the song.

Because all of the chords are in a crescendo

and he is their source.

When I show up at the coffee place I see

my friends have arrived on time, which is

nothing short of a miracle. It makes me feel

like I belong to something, that somehow

I have drawn these people together to hear me,

because I know they wouldn’t be here together

without me. That means so much.

I am the second act on the list, so while

the first singer torches some standards, I make

a quick dive to the restroom. When I emerge,

Caleb is waiting for me. I can see he’s nervous

on my behalf, which makes me want to kiss him

again (so I do). He looks surprised, and

before I can ask why, he tells me my mother

is here. And sure enough, I look over his shoulder

and there she is. Without missing a beat, she

waves. I am now nervous on my own

behalf. I ask Caleb what she’s doing here,

and he says I think she’s come to see her son sing.

I hear my name over the low-grade speakers

that have been set up. I hear the cappuccino machine

burping behind the counter, the sound of mugs

settling on formica, the murmur of strangers.

I stand up on the makeshift stage, really just

an area where the tables have been cleared away.

When I look to my side I can see Caleb

standing right there. And when I look to

the makeshift audience, I see my mother there,

a table to herself, nervous, too, and proud.

I tune for a moment and realize the song

I need most is the one I’ve just finished,

the one I played all weekend.

the windows are closed

but the family’s still inside

lighting candles in the blackout