The Boy Recession (10 page)

I didn’t know if “messy cute” was good or bad, and I didn’t really believe Eugene anyway, but then later at the party, Diva Price sat on my lap. Diva is one of Bobbi’s friends, and she’s kind of loud, but she’s not too bad-looking.

I didn’t hook up with her, though. I had just chugged a beer, and I was still walking that tightrope between puking and not puking.

“… So if you ever need any advice,” my dad is saying, “you know the guy to come to. I think I had some moves, back in the day….”

Then my dad goes off on some tangent and ends up talking about the guy from the Old Spice commercials, and I realize that my dad’s not going to murder me or give me the sex talk. He just wants to bond. My dad’s been really into bonding with me since he lost his job. I think it makes him feel like he’s doing something. Like, even if he’s not making any progress finding a job, at least he’s getting some quality time with his son. Walking through the pumpkin patch, I find the biggest one in the back row and roll it all around to make sure it looks good. Then I point it out to my dad, who picks it up by himself, which is impressive.

“Wow, yeah, this one looks good!” he says. I grab the other side, and we start backing up. It’s a long-ass way back to the table where you pay for stuff, and my arms hurt already.

“You know what we need?” he says. “Did you see, on the table, those huge carving knives? We should go crazy with carving this year….”

My dad needs to find a job soon, because I need a break from the quality time. I can’t lift stuff like this anymore.

K
elly! Hey, Kelly!”

The last class bell just rang, and Bobbi Novak is chasing me down the hallway, her heels clicking and squeaking against the tile floor. I turn around to talk to her, mostly because I want to get close enough to check out her necklace, a sparkling light blue stone dangling from a thin gold chain resting in the deep chasm of Bobbi’s cleavage. The much-talked-about necklace is a gift from Eugene, who is now officially Bobbi’s boyfriend. Her Facebook profile picture is the two of them, taken last week, when they dressed up as Hugh Hefner and a Playboy Bunny for Halloween.

“I’m organizing Open-Mic Night this year, and I’d love you to be part of it!” Bobbi says.

“Oh, I’m definitely coming. Aviva and Darcy and I go every year.”

“Actually, I was hoping you would perform!” Bobbi says. “You’re so amazing on the flute, and everyone would love it if you’d play something!”

I seriously doubt that. I can’t imagine getting up on the Julius stage on a Friday night and serenading a rowdy, half-drunk audience with a Mozart aria.

“Maybe next year,” I say. “Have you asked Amy to perform? She’s an amazing dancer.”

“I have her name right here!” Bobbi says, pointing to her clipboard. “She’s leading our new stomp group. I’m so excited to watch them! But you should—”

“Sorry, I’ve gotta run in here and get something! Sorry!” I say, cutting Bobbi off. I back up against the band room’s door and escape inside.

When I go to the cubby to take out my flute, I see Hunter. He’s sitting on the first level of the bandstand. I’ve noticed that he almost never sits on chairs—he spends most of his time in this room balanced up on the railings of the bandstand, swinging his legs, or sometimes he’ll hop up onto the closed lid of the grand piano, except when Johann is around. Even though he’s younger than us, Johann makes both Hunter and me want to behave ourselves. Right now Hunter’s playing a few chords on his guitar, stopping and starting the same chords over again. It’s been less than a week since I realized that I like Hunter, and now I find him alone, looking cute. Maybe Aviva’s right, and the universe wants us to be together.

“Hey,” I say.

Hunter starts and drops his guitar pick. When he turns around and sees me, a slow smile comes across his face.

“Hey!” he says. “What are you up to?”

I grab one of Johann’s music theory textbooks off the piano before sitting down on the bandstand next to Hunter.

“I thought I’d brush up on my dotted quarter notes and sforzandos,” I tell him. “I think Johann’s teaching my kids so much that they know more than me now.”

“Seriously! That kid is intense. He knows so much. He explained to my kids how Beethoven wrote music when he was deaf! It blew my mind!” Hunter says with a laugh.

“And he can play every instrument!” I add, opening my flute case on my lap and starting to twist the headpiece in.

“You know those one-man bands, where the guy has the harmonica in his mouth and the drum kit strapped to his back? I think Johann could be one of those,” I say.

“No way,” he says. “Not in those khakis. He’s too serious! I mean, he’s fifteen, and my kids call him ‘Mr. Johann.’ ”

I bring the flute to my mouth, test out a note, and then lower it to pull the headpiece out, which changes the pitch.

“Is it really that hard to make a sound on that thing?” he asks me. “All your little flute girls are always huffin’ and puffin’ over there.”

“It’s harder than it looks,” I tell him, adding, with mock arrogance, “I’ve got mad skills.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hunter says, tilting his head and grinning at me.

“You think you can do it?”

“Well, I’m no one-man band, but I think I can handle it.”

When I give him the flute, our hands overlap for a second. Hunter puts his fingers in the wrong place, but he blows a pretty decent note.

“Not bad, Fahrenbach,” I say. “But what can you play on that thing?”

I’m looking at the guitar.

“Uh, well, I can play anything, kind of,” Hunter says. “I mean, I just listen to stuff, and I play it back. Beatles, Hendrix, Clapton, whatever. Acoustic stuff, Ani DiFranco…”

“You play Ani DiFranco songs?” I say, staring at him. “You know who Ani DiFranco
is
?”

“Hell, yeah,” Hunter says. “I listen to everything. What, you don’t think I’m a fan of, like, bisexual feminist folk songs?”

“You’ve got hidden depths.”

“When you rock, you rock, Robbins,” Hunter says. “Nah, but mostly I play your basic Stoner’s Greatest Hits. Ya know, ‘Wonderwall’ by Oasis, ‘Ants Marching’ by Dave Matthews Band, ‘The General’ by Dispatch…”

Hunter starts with “Wonderwall,” but then, as he’s playing, the melody changes and all of a sudden he’s playing “Ants Marching.” Then “Ants Marching” slows down
into the chorus of “The General.” Then it all flows into another Oasis song I can’t remember the name of. It’s amazing—Hunter’s finding the exact right notes and chords that let one song in one musical key meld into a different song in a different musical key.

“Did you
write
that?” I ask him, so impressed.

“That?” Hunter picks out a few notes of the last song. “That’s ‘Champagne Supernova.’ That’s Oasis.”

“No, the whole thing. The medley. Did you write the medley?”

“Oh!” Hunter shrugs. “I’m just playing all the songs I know, basically. They work together. You know, something like this…”

And he starts playing and singing a song I love—“Crash into Me” by Dave Matthews Band. He’s singing it the same hoarse way Dave Matthews sings it, and his voice is really good. He transitions from “Crash Into Me” back to “Champagne Supernova,” then trails off.

“Yeah, so, enough of that,” Hunter says. “It’s awkward with the words, ’cause I’ll be singing about love or whatever and then suddenly I’m talking about people getting high.”

“No! You’re good!” I insist, leaning toward him. “You’re seriously good.”

“
Nahhhhh
,” Hunter drawls, relaxing his legs, which lowers his guitar.

“Yes! You can really sing. I had no clue.”

“I just sing,” Hunter says, shrugging. “I dunno.”

“You’re actually talented!”

That sounds terrible, so we both laugh as soon as I say it.

“I write some stuff, too,” Hunter says.

“You write
songs
?” My voice is even squeakier and more ridiculous.

“Well, no, not songs,” Hunter says. “I start songs, but I never finish them. I just write, like, four bars of music, and then I play it over and over.”

“Did you write what you were playing when I came in?” I ask. “I wanna hear it!”

After I pester him, Hunter plays a verse of a song that’s really, really good.

“I get stuck after that last chord,” Hunter says.

“Here, play the end for me again.”

We’re sitting so close that my leg is right next to his guitar, and it feels cozy, even though we’re in a big empty room.

“What about a G chord next?” I suggest. Then, after he plays it, “No, that’s not what I’m thinking. Try a G seventh?”

A half-hour goes by, and the song is coming together. I’m giving Hunter suggestions and listening to him try things out until we have three verses and a chorus figured out.

“That’s a cool sound right there,” Hunter says, playing a transition. “Yeah—I like that shift, the way it changes.”

“So that’s the whole thing, the whole song,” I say. “Play it from the beginning!”

As he plays, Hunter hums, and I wonder if he’s already
thinking of words for the verses. At the end, he plays the chorus twice.

When he’s done, I’m so amazed that I blurt out, “Someone should hear you!”

The guitar strings are still vibrating, so Hunter covers them with his hand to still them, looks up, and says, “You are someone.”

My face and neck feel hot. Under all his messy hair, Hunter’s eyes are intensely fixed on me, but I can’t hold his gaze too long. I stand up and walk to the piano to return the theory book that I never opened.

“Have you heard about this thing Bobbi is doing?” I ask him. “The Open-Mic Night?”

“I think Eugene told me something about it. What is it?”

“It’s kinda like a talent show. You just get up, sing one song, and that’s it. You should sign up!”

“I don’t know,” Hunter says, absentmindedly moving his fingers up and down the guitar strings.

“Come on. You should do it.”

“I’d have to write words and everything,” Hunter says, looking up at me from the bandstand.

“You can write lyrics. That’s the easy part. You wrote a whole song! You can write lyrics.”

In a gesture of confidence, I hop up onto the piano and swing my feet in the same way Hunter always does. He grins.

“Well, Ms. Duff does say I’ve got some verbal skills,” he says. “Even though I use the word ‘crap’ way too much.”

“See! I agree with her! You should do it. You should totally do it.”

Hunter takes his guitar off and rests it next to him. Without it, he seems kind of vulnerable, like it was a shield or something. He leans forward. “You think I should?”

“I’m making you,” I tell him, smiling.

Hunter throws his head back and makes a playful growling sound, like he’s frustrated, but when he leans forward again, he’s smiling. He’s made up his mind.

“So how long do I have to write this thing?” he asks.

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” He sighs.

I slide down from the piano and go back over to the bandstand. Resting my hand on his guitar, wishing it was his arm or leg, I tell him, “I have complete faith in you.”

D
ude, are ulcers contagious?” I ask Eugene. “I think you gave me yours.”

Eugene’s had an ulcer since eighth grade. The stress of running his business and freaking out about getting busted, plus the huge cups of black coffee he drinks every morning, have eaten a hole in his stomach. I don’t know what an ulcer feels like, but right now, my stomach feels weird, like there’s a bunch of battery acid sloshing around in there. I’m backstage in the Julius auditorium, and all the people who are going to perform in this open-mic thing tonight are crammed backstage.

Eugene ignores my question and walks over to the curtain so that he can watch Bobbi onstage.

“Look at her out there,” he says. “How amazing is my girlfriend?”

Bobbi’s the MC tonight, so she’s giving a little speech about whatever disease we’re raising money for before introducing the next act.

“My girlfriend put this whole thing together,” Eugene says. “She’s incredible! She did all the publicity; she got all these people here. Look at this, Huntro—the place is packed!”

“Is it really?” I ask.

I go up to the curtain and look out.
Damn.
All the seats are full, and some people are standing in the aisles, too.

I groan loudly and clutch at my stomach again.

“What’s going on with you?” Eugene asks, turning around.

“My stomach.”

“What’d you eat tonight?”

“Uh… a bacon cheeseburger. Three Fruit Roll-Ups. Some chili out of a can without heating it up.”

“Okay, so the usual,” Eugene says. He grabs my face with both of his hands and squishes it. I hate when he does this. He stares at me for a creepy length of time, then gives his diagnosis. “You are
stressed
,” he pronounces.

He’s more excited about this than the big audience is. I pull away from him and pick at my guitar, trying to tune it. But my fingers are acting weird, so I’m just plucking random strings.

“You are
stressed out
,” Eugene repeats, totally pumped. “That’s what’s wrong with your stomach! You are
stressed
.”

He points his finger in my face, and I reach up to slap it away.

“Shut up, dude,” I tell him. “I don’t get stressed.
You
get stressed.”

Eugene laughs, all gleeful and evil.

“I don’t stress!” I repeat, starting to get heated. “I fell asleep during a final last year.”

“Because you didn’t give a crap about that,” Eugene says. “But you give a crap about this.”

My stomach is still churning. I groan again. Eugene reaches into his pocket and hands me a plastic wrapper with pink pills in it.

“Pepto-Bismol,” he tells me. “I’m always packing.”