I can’t do my homework if you’re going to scream like that!”
I’m in Sean’s actual room in Sean’s actual apartment. The voice comes from the kitchen. “Learn to appreciate great music!” Sean yells back.
“You call that music?” says the voice from the kitchen.
It’s after six, and we barely started singing. It took ninety minutes to get here from school—an hour to drive here, and another half hour to pick up Sean’s sister, Desi, from aftercare. Then it took another half hour to get Desi started doing her homework. Now she’s stopped again.
“Can you come help me?” she asks.
From Sean’s bedroom window I see a guy working on an old Toyota, and a group of boys playing basketball with a hoop made from a milk crate. The place looks like the type of apartment complex you live in if your dad stops paying child support. For the first time ever, I appreciate my dad. Well, maybe just for a second.
“No, I can’t help you,” Sean says. “I’m trying to sing.”
“Trying is right,” his sister says. “I need heelllllppp!”
What I do appreciate is Sean. I’ve figured out why Sean never hangs around after school. He doesn’t have time. I don’t even know when he practices for himself.
“Why don’t you warm up,” he tells me. “I’ll be back in a second.”
I sing some warm-ups, trying not to listen. I look at the walls. Every inch is covered with murals. Behind me, refugees arrive on a boat made from an old car. To my left, the Space Shuttle breaks up, shattered pictures of astronauts raining to the ground. Sean explained that his father’s an artist “in his spare time,” but mostly he paints houses.
When Sean gets back, I say, “It’s nice that you help her so much.”
“Nah, it’s not nice. She’s my sister.” He heads for the keyboard in the corner of the room and sings, “Step to the keyboard, my dear.”
“You do that too?” I say.
“What?”
“Sing things. Like you’re in an opera.”
“Sure. Doesn’t everyone?”
I shake my head. “No one I know.”
“You know me.” He gestures to the keyboard. “Now warm up.”
I continue, but the whole time he’s playing exercises, I’m so worried about impressing him that I can barely sing. Finally, he stops playing. “You’re really tense.” He starts massaging my neck, kneading the muscles. “Roll your head back.” His hands are really strong, stronger than he looks, and I find myself relaxing, like I could fall asleep in his arms.
“Mmm … that feels good,” I say.
“I used to live with my mom. She typed all day, and she’d come home all tense. So she taught me to give her neck rubs from an early age. If this singing thing doesn’t work out, I’ll be a masseur.”
“How long did you live with your mother?”
“Until I was ten. Then she left.” He stops rubbing my neck. “Okay, ready?”
“Thanks.” I nod. I want to ask him more about his mother, but I don’t think he wants me to. So I say, “Yeah, let’s do it.”
We go through the song five times. It’s tough going at first because I’m still—let’s admit this—thinking about what it was like to have Sean’s hands on my neck. What is wrong with me? But finally I get a grip and get through it a couple of times decently.
“Good,” Sean says. “Want to call it quits—end on a high note?”
“Sure,” I say. “You were good too.”
“Thanks.” He looks at me. “You’re not like I thought you were.”
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry. It’s just … I really didn’t want to bring you here today. That’s why I’ve been avoiding practicing together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just … I thought you were kind of a snob, but you’re not, are you?”
“No.” Is he kidding? “You thought I was snobby?”
“I wasn’t sure. You seemed nice at auditions, sort of shy. But then I saw you at Wendy’s that time, with those friends of yours, and after that, you barely looked at me. So I figured, Okay, the girl’s a homecoming queen from hell.” He shrugs. “Sorry.”
“Thanks a lot.” But I remember that day at Wendy’s, Peyton and Ashley, laughing at Sean. I hope he didn’t see them, but I bet he did. I want to think of a way to explain it away, but I can’t. “I’m not really friends with those girls.”
It’s my way of apologizing. Sean nods.
“I thought you weren’t talking to me because I’m not as good as you,” I say.
“Really?” He looks confused. “No way. You’re incredible.”
I smile at that but say, “You were hanging with Misty all the time, and she’s … scary. You never talked to me. So I figured you had enough friends.”
“Misty and I … we drifted apart.” He makes a drifting gesture with his hand.
“In the past week?” Stupid!
“Yeah. It had something to do with her saying she talked you into singing that dumb song at auditions.”
“It wasn’t that dumb,” I say.
“Yeah, it was,” he says.
“Okay. It was. But what does that have to do with you?”
“She was laughing about it, about how stupid she thought you looked. I just thought it was a really bitchy thing to do.”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod and turn away, so he can’t see me blushing.
“Anyway, we’re not enemies or anything. I just decided I needed other friends.”
“So you two were just friends?”
“Yeah, what else?”
“Hey, I don’t hear any singing in there!” Desi’s voice comes from the living room. “Are you guys … kissing or something?”
I feel my face heat up, and I look away from Sean. He says, “We’re caught.”
“Let’s sing it again,” I say. I’m in no hurry to get home. It’s a Tuesday, a probable Arnold night. I’d much rather stay here awhile.
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
Subject: Noises I Can Hear, Sitting in My Bedroom
Date: October 15
Time: 10:45 p.m.
Listening 2: See below
Feeling: Distressed
Weight: 113 lbs.
• Arnold’s car in the driveway
• Front door, opening & closing
• Giggling (Mom)
• Nerdy laugh (him)
• Her, asking if he’d like coffee (she doesn’t know how 2 *make* coffee. She buys it at Starbucks)
• Him, turning down coffee (like she must have known he would)
• Her bedroom door, opening
• Her bedroom door, closing
• Silence
• Silence
• Silence (If I listened closer, I bet I could hear something. But I don’t want 2)
• The 1st act of La Bohème on my headphones
• Her bedroom door, opening
• The front door, opening
• The front door, closing
• Arnold’s car, pulling out of the driveway
• Her bedroom door, closing
• The 2nd act of La Bohème, on my headphones