Your eyes hidden
Mine too shy
But in the notes
Let me try, try, try
Amber Rose is waiting for me in the parking lot when I get to school on Monday. “Hey, mister. You feeling better?” She pushes herself off of her red Mini Cooper and walks toward me, a smile on her face.
I cough into my hand. “Yeah, a little.” Cough, cough. “I might still have a touch of something.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t lose the smile but she doesn’t come in for a hug or anything else. Then she launches into a play-by-play of Sarabeth’s version of Friday night’s dance. Luckily, Sarabeth hadn’t noticed my car because Amber Rose would definitely ask me about it. When she’s finished with her spiel, she pouts. “I’m sorry you’re sick. I’d hug you, but you know, germs and all. Does that make me a bad girlfriend?”
Damn. What a question.
“Of course not. You’re a great girlfriend.” Again, not a lie there. Which makes the situation critical.
She giggles. “I might have taken some pictures for you.” She runs ahead of me a few steps then turns so she’s walking backward as I’m walking forward. “And if you’re a really good boy, I’ll let you see them.” She waves her phone at me. “Orange satin. It looks so good on me.” She manages to put her hand on her hip and cock it seductively as she continues to walk backward.
Every bone in my body is like damn, lingerie photos, send them to me now, because Amber Rose Slagle is a stunner. Bikini body for days. Thick dark blackish-brown hair to the middle of her back. I’d been all about her when we’d started something that day on the lake. But I didn’t know her. And now that I do, those are the only things that might hold my attention. But I want more than that. I need some mutual interest.
“I’d rather wait. See the real thing.” I waggle my eyebrows for convincing factor. Also, not a lie. But Amber Rose in the flesh is not the real thing I’m referring to. And getting her to send me those photos would be hella wrong. Damn, I’m totally going to lose my man card over this.
Sarabeth runs out the door of the commons and grabs Amber Rose in a gossip hug. “Stealing her,” she says. I wave and smile and put my hand over my heart and figure I can fake anything for the next five days. We’ll go to that concert with my folks and then, we’ll be done.
It takes forever for the final bell before chorus. Not that I have a plan when it comes to Amber Vaughn or what I’m going to say to her. At the last minute, I run to my car for my banjo.
Amber’s talking to Mrs. Early when I slip in behind another group of students. She’s on crutches. I wonder what happened between when I saw her Friday and today. Devon didn’t mention anything major and we joke he’s better than News 13 when it comes to local current events. I hope she’s okay; maybe I can use that concern as a way to open up a conversation.
Once I’m settled in my chair, I don’t look in her direction right away. I keep my focus forward and my mind on the music. We run through “Shenandoah” three times. First the whole chorus, then us boys, then the girls. Amber’s voice stands out even when she’s working with a group. Not that she’s trying to over sing the others, her voice is just that distinctive.
When Mrs. Early finishes, she gets this sharpish grin on her face like she’s up to something. The guy next to me groans. “Please, God, no.”
“What?” I whisper. But he looks at me like I’m an alien from another planet. So I look at Amber. Because, let’s face it, she’s a nice place to rest my eyes. Seems like she’s as confused as me and when she surveys our side of the room, I do the universal palms-up shrug to cement some solidarity. Her eyes narrow. So, she hates me again. Guess the concerned Will route isn’t my conversation starter after all.
Mrs. Early hands this fishbowl full of names to Becca Carpenter, who pulls out three slips of paper.
I still have no clue what’s going on, but they call Amber’s name.
“Seriously, dude,” I say to the kid next to me. “What is this?”
He groans. “You’ll see. And hope she doesn’t call your name because if she does, you have to sing a solo. In front of everybody.”
This rodeo girl, Destiny Miller, stands up first and the next thing I know she’s singing a raunchy country song, a cappella. Everybody starts laughing when she grinds her hips then thrusts her fist into the air on the finish. I’m surprised Mrs. Early doesn’t put the ixnay on the indgray, but what I’m discovering is, in chorus, unlike the guidance counselor side of herself, Mrs. Early lets a lot of things slide. The next dude, some junior or sophomore I don’t know, sings that sappy love song from Titanic. Then it’s Amber’s turn. Mrs. Early offers to let her stay in her chair, but Amber shakes her head, her jaw planted in determination.
When she crutches herself to the front, she leans back against the piano.
“What are you going to sing?” Mrs. Early’s hands are clasped in a pre-clap, like anything Amber says is going to be all right by her.
“‘The Cuckoo’?”
Such a good song and one I’ve nailed on the banjo ever since I saw that Scott Avett video on YouTube. So when Amber looks at Mrs. Early and asks if I can accompany her, I don’t even wait for the answer. I’m unlatching my case and pulling my Deering out.
“You’re one of those, huh?” Grumpy Cat next to me slumps back with what is either disdain or jealousy. Whatever, dude. That girl down there is amazing and I’m going to make some sweet tunes with her.
Once I hit the floor though, the nerves creep back in. I can’t wipe the image of her volcanic anger and my Friday night idiocy. In the chair, I mess with the tuning pegs and pluck a note or two and then she nods. My fingers override my brain and I calm down as I play. Next to me, Amber’s sweet voice is like a wisp of steam braiding through my banjo chords.
“Oh, the cuckoo, she’s a pretty bird. Lord, she warbles as she flies.”
There’s never a bump or a pause or the hesitation of people who’ve only played together a few times. This is magic. Even if I never get to kiss her again, she can’t deny this is something special.
When I finish off the last notes of the song and the chorus claps, Mrs. Early dismisses us. By the time I get my banjo back in its case, Amber’s gone. She didn’t even say good-bye.
I rush to catch up but stop when I find her. She’s with Devon. And since baby brother has no idea I’m macking on his best friend, I play it cool. “What’s up, bro?”
“The lovely Plain and Small is helping me spend Aunt Sue’s birthday gift today.”
“Oh.” And then this weird rush of shy or crush or guilt comes rushing over me and there’s no way I can be at home while the two of them sit arguing over iTunes selections. “Cool. See you later. Tell Mom I’ll be home for supper.”
I push through the doors and realize I have nowhere to be. Then I think about that brochure Mom gave me and figure what the hell, if I can’t figure out my love life, at least I can apply for a cool job for the summer. The library’s public computers are the perfect spot.
When I start my car, I stop before backing out. Devon’s got Amber’s book bag as she crutches her way across the pavement. She’s laughing at something he’s saying and I can’t believe it took till I had a freaking girlfriend for something to happen between us. She’s been right there for two years. Why didn’t I ever make a move?