1989
Janet Ribeiro was the most talented musician in her church. She could master any instrument. Drums. Piano. Guitar. Violin. Her voice wasn’t bad, either—she had played the starring role in several church musicals. “The Lord has given our Janet a gift,” Pastor Morris always said. This made Janet’s mother, Raquel, glow with maternal pride. It also made her even more horrified when she caught her daughter violating the electric guitar the church had loaned her to practice for an upcoming “Rock ’n’ Roll Hymn Sing” with an unfamiliar and evil-sounding song.
“What is that music?” Janet’s mother had shouted. “Those are certainly not the songs you learned at church!”
“It’s Romeo Void,” Janet said. “New Wave. It’s for fun. I can’t always play hymns if I want to be a musician.”
“You’re not going to be a musician. You’re going to Bible college to become a youth minister. This is how you’ll use your gift. Campfire sing-alongs!”
Raquel said this as if it weren’t ridiculous, as if they had agreed to it. Janet thought about shouting back that she would rather die than be a youth minister or ever participate in another campfire sing-along—but she had decided long ago that “turn the other cheek” was the only useful takeaway from her many school-enforced read-throughs of the Bible.
“Right. Sorry. Of course I’m not going to be a musician,” she offered, hoping for peace. But Raquel would not be placated. Hearing Janet sing music about liking someone better if you slept together instead of glorifying God was the last straw for her—the second-to-last straw having been used up during the Hudson’s Bay catalog incident.
At first, Raquel had approved of Janet’s modeling for the department store. Physical beauty was another one of her daughter’s God-given gifts—and besides, they needed the money. But then Janet forged a parental release form so she could pose in a Wonderbra shoot that paid double what the rest of them did.
“Do you know what people think of us now?” Raquel had cried when one of the church elders’ wives discovered the catalog under her son’s mattress, the pages of the bra ad suspiciously sticky. “It’s bad enough I’m a single mother!”
“How is it bad? It’s not your fault Dad left, it’s mine!”
Her mother had pressed her hands to her ears at this. Raquel told people Janet’s father, Alphonse, had moved away and died. She told Janet that although the Bible said all lies were sins, some falsehoods were necessary. Really, Alphonse had just been a nobody—at least that was what Janet always told herself to take away the sting of his prolonged absence. He’d lost his job as a welder because he was sloppy, always late. He pushed Raquel around, called Janet names, seemed to blame them both for the failures of his life until finally, one day, an eight-year-old Janet packed him a bag.
“Get out!” she’d said, channeling the mature, self-righteous anger she had seen on the afternoon soap operas her mother watched. “We don’t want you here! All you do is embarrass us! And you’re mean! Get out, and don’t come back!”
Janet was a little surprised when her father actually did what he was told, slamming the door of his rusty old truck and peeling out of the driveway with more vigor than she had ever seen in him. She felt triumphant about the power she wielded, but only until they had to sell the house because the little he brought in when he actually worked was what paid the mortgage. Still, even in a smaller rental house, things were better without her father around.
Until Raquel took up with God. There was soon no limit to the things they could be ashamed of. Single motherhood, department store catalogs, the wrong kind of music.
Now, Raquel strode across the room and wrestled the vacuum cleaner out of the closet so she could begin vacuuming the already pristine beige carpet. Watching her mother frantically vacuum made Janet wonder, not for the first time, if she had been switched at birth. When Raquel was finished, the living room would look like it had crop rows running across it.
“Pastor Morris is coming here,” her mother said over the din. “It’s not just that evil song you were singing in your room. Some of the kids at school have been saying things. About you.”
“All they do is say things about me, Mom.”
“And whose fault is that?” Raquel shouted as the vacuum roared. “Who posed in her underwear? Who listens to the devil’s music and draws strange pictures of women with their hair on fire in her notebooks?”
Janet swallowed a retort and went to sit on the couch. Raquel’s fury would pass. She just had to wait it out. No, actually, it wasn’t her fault she needed to get a job modeling so she could help her mother, who barely earned enough as a receptionist at a local veterinarian’s office to make ends meet. Not her fault that she loved music—all kinds of it—and that ever since she had started listening to her little clock radio alone in her room at night, she had hungered for music with loud guitars and pounding bass the way she imagined other teenage girls yearned for boys or pop stars—or, in the case of the kids at the tiny, church-affiliated school she attended, Jesus Christ. Not her fault that after the Hudson’s Bay catalog had been discovered by that creep John Mahew’s mother, the girls at school who had once been her friends then started whispering behind her back that she was a slut, even though none of them had any clue what that word meant, except maybe in the context of Mary Magdalene. Not her fault that Ruthie, her best friend since kindergarten, didn’t talk to her anymore, had broken off their friendship with a note shoved in Janet’s backpack saying she wasn’t so sure about her old friend’s “scruples” anymore. Most of the time, Janet told herself she didn’t need a friend who used words like scruples—but she missed Ruthie, and that was the truth. Janet had imagined they would be friends forever, the kind of friends who were different but shared a past, a bond akin to sisterhood.
It hurt to think about. Janet shook her head to try to loosen the sad thoughts, cast them away, but the sharp back-and-forth movement made Raquel even angrier.
“You look possessed when you do that! Stop that right now!”
So, Janet folded her hands in her lap and thought about Elijah Hart instead. A smile played across her lips as she imagined the boy she had met online when she set up the BBS chat room using the old Commodore 64 and modem the vet had passed on to Raquel—to give to “that smart daughter of yours”—when the clinic had upgraded computers a few months before.
“Better, Janet. That’s so much better. The pastor will be here any minute.” Raquel wrestled the vacuum cleaner back into its closet home as Janet drifted off into a world that was half-fantasy, half-real, all hers. Raquel didn’t know what a modem did, so she had no way of knowing that the innocuous machine in the corner of their living room was Janet’s portal to the fledgling internet—and a whole hidden life full of possibility.
BBS CHAT ROOM “STILL LIFE IN STOUFFVILLE”
Welcome, BBSers. System Operator (SysOP) requires a bit of information about you before she’ll allow you in her chat room or game zone. Yes, I’m a girl, and I don’t take any sexist shit. No I will not tell you my measurements. Thank you in advance. This is mostly a place to chat about music. Be nice. I get to decide if I feel like banning you.
INTAKE
05/12/89
03:11 am
Eli72: Hello? Anyone there?
SysOP: Hi.
Eli72: Hi. I didn’t expect anyone to be awake.
SysOP: Insomnia.
Eli72: Me too.
SysOP: What kind of music do you like?
Eli72: Whoa, that was fast.
SysOP: It’s a music chat room.
Eli72: Maybe we should get more acquainted first. I’m Elijah.
SysOP: I go by Jane. Nice to meet you. What kind of music do you like, Elijah?
Eli72: I like all kinds of music.
SysOP: Glam rock? Metal?
Eli72: I mean, metal is not my first choice, but I can find something to like about any kind of music.
SysOP: Hmm. Even New Kids On The Block?
Eli72: NKOTB take their cues from the Beatles. What’s not to… if not like, at least admire?
SysOP: Ok. Top ten favorite bands, then?
Eli72: That’s a big question.
SysOP: This is not a test.
Eli72: But I get the sense if you don’t like the bands I choose you’ll kick me out of here. Admit that if I say my favorite band is Warrant, I’m out of here. It’s totally a test.
SysOP: : )
Eli72: Can we start with you? Favorite bands?
SysOP: Sure. In no particular order…
Eli72: You had that ready to go.
SysOP: Of course I did. I’ve been getting into some New Wave lately, but that sort of feels like a separate list.
Eli72: It’s a great list. Most people I know are a lot less original.
SysOP: What music do most people you know like?
Eli72: The Melvins, Mother Love Bone, more Melvins.
SysOP: Do you by any chance live in Seattle?
Eli72: Correct.
SysOp: But you don’t like those bands?
Eli72: I guess. They’re fun. But I like what you like better. Music that sounds… like the person who wrote it HAD to. Does that makes sense?
SysOP: Completely. As if the song was a compulsion, an urge. Ok, so, your list, then?
Eli72: Still not ready. :) Let’s talk more about you. Do you play any instruments?
SysOP: I can play drums, guitar, piano, violin. I would love to learn bass. You?
Eli72: Drums, piano, guitar, bass, pretty much anything. Are you in a band?
SysOP: Yes.
Eli72: Cool! Tell me more!
Eli72: Are you still there?
SysOP: I was trying to find a way to make myself sound cooler than I am. But it’s no use. I’m in a church ensemble. Christian rock, to be exact.
Eli72: I’m sure there are cool things about Christian rock.
SysOP: I’m sure there are not. And my mom is super strict. I’m running out of places to hide the albums I actually like listening to. Last month she found Jane’s Addiction’s Nothing’s Shocking under my mattress and had a meltdown.
Eli72: Ah, bummer—but yeah, I can see how a strict mom might not love that album cover. To be honest, I’m over the whole naked-or-half-dressed-woman-on-album-covers thing. Sexism is getting really old. But “Jane Says” is SUCH a great song, right? Plus, that’s your name. Which is cool. Negates the uncoolness of the Christian rock ensemble. ;)
SysOP: Thank you. : ) And yes, it’s one of the best songs ever. The alternative “Stairway to Heaven,” dare I say?
Eli72: Hmm. Interesting. You’re right, it’s got classic written all over it. I wonder what an alternative classic will look like in twenty years though. The point is sort of for it not to become classic, right? It’s not that accessible.
SysOP: What’s the point of music if it doesn’t live on, though?
Eli72: I don’t have a huge problem with the concept of music for music’s sake—but maybe that’s shortsighted, I don’t know. So, does your Christian rock ensemble have a name?
SysOP: Oh god.
Eli72: The band’s name is “Oh God”?
SysOP: Ha! No. It’s just so embarrassing.
Eli72: I’m the drummer in a band called the Marvel Boys, if it makes you feel any better.
SysOP: Why are you called the Marvel Boys?
Eli72: Not really sure. Something to do with comic books. We’ve all been friends since we were toddlers. Our lead singer, Kim, he thought of the name. Probably while drunk or stoned.
SysOP: Try being in a band called… Samson’s Mullet.
SysOP: Hello?
Eli72: I’m sorry.
SysOP: You were laughing.
Eli72: So hard I spit water all over my desk and had to go get a paper towel.
SysOP: Can we talk more about *your* band instead? Please? What’s the genre, the style?
Eli72: I’d say we’re post-punk metal funk. Maybe. But I like it when things are hard to define.
SysOP: Me, too. Like the Pixies. Rock-alternative-metal-punk? And the Cocteau Twins! Dream-garage-soul? I love it when a band has a sound I haven’t heard before.
Eli72: Yeah. Our band is loud. Maybe that’s how to define us. We used to play house parties every weekend and people slam danced so hard the floors caved in.
SysOP: Come on. Really??
Eli72: OK, that happened once and it was a pretty crappy house. But still.
SysOP: Caving in a floor is pretty rad.
Eli72: I actually find it kind of weird when everyone is partying and no one is really listening to us. Wow, I sound about 80 years old, don’t I? I swear, I’m a 19-year-old guy.
SysOP: If it makes you feel any better, I took the bus to Toronto and went to a Pixies concert last spring—and shushed the people standing next to me. At a club show.
Eli72: I like you, Jane.
SysOP: I WANT to say I like you, but you haven’t given me your list of favorite bands yet so the jury is out. : )
Eli72: This is stressful! You have exquisite taste in music and I feel pressured to live up to it.
SysOP: Exquisite. Whoa. Relax. It’s just music. No pressure.
Eli72: Music is everything. I thought we’d sort of established that.
SysOP: You’re pretty intense, Elijah.
SysOP: Hello? Don’t be mad. Intense is not a bad thing.
Eli72: I wasn’t mad. I was thinking. And I’ve determined I need a day to come up with my list for you. Meet me on here tomorrow at the same time. OK?
SysOP: Ok… weirdo. : )
Eli72: Till tomorrow at… what time zone are you in?
SysOP: Eastern.
Eli72: I’m Pacific. OK, 9 pm my time, midnight yours?
SysOP: See you.
(X) to Exit to Main Menu, (?) for Help
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05/13/89
01:59 am
Eli72: Hi.
Eli72: Hello? Jane?
Eli72: You there?
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Your selection is?
09:06 am
SysOP: Hi.
SysOP: Elijah?
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09:16 am
SysOp: Hello? Is there anyone named Elijah in here?
Malkie47: Nope, it’s just me.
AlaskaGold1: And me.
Malkie47: Chattin about G N’ R, because they fuckin rule. I’ll fight anyone who says Lies is not the best album ever made, and “Used to Love Her” isn—
<<<<<<<<SysOP has terminated your access>>>>>>>>
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05/14/89
02:11 am
Eli72: Hello?
SysOP: Hi. I’m sorry about last night. I got in trouble for something and my mom unplugged the computer.
Eli72: That’s okay. I’m just glad you’re back. I thought I’d lost you.
SysOP: Nope, I’m here. So, your list?
Eli72: I want you to know this is the REAL list. These are my true favorite bands.
SysOP: As opposed to?
Eli72: The bands I tell my friends I like so they won’t try to find my CD collection and set it on fire.
SysOP: Don’t joke, my mother actually did that once.
Eli72: Sacrilege!
SysOP: Ok. So… go!
Eli72: In order…
SysOP: Good list, Elijah.
Eli72: Thank you. Wow, that felt great.
SysOP: Typing out your list?
Eli72: Finally admitting to someone how much I love R.E.M.
SysOP: I love them, too.
Eli72: I know. One reason why I already like you so much. And the Helen Sear didn’t throw you off? You never ban folkies?
SysOP: She’s great. Plus, she’s Canadian and so am I. : )
Eli72: No one knows I listen to her except my mom.
SysOP: Your biggest secret is that you like Helen Sear?
Eli72: I wish.
SysOP: Well anyway, it’s official. I like your taste.
Eli72: I like yours too. Obviously. We have some crossover.
SysOP: You can stay. : )
Eli72: I’m glad. Except I’m kind of exhausted. I had band practice for like six hours tonight because we have a club show on the weekend. Kim is convinced we’re not tight enough. I can’t feel my arms.
SysOP: A Seattle club show. Exciting!
Eli72: I guess. Not as exciting as chatting with you, but I’m wiped and I’m afraid I might type something stupid. Same time tomorrow?
SysOP: Of course.
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05/15/89
01:32 am
SysOP: Hello?
Eli72: Hi. Are you hot? Can you describe yourself? What are your measurements?
SysOP: Elijah? What. The. Hell. [logged out] [X]
01:59 am
Eli72: Jane?
Eli72: Hello?
Eli72: That was my idiot friend Kim, NOT ME. He stayed at my place after band practice and started looking through my shit without my permission when I fell asleep. I would never ever say anything like that to you. I’m so sorry.
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ELECTRONIC MESSAGE TO SYSOP
From: Eli72
Jane, this is Elijah. That was my friend, not me. He’s an asshole. Please, chat with me again. I miss you.
—Elijah
ELECTRONIC MESSAGE TO ELI72
From: SysOP
I know it wasn’t you. But I don’t like the idea of other people being able to read what we write to each other. It freaks me out.
ELECTRONIC MESSAGE TO SYSOP
From: Eli72
Why don’t we start writing letters, then?
May 17, 1989
Dear Jane,
I’ve never written letters to anyone before. I hope they’re not boring. I don’t have much to say about myself—I’m just so curious about you. How did you get into music? And I don’t mean church music. :) What was the first album you ever bought? You said you wanted to learn to play bass guitar; are there any other instruments you wish you could learn? Do you write songs? I admire people who can write great songs. I’ve already told you how much I love Helen Sear, and it’s her voice, for sure—but also her songwriting. All her songs are like stories, in the best way. The emotional payoff is always so great.
I like R.E.M.’s lyrics, too. More obscure, but just as good. I always find myself writing down my favorite lyrics of theirs, and thinking I might try to write my own. But I never do. I prefer to just admire good lyrics.
Anyway, tell me more, Jane. About you. Write back soon and tell me anything, everything.
Yours truly,
Elijah
A full week passed before she received his first letter. She checked the mailbox every day, intent on getting to it before her mother did. When it finally arrived, she raced up to her room, breathless, clutching it to her heart. Dear Jane… She read it over and over and felt like a new person. No more Janet, a name she had always hated. It was amazing to her the difference dropping just one letter made—almost like writing a song and finding that a single note could make the melody come together. He had drawn little pictures across the bottom of the page, pencil-sketched images of a teenage boy she assumed was a composite of him: shaggy-haired, wearing a Disintegration concert tee, playing a guitar in one image, behind a drum set in another. He also drew a record player, with albums by his favorite artists stacked up beside it. She noticed a few of her favorites, too. She cut out that drawing and stuck it in the corner of her mirror. Since she covered the pages of almost all her notebooks with drawings and doodles, her mother assumed she had drawn it herself.
May 24, 1989
Dear Elijah,
R.E.M. is so good. Not just the lyrics, which are great, but Michael Stipe’s voice. It’s so unique, it should be its own emotion. Like, you should be able to say, “I’m feeling a little stiped today” and everyone would know what you mean.
The Smiths’ The Queen Is Dead is how I got into music. Morrissey’s voice! So gloomy it’s almost… joyous. Does that even make sense? I think this is why I’m an insomniac now. I’m used to staying up late because I would wait for my mom to go to bed and then listen to the radio at night. I never wanted to miss what the DJ might play next. Depeche Mode, Cocteau Twins, Pixies, Billy Bragg, Jane’s Addiction.
What got me into playing music was the Pixies’ Surfer Rosa—that album is EVERYTHING. I HAD to learn those songs so I wouldn’t have to wait to hear them on the radio anymore. I taught them to myself and now I feel like I can play almost anything. Even though it turns out Frank Black is a jerk—did you hear he threw a CHAIR at Kim Deal during a concert? Why doesn’t she quit already and start her own band?! But I’ll always be grateful to the Pixies.
Bass guitar is really the only instrument I can’t play that I’m interested in right now. I guess I also wish I could sing better, but that’s not really an instrument I can learn. My voice is my voice, and it’s just okay. Do you ever sing?
I do write songs, but no one has ever heard them except me, so I’m not sure if they’re any good. Remember when we chatted online, and you said something about songs that felt like an urge? I’ve thought about that a lot. I get a sort of agitated feeling when a song wants to come out. Writing songs can be a little painful sometimes, to be honest. Then again, I’m not sure I’d trade the feeling of finishing one for anything.
How did you get into music? Exactly how long have you been in the Marvel Boys? How did the club show you were telling me about go?
Write back soon.
Jane
PS: You’re a good artist. I like your drawings. Is that supposed to be you?
June 5, 1989
Dear Jane,
I’d love to hear you play, hear your songs. I’m sure they’re really good. I bet you have a great voice. And I agree with everything you wrote, every single thing. Let’s start using “stiped” as an emotional descriptor.
You make me feel stiped, by the way.
To answer your other questions: my mom got me into music. She’s a folkie, and that’s where the love of Helen Sear came from. We used to listen to a lot of Harry Chapin (speaking of storytelling in songs!), Melanie, Joan Baez. I would sing along to her records, which is embarrassing to think about now because I have a super weird singing voice, which I suppose sounds great when you’re singing along to Melanie or Joan Baez, but not awesome when you’re singing along to rock or punk. My mom taught me to play piano to go with my singing. I never really stopped with music after that.
I can’t imagine singing something I wrote. How do singer-songwriters do that? Don’t they feel totally exposed?
The Marvel Boys have been together for four years now. The club show was okay. Kim was a bit fucked-up and fell off the stage. Someone started a food fight with the cold cuts from the greenroom. I think the Seattle scene could best be described as an endless sleepover jam session with Ritalin party favors.
What’s it like in your town? What are your friends like, what do you do for fun?
Also… I could teach you to play bass.
Except after I wrote that down I looked it up in an atlas, and Stouffville, Ontario, is about 2,400 miles away from the Seattle ’burbs where I live. Kind of far to go for guitar lessons. Sadly.
Have to go. Band practice.
Yours,
Elijah
PS: Yes, the character in the drawings is supposed to be me. I’m glad you like them. I’ll send you more.
Jane and Elijah wrote each other multiple letters per week. Jane always managed to get to them before her mom did; she couldn’t risk her mother finding Elijah’s letters; they were too important to her. She was on her best behavior, worked extra hard at school, never missed a church band practice, pretended to throw away all her contraband CDs—which she really just hid in an old packing box in the basement, removing them only when her mother wasn’t home.
Dear Elijah,
Stouffville is so boring. And my mom is so strict that I’m stuck at home a lot. Or at church. I think Seattle sounds awesome.
I’m counting the days until I turn eighteen (just under a year) because I’m planning to get out of here. I have no idea where I’ll go—somewhere, anywhere, would be better than this town—but I’ve always dreamed of moving to Europe. Somewhere cool, like Amsterdam or Paris. Maybe somewhere in Germany. Where would you go, if you could go anywhere? What would you do, who would you be? I want to be a musician, if that’s not obvious. I’d love to be in a band that’s not just a church ensemble, get paid to travel the world and do what I love. I think being famous would be amazing. Everyone would want to know you, but you’d only have to spend time with people you wanted to be around and do things you wanted to do. Everyone would love you, because they loved your music.
Wow, I’ve never told anyone that before. I don’t know what it is about you that makes me want to answer all your questions, and more. I’m usually pretty quiet around people.
Why do you think you have a weird singing voice? Aren’t the best singing voices a little unusual? I bet your singing voice is stiped. : ) And I’d love to hear you sing someday so I can decide for myself.
I have to go to now, Samson’s Mullet calls! But more soon, as always.
Jane
The spring of 1989 turned to summer, then fall. Jane and Elijah kept writing letters. It was hard to define what Elijah Hart was to her. A friend? A pen pal? More? But whatever he was, Jane knew it was important.
Dear Jane,
Months ago, when we first started writing, you mentioned you’d dreamed of moving to Europe. To be honest, I’d never really thought much about Europe in general—no one I know even has a passport, let alone me—but because of you, I took an interest. You’re right, it would be so cool to live somewhere over there. A place with history, personality. And now that the Berlin Wall has fallen, I’ll admit I’m getting a little obsessed with Germany. It actually makes the evening news my dad always falls asleep in front of at night interesting. The wall was dismantled by accident, did you know that? Some government official messed up what he was supposed to say in a speech, and the next thing everyone knew, people were rushing through the gates. All those years of control, and then no one could stop freedom from happening when it did. COOL.
Do you think the world is pure chaos or that things happen for a reason? Do you believe in fate? Do you believe in anything?
Yours,
Elijah
PS: Here’s a photo of me instead of a drawing. It was taken at a Marvel Boys concert a few weeks ago. Maybe you could send a photo too. I would love to be able to picture you. Then maybe I could draw you too. :)
Elijah,
I never believed in fate until I met you in my chat room. I hope that doesn’t sound too weird. Other than that, I don’t know what I believe in. Maybe that seems odd given that I go to a religious school and I’m in a church band—but I have a hard time swallowing Bible stories because I always find myself wondering why the women are all either mothers or… whores. There’s no in-between, and I know that’s not real. Which means the rest of it can’t be real either.
I do believe in music, though. That it holds some kind of power. I remember reading something once about a rumor that Led Zeppelin sold their souls to the devil for one great song—and half believing that could be true. What do you think?? Is “Stairway to Heaven” sell-your-soul-to-the-devil good? Can songs be magic spells, or curses, or both? If I’ve ever felt rapture in my life, or like a miracle could be possible, it didn’t happen in church, it happened in my room, when I was hiding under my duvet, listening to a new song on my Walkman or the radio.
Now, about Berlin. I wrote a song yesterday because I can’t stop thinking about it either. The lyrics (enclosed) were inspired by the minister at my church giving a sermon on the “miracle” that apparently happened in Leipzig, not too far from Berlin. He said the reason the Wall fell is because thousands of people in that city prayed for it. I went to the library and read some newspaper articles about it, and he was so wrong. It wasn’t prayer, it was protest! The activists just happened to use a church as their starting point, their shelter. Maybe some of them prayed, who knows. But that’s not why they were there.
The song I wrote is about the difference between miracles and force of will. It’s called “Miracle Monday.” There’s music, too. I recorded myself playing it on my guitar, and that’s enclosed on a tape. And finally, I’m sending a school photo of me. Try to ignore the stupid uniform. Yellow is not my color.
x, Jane
Dear Jane,
I’m nervous, but here goes. I loved your song so much I wrote a bassline for it. I played your guitar track on my boom box while recording myself playing the bassline with a tape recorder. But… something happened. I started to sing. And as I think I’ve told you, I never really sing anymore. The quality is terrible, but I think it’s okay otherwise. And that you should hear it. I hope you like how I arranged it and that I didn’t take too many liberties.
Sending this before I lose my nerve.
Yours,
Elijah
PS: I hope it’s okay to say this, but you’re really beautiful. I drew you. As you can see, we’re together in the picture at the bottom of this page. I’m teaching you how to play bass. I hope that really happens one day, Jane.
Dear Elijah,
Forget about my song, your voice is incredible!!! It’s like if Robert Plant and Leonard Cohen had a baby with Joni Mitchell and Helen Sear. Which, I know, is not even possible. But how in the world could you think you’re a bad singer? Who told you that??
I wrote another song, it’s on the enclosed tape. I feel like I have a secret superpower now, which will make every song I write better—because from now on, no matter what, every song I’ll ever write is going to be for you to sing.
x, Jane
PS: I liked the drawing of you teaching me to play bass. I hope that really happens, too.
A sharp rap at the front door of her house brought Jane back to the present moment, in her living room with her angry mother. Raquel ushered Pastor Morris in; his feet left yeti-like prints on the recently vacuumed carpet. He had left his shoes on, and Janet marveled at the way her mother managed not to react to this. He sat down and said no, thank you to coffee, even declined her mother’s famous lemon-lavender bars. This was serious.
He got right to it. “Janet, the children at school have become concerned about some letters they found in your backpack.” Jane’s mouth went dry. She glanced at her mother, but Raquel had her arms wrapped tightly around herself and was focused on the minister.
“What was anyone doing looking in my backpack? That’s my private stuff—”
“It is the job of the entire community to care for the herd. When sheep go astray—”
“We are people, not sheep,” Jane interrupted, but he spoke over her.
“When sheep go astray, they must be led back to the correct path. Now, Janet, I’m going to play something for you.” He had brought a small tape recorder with him, pressed play. “Perhaps you’ll listen to a true authority on the matter of the music you can’t seem to quit.”
The voice of a concerned-sounding man began to explain that heavy metal music was satanic, that some bands embedded evil messages into their songs. “The devil’s evil intent gets into the teenager’s brain by osmosis,” the man on the tape explained. “Especially when the music is played backward.” He proceeded to play a Black Sabbath song in reverse, and it sounded like gibberish. Janet couldn’t help it: she laughed.
“Janet!” her mother exclaimed. “Stop laughing right now!” She turned to the pastor. “That boy,” she began, and Jane’s heart sank. “The one she’s been writing to. He’s a very bad influence.”
“I think it’s time to pray for her soul,” Pastor Morris said to Raquel.
December 1, 1989
Elijah,
My mom found out about our letters. She’s never going to let the mail come to this house now before going through it first.
Can we start talking on the phone instead? If you call me at the number below any Wednesday between 7–9, my mom will be at choir practice. I’m so sorry. I know it’s long distance. But I really want to stay in touch.
Jane
Elijah called Jane that Wednesday night, and every Wednesday after. Then Raquel figured out that the boy from the letters was calling, and she started unplugging the house phone and taking it with her when she went out—no matter that Jane pointed out she had no way to call 911 if there was ever an emergency. “Go to the neighbor’s, then,” Raquel said. “Go outside on the front lawn and scream.”
Jane took handfuls of change to the pay phone in town instead.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Jane.”
His voice was her favorite thing: soft but confident, his words punctuated by thoughtful pauses, easy laughter. They talked about the songs Jane was writing, what Elijah was playing with his band, what they were both listening to, music scenes in the Pacific Northwest, which centered around a sound called “grunge” and a musical movement called riot grrrl.
If Elijah’s mother, Alice, answered the phone instead of him, she would say, “Hi, Jane” so warmly, Jane felt like they had met. Sometimes his dad would answer, too. His name was Moses and his voice was somber, so unlike Elijah’s and Alice’s that Jane asked Elijah about him. “What’s your relationship like with your dad?”
“Oh.” The question caught Elijah off guard, she could tell. “He’s quiet. He’s a dad. You know.”
“I don’t, really. Mine left when I was eight. He was pretty much the worst.”
Elijah cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Jane sighed. “I wish I had your life, though.”
“It’s not perfect.”
“Why not?”
It was as if he hadn’t heard her. “Hey, I miss your songs, you know?”
“I miss your singing voice,” she agreed. “And I have an idea. I’m going to rent a PO Box, so we can keep sending our songs back and forth, keep working on our music. What do you think?”
“I’d love that,” he said. “I really would.”
Our music. She’d said it, and now it existed. Their music was something special, and Jane knew it.
Late in the winter of 1990, Elijah told Jane the Marvel Boys were going on a small tour of Washington State and Oregon, and that it might be hard for them to talk on the phone regularly for the next month. “I’ll call when I can,” he said, sounding regretful, a little worried. “And I’ll miss you a lot.”
The idea of a month without their weekly phone calls and exchanged tapes filled her with something like panic. A month felt like a lifetime. She was only seventeen. A month was a huge chunk of her life. But all she said was, “That’s so exciting! I can’t wait to hear all about your tour when you get back.”
Jane began x-ing off the days until he came back in her school agenda, but this felt too pathetic, so she stopped. Still, she kept track of the days in her mind as she moved through a life that felt gray without Elijah. She tried to work on her songs, but nothing came together without Elijah to sing them back to her. She tried to read, but nothing held her interest. Late one night, she dug out the old modem from the closet and set up her BBS chat room again—feeling disloyal as she did so, but also determined. Elijah already had a band, and she needed to find one too. But no one interesting showed up, just the same guys who wanted to talk about G N’ R.
It had been thirteen days since he’d been away when the telephone rang on a Wednesday night; Jane’s mother was at choir practice and had stopped taking the phone with her because lately, her daughter had shown few signs of rebellion—and had been strategically leaving Christian rock tapes lying around the house. As soon as Jane picked up the receiver and heard the music and loud voices in the background, she knew.
“Jane. I’m so glad you answered. I know we didn’t arrange anything, but I had to hear your voice.” He sounded different—tired, his voice a little hoarse.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m glad you called. How are you doing?”
A long silence. “Better now. I really miss you, Jane.” She twisted the phone cord around her fingers, gazed at her smiling reflection in the kitchen window.
“I really miss you too,” she said.
“How is it possible for two weeks to feel like forever?”
She laughed, agreed. “So, where are you calling from?”
“A pay phone at a bar in Spokane. We’re here for sound check.”
“And the tour is going well?”
“It’s going” was all he offered. “How are things with you? What have you been up to?”
She thought about lying about parties and friends; she had done it before. But this time she couldn’t. “Elijah, the truth is, my social life… isn’t exactly great.” She explained what she hadn’t before, revealed the parts of her life she’d left out in their letters and calls. “I wanted you to think I was someone more interesting than I am. But I’m not. You’re a big part of my life. The biggest part, probably. It’s kind of embarrassing, but I feel like you need to know the truth. Two weeks without you has been really hard because… you mean a lot to me. You might even be the best part of my life.” Her heart was racing. What if she scared him away?
“Wait,” he said. “You think you’re not interesting because you don’t have a lot of friends in that town you’re from, the one you’re planning to leave the first second you can? Jane, I think you’re the most interesting person in the world.”
“Even though you’re… kind of my only friend?”
“Friend?” he repeated.
“Friend,” she said firmly, not exactly meaning it. “We haven’t even met yet, Elijah.”
“Not yet,” he replied.
Then someone called his name in the background and he said he had to go, but that he would call her the following Wednesday if he could. And if he didn’t, he promised he’d be thinking about her.
When Elijah got back home after the tour, he mailed her a tape right away. It read “A Song for Jane” in black block letters. After she picked it up from the PO Box on her way to school, she carried the tape around with her all day, waiting for the moment she could pull her blush-pink duvet over her head, press her headphones against her ears, and listen.
“Hi, Jane.” He had never spoken on any of the tapes, just sang. She sat straight up, surprised, the duvet falling away from her body. “This is cheesy, but I think we should tell each other everything, just like you did on the phone when I was in Spokane, so… here it is. While we were apart, I had this song in my head the whole time. I can’t write the way you do, I’m definitely no poet, but…” He trailed off. “I can sing for you. And I know you’ll like it.”
It was “Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers—frankly, the last song she would have expected him to choose to sing. A recent romantic blockbuster movie starring Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore had made it popular—and the point of liking alternative music was that you didn’t listen to anything considered mainstream. Yet Elijah’s voice turned it into something else entirely. She felt like he was speaking directly to her, about her, even. She wondered as she listened if there was anything his voice couldn’t do. It was alchemical, spellbinding—and it was for her.
She listened to the song over and over and came to a realization. She was in love with him.
But when she called him the next day from the pay phone booth in her town, she felt shy. “I loved the song” was all she could manage.
“I loved singing for you,” he said. “And… Jane? I know those weren’t my words, but I meant every one. I’ve never felt this way about anyone.”
Jane felt like she was experiencing a miracle—but still, she tried to be reasonable. “We haven’t even met yet,” she said.
“Imagine if we did,” he said.
“I do, all the time.”
She waited, thinking he might finally ask her to come visit.
Instead, he said her name again. “Jane?”
“Yes?”
“I just told you I loved you…”
“You did? I didn’t realize.”
“Well, I mean, I told you I meant every word of a song I sang to you about a guy who is basically like, you are my everything, and I guess I’m kind of wondering how you feel about that…?”
“I feel the same,” she said quickly, then started to laugh. “Of course I do. I was dying without you.”
They were going to figure it out; she knew it. For now, this was enough. They’d meet someday, and it would be perfect. The start of the dazzling, music-filled life she had always dreamed of. Elijah was the one.