Darkness falls and suburban basements come alive with sweaty
teenagers and home-grown music. You were the lead guitarist of a high school
band called Faded Matrimony, and I was a permanent member of the audience at
all of your shows. I like to think of myself as a mix between a cheerleader and
a science geek, but I think I only got into science club because they thought I
was a cheerleader, and I only got into cheerleading because they were looking
for “intellectual diversity.” I didn’t identify much with either group, but it
was fun to pretend.
We met when we were young, and we had been best friends
since a crib was a prison, rather than an MTV show. You were always into music
and I was always pretending to be the flavor of the month. Sometimes it was science
and cheerleading, sometimes it was basketball and woodshop. My only consistent
interest was in your music, and I liked to think you kept me slightly grounded
in that way. You reminded me I wasn’t defined by the masks I chose to wear when
it wasn’t Halloween. You were comfortable in your own skin and I was
comfortable when I was around you.
Tonight, your band was playing at a house party hosted by
Katie Colligan, one of my cheerleading counterparts. Her parents were out of
town for the weekend, and the party promised to be a real rager. Tubs of ice
and cheap beer lined the basement walls, and hormones were flying rampant as
everyone found a warm body to rub up against.
I stood in the corner, sipping a beer and watching you play
the guitar with the intensity of a lion on the hunt. I was not much of a
dancer, and the dedication and passion you showed your instrument was much more
interesting than having someone I didn’t care for sweat all over me. You wrote
all of your band’s original songs, and I felt a sense of pride for you as they
echoed through Katie Colligan’s basement. I hoped one day you might write one
for me.
Hoping you would notice me.
The band stopped playing when you wanted them to stop, and
you packed up your instruments like every other night. Someone’s iPod took over
the night’s soundtrack as I wandered over to congratulate you on another
successful gig, feeling drunk enough to dance but sober enough to know I
shouldn’t ask. These parties were always strictly business with you—you came,
you played, you left. I admired your professionalism, but I wish you’d stay and
dance with me every once in a while.
You asked me to join you for a bite to eat as you headed
out, and I accepted like every other night, trading my dancing shoes for diner
food. Even though we were just friends, it felt good to leave parties with you.
I liked the thought that I could make all of the other cheerleaders jealous by
leaving with the band’s frontman, even though your only love was made of wood
and strapped around your neck when you played your music. Secretly, I wished
you might have room for one other to love at some point in your life.
We left Katie Colligan’s and headed out to Ed’s Diner, the
only spot still open at this hour in our small, suburban town. Dimly lit with waiters
and waitresses more maternal than our own lawyer-and-doctor-parents, Ed’s Diner
was the late night rendezvous for high school seniors like us with nowhere else
to go. As we pulled into the five-car parking lot, we were greeted by the
stench of cigarette smoke coming from a group of skaters hanging out by the
entrance. We passed by them with a friendly nod, while the empty tables and
fluorescent lighting beckoned us.
You were quieter than usual tonight, and even as we were
seated in our usual corner booth, your eyes alerted me of a story you didn’t
want to tell. You ordered a black coffee and I ordered a side of fries. The
post-party ritual began, but your mind was somewhere else.
I watched you as you shifted uncomfortably, left, then
right, then left again. You made some joke about a princess and a pea, but I
was too worried about you to laugh. This seemed to make you more uncomfortable,
and I instantly regretted my silence.
I reached my hands out across the table to comfort you, and
you grabbed them as though they were a life preserver and you were being washed
out to sea.
You touched my hands gently. You looked me in the eyes. You
told me you loved me. You told me you always have. You said you wanted to be
together.
“I believe this is what you ordered,” our waitress said,
placing our food on the table in front of us. But the post-party ritual had
been broken, and I was no longer hungry.
