This Song Is (Not) for You Read online

  I took some money out of my savings account and donated it to a world hunger charity. And I went downstairs and looked at our Christmas tree.

  I sat there for a long, long time.

  Ramona

  The morning after Christmas, I lay in bed for a long time. The light had that winter feeling of thick, cold cloud cover. My bedroom overlooks the alley and the neighbor’s brick wall.

  No grass, no trees, just the red brick and dirty mortar, one iron star support, and a small triangle of sky.

  I love my window’s wall. I’ve watched late-afternoon light drift across it in sadness and in joy, and I’ve stared toward it at night and wondered, What is life for?

  I know a special crack in a certain brick.

  I think I could fit the top of my thumb in one chipped corner, but I suppose I’ll never know for sure, since it’s up at the third floor.

  What I’m trying to say is that you could take a picture of this wall and a bunch of other redbrick walls, and I could pick mine out. Easily.

  What I’m trying to say is that I love this brick wall because it’s the brick wall that’s been outside my window all my life.

  But it could have been another brick wall in another place. Or a hedge. Or a bridge.

  The morning after Christmas, I lay in bed and watched my wall and I thought, Sometimes love is like that. It’s about a certain time and place, circumstances that could have changed. Tom says he doesn’t think his parents would like him if he were someone else’s son, but he is theirs and they love him, so it’s fine. There were friends I had in junior high because we were there at the same time, and when we weren’t there, we weren’t friends anymore, and that was fine.

  People you don’t know blend together as identical as Pink Floyd’s bricks in a wall.

  But when I met Tom, it was like he was already my wall.

  Okay.

  Wait.

  It was like when I’ve had a bad day. And I’m tired. And I finally go into my room at the end of the day and I see the window, and I remember that I’ve felt this bad before, but it always gets better again, that life happens in cycles.

  When I met Tom, that’s how it felt. Like Tom’s very existence in the world reminded me that I was Ramona, drummer and pianist, and I was gonna get into Artibus, get out of high school, and get on with my life as a musician. A musician.

  And he reminds me of this every time I see him.

  I am in love. With Tom. And with Sam, who I knew was my Sam as soon as I met him.

  Some people don’t think this could be true.

  But I do.

  I am.

  I love.

  Sam

  Ramona has to practice piano a lot during school breaks, so Tom and I have been hanging out without her. He never talks about Ramona in a way that makes me uncomfortable. You’d never know they were going out except when she’s in the room.

  It’s easy to pretend it’s not true.

  Tom loves the series of guitar and guitar-like instruments that my father buys each Christmas and birthday. Yesterday he played the sitar and I played the banjo, and we made up a song called “Hamlet.” The lyrics are “Words, words, words.”

  Tuesday, we glitter bombed a slide in the park. Now it has the words FREE TO BE HAPPY written in yellow, glittery puff paint down its blue plastic side. Three days and it’s still there; it’s kinda endearing how happy that makes Tom.

  Today, we hung out at his place. Tom’s room is really small, but he’s covered every inch of the walls with images and words, some big, some small. It’s kind of oppressive but still awesome. We were talking about Ramona’s drumming, and he said, “She’s really just a pure percussionist. It’s no surprise that her second instrument is the piano.”

  “It’s her first instrument actually,” I said.

  “Well, she started playing it first, but Griselda is her main instrument now,” he said.

  “Nope,” I said. “Ask her about it. She’ll tell you that piano is her main instrument.” I was standing, wandering around the room, studying the walls. “Art Is the Proper Task of Life” said a bumper sticker near me.

  “But her heart is with her drum kit,” he said. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed.

  “Yeah, I know. But it’s with the piano too, ’cause of her mom. You know.”

  “Oh,” he said. But it didn’t sound like he knew. I got the feeling that she hadn’t said much to him about her mom, and I couldn’t help but be happy about that.

  “What’s this?” I asked. I touched a photograph that hadn’t been there before. I thought it was something from a horror movie at first glance, but I realized it’s a baby, skeleton thin and large eyed.

  Behind me, I heard the floorboards creak as Tom shifted.

  “I put it there to remind myself that I’m lucky to have more than I need.”

  He sounded embarrassed, so I let it drop.

  “Let’s make some music,” I said.

  And we did. And it was great. Because Ramona was right. Tom is a great musician, and we were meant to meet him and be his friend, and they were meant to be together.

  It’s true.

  Even though I wish that I was meant to be with Ramona too.

  (Too?)

  Tom

  “You have to participate in the senior showcase,” Ally Tabor says to me the first day back at school. She’s linked arms with me in the hallway as if we’re the very bestest of friends who always walk together.

  “Hi, Ally. My break was great. Thanks for asking,” I say. (It’s funny that she’s accosted me today. I’ve been thinking about the two-and-a-half-week romance we shared, what with Ramona and all. Mom was making me participate in at least one club that semester because I “needed to make friends.” I went to the drama club meetings, and for a little while Ally wanted to hold my hand, and then she didn’t. The next semester Mom didn’t make me have a club.)

  “Please, Tom! Please. If we don’t have enough interest this year, then they may not have a senior showcase next year.” Her eyes widen at this terrible possibility.

  “And since we won’t be here next year…” I say.

  “Tom, the senior showcase is about more than just our senior year. It’s about all the seniors that have ever—” Then she prattles on about traditions and passing torches. Like I said before, Ally takes her drama club presidency very seriously.

  “Just do one of your music-like things, Tom,” she says as she deposits me outside my next class.

  “Music-like things?” I say. I roll my eyes.

  “You’re going to end up participating. You just wait,” Ally says. “You’re secretly dying to show our classmates your music, and I have a long-term plan for wearing you down. Bye!” She scurries off to class or to conquer a small nation.

  And I am not participating.

  Ramona

  Sam and I haven’t been alone in a while.

  Except, we have been alone. We’re alone in his car on the way to and from school, but it’s not a long enough drive for a deep conversation. And at school we sit alone (together) when we eat, but during lunch you can’t get really deep because people are throwing fries at each other.

  After school Sam and I are always with Tom. And I love being with Tom, but I miss being with just Sam.

  On Monday I said to Sam at band practice, “We should go see that martial arts movie you were talking about,” even though I knew that I wasn’t going to like it. We were talking about theaters and times when from across the garage Tom shouted, “We should just go on Friday,” and I was so annoyed for two reasons.

  Tom didn’t even know what movie we were talking about. Sam had only just told me about it that morning, and this was just supposed to be a me-and-him thing. Furthermore,

  I’d been hoping that Tom and I could go on an actual date on Friday. We
’re with Sam all the time, and I really love being with Sam, but I’d kinda like to make out with Tom.

  Not that I don’t also want to make out with Sam, but that’s a totally different problem, and the thing is I can make out with Tom, except that I can’t because of Sam.

  Anyway.

  I was really annoyed about all this, so I said, “Fine.” And I stalked over to my drums and started playing the drums part of “My Generation” really loud. Sam and Tom looked at each other and I got angrier. Eventually they joined in with me, but then Tom started changing up the melody, and then we all started going crazy with it and it got fun, and I forgot about being mad. For a while.

  Sam

  On Friday we all went to the Delmar Loop and saw the kung fu movie I’d told Ramona about. It was amazing. People who make fun of martial arts movies just haven’t seen the right one yet.

  This was the case with Tom.

  “Dude. Dude,” he said as we exited the theater. “Dude, I had no idea. I’d always written off martial arts as, well, not art.” It was dark out. The streets were crowded with people walking to and from ethnic restaurants and boutique stores. Tom kept stride with me; Ramona was walking a bit behind us. I could tell she hadn’t liked the movie. She was quiet too, and not telling us why she didn’t like it.

  “I’m not an aggressive guy, you know?” Tom continued. “Martial arts movies never interested me because I’m not interested in fighting. But for most of human history, fighting was a regular part of life. And somewhere along the way, some people made it art. They added these human values of technique and honor.”

  Up ahead, a group of transient kids sat in a row, leaning against the vintage record store. One of them strummed a guitar with a case open in front of him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ramona reach into her jeans pocket. Her face was uncharacteristically unexpressive, un-Ramona.

  “That movie was about respect and self-discipline,” Tom said. We stopped in front of the guitar case. Beside the guy with the guitar was a dreadlocked girl. One of her hands was in a mitten, and it rested on that guy’s knee. As we’d approached, I’d seen them share a smile. On the other side of her, another guy was resting his head on her shoulder. She was holding his hand too, and he was wearing the other mitten. They all looked a little older than twenty-one and had that gutter-punk smell of BO and pot. Tom and Ramona threw change into the guitar case. I didn’t think the guy was much good, so I didn’t feel obligated.

  “I’m gonna have to rethink my personal definition of art now,” Tom said as we walked away. “I love doing that.” Behind me I heard Ramona laugh a strange, quiet laugh.

  “We should get coffee Sunday morning,” I said. Tom never wakes up in the morning if he doesn’t have to. He never even considers the option.

  “Yeah,” Ramona said. “That sounds great.”

  “God, I wanna do that,” Tom said.

  “What?” I said.

  “I want to do what those guys are doing.” He motioned over his shoulder to the gutter punks. “I want to live out of a backpack for a few years, only own the necessities of living. And just live.”

  And then he went off on one of his ideological rants, the sort that normally leaves me inspired. But all I could think about was Ramona. And how she was walking so quietly.

  Tom

  I feel as if all the years of my life I have been

  slowly filling up with a force of nature.

  I feel as if my muscles have slowly been tightening,

  readying to pounce.

  All the places I’ve never been.

  All of the art I want to make.

  All of the changes I hunger to see.

  And all around me voices are telling me to wait, wait.

  Wait.

  But inside of me I hear, “Ready, set—”

  I want to run.

  I want to drive across America.

  I want to write.

  I want to make music like no one has ever heard.

  I’m ready. Let me go.

  Because I’m afraid if I don’t leave soon,

  the voices around me will grow hands

  that push and pull.

  And as I raise my foot to take my first step,

  the ground before me will turn into a path.

  A path with a maze of walls,

  a destination I cannot escape,

  a destiny I never desired.

  Why can no one believe in my fear?

  The safe and sane life terrifies me.

  I need freedom.

  I need chance, happenstance.

  I need to live a life of learning,

  a life that never reaches a final destination.

  I want to work.

  I want to make the world a better place.

  But I don’t want to do it by living the way most people choose.

  I want the choice to choose

  My Living.

  My Life.

  Ramona

  Sam and I go to what I think of as “our coffee shop.” It’s in one of those rough neighborhoods where people are buying up old houses and making them trendy and cute, but sometimes if you’re lucky, you’ll still come across people having inappropriate arguments in the street.

  The suburbs never have good people watching.

  Anyway.

  Our coffee shop always has art from some local artist on display. Usually it’s at least pretty okay, but today it’s awful. It’s the sort of photography where you suspect the guy was like, “Black and white makes it artsy!”

  “Okay,” I say as we sit down at a tiny café table. I point to the photo next to us, depicting a girl our age posing by some train tracks. “That was totally taken as a senior portrait.”

  “Probably. This is some pretty mediocre stuff,” Sam agrees.

  I’ve missed you, I think.

  “We haven’t hung out in a while. Without—”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  The guy behind the counter says, “Peterson!” and Sam gets up to grab our coffees. I watch his backside, thinking that I could always recognize him from behind.

  “So,” I say when he sits back down. “What’s been up with you?”

  Sam shrugs his one-shoulder Sam shrug.

  “Nothing you don’t already know about.”

  “Right.” My heart sinks. I grab four packets of raw sugar, pour them into my cup, and stir until a whirlpool forms strong enough to pull the liquid down deeply toward the middle even after I lift my spoon.

  We sip our coffees. My gaze wanders around the coffee shop. It’s never like this with us. Normally I can tell Sam anything.

  “And you’re…good?” he asks. He’s looking down at the table, stirring the sugar I spilled around and around.

  (His long, dark eyelashes.)

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m good.”

  “And you and Tom are…”

  “Good,” I say automatically. “Good. I mean—” I take too big a swallow and burn my tongue. I feel myself hold back a grimace. “Sometimes,” I say. I look up at Sam.

  He looks concerned and interested and gorgeous.

  (His eyelashes.)

  I look back down at the table.

  “Sometimes I wonder if he really wants to be with me,” I finally say.

  Sam

  Ramona, hyperactive and sweet. Jiggling her leg nervously under the table, worrying that someone wouldn’t want to be with her.

  “Of course he wants to be with you,” I said. He’s crazy about her. He’s always laughing at the things she says. He talks all the time about what a great musician she is, how cool she is.

  “It’s just, he—” She shrugged and swept the sugar off the table. “I can’t explain it. But he doesn’t seem that excited about. Being with me.”

  Ram
ona, unable to explain something for the first time in her life.

  Ramona, too wonderful to be able to comprehend how wonderful she is.

  “Some guys are just shy about these things,” I told her. “Some guys don’t want to seem pushy.”

  She nodded and shrugged at the same time. Ramona was always Ramona.

  “You and Tom aren’t exactly alpha males,” she said. The corners of her mouth turned up. “That’s why I like you both so much.”

  My heart was beating so hard. I knew this didn’t mean anything.

  “Just be. You know. Yourself. And Tom will get there,” I said and nodded, as if I’ve given her real advice.

  “Yeah,” she said. “You’re right. Thanks.”

  • • •

  I didn’t apply to Artibus. I didn’t apply.

  I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to major in music. I don’t want to struggle to have a career in music. I don’t need an exciting life, and I’m not sure if I’d want one. I’d like to travel, but not because I’m on tour. I want to be able to buy a nice enough house and have more than two kids. Maybe as many as four kids.

  I want to make music, but I want to make it because I want to, not because I have to. And sometimes, some days, it would be something I didn’t want to do. And that’s only if I was one of the lucky few who get to have a career.

  Ramona breathes music. Being a professional musician will be like being paid to be Ramona.

  And she’ll make it. She has the talent, and she has the drive.

  I only have some talent, and I just don’t have the drive.

  I know myself.

  I didn’t apply to Artibus. And I can’t tell Ramona.

  • • •

  “I’m really glad we did this,” she said to me as we stood up and carried our empty coffee mugs back to the counter. “I can talk to you about anything.”