How They Met, and Other Stories(43)
Author: David Levithan

Finishing her calculations, Sallie finally computed that the stress and strain of a romantic bond with James would be merely a waste of power, damaging the caring she had for him in the past.

She did not want the universe’s ever-growing entropy to interfere with her love life.

And thus, James drifted out of the focus of Sallie Brown’s affections.

And, in an action so simultaneous that many scientific minds would have been baffled, James Helprin took Sallie out of his romantic-life equation. He knew the friction of a merging of their hearts wouldn’t be beneficial. It would be theoretically and realistically wrong.

The next time they found themselves looking at each other, James and Sallie both smiled.

In the end, friendship was proven to be the dominant force. The head and the heart were found to be the joint sources of true romance.

It has been demonstrated.

WHAT A SONG CAN DO

If I didn’t have music, I don’t know

if I could ever be truly happy.

Happiness is music to me. Like when

I am in Caleb’s room, playing

my guitar for him, watching him

close his eyes to listen and knowing

he understands what I am

singing. That is all I need

to make a room full of happiness—

two boys, one love, and a song.

I think the reason my parents wanted me

to play classical music was because

it didn’t have any words. They would keep me

as a sound, not a voice. But I had

other ideas. I blew off the recorder,

did not bow to the violin, benched the piano, saved

up for a guitar. Then I used it to write

love songs for boys, and sad songs for love.

I sang myself to find myself

in a language far from my parents’

expectations. I taught myself the strings,

the chords, the fretting. But I did not

have to teach myself the words.

They’d always been there, notes to myself,

waiting for the music to bring them out.

All I had to do was recognize the possible

music and the songs were everywhere.

It is not something I have control over,

no more than I can control the sights

that appear before my eyes. I will be staring off

in class, barely hearing the echo of

my teacher’s words, when suddenly

a verse will arrive free-form in my thoughts.

when I look out a window

I wish for you on the other side

even if you’re not there

I can see you in the clouds

As I transcribe the words in my notebook,

I can hear the sound of it in my head.

Many teachers have caught me strumming

an imaginary guitar, trying to find the chords

before they vanish with the next thought.

The first time I went out with Caleb,

this happened to me. We were talking

in the park, having a conversation that lasted

the afternoon and the evening,

finding all of our common coincidences,

baring some of our unfortunate quirks.

At one point he went to get us sodas,

leaving me with my thoughts and the trees.

I was elated to have found someone

who could be both interested and interesting.

My thoughts revealed themselves

in the terms of a song.

you could be

the leaf that never falls from the tree

you could be

the sun that never leaves the sky

this might be

the happy ending without the ending

this might be

a reason to try

When he returned to me, he had two bottles

in his hands, and I was making furious leaps

into my notebook, playing the ghost guitar

and singing solos to the birds around me.

I apologized, embarrassed to be caught

showing myself so early, but he said

it was charming, then asked me if I needed time

to finish my refrain. Perhaps it was because he said

something so perfect, or perhaps it was because

the song made me brave, but I asked him

if he wanted to hear it, and when he said yes,

I sang to him, accompanied only by

the guitar in my head and the beat

of my heart. When I was done, there was

a moment of absolute silence, and I felt

like the ground had been pulled out from under me

and I was about to fall far. But then the ground

came back, as he told me it was wonderful,

as he asked me to sing it to him again.

It is a sad fact of our present times

that it’s nearly impossible to turn on the radio

and hear a g*y boy with a guitar.

Where are the indigo boys, to show me the way?

Caleb teases me, because while

he has a g*y music collection—pop queens

and piano boys—I am, he insists, a closet

lesbian. So I play him some Dylan, some Joni,

some Nick Drake, and I tell him there is

room for me to sing about the two of us

tangled up in blue under a pink pink pink

pink moon. Music, like love,

cannot be defined, except

in the broadest of senses.

My father complains, my mother stays silent.

My father says it’s not the music he minds,

but that I play it so loud. They want me

to sing in the basement, but I can’t think

with the laundry and the cobwebs—

down there, all my songs begin to have

pipes. So I become a bedroom Cinderella

on a tighter deadline, allowed to sing loud

until the hour-hand tips the ten. Then I strum

softly, sing in a whisper.

I think they would like the songs better

if I left out the names, or changed

the pronouns.

No more danger.

Time’s a stranger.

When I’m in his arms.

In his arms.

He could break me.

But instead he wakes me.

When I’m in his arms.

In his arms.

I am not the first person

to avoid the second person.

But I am certainly the first person

to do it in my house.

I never thought I would end up with

someone who wasn’t possessed

by music in the same way I am.

I imagined a relationship of duets,

of you play me yours and I’ll

play you mine. Caleb doesn’t

even listen to the music I like. He dances

instead, frees himself that way

while I prefer the quieter corners,

the blank pages. Part of my music

is being alone, having that time

to shut down all the other noises

to hear the tune underneath.

Sometimes I retreat when he

wants me most. Sometimes

he wants me most when I

retreat. I will let the phone ring,

let the IM blink, and he will know

that I am there, not realizing I am

also in another place. I still sing him