How They Met, and Other Stories(45)
Author: David Levithan

I reach out my hand to say I’m sorry.

He takes it, but gives nothing else away.

That night I go to the basement and play loud

enough to wake the neighbors, but not loud enough

to wake myself. I once read some guy who said

we listen to songs to figure them out, to unravel

the mystery of the words and the tune. I am writing

in order to unravel myself, to find out what

exactly I’m doing, and why.

the windows are closed

but the family’s still inside

lighting candles in the blackout

walking by the glow

I’m singing to myself. I’m singing to him.

I am standing on the street

the lamplights are a darkness

I’ve lost my sense of direction

I have nowhere to go

what do I know?

The next day I return to my bedroom, leaving

only for food, and barely any of that. I sing

the whole day away, playing the guitar

when my voice leaves me, using my desk

as a drum when my fingers start to hurt

from the strings.

the windows are closed

but I can feel you on the other side

from the dark of my bedroom

you’re just out of reach

At midnight I hear someone outside my door,

hovering. I yell GO AWAY in an ugly voice.

The someone goes away without a word,

but the hallway light stays on.

I am pressing on the walls

no stars around to guide me

I’ve lost my sense of direction

falling into the breach

what do I know?

He doesn’t call. I know

he is waiting for me to call.

But I don’t, and I don’t

even know why.

On Sunday my mother finally finds

the courage to stick her head in.

She asks me if everything is okay,

and I laugh.

Monday is the night I am supposed to play at

the open mic. I’m ready to abandon it, but

people keep stopping me in the halls, telling me

they’ll be there. I shouldn’t have come

to school. I see Caleb before history and can tell

he’s upset, or maybe angry, or maybe both.

He asks me what’s going on, and again I use

the least appropriate word, which is

nothing. He asks me if I’m ready

for tonight, and if I still need a ride, and I say no,

and yes. We don’t know what to do

with each other, except make plans.

I stay late in the abandoned stairs

by the auditorium, practicing. I’ll have

three songs to make an impression,

so I play at least a dozen trying to figure out

which three. As I sing, I realize

how much I miss him. As if the boy

who wrote the words is reaching

across time to point me back

in the right direction. He’s saying

either you were wrong when you wrote this, or

you are wrong now. I close my eyes, I sing

a song that was not for a stranger

When I’m in his arms.

I feel that I could fit

in this world

for now.

I feel that I could love

this world

for now.

No other places.

As life embraces.

When I’m in his arms.

In his arms.

and I see him.

There’s no song that says what I have to

say to him, but it feels like a song,

in that it is something I must express—

there are words inside of me that I must

release. He picks me up at the school,

his radio blaring, and when I turn it down

he shoots me a look. And I tell him I missed

him. I tell him I missed him when he was

on the dance floor, and in our silence

ever since. I tell him our music doesn’t

have to be the same, and he tells me

he already knew this, but wasn’t sure

if I ever could. He says he doesn’t know

if he could ever make me as happy

as finding the right word, the right bridge,

the perfect refrain. And I tell him that music

cannot be separated from life, that you

can’t have one without the other, that

he is my love song as much

as anyone can be. But I am still not sure

that I can be his dance. He parks the car and

kisses me softly and says this is the dance

and I kiss him hard and say this is the song.

Because all of the chords are in a crescendo

and he is their source.

When I show up at the coffee place I see

my friends have arrived on time, which is

nothing short of a miracle. It makes me feel

like I belong to something, that somehow

I have drawn these people together to hear me,

because I know they wouldn’t be here together

without me. That means so much.

I am the second act on the list, so while

the first singer torches some standards, I make

a quick dive to the restroom. When I emerge,

Caleb is waiting for me. I can see he’s nervous

on my behalf, which makes me want to kiss him

again (so I do). He looks surprised, and

before I can ask why, he tells me my mother

is here. And sure enough, I look over his shoulder

and there she is. Without missing a beat, she

waves. I am now nervous on my own

behalf. I ask Caleb what she’s doing here,

and he says I think she’s come to see her son sing.

I hear my name over the low-grade speakers

that have been set up. I hear the cappuccino machine

burping behind the counter, the sound of mugs

settling on formica, the murmur of strangers.

I stand up on the makeshift stage, really just

an area where the tables have been cleared away.

When I look to my side I can see Caleb

standing right there. And when I look to

the makeshift audience, I see my mother there,

a table to herself, nervous, too, and proud.

I tune for a moment and realize the song

I need most is the one I’ve just finished,

the one I played all weekend.

the windows are closed

but the family’s still inside

lighting candles in the blackout

walking by the glow

I am standing on the street

the lamplights are a darkness

I’ve lost my sense of direction

I have nowhere to go

what do I know?

As I sing to Caleb, I know that this song is

no longer about us. Or if it’s about us,

it’s not about now. I turn to my mother

as I hit the refrain

when you hear me,

listen to what I’m saying

when you see me,

look me in the eye

when you know me,

try not be frightened

when you speak to me,

tell me everything

is going to be fine

and the most astonishing thing happens, which at first