How They Met, and Other Stories(46)
Author: David Levithan

I can’t believe—my mother, in her own quiet way,

is singing along.

Her mouth is moving with mine, she knows

all the words. I am almost thrown from

the second verse, because I am realizing how

deaf I have been. I have misinterpreted the

footsteps in the hallways. I have not seen or

listened or known. And I am near tears, looking

at Caleb, looking at my mother, because for a boy

who has been spending all his time on music,

it’s not until now that I know what a song can do.

The second refrain switches a little, but my mother

knows that. We are looking at each other right in the eye

and we are singing to the end

when you know me,

try not be frightened

when you see me,

look me in the eye

when you hear me,

listen to what I’m saying

when you speak to me,

tell me everything

is going to be fine

it’s going to be fine

the windows are closed

so we stumble to the doors

follow the sound of my voice

saying everything

is going to be fine

At first I don’t understand the applause, because

that’s not where I am. I am making a new song

out of my mother’s expression, the devotion

I’ve been too caught up to notice, and Caleb’s music,

the dancing that we’ll do.

This is what a song can do. Our moments are

music, and sometimes—just sometimes—

we can catch them and put them

into some lasting form. If I didn’t

have music, I don’t know if

I could ever be truly happy,

and if I didn’t have these moments,

I would never find music. It is everywhere,

in the air between us, waiting

to be sung.

WITHOUT SAYING

You are in her room, on her bed, as she paces angrily and tells you about Ridiculous Boyfriend #9 and their relationship, which (mercifully) has just ended. She is walking around the room as if she’s still in a race with him. She is telling you the story even though you’ve been hearing it all along.

In a few minutes, she’ll fall into the bed and laugh to the ceiling. She’ll wish you next to her, and you’ll comply. You’ll agree with her when she says that guys suck. She’ll say you don’t count. She’ll say you’re not like that.

You’re only half listening to her. Half listening and three-quarters watching. Ridiculous Boyfriend #9 was a snob, a jerk, too rich, too shallow, too straight, not enough of a pagan. Haven’t you said this all before? Hasn’t she?

You never say “I told you so,” because she knows that you did, and you know that she did it anyway.

“Arrrgh!” she yells in a mock fit of frustration. She’s the only person you know who says “arrrgh!” (Charlie Brown doesn’t count.) You calm her down. You offer her chocolate.

Does it go without saying that you love her?

Yes, of course it goes without saying.

Milo does not notice Ramona at first. She’s like the rest of Michelle’s friends. None of them can believe that Michelle is having a Sweet Sixteen. Milo was invited because they needed more boys. But he seems more interested in the centerpieces than in the girls.

Ramona sees him staring at the tulips. He senses he’s being watched and blushes.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says.

“Tulips,” he says. “In January.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. Her eyes move to the dance floor, where Michelle is making out with Alex Park.

“She’ll end the night pregnant,” Ramona observes.

“Good thing I got her a stroller for a present,” Milo says.

She doesn’t even look at him.

“That’s an expensive gift,” she says.

“Only the best for my little girl.”

They both look back to Michelle, whose bra strap is showing. It’s bright pink.

“You don’t belong here, and neither do I,” Milo says.

They leave the ballroom and head to a couch in the hotel lobby. The conversation begins. It lasts for more than two weeks. Milo and Ramona can’t seem to keep their words off each other. Ramona especially. She is surprised—surprised and pleased—by the intensity of this new whatever-it-is. She enjoys their whatever-we’re-doing, although the is-this-or-isn’t-it nature sometimes confuses her. She waits for a sign. Then she looks harder. He calls her his “brand-new friend” and she can’t help but wonder, Is that it? Then she is ashamed of her ungratefulness. Because what she needs more than anything else is, in fact, a brand-new friend.

You wish you could undo your love for him. It’s awkward. It’s embarrassing. You can’t tell anyone about it, because even the fact of it would alter things—perhaps irreparably.

You wonder if he knows. You pray that he doesn’t. You want him to read your mind. You send him messages. The telepathy never works.

You try to fall for other people, because maybe he’ll like you then.

He tries to set you up with one of his friends. Jim, you’re told, is interested in philosophy. Your philosophy, you tell him, is to not be interested in Jim. Because—it’s true—Jim blows his nose more often than normal people do. He laughs (his remarkable laugh) and jokes about your ridiculous standards. “There’s nothing standard about your standards,” he says, and you say that someday your prince will come. More than anything, you want him to reply, “But what if your prince is right under your nose?” Instead he says, “Well, as long as he’s not one of those deposed princes….”

You wish he’d get a clue. But you’re not about to give him one.

You wish he weren’t such a prince. You wish he were a frog.

Milo confesses his love to Ramona. (Ramona imagines this as she walks to the subway.) He proclaims, declaims, and just plain claims. He compares his love to oxygen and then describes her in terms of fire. He confesses that she mixes his metaphors and pervades his imagery. He has seen their future written in clouds, transcribed in dreams. His feelings are unanimous, and his friends are, too: He must be with Ramona. He says this—he says it all aloud. Then he turns off the shower and gets ready for dinner. (Note: she does not picture him explicitly in the shower. It’s steamy. She can’t really see anything.) Ramona will be coming over in twenty minutes.

He, who is rarely befuddled, cannot decide what to wear. (She goes through the options as she boards the train and it moves forward.) He puts on a tie, and figures that’s too formal. He puts on a T-shirt, and feels it’s not enough. Blue isn’t right and red makes his eyes look stoned. He puts on a turtleneck, rolls up the sleeves, puts them back down. He looks at his watch. He makes sure his phone is on, just in case she calls. (Ramona smiles as she steps out of the subway.) He continues to clean the kitchen, happy his parents won’t be home for hours. There is a single glass in the sink. He washes it, puts it in the dishwasher, looks at his watch. She is late. His heart feels trepidation. Then he remembers his watch is fast. He checks himself in the mirror again. He switches his shirt, and then changes out of jeans. “Ramona…,” he rehearses. He proofreads himself, again in the mirror. He doesn’t like the way his mouth looks when he speaks. (She loves his mouth, lingers on it for a second.) He tries to say “Ramona” with his mouth shut. He hears footsteps. He composes himself, opens the door. It is someone he’s never seen before, heading to another apartment. (Ramona rings the buzzer.) The buzzer rings. It startles him. His feet lift in the air. No, they just feel like they’re lifting in the air. “Ramona?” he asks as he presses the TALK button. And now LISTEN. It is her. (Ramona pictures him expectant.) He closes the dishwasher. He looks at his reflection. He repeats her name. There is so much he has to say. (She knocks. He opens the door.)