“What’s what like?”
“Being onstage. Performing in front of all those people.” When I glance over at him, Joel is staring up toward the sky, his face bathed in a glowing patch of sunlight. His blond mohawk cuts a line into the grass, his skin still flushed from the heat and exertion.
He takes a moment, and then his voice drifts toward the leaves. “Have you ever done something, and in that moment, you know you’re doing exactly what you’re meant to be doing?”
He says it with a surety I’ve never felt before, and in that moment, I ache for it. “Not really.”
“When we go onstage,” he continues, “and the kids sing our songs back to us . . . that’s what it’s like. That’s when I know I’m doing exactly what I was put on this Earth to do, because there’s no better feeling than that.”
I close my eyes, wishing for that kind of moment, wondering how it would feel, and doubting I’ll ever know. Rowan, my dad, guidance counselors, my academic advisor—they’ve all tried to help me discover what I want to do with my life, but maybe there’s nothing to find.
“Sorry,” Joel says after a while, “that was corny as shit. Adam can probably explain it better.”
My eyes are still closed when I shake my head. “That was perfect.”
When I sense him shift beside me, my eyes open and I find him propped on his elbow next to me. My gaze drifts to his lips, and mine begin to tingle with memories: him, kissing me inside Mayhem, outside Mayhem, in my car, on a truck, in a hallway.
He hasn’t made a move on me since Monday, and even though I’ve loved hanging out with him, I miss when we couldn’t be together for more than an hour or two before sneaking off somewhere to fool around. Now, it’s like the heat between us is gone, and all that’s left is his friendly smile and adorable laugh, which should be enough but isn’t.
I want to ask him why he isn’t kissing me, why he’s just hovering over me with his gorgeous lips and beautiful eyes, but then those lips open and he says, “Have you ever performed in front of a crowd before?”
“I had a few dance recitals,” I reluctantly answer, looking back to the leaves above us while remembering my dad with a video camera in his hand and my mom with a proud smile on her face. I only ever saw those smiles when I was dressed up like a plastic doll for recitals or parties or pictures. I never realized I was just a plaything to her until the year that she outgrew me.
“You dance?” Joel asks, and I shove my emotions back into the catacombs of my heart.
“Used to.”
“Why’d you stop?”
When my mom left, I grew to hate everything that reminded me of her. To this day, I still can’t stand the smell of coconut perfume or the taste of lemon meringue pie. She’s the reason I haven’t danced ballet since I was eleven years old, the reason I can’t bring myself to wear ballet flats even when they’re the height of college-girl fashion.
“Just grew out of it,” I say, rising to my feet to escape further interrogation. “You ready to head back to the bus?”
Joel doesn’t move to stand. Instead, his blue eyes track me from where he’s lying in the grass and he says, “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Shut me down every time I ask you something personal.”
“I don’t know anything personal about you,” I argue, citing it as evidence that it’s better this way. Instead, he takes it as a challenge.
“I used to draw,” he offers, and a line forms in my forehead.
“Huh?”
“I used to draw.” He pushes off the ground and rises to his feet, wiping the grass from his shorts. “Not many people know that about me. I used to paint a little too, but not as much. Music classes and art classes were pretty much the only reasons I stayed in school.”
“Why’d you quit doing it if you loved it so much?”
He straightens and says, “I’ll tell you if you tell me.”
After a moment, I offer a trade. “Tell me and draw me something, and we’ll call it a deal.”
Joel assesses me for a moment, and then he counters with, “When’s your birthday?”
“May thirtieth.”
“I’ll draw you something for your birthday. How’s that?”
I don’t know why I want him to draw me something, but I do. I want him to draw me something meant just for me, something I can keep. “Promise,” I demand, and he doesn’t hesitate.
“I promise.” The sincerity in his blue eyes tells me he means it.
“You first then,” I say.
“I quit because it just stopped mattering so much.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I used to draw mostly when I was alone, and I’m never alone anymore.”
I stare at him for a long moment before sighing and knowing it’s my turn. “I quit dancing because it was my mom’s dream, not mine.”
It’s not the entire truth, but it’s the closest I’ve ever told anyone.