“Sure it is,” she teased. Then she leaned over and rested her head upon my shoulder. My right arm was propped on the couch armrest, and the wooden frame was jabbing into my ribs. In fact, I’d been about to shift positions just before this new circumstance arose. But now, I had the endurance of a hundred men, the strength of a bull, and the body of Eduardo, the X-rated puzzle man.
I held out my left hand, palm up, and prayed, never taking my eyes off the screen. A moment later, skin met skin, and her hand was in mine. I closed my fingers, and she did the same. My heart pounded.
I gave her hand a squeeze.
She squeezed back.
EIGHTEEN
BEFORE LEAVING HOME FRIDAY NIGHT, I RECEIVED A FULL-SCALE psychological evaluation, interrogation, and downright cross-examination from my mom. She folded laundry while I leaned on the doorframe, answering questions that came in rapid-fire succession.
“Who’s going to be there?” she asked.
“Dylan, and his two friends, Axl and Novie,” I answered.
“Will an adult be there?”
“Yeah, Dylan’s sister, Maggie. She’s, like, twenty-four.”
“No parents?”
“Dylan’s parents are spending the summer in India.”
“And left him alone?”
“Like I said, his sister will be there.”
“Will there be alcohol?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’m not bringing any.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Mom replied, sounding slightly irritated. “How do I know the other kids won’t be drinking?”
“I guess you don’t know. I’m not going there to drink. I’m going there to hang out and play music.”
“Will Rose be there?”
“No. I asked her, but she has to practice for her piano lesson tomorrow.”
“I see.”
“You see?”
My mom turned to face me with an “I know something you haven’t learned yet” look that made me feel about six years old. “Yes, I see. And you’ll be needing the car, I suppose?”
“I can’t ride my bike across town carrying a guitar. Plus, it’ll be dark on the way home.”
“Oh, it will? And how long do you plan on staying?”
“I don’t know, until we’re done jamming.”
“Try ten o’clock.”
“Ten?! How about midnight?”
“Ten.”
“Eleven.”
“Ten.”
“Ten thirty.”
“Ten.”
Apparently going on dates with Rose = safe and harmless; jamming with friends = dangerous and deadly. Finally, I conceded and threw my guitar in the back seat and drove across town to Dylan’s. Halfway there I began to feel nervous, as if the whole idea was a huge mistake. I wished Rose was going to be there; she always found a way to put me at ease. I’d be seeing her Sunday though. I still needed to come up with a surprise, but I had all day Saturday for that.
I pulled up to Dylan’s house and parked on the street. A rusted Ford pickup truck that had once been red but had faded to a dull, orangish hue sat in the driveway. In the bed of the truck, a large black speaker cabinet lay on its side. Various shiny metal stands, which I assumed belonged to a drum kit, sat in a pile next to the speaker. Suddenly, I felt ill equipped for my first official jam session, having only my acoustic guitar with no amplifier or accessories whatsoever.
Too late to back out now, I thought.
I walked to the front door and knocked. Dylan’s sister, Maggie, greeted me and let me inside.
“How was BuffaloFest?” she asked while walking me through the kitchen to the basement stairs. I heard the muffled sounds of voices from below.
“It was cool. I met a ton of people.”
“I bet you did. D knows everybody.” Maggie stopped and pointed at me. “He didn’t go on his goldfish rant, did he?”
I laughed. “Yeah, maybe a little bit.”
“Oh, God, I don’t think he’ll ever let that go.” Maggie laughed and shook her head. “They’re all down there. Not too loud, okay?”
“No problem. Thanks again for the wristbands.”
“Sure thing.”
Half the basement had been sectioned off by two old couches and a couple of recliners. In the center, a wooden trunk had become a makeshift table, covered with stacks of magazines, printed lyrics, and a few open bags of chips. A drum kit sat half-assembled in the corner. Vampire Weekend played from a speaker where someone’s phone had been docked to the port on top.
“Zeus, what’s up, man!” said Dylan, waving to me from one of the couches. “Axl, Novie, this is the guitar player I was telling you about.”
“Hey guys,” I replied. I felt naked standing there with just my acoustic guitar. I wished I at least had a carrying case for it, or an amp.
“What’s up, Zeus?” asked Novie. She lay on the other couch, a Drummer’s Digest magazine spread across her stomach. White-blond hair fanned her face, the tips looking like they’d been dipped in a purple inkwell.
“Hey, man,” said Axl, who sat cross-legged on the floor beneath her. He shared the same fair hair and wide cheekbones as his twin, and both had inherited Letty’s crystal-blue eyes.
“Have a seat,” Dylan said, making room for me on the couch. Agatha lay on the floor in front of him, looking exhausted from her day of being a dog.
“So, Zeus,” Axl began, “where do you get a name like that? Your parents into Greek mythology or something?”
“Let me guess,” said Novie. “You have a sister named Aphrodite and a brother named Poseidon.”
“I wish.” I laughed. “My brother’s name is Manuel Thor Gunderson, no joke. I call him Grub. Mine’s even worse—Jesús Bjorn Gunderson, so I go by Zeus.”
“Right on, makes sense,” Axl said.
“Yeah, my mom basically cursed us in the name department,” I replied. “Speaking of that, what’s up with Axl and Novie?”
The twins gave each other a look, one I realized they had shared many times.
“Perhaps I can explain in song,” said Dylan. He flipped on an amp, grabbed a guitar, and began to sing. “Nothing lasts forever, and we both know hearts can change. And it’s hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain.”
“Stop!” Novie covered her face with a pillow as if to smother the song out of her head. Dylan played a little lick on guitar and laughed.
“Wait, really?” I said, starting to put the puzzle together.
“Really,” said Axl. “Meet November Rain Gunther, aka Novie.”
“And that would make you Axl Rose Gunther?” I asked.
“Haha!” Novie pointed and laughed at her brother from under the pillow.
“I thought Jesús Bjorn was bad,” I said.
“It’s pretty bad,” said Axl.
“Definitely stick with Zeus,” said Dylan.
“So your parents are huge Guns N’ Roses fans, I take it?” I asked.
“Mom is, yeah. She used to be, anyway,” said Novie. “She had a thing for eighties bands.”
“To our everlasting shame,” Axl added.
“Your mom . . . So that’s Letty’s granddaughter, right? Crash?” I asked.
“That’s her, Christy ‘Crash’ Liszieski,” said Novie. “‘The crazy skips every other generation, so we didn’t get it.”
“Yep, no crazy here,” said Axl.
“Right. No crazy here at all,” said Dylan, thick on the sarcasm.
“Dylan doesn’t get to be in our Horrible Names Club,” said Novie.
“Really? Come on! I was named after a poet, doesn’t that count for anything?”
The two other members of the Horrible Names Club and I shook our heads no.
“Dammit,” said Dylan.
“I’m also a proud Mexiwegian,” I pointed out. “Beat that.”
“Mexiwegian?” Novie asked.