He shrugs his shoulders. “I wasn’t in a rush. I’m still that way, actually. It’s not always a good thing.” He stops talking for a second, like he wants to think about what he just said, and then he says, “It’s just about relaxing and not overthinking things. Just letting things happen naturally.”
But I can’t relax because I am in a rush. I don’t have time to wait for the best lyrics to pop into my head. I’m starting to wonder if I picked the wrong partner for the contest because whenever I think of an idea, Gavin tells me it’s no good. I thought Dad was a tough audience but he’s usually tougher about the music than the lyrics.
Speaking of Dad, I haven’t had a chance to show him my song yet because he’s been getting home so late each day and then he’s busy in the studio finishing up his projects. I really want to make sure I’m writing a song that will go deep into his system, because his system is a good test for other people’s systems, because he’s been doing music so long.
But right now I’m stuck with Gavin. He said some nice things about my song and some not-so-nice things but I can only think about the not-so-nice things. I’m wondering if I can ever give Dad or Gavin or anyone else a strong feeling.
And now I’m hearing someone else’s voice in my head. It’s Gavin’s voice and it’s not just in my mind, he’s humming a song, and it takes me a few seconds to realize that the song is mine, my chorus. It sounds so real coming out of his mouth and so pretty and it makes my arms tickle and the feeling goes up my back and into my head and all over my face.
“You’re going to sing the song,” I say.
“What?”
“When we’re in the studio. You have to, it sounds so good, and I can’t sing, not like you.”
I’ve listened to the album Dad and Gavin made many times and it sounds very messy but Gavin’s voice makes you feel like you’re listening to something important.
“Joan, I haven’t sung in almost twenty years. I don’t think it would be any good.”
“Dad’s recording it, so it’ll be great.”
Gavin doesn’t say anything else and that’s fine, because I know that sometimes saying nothing is as good as saying Okay or Yes or You know what, Joan Lennon, that’s the best idea I’ve ever heard.
“What color tie was he wearing?” Gavin asks.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to do another Sydney memory today, but I’m learning that if you want Gavin to do things, like help you write your song and also sing it, you have to keep pushing him.
“Black,” I say. “Sydney is wearing a black tie.”
Saturday, March 14, 2009: Mom and Dad and Sydney are dressed up real fancy and my babysitter is listening to Mom’s instructions. Sydney looks at my pajamas, which have different color hearts on them, and he says, “Miss Joan, where did you get those?” and I say, “I don’t know, my mom got them for me,” and he says, “I have the same ones at home,” and I say, “Really?” and he just smiles and that’s when I know he’s joking. I smell something minty and I see that he has gum in his mouth. I ask him for a piece and he hands me one and he says, “Five dollars,” and that’s another joke and this time I know it right away. But then I’m not so sure because Sydney says, “It’s all right, you can owe me.” He’s holding a big white envelope that’s too big for his pocket and this time he’s wearing socks, but he doesn’t seem too happy about it because he keeps reaching down and pulling the socks up.
“I wanted to go to that wedding,” Gavin says, after I share it all with him. “That’s how you know you really like someone. You want to be their date at some stranger’s wedding.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
“We’d been dating only a few months. Syd wasn’t ready to show me off to his old friends. He didn’t trust me.”
“Why not?”
“Because men—” He stops. “We tend to change our minds a lot. He wanted to make sure I was serious.”
“Like when I asked my parents for my own guitar and they wanted me to use one of Dad’s guitars first to make sure I was going to stick with it and not get bored of it after a week like I did with the indoor trampoline Grandpa bought me.”
“Exactly,” Gavin says, winking, which I’m jealous of because every time I try to blink just one eye, both eyes end up blinking. “For the first few weeks Syd never let me sleep over. Every night, he’d kick me out.”
“That’s mean.”
“I thought so. But it made it even more satisfying when he finally let me stay. Anyway, please go on.”
I drink some more lemonade because I’m not used to talking for so long. I’m wondering how Mom does it, how she stands in front of her class and speaks all day. “Everyone says good-bye and then they leave for the wedding.”
“Was it cold out?” Gavin says. “Were they wearing jackets?”
“Yeah. Sydney is wearing a long coat that has a belt attached, which I think is pretty cool. And he’s carrying a pair of headphones, a kind I’ve never seen before.”
I draw a little sketch in my journal so Gavin sees what I mean:
“Those weren’t headphones,” Gavin says, moaning a little. “His ears were always cold. He’d wear that thing around Los Angeles. Can you imagine?” He starts laughing. “One time we were parking the car and the valet said, ‘Sir, you dropped your headband.’”
He’s cracking up now. I’m almost laughing too because laughs can be contagious, but I wish I knew what was so funny. When Gavin finishes his laughing party, he crosses his arms and closes his eyes and says, “When did you see him next?”
“The next morning it takes a long time for the grown-ups to get out of bed. Dad wakes up first and he cooks crepes and I’m very excited because Dad is very good at making breakfast. I ask Dad what we’re doing today and he says when Sydney wakes up he’s going to get back to setting up the studio, which is almost finished. Then Mom wakes up and Sydney wakes up too. He comes through the door and it looks like he’s been up for a while because he’s already dressed and he’s wheeling his suitcase across the floor. He comes into the kitchen and he says ‘Good morning.’”
“Good morning,” Gavin says. His eyes are still closed. I don’t know what to say back, so I keep going with the memory.
“And then Dad asks if he wants a crepe and Sydney says, ‘I shouldn’t—’”
“‘—but I will.’”
Gavin is right. That’s what Sydney said. “And then Dad asks how he likes his coffee and Sydney says, ‘A splash of cream and a mound of sugar.’”
“You should really cut the sugar,” Gavin says.
“What?” I say.
“Use the stevia,” Gavin says. “You just have to get used to the taste.”
I look around the courtyard but there’s nobody else here and that’s when I realize who Gavin is talking to.
“What time will you be home?” Gavin says.
I keep quiet and listen.
“We’ll be shooting late tonight but maybe we can do breakfast. I’ll bring it to you in bed. I don’t want you to get up. You can skip it, can’t you? Just lie there and don’t move and I’ll make you whatever you want. Would you do that for me? Stay in bed? Just this once?”