Author's Note: I was away the past several days at a music festival without computer or Internet, so I was unable to update. I hope you'll forgive me, and that you enjoy the new chapter.
"You fucking volunteered me? What am I, your slave to loan out whenever you want?" I would have threatened anyone else with my scissors at this point, but this was Beck, so he had ten seconds to explain before I pulled them out.
"I didn't volunteer you. I said you probably wouldn't mind helping him out, and that he should talk to you. Did he?" Not intimidated in the least, my boyfriend leaned against the locker above his.
"Yes, which is why I'm here!"
"Will you help him?"
"Yes, but that's not the point!"
"The point is that I suggested to my friend where he might find good help with his song." Beck's tone is patient as always. "You would have been offended if I had suggested anyone else besides you instead, as well."
I cracked my knuckles. I loved the slight pain, the popping sound, and it was something to do while I was thinking of a good response.
"Come on, you know I'm right. Give me a make-up hug now." He adjusted the strap of his backpack on his shoulder and held his arms out. With a slight huff, I stepped into them, and Beck pressed a kiss to my temple.
"You're a great writer and singer, babe. Who better to help him with lyrics and record it?"
"Flatterer," I mumbled into his chest.
Still, by the time I got to the music room after school after three hours of rehearsal for Sikowitz's latest play, I was pissed again. Sinjin was nursing an injured butt from sitting on my scissors, and a sore shin from where I kicked him in revenge. I was nursing my poor bent scissors, but it wouldn't fix them, so I eventually speared a—something-or-other hanging on the wall with them, and Beck knew enough to stay out of my way.
The fact that Andre barely had any lyrics didn't improve my mood.
"I was told I'd be helping you finish and record your song. Not write the entire thing."
"Jade, you think I'd ask for help if I could do it by myself?" He took several steps back, keeping the keyboard between him and me.
I huffed, slinging my bag on the floor. "Just show me what you've got."
He always looked more comfortable with an instrument. Natural habitat and all that. The instrumental part of the song was fantastic, but what little he had of the lyrics was horrifyingly generic.
"Dude, the music is slow and intimate. The word 'babe' does not belong there. This is not a cliché pop song. Advanced Songwriting. Keyword: advanced."
"I didn't know what to write, Jade!" He got this slightly frantic note to his voice that I'd noticed in his grandmother's as well when she was flipping out. Which was pretty much always.
"We've established that. Now let's try something new. Start with the chorus. That's the core of your song, anyways."
An hour or so yielded nothing. I relented and told him to write whatever he felt like, verses, chorus, bridge, whatever, as long as he was actually writing something. His grandmother chose that moment to interrupt.
The ringtone split our frustrated silence, both of us raising our heads from out respective notepads.
"Ah, I gotta take this." Andre flipped open his phone. "Hi Grandm-"
"ANDRE!" I could hear her voice easily as I sat behind the piano across from him, and he winced, holding the phone away from his ear. "ANDRE! WHERE ARE YOU? THERE'S A BUNCH OF WORMS IN MY REFRIGERATOR!"
"Grandma, that's just-"
"ANDRE! I'M AFRAID THEY'RE MAGGOTS! THEY'RE GONNA EAT ME!"
"GRANDMA, THAT'S JUST SPAGHETTI! I MADE IT FOR YOU FOR DINNER!" Now Andre was shouting, too, and I shot him a glare, bringing my hands up to my ears to shield them.
"OH. YOU WANT ME TO PUT THEM IN THE WARMING BOX?"
"Yes, Grandma. Turn the dial to '1'." He had apparently gotten the message, lowering his voice again.
"OKAY ANDRE! WHEN ARE YOU GONNA BE HERE?"
"I don't know, Grandma. I told you I gotta finish my song for school. I don't know how long it's gonna take. You might have to put yourself to bed tonight."
"BUT WHO'S GONNA CHECK UNDER MY BED FOR MONSTERS?"
Andre sighed. "I'll try to be there before you go to bed, Grandma. Just eat your dinner."
"OKAY ANDRE."
He hung up, a slight grimace flashing across his face, but only for a moment. "Sorry about that."
I shrugged slightly. "What do you want to do about it?"
"I don't want to do anything. I love her. She's my grandma."
I hadn't intended my previous (rhetorical) question to be any kind of criticism or suggestion, but let him take it however he wanted to. "You don't have to pretend." I wear my cynicism proudly.
"I'm not pretending!" He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "What can I do so people will believe me? Not everyone is like you, Jade."
"I just think they won't admit it. But sure, keep deluding yourself."
Shaking his head, he set his fingers on the keyboard and played the melody to the verse. "Da-da, Da-da, Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm mistaken for a deeper scar, A hole in your heart, And the same for me..."
Trailing off, he scribbled the few words down.
"Not bad."
"Yeah. It's not a whole verse, but..."
"Play it again. Maybe we can add something."
He nodded, settling his fingers on the keys again.
"So there, you are, mistakenly mistaken for a deeper..." I broke off my halfhearted song with a shake of my head. "God, that's crap." I could feel my cheeks heat up at having spouted that, in front of a semi-cool guy like Andre no less. Damn my Irish grandmother for passing on her insanely pale skin, so my embarrassment is impossible to hide.
"It's better than nothing." He shrugged slightly. "I'll put it down and we can change it if we think of something better."
Grudgingly, I sort of hummed the words, but nothing new came for me. I've never been able to put words to music too well, unless it was metal.
"And the same for me..." Andre sang the last part of the verse we had, continuing with just a hum as he found no more words. "Dang."
"Well, cursing won't get us anywhere—wait, did they say anything about the rating of the song?"
Andre shook his head. "No, but I'm not putting any cuss words in my song. I don't want 'em there, and like you said, this song is slow and intimate. You gotta be gentle." He added, hesitantly, "As much as you can, Jade."
I felt my nostrils flare in irritation. "I can be gentle." Nobody gets to predict me.
"'Course you can. I'm sure you are with Beck." His tone was flippant, as if he wasn't intending to continue that conversation. His fingers glided across the keys as he hummed again. "Is everything you touch keeping you down, or setting you free?"
"Works for an end to that verse. Do the bridge now."
I had hoped to come up with something good for the bridge, something sweet and gentle to prove I could, but nothing really came. He didn't do too well either, though, until his grandmother called again, up in arms about a spy drone in the house (new flash: it was a fly). Then he spouted something about the sun and birds and dreams, sounding slightly psychedelic. It worked, though, for a somehow surreal love-ish song. You'd almost think he thrived on his grandmother's craziness.
Andre's phone rang for the third time during our session that night.
"Grandma, what is it now?"
"ANDRE! IT'S TIME FOR BED! WHERE ARE YOU?"
"I'm still at school. I have to finish my song. You're gonna have to tuck yourself in tonight."
"BUT WHAT IF THERE ARE MONSTERS UNDER MY BED?"
"Grandma, remember what I told you about using a flashlight? Stand by your dresser and shine the light under the bed. You see anything?"
"HOLD ON! I'LL GO GET A FLASHLIGHT!"
Andre grimaced slightly, avoiding my eyes. I crossed one arm over my chest, tapping my pencil on my notepad and trying to ignore the freakishness. Even my nine-year-old little brother didn't need anyone to check under his bed anymore.
"I GOT A FLASHLIGHT, ANDRE!" Did the woman have a volume dial at all?
"Okay, Grandma, stand by your dresser. Turn the flashlight on and point it under the bed. Do you see anything?"
"NO! I'M BLIND! THE FLASHLIGHT IS SHINING IN MY EYE!"
"Turn the flashlight around, Grandma!"
"OH. NO, I DON'T SEE ANYTHING!"
"See, Grandma, so there are no monsters under there."
I just shook my head and put my head in my hands, laying it down on my lap.
"I GUESS SO!"
"I'll see you tomorrow morning for breakfast, Grandma."
"OKAY ANDRE! GOOD NIGHT!"
"Good night, Grandma."
Beck's best friend set his cell phone down on the keyboard and stared at me. "You don't have to be so subtle." He spoke sarcasm—one of his good points.
"Hey, I could have shouted back at her."
"Yeah, you could've. You could've also shown a bit more respect."
"Yeah, I know she lost her mind." My mouth twitching, I looked down at my notepad. It the most of an apology he'd get from me. "So how about the other verse? Do we want to add something about how the speaker first met this other guy? Some mush about everything being worse when they're gone, so fucked up, not sure if the whole relationship is wrong or right..."
"I thought this wasn't supposed to be cliché." He leaned back in his chair, looking at me.
"There's a difference between being cliché and using tropes. Look it up sometime."
He sighed, loudly. "I guess I could make something out of that."
And he did. It was slightly awe-inspiring to see the song take shape in front of me. He could take an idea and unravel it and weave the threads into something familiar, but still new, still his own. I swear, the boy was a magician with an instrument and a few words. A little like Beck with his roles. Just a little.
But then his muse dried up again, from one moment to the next. He had a song, almost, but without a chorus. A song with a huge, gaping hole in it. I tried my little trick that sends tingles up and down your fingers and across your palm. It always helped Beck to refocus, but Andre wasn't Beck. It didn't do shit.
Finally, I just decided to push him.
"Uh… my favorite letter's J. Tuna fish filet; I'm gonna wash my dog with some blue shampoo."
The melody thrummed through my head. The rhythm. If I changed it up a little, just a little, it might fit… "It" being a short poem I had written a long time ago, back when I first decided I was okay with being in love with Beck Oliver.
For once, I acted on am impulse, ignoring my instinct to keep this locked away like most of my other personal things. I took pity on him, if you will. The song was due within two days and counting, and he was Beck's best friend.
"Let me try something. Record me." I had to concentrate on keeping my voice steady and slow as I sang. Still, a rasp crept in as I thought about Beck, and tried to avoid choking on my words.
I thought I successfully kept my own expression neutral as I took off the headphones again, ignoring the "Oh God why did I just do that" running through my head, the words beating a sharp staccato in time with my pulse.
"What did you think?"
Andre simply stared at me. It took me a moment to decipher his expression. Shock and admiration. It felt good. It wasn't an expression I had seen in a while, to be honest—people tend to get used to you having talent, once you've shown them a few times—and it was nice to have it directed at me again.
"You like that?" I grinned. I couldn't help myself. But everyone knew that what happened at night at Hollywood Arts stayed there, so I let myself smile for real.
"Mmmm-hmmm." His voice sounded slightly choked. He still looked stunned. I felt a little smug, but I just dipped my head and nodded, still trying to process how it felt—to be a little less prickly, a little more personal, and a little more appreciated because of it.
Things moved smoothly for the rest of the evening. Andre never quite lost the shell-shocked look, but we recorded several decent takes, and then headed our separate ways. Andre mixed them on his own, and then e-mailed the song to me later (though he was really strange about not wanting to listen to it together). I was happy with it, which doesn't happen often.
His e-mail that accompanied the song, though, was almost indecipherable. It looked like he had just rattled it down and hit "send" without bothering to give it a second glance.
"Hey, Jade." I read it aloud to myself sitting on my bed with my laptop open.
"Hope you like it. I mean, I know you don't like much. I think you did real good. Actually, I think you did fantastic."
I shook my head, muttering to myself. "Andre thinks everyone is fantastic, even amateur Tori Vega. That says nothing."
I resumed reading. "That doesn't mean that I like you or anything. I mean, I like you. I think you're cool and all. You're a great friend. Thanks for helping me with my song. Well, it's kind of your song, too, since you came up with the chorus and all. I didn't know you could write song lyrics like that. They were real sweet. I didn't know you could be anything besides scary. You should do that more. Be sweet, I mean."
"Really, Andre? The hell does this have to do with the song? He was being so weird earlier." I cracked my knuckles idly.
"But I like it when you're not sweet, too. I mean, I don't really like it, but uh anyways I hope you like the song and thanks again. For helping me. Thank Beck for suggesting you should help me I can't do this." I slowed and reread the last line just to make sure I had it right. "The hell?"
It wasn't signed; he had remembered to attach the file, though I didn't open it immediately.
His Slap page was also plastered with weirdness. "I have nothing to talk about this week. Nope. Nothing. I don't have a crush on anybody! Stop asking me! Ahhh! I'm going wonky over here!"
I shook my head. "Probably just some of his grandmother's crazy leaking onto him."
It had happened before. His grandmother's bad days meant Andre's bad days, and sometimes when he was feeling especially stressed I could see the familial and mental resemblance. I never said it to his face, though. The "wonk," as he put it, usually cleared up within a week or so, tops. So I assumed that was what happened.
He looked at me strangely the next few days, especially during the concert that Friday night, but it wore off and I never paid it any mind. After all, anyone with a crush on me would have to be really messed up.
And yes, I'm aware of what that says about Beck. The statement is still valid.