Who Put This Song On? Read online

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  In her car headed back to the school, we shoulder dance to “Tainted Love,” one of our jams. I goofily sing along in a ridiculously terrible soprano until she’s begging me for mercy.

  “So, can we finally have a movie night this weekend? Before you get all intense again about finals like you were about PSATs.”

  “I was not intense!” she snaps, and I cower apologetically.

  “Some of us have to study, Morgan,” she says with a voice. “Straight As don’t just come easily to everybody.”

  It pinches. She’s right, but I never really thought about it.

  “I know, er,” I pivot, “I’m sorry, Meg, you’re totally right.”

  “There’s some things you don’t know about, too,” she snarks. “That was actually a really hard time for me. I didn’t want to talk about it then, but…” She shifts gears merging onto the freeway—though we’re getting off at the next exit. (This is the logic of our home.)

  I say, “Are you okay?” just as she’s starting to say, “I don’t know.” We let ourselves laugh at ourselves.

  (Do you know how many ways you can feel yourself exploding? That’s what living is like—you inflate, deflate, you ask and answer at the same time. Everything happens at the same time. That’s something I realized ever since I decided to keep existing.)

  “I think I’m okay now,” she explains, and my eyes soften with encouragement.

  “Good,” I say softly, “that’s good.” I don’t know what else to say—I want to go back to shoulder dancing, and I want to go back to September and be a better friend. “I’m sorry you were having a hard time. You know I’m always here if you want to talk.”

  “Yeah,” she says flatly, exhaling. “I’ll be fine.”

  I nod and take a deep breath, just trying to let my body exist without my mouth messing everything up. (Why do we do that thing, let ourselves lie to ourselves and each other? We act like it makes things simpler, but it doesn’t.)

  Back in the school parking lot, Meg parks next to my car, where James is sunning on the roof. My car has an excellent roof for sunning. Meg whistles at him and I stick out my tongue as we get out of her car and I collect my bounty.

  “Hello, dearies!” James shouts without opening his eyes.

  “Time to wake up, sir!” I say, tapping my keys on the hood.

  “Ah, but I was having such a lovely dream!” James hops off the car and brushes dirt from his camo cargo shorts. He taps Rudy’s hood like it’s a pet. “Who’s a good boy?” he squeaks at the super-dirty backseat window.

  I’m giggling watching his theatrics when he quickly drops his hands to his side and stiffens. I turn around; walking toward us is the asshole himself Tim McCloud, in a corny Dave Matthews Band T-shirt and some dumb khakis. I didn’t notice his red Chevy parked nearby. Narrowing my eyes in his direction, I make a big show out of fumbling for my keys and ignoring him.

  “Hey,” he says softly, and his car beeps.

  “Hey,” James says weirdly. It startles me—I guess I didn’t even realize they knew each other.

  They keep eyeing each other as Tim slips into his front seat. “Later,” he says, slamming the door shut with a smirk.

  James exhales as if he’s been holding his breath underwater. I glance at him quizzically. “What was that?”

  “Huh? Nothing.”

  “That guy is such a tool.” I give him two quick pecks on his cheeks. “Bye, darling!”

  He gives me a tender, sleepy smile.

  James can sleep anywhere. He famously fell asleep drunk in my bathtub once. The story goes that he was taking a shower to sober up, fell asleep with the shower on, and all he can remember is my mom grabbing him by the hair and pulling him up. That’s the way he tells it, that she saved his life, but my mom denies the whole thing. In general, we always prefer to repeat the better story rather than the truth. Maybe, eventually, the real truth won’t even matter.

  MADNESS AND CIVILIZATION

  Therapy is especially horrible today. Mostly I’m just not in the mood to be here, and also, I’m bored out of my mind with myself and everything around me. Now this Susan lady is so obviously ready to be annoying as soon as I walk in. I raise my eyebrows at her like, So? and she returns the look with stern, pursed lips.

  “So, everything’s pretty much the same,” I say, folding my arms and sinking back into the ugly couch. I’ve gotten so comfortable not trying to impress her—just coasting through each session. I’m light-years away from the heaviness of last summer.

  “Morgan,” she says, tilting her head all serious, “do you realize you’ve been coming here for five months now?”

  “Huh. I guess I hadn’t thought about it. That’s kind of a long time.” I sniff; the flowery Auntie smell sticks to the inside of my nostrils.

  “It is, quite a bit of time.”

  I nod and bite at the inside of my cheek. I don’t have anything to say.

  “Do you think these sessions have been helping?”

  I unfold my arm and futz with the hem of my skirt. For some reason, I keep eyeing the spine of a book called Madness and Civilization, glowering at me from the center of her bookshelves.

  “Um, yeah I guess.” I regret that my voice gets high; she’ll notice I’m lying. That much I know from Law & Order.

  “I mean I guess the Prozac is working. It’s easier to get up and go to school and hang out with people and all that stuff.”

  “You don’t sound too convinced.”

  “No, no I definitely feel better. It’s just, I still don’t know what the point is.”

  “The point of what?”

  “The point of anything. I just feel empty.” I hate how it comes out. “Not to be dramatic.”

  “Well, I can tell you that you aren’t alone in that. That’s something most people have asked themselves at some point or another.”

  “Yeah, I know, I know I’m not, like, special.”

  “That’s not what I mean. It’s important to ask these questions. It helps us learn more about ourselves and challenge ourselves to live our lives to the fullest, and on the most righteous path.”

  (And yet: Madness and Civilization.)

  “But what do I do? I feel I’m always on some kind of path—maybe not a righteous path but like, self-discovery. I just feel like I’m searching and waiting but not doing anything. Like, I’m passionate, but it all just stays right here, in my chest.” I press my fingers to my sternum, hard, focusing all my pain and frustration right there.

  Susan manages a pitying nod, and I ramble through the silence. “I don’t know, I feel like there’s some purpose I should be focusing on. But other than my writing, I don’t know what I care about. All I know is what I’m told to care about. I just go with the flow because I’m afraid of really being myself.”

  A little tear collects, and I wipe my eyes before it drops, but Susan sees me. I’m pretty sure I’ve never articulated these words in quite this way. They scare me.

  She makes me stew for a minute. Damn Susan.

  “And what would be so scary about being yourself?”

  “Uh, judgement, I guess. My depression. I can’t be regular without taking pills. Last summer—that was the real me,” I boom, declaring it for Susan and for myself. “No one can deal with that person. I can’t even deal with that person.”

  Susan takes a deep breath and fine—I give in and take a tissue. I’m crying openly in therapy and I hope everyone’s happy.

  Susan leans in, inching to the edge of her chair and speaking softly, like she’s my first-grade teacher and I just skinned my knee.

  “That’s not you.”

  I blow my nose. It is a honk, the opposite of dainty. Another thing I hate about myself: I am an extremely ugly crier.

  “That’s not you,” she s
ays again.

  “I know.” I slump and roll my eyes. “I know it’s not.”

  “Say it, come on.”

  Though I’m obviously mortified at the corny after-school special that is my life, I guess this is who I am now. I accept the role and say my line.

  “That’s not the real me.”

  “You are not your depression.”

  “I am not my depression.”

  Ugh, I half-expect Dr. Phil’s studio audience to golf-clap at my vulnerability. I hate myself right now.

  “Morgan, before you go,” I follow her eyes to the clock—somehow, we’re over time. “I want to ask that in the next week you consider the possibility that you have touched lives in ways you may not realize. Think about your impact. The ways you can use that creativity and passion to express yourself, instead of hiding yourself. Just as an exercise. Think about it.”

  OMG so corny. I say, “Okay,” and stare at the door, but she keeps talking.

  “And also,” she says, standing up and revealing a million wrinkles in her linen potato-bag dress, “if you feel you haven’t made a difference, then make a difference. No one is saying you can’t.”

  Every time I hear things like this—hopeful things, encouraging things—that evil part in my brain reminds me that stuff like that only applies to other people.

  In the lobby, Framed Portrait of Bon Jovi has been replaced with Framed and Signed Headshot of Mel Gibson. That really pisses me off.

  NO ROM-COMS

  On Saturday, after a deeply awkward but adorable attempt at bonding with my dad over coffee, I meet Sean Santos-Orenstein at the foothills of Prospect Park’s winding dirt paths and orange groves, our closest approximation to “real” nature, to the outside world. He’s standing on a blanket under a big oak tree with two paper Stater Bros. bags at his feet. Even with his black Ray-Bans on I can tell he’s google-eyed as he grins, and right now, all of a sudden, I realize exactly how cute he is.

  Still, I haven’t thought about whether this is a date date or not, and secretly, though I have no business feeling this way (as beggars must be beggars), I hope it isn’t. Since Jake Walker, I can’t really care about boys. They’re clearly not the solution to any of my existential crises, and also, they’re not that great. (Life is really not the way anything in NYLON magazine says. Or at least mine isn’t, and maybe that’s why I’m not in NYLON magazine.)

  If it’s boring or weird, I’ll just go home. If (when) it’s embarrassing and awkward, I’ll flee the scene like I usually do and drive around crying to Rudy and Morrissey.

  “Heyyy,” he calls as I make my way over to the tree.

  “Hiii.” I wave, and he gets to work pulling stuff out of the grocery bags.

  “Wow, this is a whole spread.” I eye the bags of grapes and chips, the little thing of salsa.

  “I mean, I thought I might as well go all out.” He grins and lands his long body on the blanket, which, actually, is more of a throw. “Glad you could come.”

  “Me too,” I unfortunately squeak. Plopping down, static hits the backs of my thighs. (How is it December and almost 80 degrees? Shorts are the least interesting article of clothing, and they’re extremely hard to work with. I hate it here.)

  “Sooo…” I fidget hesitantly. “What’s up? I mean, how are you? I mean, I don’t know anything about you.”

  He laughs easily and pops a grape into his mouth, smirking at me.

  “You’re hilarious.” He smacks on a grape. “Hm, about me…” He pauses, and I patiently stretch my legs in front of me and lean back on my palms.

  (For posterity, and because I’m pretty proud of getting creative with khaki shorts that are a little too big for me, the whole outfit is: a red vinyl belt, bright red lips, espadrille sandals, a white oxford shirt pushed up at the arms, and a pin of a Gustav Klimt painting. It’s very class-mom-on-field-trip-day. Or Black Diane Keaton on vacation in Italy.)

  (By the way, this is an example of a look my mom goes crazy over. I think she wishes I was Black Diane Keaton every day, shopping the racks of Ann Taylor Loft with her. “You can’t beat a nice, crisp white button down!” That’s one thing my mom is passionate about.)

  “Well,” he finally says, “I don’t play any instruments and I’m in a band with no name.”

  We both crack up and he jabs me softly in the arm. “Shut up! What about you?”

  “Well, personally I think Overdressed and Mouthful is a perfect name.”

  “No, for real,” Sean laughs and smirks sharply. “Tell me about who you are. I want to get to know you.”

  He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and long tight cutoffs, printed socks, and simple low Adidas. Dad-on-field-trip-day-but-dad-is-in-TV-on-the-Radio. He scratches at patchy sideburn stubble. I believe I am being seduced.

  I consider lying, flirting. But whatever.

  “Hm. Who am I. Well I like reading books, writing. Music, obviously. I like the color green and apples and thrifting and movies…” This is the part where I usually stop talking, but today I disrupt my own peace.

  “I mean, I’m kind of a mess, I know it. So many things are wrong with me. But there’s so much I want to do and be; I have a feeling I could be this grand, passionate hero.”

  I don’t know why I quote myself, but I do. I just want to say it out loud, almost as a joke.

  “Wow,” Sean whispers.

  “Except,” I sigh, “I’m trapped, and I don’t know what I believe or where I’m going.” I pull some grapes from their stem with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Sorry, that got real dark, didn’t mean to be a downer!”

  He laughs, but not at me—it doesn’t make me feel stupid or weird.

  “You really hate small talk, don’t you?” He pretends to elbow me.

  “You asked.” I shrug with a pout, blushing under my black girl.

  Sean quickly looks down, drags his hand across his forehead and through his puffy hair. I notice his dimples. He pulls off his shades; his eyes do their happy glistening.

  “No…I don’t think you’re a mess,” he mumbles, squinting. “And I don’t think you’re a downer. I think you’re smart. And what you just said was actually really beautiful.”

  I smile and try not to ruin anything because I don’t know how I’m supposed to be. “Well, thanks.” I reach to surreptitiously pick a blade of grass.

  “Seriously,” he basically marvels. “Everything you say is like a little poem, it’s amazing.”

  I snort shyly. “Maybe you’re just easy to talk to.”

  He grins and shrugs proudly. He’s good at saying a lot without words. He’s sort of intense—but it’s working for me, there’s instant intimacy. I feel like I’ve known him for years. I bend my head back over my shoulders and look up at the sky, its shapeless clouds.

  “So, tell me a story about you,” I insist.

  “Hmm…” He tilts his head to join me in cloud-gazing, folding his knees up to his chest and drumming them absently with his fingers. “I think about living in Italy one day. Last summer I tried to teach myself Italian. You know, with Rosetta Stone? I pretended to understand all these Italian poems—I thought I’d pick it up by osmosis, eventually. Anyway, I gave up after two weeks.”

  He throws a grape into the air and tries to catch it in his mouth. He doesn’t.

  “That sounds awesome! I’ve never been to Europe.”

  “Sparkling cider?” He extends the Nalgene to me and I prop myself up on my elbow.

  “Ooh, sure!” It’s lukewarm and sweet, but a charming touch. (Who thinks of that?)

  “Maybe not live there. There probably aren’t too many other Black Jews in Italy.”

  I swallow, snorting with surprise. “You’ll be one of a kind, then,” I try.

  “Oh, I already feel that, believe me I do.”

  I take another drink and pass it back.
“So, what’s it like? Or, I mean, I don’t know much about Judaism.”

  He offers me a chip. I wave it away, listening intently.

  “Well, I’m not that religious actually. We celebrate High Holy Days, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur. Passover is pretty dope. But that’s pretty much it. I don’t do anything special.”

  “But what do you believe?” My voice cracks; I cough nervously to cover it. “Or, I guess, what do you have to do to be saved from hellfire or whatever? You pray?”

  (People are always telling me to pray about my sins, saying they’ll pray for my sins, talking to me about damnation.)

  “Yeah, we pray. I pray sometimes but not, like, frequently. I believe in rituals and family and all that stuff, being a good person, basically. Jews don’t really believe in hell.”

  “Oh, whoa.” My eyebrows furrow tightly as my face tenses into a pucker. It’s like my mind can’t wrap itself around the idea of a life not ending in eternal flame. “Wow,” I absently repeat, like I’m trying to memorize the information.

  “Oh!” he hops up from the blanket and I’m stirred from my mind’s somersaults.

  “By the way,” he announces, rifling around in the shopping bags excitedly. “In the spirit of our new friendship, at the suggestion of one David Santos, I made you a mix.” He tosses me a jewel case.

  “That’s so nice! I wish I had burned you one.” I adjust my eyes to his handwriting; I think the mix is titled “Anthems of a Seventeen-Year-Old Girl.” I think my lips and my whole body might cover him any second, I can’t fathom how perfect it is.

  “Ah, yes! A track listing—you really are different from David.”

  He grins as I scan the picks—there’s some Atlas Sound and Broken Social Scene, but also some stuff I’ve never heard of, like the Blood Brothers, and some old-school Marvin Gaye and Nina Simone. Weird, but super good.