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I snorted at that. “There was this music teacher in seventh grade, though,” I said. “I never actually had any classes with her because—well, see Exhibit A, my choral rejection. But Alison...”
I trailed off as it hit me that all my childhood stories seemed to involve Alison, and also that this one wasn’t exactly a banger. It was my first year going to a Real Junior High that had lockers like all the schools on TV, and I’d gotten it into my rebellious twelve-year-old brain that we needed more than seven minutes to pass between seven classes. I’d drawn up an impassioned petition, with diagrams of a sample route from class to locker to class and everything. I’d distributed it to my classmates and urged them to sign, and apparently even my general loserness could be overcome by a collective fight against the man, because they’d done it. Alison was passing it to another kid in her orchestra class when her teacher caught her, confiscated the petition, and told her I’d have to come collect it in person if I wanted it back.
I’d expected the teacher to be mad, but she wasn’t. Instead, she seemed a little amused. She’d asked if I’d ever consideredtaking a music class, or joining the chorus. I knew there was no way she was impressed by my musical ability—first of all, since I didn’t have any, and second of all, since she’d have no way of assessing that from a piece of paper with some kids’ names on it, anyway. But she’d said she was impressed with my chutzpah. I’d trotted out my sad-sack story of being rejected in fifth grade, and she’d just laughed and said, “Anyone can be taught.”
When it came to music, I emphatically did not believe this. My parents, brother, and I were all completely tone-deaf. It was practically on our family crest—an eighth note with a giant slash through it or something.
I’d never bothered following up. And the petition ended up being a nonstarter, because it turned out that things like bell schedules were heavily determined by the district and the teachers’ union and there was only so much a budding activist could do.
But that teacher’s words had stayed with me, for some reason. Middle school was a Venn diagram of all seven circles of hell, but that moment had been something to me. It was the feeling of being recognized, being seen as having potential. I hadn’t realized how starved I’d been for it.
Now, Sam was watching me, as if he understood that I’d gone somewhere in the middle of telling that story and was patiently waiting for me to come back. I cleared my throat.
“Anyway,” I said. “Sorry. Should we head out? You agreed to help me with my car and I’m just wasting all your time.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth, and for one wild moment I thought he might kiss me. I blamed it on our close proximity in the small space, the fact that I could smell the detergent he used on those never-ending white shirts, probably something withmountainin the name. I swore I could still feel the imprint where he’d touched me earlier, a chalk outline of the ten seconds where electric current of desire had seemed to run through us before. Here it was again, a spark of awareness that made my breath hitch.
And okay, all jokes aside, there was a very real Guitar Effect that made him about ten times hotter. I swayed a little toward him.
Luckily, he pulled back in time to save me from myself. He unplugged the guitar, lifting it over his head and placing it carefully back in its place on the wall. He switched the amp back off, and if the anticlimacticclickof it powering down wasn’t a metaphor.
“Not a waste of time,” he said. “But sure. Let’s get going.”
?I BUCKLED MYSELFinto the passenger seat of Sam’s truck, stealing a glance at him as he turned his head to watch for traffic while backing out of the parking space. Already, I could see it again, that same strain in the line of his jaw that suggested he was holding something to himself.
Meanwhile, I’d officially lost it. Had I actually thought he’d just randomlykiss mein the middle of the music store? After we’d spent, like, half an hour together? What was wrong with me?
I had to remind myself of all the ways that hemightbe Buffalo Bill, and my erotically charged moment was hisputs the lotion on its skin.He could take me anywhere. He looked like the kind of guy who’d be savvy about which highway exit had the best wooded area for dumping a body. Maybe that was why he drove a truck. Which I was currently sitting in.
Which of those options honestly scared me more—that he could be up to some dark shit, or just that I had a crush? Maybe my true crime reading had desensitized me after all, because I knew which of those made my heart speed up.
“We’re here,” Sam said. We could’ve been sitting in the library parking lot for the last five minutes, for all I’d noticed.
Luckily, Sam had been able to park right next to my car. I hopped down from his truck, opening my driver’s-side door to pop the hood. I hoped Sam didn’t need any more help from me, because that was about all I knew to do. But he’d already reached into a toolbox in the back of his truck, removing jumper cables, and was popping his own hood to hook them up.
“Why’d you leave so suddenly the other night?”
Sam’s head was still bent over my engine when he asked the question, so I almost wasn’t sure I’d heard him accurately. And then I wished there was some way to plausibly pretend I hadn’t, because I couldn’t think how to answer in a way that wouldn’t make me seem like an asshole or a liar.
“I’m just...” I floundered, before deciding that something adjacent to the truth would work. “...not great at parties.”
He wiggled one of the connections on the battery terminal before wiping his hands on his pants, black streaking the khaki. Jocelyn of Jocelyn’s Music wasn’t going to like that. He started his truck before coming to stand next to me on the grass next to the parking spaces.
“What do you mean,not great at parties?”
I rolled my eyes. “Listen, I’m sorry I crashed it. I didn’t know it would be a work thing. Conner—my brother, you remember him, with his girlfriend, Shani—had the idea to bring a host giftat least, even if it was just some Kit Kats. Still, it was rude as hell. And if I’d stayed much longer, I probably would’ve ended up talking too much about the connection between Charles Manson and the Beach Boys or whatever, and that would’ve been a real downer.”
“Not necessarily,” he said.
He didn’t even know. It had taken a lot of effort for me not to bring it up, and that was only because somehow I didn’t think it was the vibe Barbara Ann was going for with her retirement send-off.
“I appreciated the Kit Kats,” he said. “I was going to make some comment, about how backwards it was—me opening the door all dressed up and you there with a bag of candy.”
I smiled. “You totally should’ve,” I said. “It was Halloween in reverse.”
He scratched at his forehead, and I noticed he’d left a smear of black there, too. “Well, I didn’t think of it until later,” he said. “And by then the moment had passed.”
His gaze slid to me briefly, then away. “I’m also not great at parties,” he said.
