All of a sudden, I do want to tell someone my secret. But not anyone I actually know. I pick up the phone and do the dialing thing at random. When someone answers, I say, “I want to tell you a story.”
“Oh,” says a girl’s voice. “It’s you.”
I hesitate. “Who do you think I am?” I ask, because what I think might be happening is pretty much impossible.
“The guy from the other night,” she says. “You asked me to tell you a story. Remember?”
Of course I remember. But how have I managed to call her again? I have no idea what number I dialed that night. I have no idea what number I’ve dialed now. But I recognize her voice.
“This is weird,” I say.
“You think?” the girl says.
“I didn’t know I was calling you,” I tell her. “Honest. I dialed at random. I never call the same number twice. I don’t even know what number this is.”
She doesn’t say anything. But she doesn’t hang up either.
“So, tell me a story,” she finally says.
“My mother killed herself,” I blurt out.
“That’s it?” the girl says. “That’s a crappy story.”
“She killed herself, but everybody wants me to think she abandoned us,” I clarify.
“That’s better,” she tells me. “But not much.”
And so I tell her the whole story about my mother and the albums and the notes, and about how my father may or may not know the truth.
“Okay,” she says when I’m done. “Now that is a good story.”
And she doesn’t even know about the curse part. I left that out because I thought it might be too much.
“Tell me another one,” she says.
It felt good to tell her the first one, so now I tell her about Tom Swift and Anna-Lynn, and how I think I’m jealous of them. Most of it, anyway. I don’t tell her about Tom Swift being born Jennifer, because I think that’s his story to tell if he wants to, not mine.
When I’m done, the girl says, “I wrote a song kind of like that once.”
“You write songs?” I say. “That’s awesome.”
“Is it?” she says, like it’s never occurred to her. “I don’t know. It’s just something I used to do.”
“Sing it for me,” I say.
She laughs. “I can’t,” she says.
“I bet you can,” I counter.
“Okay, I won’t,” she says.
“Come on,” I argue. “You can’t tell me you wrote a song that’s like my story and then not sing it for me.”
She sighs. “Okay. Fine. Whatever. But I can’t play the guitar and hold the phone, so I have to set it down.”
“That’s okay,” I assure her.
There’s a clunk as she puts the phone down. Then I hear her strum a guitar. She makes some adjustments, tuning it, and then she starts to play. The music is soft and sad. Then she sings.
How Can You See Me (When You’re Looking at Her)
it’s almost half past midnight
and you call me on the phone
to say you’re sad and lonely
scared you’ll always be alone
i say i want you to be happy
and i know you’ll find true love
that it’s time your heart was healed
and i hope you won’t give up
if you’d look at me you’d see
the face of love look back at you
and in my eyes you’d find your home
your comfort and refuge
but someone stands between us
the one who broke your heart
the one who said forever
and then left you in the dark
tell me, how can you hear me
when her voice is in your head?
tell me, how can you touch me
when she’s with you in your bed?
you’re fevered with a sickness
and I’d like to be the cure
but tell me, how can you see me
when you’re looking at her?
she’s gone but not forgotten
a ghost who haunts your halls
you gave her all the love you had
she gave you none at all
you know you should forget her
but her memory’s like a bruise
she’s a mystery that you’ll never solve
but you still look for clues
tell me, how can you hear me
when she’s calling you again?
tell me, how can you touch me
when she’s underneath your skin?
i’m what you need, i’m what you want
the one you’re looking for
but tell me, how can you see me
when you’re looking at her?
the hour’s late, i’m out of words
there’s nothing left to say
so go to sleep and in your dreams
maybe this time she’ll stay
hold her close, kiss her mouth
tell her that you’re sure
and i hope that you see me
when you’re looking at her
When she’s done, she picks the phone up again. “Well?”
“I really like it,” I tell her. “I get exactly what you’re saying. But it’s not really like my situation. I don’t want Tom Swift to look at me instead of Anna-Lynn. I just want someone to.”
“Are you sure you don’t want him to?” she asks. “Because I kind of think you do.”
I start to argue. But then I think, what if she’s right? What if I’m not jealous that Tom Swift found someone to put his arm around, I’m jealous that the person isn’t me?
“Oh, crap,” I say.
“Sorry,” the girl says. “I thought you knew.”
“I guess I didn’t,” I admit. “I need to think about this.”
“It’s just a song,” she says.
“It really is good,” I tell her. “You should record yourself singing it. Put it on YouTube or something. Who knows, you could get discovered.”
“I don’t know what that is,” she says. “But thanks. I should probably go now.”
“Hey,” I say. “Is your name really Linda?”
“No,” she says. “Maybe. Does it matter?”
“I suppose it doesn’t. I just wondered. I’m Sam.”
I wonder if now that I’ve told her my name, she’ll share hers. But all she says is, “Maybe we’ll talk again, Sam. Or maybe not. I hope everything works out for you.”
“You too,” I say, but she’s already hung up.
I put on side 2 of Black Sabbath. It’s a really weird set of songs, more music than words, and listening to it gives me time to think about what might or might not be happening in my head.
Do I have a thing for Tom Swift?
It seems like a simple question. But it’s not. And the answer could change a lot of things. Especially since my birthday is still eight weeks off. It’s just not safe to answer yes. Especially for Tom.
But I’m afraid I can’t say no.
Eight
On Friday I’ve had the order window at the Eezy-Freezy open for about half an hour when I hear a voice from the radio announce, “This weekend’s Capital Pride Parade and Festival will culminate with a concert by Joan Jett & the Blackhearts, who will be the wedding band for more than two hundred and fifty couples who plan to tie the knot in a celebration of marriage equality.”