The Music of What Happens - Bill Konigsberg Page 0,83

boyfriend the poet. It’s cool, really. I dig it.

“I call it, ‘The Music of What Happens.’ After the last line of the Heaney poem.”

He reads.

“Down the street from me

Ms. Carter douses her head

The shower pulses

And spits her sins down the drain

Next house over, with the red plastic Adirondack chairs

Mr. Simmons cries while eating waffles

His sink bone dry

Dishes with dried-up barbeque pork and oatmeal pile high

Mowing the front lawn next door

Jimmy Fowler dreams of Jenny Carmichael

And her fantastic tits

Mr. Torres in his two-story mini-palace

Sits on his bathroom throne

His waste meeting Ms. Carter’s sins somewhere

Under Carriage Lane

Here and there

We

Eat blueberries out of a ramekin

Chat with strangers about the sex we won’t be having

Read fake news about the end of the world

Peer over our shoulder at the pimple on our back

Check our breath for rampant bacterial stench

Straighten the family portrait, the one where Kim grimaces for some unknown reason

Dream of a better street

Ignore the sewage below our feet —

Which shows that we are human, and that’s the worst —

And soon there is a knock on Ms. Carter’s door

She answers, her hair in its final bun, her smile pasted on

Like a child playing with Elmer’s

And the man asks

Can I climb your palm tree

And knock off the dead fronds

And she nods, because he is saving her life

And she says, as if it’s nothing, ‘Sure.’ ”

People clap. Jordan blushes. I tear up.

He’s beautiful. My boyfriend is beautiful. I don’t understand the whole poem, but there were so many images, and I think I get it in general. The way we’re all connected, like he said when we were painting the truck. It tingles up my midsection, that I am truly connected to this guy. To my friends, even though they’re, you know.

Even though, yes, this bad thing happened to me. And Kevin is a bad person. A user and abuser, as my mom would say. But not everyone is bad. Jordan would never hurt me like that, and in that moment I realize we don’t have to go slow anymore. He’s not Kevin.

I stand and go over to the woman with the chalk. She’s stopped and listened, and she is beaming up at Jordan too.

“Can I borrow a navy blue?” I ask, and she searches for one and puts it proudly in my hand.

“Your boyfriend is a real poet,” she says, and I nod.

“Thanks,” I say. “He is.”

I go back and start drawing a white ramekin. I close my eyes and picture how the ones we have in our kitchen have these ridges on the side. Then I start adding navy blueberries inside. I shade them with just a touch of black, like a shadow.

Jordan sits down next to me and watches. I look up and there are Betts, Zay-Rod, Pam, and Kayla, watching me. I look in Betts’s eyes. I wonder if he thinks this is hilarious and he’s gonna mock me one day, like he mocks Zay-Rod’s poetry.

But his eyes aren’t mocking. It’s more like he’s seeing me for the first time. And in that moment, it’s like I see the dude for the first time too. He’s more than the guy I trash-talk with. He’s my buddy. I think maybe I trusted Zay-Rod could be, but I wondered about Betts.

I smile at him. He smiles at me. I draw blueberries.

Max: U up

Me: Yup. My mom didn’t come home again

Max: Shit. She didn’t leave a note?

Me: Nope. it’s like three nights this week

Max: U wanna do something

Me: What do u have in mind

Max: Get yer mind outta the gutter I’ll pick u up in 5.

Me: It’s 1:06 a.m.

Max: Thank you captain obvious. Wear gym shorts

My heart flutters at the thought of a late night with Max. This summer. First time in my life I’ve been alive, really. I love it. Even with my mom’s … whatever. Even with me needing to make money to keep our house. I always thought I couldn’t do stuff. But I can.

Mom is who knows where. I’m pretty sure she’s been staying out all night, because she came home this morning at around 7:30, looking like a total mess, her hair pasted to her forehead and unwashed, her normal sweet smell replaced with a bitter funk that made me wince.

I have no fucking idea what’s up. There’s nothing I can do about it, and I’ve given up on trying.

As I step outside I have to laugh.

There’s something about the feeling of being in an outdoor sauna at midnight in late June that just takes my