Gigi’s. There’s a stack of vinyl records right by his bed, and tickets from the shows he’s been to are taped up on his wall. When I see a ticket from a Janelle Monáe concert, I get butterflies. He likes Janelle Monáe too?
I sit on his bed. It’s soft and smells just like him. I lean down and take a big whiff of his pillow.
Oh my God. What is wrong with me? I need to get out of here before I’m completely in over my head with this boy.
I start to sit up, but then my eyes snag on something stuffed between Milo’s bed and the wall. I bend down and lean closer. It’s a notebook. A notebook that says SONG LYRICS.
Oh?
I glance over my shoulder, making sure no one is watching me, and then I open the notebook. A black guitar pick that’s covered in little nick marks falls out, and I place it on the bed beside me. I’m, of course, expecting to see angst-filled songs about all of Milo’s deepest, darkest feelings. Or maybe to find that song he allegedly wrote about me. It very well might be in here, but I can’t read his handwriting. Like, at all. It’s tiny and bunched up. Maybe he writes this way because he somehow knew a nosy girl like me would find her way into his room to do exactly what I’m doing right now.
“There you are.”
I slam the notebook shut and look up. Milo, the lyricist in question, is standing in the doorway.
Smoothly, as if I weren’t just caught red-handed, I say, “Here I am.”
He glances at the notebook and raises an eyebrow. I shove it away as if it’s cursed and I have no idea how it got into my hands.
“Did you help Vinny settle that argument?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“Not really. Dante knows his stuff.” He walks over and stands in front of me. He smirks. “If you wanted to read through my journal, all you had to do was ask.”
“I wasn’t reading it,” I say.
He tilts his head and gives me a look that says, Yeah right.
“Okay, okay, I was,” I admit. “I tried to, but you have poor penmanship.”
He laughs and sits next to me, grabbing his guitar pick. “My dad bought this for me when I was eleven and first started playing the guitar for the church choir. Before I begin writing a song, I hold on to it and feel the good vibes.” He hands it to me. “You try.”
Feeling silly, I squeeze the pick in my palm. “I don’t feel anything.”
“That’s because you’re not thinking right,” he says, tapping the side of his head. “You have to close your eyes and imagine that your good luck is already here, not that you’re waiting for it.”
I try to do as he says, but I only picture Gigi’s face when we argued the night before she left. I open my eyes and give the pick back to Milo.
“Maybe it will work for me some other time,” I say. Then I blurt, “Did you really write me a song?”
“No.” He reaches past me to grab his notebook.
“Oh.” Wow. All that snooping for nothing.
He flips his notebook open to a page that’s halfway covered in his handwriting. “I wrote pieces of a song about you.”
“Really?” There go those butterflies again. “Well, the least you can do is play it for me.”
I say this jokingly, but I’m shocked as he leans over me and grabs his guitar from the corner. “I can do that.”
He shifts the notebook so that he can read the lyrics. He begins to strum, then pauses.
“I’ve never played it before, so don’t judge me,” he says, narrowing his eyes.
“I won’t. Go ahead,” I urge, then feel embarrassed by my own eagerness.
He starts strumming again. “I wanna tell y’all about this girl I know. She’s really pretty from her head to her toes. Cool chick from LA with no time for me. She’s never been on the subway; she’s not from NYC.”
I laugh, and he glances up at me and smiles before continuing on.
“That’s because she’s a movie star. Maybe I could impress her if I had a car. But all I have is my guitar and my words. Maybe that’s all I need to impress this girl.”
I’ve witnessed a lot of magical things in my life, but I’ve never sat mere inches away from a boy as he played a song about me.
It’s a really simple tune, but his