the guy who hands me red cups at parties and asks me when we’re gonna bang. This guy is . . . strange. He’s interesting, and he has passions. Secret passions that beg the question—
“Why are you not doing something in music?” I ask. We rock slowly in an extremely chaste slow dance, and Tory merely flits his gaze to me, long enough to acknowledge my question.
He shrugs the shoulder that’s under my hand as he looks away again.
“I like basketball more,” he says.
I blink a few times, staring at the lashes of his too-near-to-me eyes while I wait for him to explain further. I realize soon, though, that it’s that simple. He has a passion for his game and keeps music as a love.
“Huh,” I say.
His eyes move to mine again, then leave immediately.
“Huh, what?”
“Huh, that you have, like, hobbies, I guess.” I laugh through my nose. A slight shift in my body and a tiny step from him as we both laugh brings us closer, and suddenly my chin is resting on top of my own hand, which is now comfortable on his shoulder.
We turn together, our laughter silences. The song soothes, and if I could manage to hold myself up, I could fall asleep right here. This is not appropriate.
“Show me some of the others,” I say, slipping out of his arms and moving my attention to the rows of albums on the shelves. He lets me go easily, probably glad I broke things up. I think maybe music can be a drug. I think maybe surviving a tornado with someone is a bit of a drug, too. That’s it.
“What kind of music do you like?” he asks, pulling a few albums out sideways to peer at the covers, standing at the other end of the long row.
“Everything, I guess. I mean . . . I don’t know. I guess I listen to what’s popular.” I kinda feel schooled standing in front of a collection like this.
“Well, when you were little, was there a song, maybe a hit, that you just had to have so you could play it over and over again?” His finger is teasing the corner of a silver album cover.
I suck in my lip and think back to junior high, and then the years before. I don’t think my life really has a soundtrack, and that’s maybe a little sad. Before I realize it, my forehead is creased from the weight of my frown.
“You know what, let me try this,” Tory says, letting me off the hook. I step closer to peek at what he’s pulling out, but he holds up his hand and shoos me away.
“Okay, fine,” I relent, sitting down on the thick carpet in the center of the wooden floor. I let my fingertips pet the strands while Tory does his thing, carefully putting the first album away and blowing dust from the new one. He hovers over the player as he lowers the needle, and a familiar beat flows through the speakers. I nod with the rhythm as Tory kneels down and eventually sits facing me. He leans back, digging his hands into the plush cream rug and pulls his knees up, swaying them with the beat. As I stare at the dead leaf stuck on the knee of his pants, I smile; recognition is settling in.
“This . . . yes! My mom used to play this all the time on our way to auditions. She said it was her ‘power jam!’” I exclaim. I sing along with a few of the words until I get to the title of the song in the chorus and Tory sings along with me.
“‘Rhythm Nation’!”
He exhales a celebratory type of laugh, his head falling back as if he’s proud to have unearthed another thing I like. Perhaps I have a soundtrack after all.
“My dad was in love with Janet Jackson. She came to the state fair when Hayd and I were like six or something, and he dragged us along. Hayden fell asleep but I stood on my chair and just watched my dad sing every word and stare at her like she was some goddess.” His gaze drifts off, caught in his memory, and the longer he’s gone away, the more I realize what these albums—what us playing them right now—is all about. He misses his dad, misses being a family.
“It will get easier,” I say.
“Huh?” He stirs, shaking away the dust of wherever he’d been as he looks at me.