❝I don't wait long 'cause I got better things to do.❞
♮ ♮ ♮ ♮ ♮
I'm not gifted in the making new friends area.
Let alone having boyfriends.
In all my years, I scare boys away.
Is it my confidence? The short snarky remarks I reply back to them? And the sensation of wanting to always be right? I guess. It seems to be the most common denominator.
My mother has those gossip magazines about actors, actresses, singers, and anyone in the Entertainment business pile in a container; once they reach a pinnacle peak, she recycles them and goes off to the closest grocery store to waste her money on buying more. A vicious cycle and by her giddiness, she thrives off of the new product. Then the magazines are left sitting in a pile for the rest of their days. There are short sections, titles like on "How Do You Know He's The One?" or "5 Easiest Ways to Be Sexy," in the middle of the magazine. In the August 2011 edition of The Scoop, the magazine contains quizzes on the readers best qualities and then what qualities to improve on. Specifically, in what guys wants and sees in a girl.
How can this article know what guys want? Where's the evidence? Proof and work citations?
I take the test anyway.
My results are:
Best quality is confidence. You don't need a guy's approval. You aren't afraid to state your mind and be yourself. This can draw in any gentleman that you catch the eye of.
Improvement quality is humility. Your love interest might be turned off by the too prideful attitude. Show him you care about him by listening to his interests and opinions. Doesn't mean you have to agree! You are your own woman. Just listen and respect his opinions, be a delicate flower.
Let me tell you something.
I'm definitely not going to do that. I don't know what it means to be a delicate flower. No one can act like a delicate flower. Does that mean to stand out with arms wide open, stretching - letting the cells soak in the sunshine and take in the water? Do nothing? Nope. I'm not doing that.
Out of spite, after reading the article, I remember in sixth grade I threatened the sweetest guy in the whole wide to kiss me. His name was Dean Smith. There was a cute dark brown mole on his neck underneath his chin. I wanted to poke at it. See if it moved. He talked in class, stated that his mom was a musician. He had a missing front tooth, a slight whistle came out whenever he spoke 's' and 'z.' All my classmate girls thought it was gross. I think it was different.
I was an eleven-year-old, at this point, who had a crush on the weirdest guy.
"You will kiss me!"
Yes. Eleven-year-old me had no fear. No concept of the small thing call: consent.
The poor boy. Gosh, I shake my head recalling the memory.
His shaky hands and wide eyes, he said. "Y-Yes."
The kiss. Well, it was quick. More like a peck. He kissed me behind the ugly mustard yellow slide. The one where I used to run with my sneakers up the slide, slip and slip, going up the down movement. He ran away from me after the incident; his shoes picked up the playground mulch, he told Ms. Finnegan what I said. What I forced him to do.
My parents were not pleased with the phone call from Principal Randall.
From the horrible experience and my parents' statement, you can't force a boy to kiss you. I keep ten feet away from boys. As years go by, I keep my distance. I watch for those small movements like hand touching back, close body proximity, and eye contact. Even while I'm attending college, I'm on high alert. Of course, boys sit next to me in class. However, if I hear another, "May I borrow a pencil?" or "What's your name sweetie?" I think I'll poke him in the eye with my drumstick.
However, I can't stay away from him.
In the past two weeks since he has joined my brother's band, Cupid's Boy Band – I don't know how they've come up with this sappy, romantic stuff - I run into him all the time. In the kitchen. When I yell at Girly for his off tempo. After using the bathroom. When he walks in the front door without knocking as I leave for an evening class. Just. Can't. Get. Away. From. Him!
I'm done running into him.
"Hey," Cameron says. His arm stretches over the black onyx kitchen counter. He opens the off-white cabinet, reaches in for a ceramic bowl. White stain towels hang on the stove's rail. I stand near the black fridge cover in family photos, Florida magnets with orange and pink sunsets, handmade marble magnets, and floral drawings. Calendar hangs on the pantry door, everyone's schedule is written in permanent marker.
Luck isn't on my side.
"Hi."
I don't know what to say.
I'm minding my own business. I want one thing. To eat. It's past dinner time, my go-to is the healthy, carb dinner: cereal. Quick and easy. But he's in the way.
My parents haven't arrived home from their honeymoon dinner. To think they've married in in the cold, snowy February's end close to March. Pass the holidays too! They are crazy. Then again, this is one of the few nights Cupid's Boy Band can practice late.
"Have you been avoiding me?"
The question stops me in my tracks.
"Avoiding you?" I repeat back his question.
"Yeah."
He grabs an enormous rubber spoon, scooping up the vegetable soup into his bowl. Mom has thrown this together in case we get hungry. Corn, green beans, tomatoes, and broccoli float in their own juice. I'll go with my cereal and lactose-free milk.
"Interesting word choice," I say. I play with my thumb nail, bending the white, long nail back and forth. "I believe you're accusing me of something I'm not doing."
He smiles.
The same one that displays his symmetrical white teeth.
"What would you call it then?" his smooth voice declares.
"I'd say, walking away."
"Walking away?"
"Yes," I cross my arms in front of my chest. "That's what one does when someone needs to be somewhere. You know – like going to school, going out to lunch."
"Even when someone tries to have a conversation with you?"
Is that what he has been wanting?
A conversation? Why with me?
"About the weather?" I ask.
I try to recall his openers.
I think he mentions the weather, "how are you?", and "what's up?" Those are small in between conversations, when people meet in the hallway to pass the time. People have these exchanges to avoid the awkwardness of closeness and then they move on in their schedule.
He chuckles. His thumb rubs on his chin, looking down at the ground before speaking. He wears a rose-gold wire glasses today. Something new to his appearance.
"I did talk about the weather. But I wanted to," he tilts his head, "segway into another conversation."
My eyebrows raise. "What conversation?"
I notice how the palm of his hands press down on the onyx counter, his back and hips lean against it too.
"You ask so bluntly," he says.
"One of my many gifts." I rub my finger on my jean pants.
"Indeed."
His eyes stare into mine.
I start to bounce back and forth on my heels. My plain white socks scrunch up on the tile.
"When did you begin to play the drums?"
I stare at him this time.
Why this question?
"I don't know – it's kind of hard to say. I believe I was five years old."
"Why the drums?" he leans against the counter, his hips dig into the material.
"I hear the rhythms."
"You hear it?"
"Yeah," I say, "Like how you can hear the harmonies when you sing alongside Arky."
He rubs his lower lip with this thumb, and then as if he realizes his behavior he moves his hand by his side again. "You've heard me sing?"
"It's kind of hard not to hear you when the speakers are on full blast. Also when I go down there to yell at Girly."
Cameron laughs and tries to cover his mouth.
"I thoroughly enjoy your enlightens," he responds.
"I wish he'd actually listen."
"I think he's too scared of you."
"Nothing new."
His fingers make small waves, clicking noise that echoes in the kitchen.
"How's college life?"
I laugh this time.
"It's fine. You know - life."
"Nothing exciting? Extracurriculars? Like joining a band club?"
"How's high school life? Freaking out about all the silly drama of who's dating who? Or the pressure about attending college?" I reply with my own questions.
"I see your point."
"Keep living in your seventeen year old fantasy –"
"I'm not seventeen."
I don't speak.
"I'm nineteen. I've transferred to a lot of schools, but some credits didn't. I had to repeat the same classes to graduate."
"That's a pain," I hiss.
"Tell me about it."
"Cameron! Where are you?! We have fifteen more minutes left! You can eat later!" my brother's voice calls from the basement.
"Well," Cameron says, grabbing his bowl, "Duty calls. Avoid you later."
Then he winks before leaving the kitchen.
I stand there, watching his back as he leaves me.
What is that about? Why the wink? And ... why am I in here again?
Oh, yeah! Dinner.
♮ ♮ ♮ ♮ ♮
"Noah, your voice sounds like an angel," a high, feminine voice cooes in the basement.
"Doug, your arms are huge! It must be from all the time you're banging those drums," another female voice, more like an alto, says.
"And you, Cameron. Your whole demeanor. Mysterious, bad boy appearance – nice skinny jeans. The low bass noise is soothing. You sure know how to string a girl along."
"You'll win The Battle for sure! With your heartthrob name, dripping gorgeous looks, and intoxicating moves," says the first girl. "You'll enchant the whole school."
Gosh.
Their voices are worse than Girly's off tempo.
It's the middle of March now, three weeks before The Battle begins. And my semester ends in one and a half months.
They need an audience, and well, they've invited the trio: Flirty, Seductive, and Bias.
I see them skipping in the front entrance's hallway and then head down the stairs when they've arrived.
No introduction. They ignore my presence as I hold my Oreo cookies with no milk.
Then again, I should say, I don't greet them either.
It's a two-side street when it comes to conversations.
"Thank you, Lucy," Noah says to one of the girls.
I have no idea who he's speaking to. I'm being the best sister ever ... listening in on their conversation to make sure they're all settle in and need anything. A good host. Refreshments. Food. An excuse for them to leave.
Okay, fine, I'm spying.
This whole exchange reeks trouble.
I bite into my Oreo, the dark chocolate crust crumbles on my crème tank top. A zip up black-and-white jacket covers my arms.
"It's the truth! No matter what song you choose, you'll win this competition."
The other two girls "uh-huh" and hum in agreement.
"We totally got this."
Be quiet, Girly!
"How are your wrists doing? They look a little bruised," the alto states.
"I'm fine. This is normal for me. I practice at home even after our sessions here."
Bull-crap.
"You need to relax! You don't want to overdo it-"
"I'm fine."
Wow, nice deflection.
I place my four cookies in my lap. The crunching seems loud to my ears, but I know they can't hear it.
"Which song did you feel moved from?" Cameron asks. "Should we lean towards rock like a ballet? Pop? Re-vamp a pop song and add rock elements?"
Those questions. I would ask for this feedback.
"The second one."
"Aly & AJ? We did it to make you girls giggle," Noah replies.
"It was so," the high pitch voice girl pauses, "refreshing."
Yeah, right. It's the lyrics that charm them.
"Especially with Cameron's background. I enjoy you taking turns singing the verses."
"Maybe a little bit more drums though. Hard rock. Less pop."
Well ... they do have a good point.
"You can improv Dougie!"
Ha-ha-ha. Him?! Improv.
"I don't know about that," Girly says.
The girl continues to coo. I cover my hand over my mouth to stop the laughter from escaping. Of course, I'm eating the last cookie – all the crumbles are making it hard to breath. I breath through my nose as I try to swallow the chocolate and cream filling.
My feet are on the second step. I sit on the top and wipe off any evidence of my favorite dessert.
Multiple conversations begin. I can't seem to decipher what's being said – too many voices talking –
"I never suspected you being an eavesdropper."
I stand up. My hands flinch and my back shakes.
I need to hide – crap – there's no hiding spot!
A smile forces on my lips.
"I'm not an eavesdropper," I say, "I'm a listener."
He picks up his feet in a slow pace, climbing each step one at a time. The wooden steps groan. Arms are across his chest.
I keep looking down at him. Normally, I would look up a little.
I'm pretty tall, however he is an inch taller than me.
He's two steps away, gazing up at me.
"I see."
"What song will you be playing?" I ask.
I don't want him to know I've been here the entire time.
He bites his lower lip.
Hands are in his skinny jean pockets. "It's a surprise."
"Ah." I nod.
"Cameron, there you are-"
A shoulder length brunette stands at the bottom of the stairs. Her right-hand rests on the caramel, wood railing. She wears denim jeans, knees are shown, baby pink tank top with a dark leather jacket.
"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt," she declares.
"You're all good," I say.
She makes a weird, high pitch noise.
"You're Amber! Holy crap, you won The Battle two years ago. Your AC/DC compilation gave me life! How did you juggle playing the bells and rocking out on the snare?" She flails her hands while she smiles.
"Thanks."
I scratch behind my neck.
She takes a couple of steps closer. "I forgot your Noah's sister. What are you doing now? I bet you found yourself a spectacular band. Did you attend college? I bet UC! Their music program is spot on-"
Her questions put weight on my stomach, shoulders, and chest.
"I-I'll be back."
I leave the girl and Cameron behind. I walk through the living room and head one more flight of stairs to my study room. Binders, open trigonometry and American history books, and highlighters spew on the desk, exactly where I've left them alone. My rip-up book bag lay flat on the emerald comfy chair. The worn-down handle needs attention, the last time I open the recliner part, splinters attack my hand.
I fling myself on the rolly computer chair.
Elbows rest on the desk.
Gosh, I should be playing.
I shouldn't have to hide my practice sessions in my bedroom before Cupid's Boy Band gatherings. My drums are set up in my tiny bedroom in the left corner. I've had to do multiple rearrangements with my Queen size bed, the squeaky springs when anyone sits on it, discolor drawer with black and white streaks on the side and the handles that fall off, and other must have items.
My back goes against the plush fabric.
The girl is fan. She just – well.
Her questions are too much.
"You okay?"
I jump.
Cameron stands near the loft area – study room. His converses are rocking back and forth on the golden carpet. Hands are deep within his skinny jeans, shoulders hunched up as he watches me.
"What are you doing?" I scratch the top of my head.
"Checking up on you."
His tongue licks his bottom lip. His dark brown eyes glances at the walls, family portraits, Noah and I's children and baby pictures, and aesthetic nature shots like ruby roses that come with the frame at the store, and then back to me.
"You don't need to," I respond, "I'm fine."
"I know." He takes two steps closer to my chaotic study room. "I wanted to."
He eyes the emerald chair and then sits.
I twirl my chair to watch him.
What are we supposed to say now?
His black undershirt matches his leather jacket. The silver zippers give an extra shine to it along with his long cross necklace that reaches his stomach. Today he isn't wearing his glasses.
His arms rub up the chair's arms. "Fiona didn't mean to ask all those questions. When you walked away, she kept saying, 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! Please tell her Cam.'"
He's not a bad boy. He may look the part, but he's far from it.
"I know."
He smiles.
"You can go now. I need to dive into my trigonometry assignments-"
"You played an AC/DC compilation for The Battle?"
"Of course."
"With bells?" he leans forward, his elbows rest on his knees.
"I had to have melody for the audience to know specific songs."
"All by yourself."
This is one of the first times he says something. No question.
I nod.
"It's courage, to be out there on the stage, all the lights on you – movement, face, and presence. No one to help you."
"Is that why you're the background singer?" I ask, tilting my head, "The attention drains you?"
His smile wavers.
"One of the reasons."
"The other?"
"Voice isn't strong."
"Bull crap," I say.
He blinks.
"You help my brother stay in tune. Noah can be too passionate, too into the lyrics - doesn't take in enough air or doesn't think of the note before he sings. You come in on the beat, and silently give him the entrance note. People can mistake your note as the guitar or melody. It's smart. You are the foundation – I haven't heard my brother sound this good in a while."
That's the longest thing I've said to Cameron.
He's silent.
His dark brown eyes stare and stare.
His chest expands and then deflates.
I can hear the rhythm.
One. Two.
Almost like a waltz.
One. Two.
Is it my heartbeat?
One. Two.
No! Too ridiculous!
"I told you I'm a listener."
The rhythm stops.
"You are," he grins. "Beats – the Musician."
♮ ♮ ♮ ♮ ♮
Anyone else feeling the waltz? 😊
It seems we got another person calling Amber - Beats. 😉
Above is the video that inspired me to give Amber to rock out on the rocks for her past competition. She did more than Thunderstruck.