Page 58 of You Spin Me

When I risk another look, she’s so still I think I might be imagining her for a moment, but then the light catches the left side of her face.

Great, just great.

I’ve made a beautiful woman cry.

JESS

I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here watching Cal. It could be days, it could be a handful of seconds. All I know is that I can’t take my eyes off him. I don’t want to miss a step of the choreography unfolding before me or a note of the story he spins with his song choices. Some part of his body is always in motion, keeping time with the beat. His eyes, when I get to see them, flash with emotion. Concern for a woman who’s on the side of the road at a payphone, lost somewhere in Somerville. Patience as he finds a map and gives her directions. Wry amusement when a group of drunks calls begging him to play “Rock Lobster.”

All I can do is watch as his fingers dance over a dizzying array of knobs and buttons and albums and turntables and his lips caress the microphone the way I want them to touch me.

A tap on my shoulder has me nearly jumping out of my skin. Somehow I manage to clap a hand over my mouth to muffle a startled squeal. Talia eases me to the side, opens the door to his domain and drops something on a desk inside. She mumbles a curt good night to Cal before doing a nimble do-si-do with me so that I’m inside and she’s outside.

Even though I suddenly feel like I’m in enemy territory, I muster the courage to ask, “Why are you being so mean to me?”

CAL

I don’t hear tears in her voice when she whispers the question, but when I glance over, I can see them reflecting in the dim light. Unbelievably, brimming eyes make her even more beautiful. No puffy, blotchy cry-face for this girl. She really is a princess.

“You have no idea” is what comes out of my mouth. Not quite a question, not quite a statement.

She surveys the booth. Not like she can’t stand to look at me, but like the answers might be in the racks of albums behind me or in the carousels of carts or on the bulletin board choked with everything from tattered autographed photos of rock stars to postcards for shows from three years ago.

When her eyes meet mine again, she swipes tears from her cheek. I have to admit, the way she looks at me isn’t what I’m used to. She neither avoids the scars nor tries to pretend they don’t exist. Instead, she looks through them, through all of my skin, making me want to know what she sees beneath it all.

She drops her head, shakes it, then faces me again. “I mean, I’m guessing it’s about your… appearance.”

A harsh laugh barks out of me. “You think?”

Stubborn-as-hell lips press together as she settles in for an argument. Gesturing up and down her body, she asks, “So is that how it is for you? Is it all about howprettyI am?”

Most of my brain is wondering about the ugly way she just called herself pretty, but a corner of it registers that “Sowing the Seeds of Love” is about to end. Raising one finger in her direction, I run the other down my log before pulling albums and lining up the next three songs. Checking the time, I do a quick station ID. Then, eyes still on the equipment in front of me, I answer her question. “Of course not.”

“So, you can like the me that you know from the phone, but I’m not allowed to do the same?”

“No, but—”

“What’s the problem then?”

“The problem is that I look like this and you look like that.”

“So it is all about what’s on the outside.”

“People don’t cover their kids’ eyes when they see you, Jess.”

“Maybe not, but they sure as hell make assumptions about me. You don’t have to be blonde for people to call you a bimbo, you know.”

“It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not the same. But I’m not talking about other people, I’m talking about you and me. Why do I have to pay for every terrible thing other people have said or done to you?”

My heart, panicking inside the walls of my chest, is so loud I can barely hear the music. I can’t tell if it’s trying to get away from her or get to her.

One thing I am sure of: I can’t have this conversation and do my job at the same time. It’s too much.

Something catches my ear and I remember that this track is mixed on the high side, so I reach back to adjust the volume on the output. Sliding the last album I played back in its sleeve, I note the date on its grid and slide it onto the rack behind me, in line with the others I’ve played tonight. I pick up another from the rack and realize I haven’t been making notes since Jess showed up on the other side of the glass an hour ago.

Fingers tented over closed eyes, I blow out a breath before dropping my hands to face her again. “This is a complicated conversation because of me and how my life has gone so far. It’s got nothing to do with you and how much of a good person you are.” I wave a hand around the studio. “I’m making mistakes here. If we keep talking, I may as well walk out. I know it’s not the end of the world if songs aren’t playing on the radio, but it is my job.”

---