Page 29 of Caught in a Storm
He’d said that so earnestly—he really meant it. And now Margot finds that she can’t remember why she was in such a hurry to leave him there holding his pretzel. In Burnt Flowers’s old club days, just before their first album hit, they did blisteringly quick thirty-minute sets—nine songs, two for an encore, and then out the door. Leave ’em wanting more was the idea. Maybe that was good for a band who only had eleven songs to play, but it’s a questionable strategy in terms of human interaction, because it might’ve been nice to have one more beer with the nice man in the cardigan who thought Margot was the best at something.
Either way, Poppy clearly doesn’t believe her. “Hmm,” she says, “right. Well, that nobody from Baltimore did something pretty freaking outstanding if you ask me. He made Margot Hammer smile.”
“What? I didn’t…I…I smile, Poppy.”
“Do you, though? I’ve been talking to you for half an hour. I just told you you’re Beyoncé on the Internet and that thousands of strangers think you’re a rock-star snack. And you know what? Your facial expression hasn’t changed. Not once. No smiles. Nothing.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“There, that was like half a smile, at best. Mum, I’m texting you a video. Right now.”
“You know I don’t watch—”
“Yourself. Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m sending it anyway. Skip the part where you’re drumming, I guess, if you wanna be neurotic about it. It’s worth it. Trust me.”
The phone vibrates just then in Margot’s hand as Poppy’s text arrives.
“I’ll think about it,” says Margot.
When Poppy hangs up, Margot’s phone screen turns black, so she can see her own reflection. She looks like she’s always looked, she thinks, not pissed off or sexy or like a snack. She opens her camera and tries smiling at herself. It doesn’t go particularly well, like the muscles in her face don’t work properly. She tilts her head, tries again. “Whatever,” she says.
Because we can’t all be smilers.
Chapter 15
“Dad, what? No. Seriously?”
When Billy got home, Caleb was standing in the middle of the apartment, waiting for him, holding his laptop in one hand and his iPad in the other, like tall Moses. Billy tried to ask him about the college thing—and about why Caleb thought Billy should live above his mom’s garage—but the kid only wanted to discuss one thing. Now they’re arguing about whether Billy should casually call a rock star.
“Just hit her up,” says Caleb. “Say hey. Like, ‘ ’Sup, girl?’ ”
“Cay, I don’t talk like that. I don’t think anyone does. Also, that’s not a good idea.”
“Orrrrr…” says Caleb, “it’s the greatest idea in the history of human thought.” He holds out his iPad as evidence. “The hardest thing about calling girls is that you never know what to say, right? Well, you’ve got things to say. You’re both all over the Internet.”
“When have you…Caleb, have you called a girl before?”
Caleb’s eyes shift from side to side. “I don’t tell you everything.”
“Really? That’s grea—”
“Well, people don’t really call each other,” says Caleb. “It’s more like texting now, or maybe DMs. Oh, you should text her! Texting is casual. Less pressure. Like, ‘Hey, so I guess we’re both Internet famous now, el-oh-el.’ I’ll hit up Rebecca. She can give me Margot’s number.”
“Cay, that’s really not a good idea. Rebecca thinks you’re at best an Internet pervert. She’s not just gonna hand you a famous musician’s phone number.”
Caleb jams a handful of Goldfish crackers into his mouth. “Dammit,” he says.
“It was just a fluke thing,” says Billy. “That’s it. We need to move on.”
“We have to try something, though, right?”
Billy just now notices that Caleb is playing Burnt Flowers’s second album—track four, a song called “Slash Waitress.” Margot’s drum bed is subtle, just under the surface of the guitar, like something approaching. He nods up at the sound. “Good choice.”
“I can see why you liked them so much,” Caleb says.
“They were a helluva band. But, Cay, the thing is: I did try.”
“I know, you went after her after my cluster-eff at Charm City. And that was a baller move. But—”
