Page 28 of Charm City Rocks
Before calling, Poppy watched the videos.Allthe videos, including new content created in response to the originals. She watched with her two roommates, who agreed with Poppy that Margot looked and sounded fantastic.
“It was just a few songs. It wasn’t—”
“Bloody hell it was. You should see the comments. My God, you’re basically Beyoncé.”
“The comments?”
“Yeah, Mum, there’s this thing on the Internet called comments. Usually, they’re a godforsaken shitshow of racism and misogyny, but people love you.” She looks off camera at her laptop and starts quoting. “ ‘This is the most badass thing I’ve ever seen.’ ‘I think I just fell in love with Margot Hammer.’ ‘I like how she looks mad but also sexy.’ ‘Am I crazy or is MH a legit snack?’ ”
“Snack?”
Poppy laughs. “That’s a good thing. Oh, and here’s an interesting one.”
“Please, don’t read them all,” says Margot. “I’m begging you.”
Poppy wrestles her hair into a bun, and it makes Margot miss her. She’s a marvel to look at, this girl, even on a tiny screen. There’s so much of Lawson in her face—an infuriating amount of him, the bastard. Her eyes, though, are all Margot, undeniable proof that the girl is hers.
“ ‘Dude in the cardigan looks sweet,’ ” Poppy quotes. She scans more comments; the screen reflects off her eyes. “ ‘Who’s the dweeb in the Neil Diamond T-shirt?’ ‘Lots of big dad energy from dat cutie in the cardi.’ Oh, here’s another good one. ‘Cool move with the high five, brah. Well played.’ ”
Margot is surprised to find that her face has just gone hot. “Dweeb is a little mean.”
“No shit it’s mean. It’s the comments, remember? The trolls raise a good point, though.” Poppy rests her chin on one fist. “Who’s dat cutie in the cardi, Mum?”
It’s not just her face now; her whole body heats up. “He’s a guy I met in Baltimore,” she says. “He’s…he’s no one.”
Margot has no idea why she’s just told one truth and then a lie. When she got back to New York, late on the night of her impromptu performance, Margot spent the next two days buzzing from playing again. It was all she could think about. As that began to fade, like adrenaline, she found herself thinking about Billy. And shekeptthinking about him.
You’re the best drummer I’ve ever seen.
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…Ismile,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 likehalfa 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.
Chapter15
“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.
