Page 37 of Charm City Rocks
Billy isn’t particularly tall, but there’s a ranginess there that she likes. He’s taken his cardigan off and tossed it over one shoulder. Historically speaking, Margot isn’t a big hand holder. Holding hands is overrated. It throws off your balance and makes you look needy. She can imagine holdinghishand though, maybe, someday.
They walk on, and a woman smoking a cigarette says, “Go O’s!” when she sees Margot’s cap. It’s the third time someone has shouted this since they started walking.
“Why do people say it like that here?” Margot asks.
“You mean the accent?” Billy asks.
“Yeah. They draw it out, like, ‘goaow aows.’ ”
He laughs. “That’s pretty good. Yeah, OG Baltimoreans add completely unnecessary letters to some words. But then theytake awayletters from other words. Right now, you’re not inBaltimore,you’re inBalmer. Water iswooter. No idea why. If it were Tuesday right now, it’d beToosdee. And your name isn’tMargot,it’sMarghaow.Like with anhand ana,maybe even awthrown in there for no good reason.”
“That’s how Beth at the bar said it. And she kept calling mehon.”
“Of course she did,” says Billy. “Hon’s big here, and Beth’s about as OG Baltimore as it gets.”
“Why don’tyouhave an accent?”
“My grandma,” he says. “She said Baltimore accents hurt her ears, like wrong notes on the piano. It stuck.”
Up ahead, a big brick building stands against a darkening blue sky: Oriole Park at Camden Yards. Yankee Stadium has always looked cold and corporate to Margot. This, though, looks like someone’s elaborate home.
Margot drank two little bottles of wine earlier on the train, but she only ate a fun-size bag of potato chips, so she’s hungry to the point of shakiness. They stop at a food tent outside the stadium with a hand-painted sign that reads DollaDollaDogz. A traffic cop blows a whistle and dances as he directs a stream of cars into the parking lot. Billy orders them two hot dogs, and when he hands Margot hers, he seems unsure of himself. “Wait, is this okay?”
“Is what okay?”
He looks at the hot dog wrapped in foil. “We can find something nicer, if you want,” he says. “Something better than this.”
His concern is sweet, but it’s silly, because this is perfect. “Shut up,” she tells him. “And give me that ketchup.”
Chapter23
This feels like a first date, while also not feeling at all like a first date. The nerves are there—that jumpy feeling, like you’ve had too much caffeine, like you’re sweating in places that you don’t normally sweat, like your voice sounds weird in your own ears.
Is that really how I talk? I’ve never said “all righty” before in my life. Why am I saying it now?
What’s different, Billy realizes as the sun drops below the first-base side of Camden Yards, is the lack of mystery here. Because, he reallyhasknown Margot for twenty years. He was a fan of the band because they were incredible. They played the sort of music he’d want to play if he were in a band: brash and loud, but smart and political, too, like the Clash but with better voices. His crush on Margot wasn’t weird or obsessive. It was as harmless as the celebrity crushes everyone has, like daydreaming about a different life, like building a fort for Alyssa Milano. He liked Margot for her talent, which was celebrated and well documented. He liked her, too, because of how pretty he thought she was behind her drums. He loved the intensity in her eyes when she played, and how she peeked out through her hair to look at Anna Gunn, the bassist, during transitions.
As a fan of Burnt Flowers, he paid attention when they were profiled, featured, and interviewed, which they were often back then. And as someone with a crush on the drummer, he paid particular attention to the Margot parts of those profiles, features, and interviews. So, while he gets that he doesn’tknow herknow her, he knows more about her than anyone he’s ever gone on a first date with. He knows what she looked like when she was young and how she got her first drum kit. He knows that she dropped out of NYU, and that Nikki Kixx was the only person to answer Margot’s flyer, and that they became fast friends at CBGB when they were eighteen. He knows who Margot married and what her daughter’s name is. He’s seen the famous photo of Lawson carrying Margot a million times. My lord, that smile! He knows exactly how, when, and why her marriage ended. And he knows what the worst day of her life probably was: the MTV Music Video Awards where she broke down in front of the whole planet. So, even though Billy doesn’tknow herknow her, he knows a lot, which is why, nervous jitters aside, he’s surprisingly relaxed. Relaxed enough, even, to be himself.
“See the warehouse out there?” He points at the long brick building beyond the right-field fence. “It used to be a railroad station. It looked so perfect there that the Orioles decided to keep it when they built this stadium. Now it’s one of the most famous backdrops in baseball.”
“I like it,” she says. “It’s pretty.”
They’re on the aisle, first-base side, fifteen rows up, because if ever there was a time to get good seats, Billy figured this was it. It’s the fourth inning. Neither team has scored, and the beers he bought on the way to their seats are nearly empty. “We should get more of these,” he says.
Margot makes a face that suggestsUm, yeah.
From a distance, he sees his favorite beer vendor, Clancy. Billywaves, catches Clancy’s eye, and gives him a nod. He resists the urge to shout, “Fancy Clancy!” like he normally does, because, relaxed or not, no one istotallythemselves on a first date.
“So, scale of one to ten,” Billy says.
Margot is watching the players on the field. She looks up at him now. The bill of her new cap runs low and straight across her forehead. She looks wonderful.
“How glad are you that you came back?”
She swirls what’s left of the beer in her plastic Orioles cup. “You said it yourself, right? The night is young.”
He’s about to tell her that he’s at a ten—maybe a nine-point-five so as not to seem overeager—but then Clancy sets his iced box of beers down on the metal stairs with a clank. “What’s up, Billy?”
