There Will Come a Time (19 page)

I follow the people down the steps, inching my way to the source of the loud hip-hop music emanating from inside. We enter a small theatre with a stage and probably one hundred stadium seats. Most of the seats are already taken. I spot one in the back corner and make my way toward it. I'm not about to join the people sitting on the stage on beanbags, chairs, or the floor. I spot Hanna and Sebastian in the front row. I pull up the collar of my jacket, as if that'll help disguise me, not that they'll be looking for me. They probably don't care if I show up or not. The crowd is urban, definitely more of a hip-hop/rap scene, not your white, beret-wearing, finger-snapping poetry crowd. Most everyone is black, so I kind of
stand out being the only Filipino that I can see, but I'm also at home because of the beats.

The DJ spins real vinyl from a far corner of the stage. The mix is early '90s rap, which gives the space a gritty feel. As if he's heard my thoughts, the DJ throws some Public Enemy into the mix.

A black guy with a shaved head, vest, and skinny tie jumps onstage and introduces himself as the host for the night. Everyone applauds. He starts to go through the rules about breaks and conduct. He also reminds people that tonight is open mic, not slam night. Be respectful. Be loving. Be cool. The first round of poets is already full, but they have a couple of open spots for the next, so if anyone wants a turn they can see him at the break.

From where I'm sitting, Hanna and Sebastian look like they're together. She smiles up into his face at something he's said. I'm already mad at Sebastian, but I may have to kick his ass for real this time.

The host calls the name of the first poet from a slip of paper. Freddy. Some twentysomething guy jumps up on the stage. He adjusts the mic stand, raising it up to his height.

“Hello. How you all doing?”

“Hello,” people yell back.

“This is called ‘Love Is the Shit,' ” he says, which makes the crowd laugh. He launches into a story about how he fell for a
girl, how she cheated and left him. Most of the poem makes fun of her and couples in love, but it ends with how he looks everywhere for that feeling. It evades him, and all he picks up is its scent, like the one hanging around after someone's used the bathroom. I thought the piece was pretty depressing and gimmicky, but the guy gets a standing ovation.

The next poet is a Latin guy who launches into a speech about the government, and the establishment, and how we need to start a revolution or something like that. He speaks so quickly that I can't catch everything he says. It's not a good poem or performance, but everyone claps for him, too.

Next up is a girl who speaks about relationships. Her performance is so sensual. Her voice sounds like a low oboe moaning across the stage. It makes me wonder if they ever have any musical accompaniment for their poets. Another idea comes to me for Pete's show, but then I remember I'm not doing the show anymore.

As each poet performs, I become more tense because I'm wondering when it will be Hanna's turn. I don't know if she's going in the first group or if she's in the second. I'm hoping it's the first so she can get it over with. I'm nervous for her.

After the sixth poet, the MC calls Hanna's name. She climbs the stairs to the stage and stands in front of the mic. She's wearing her good jeans, the ones she wears when she wants to look
cute. Her brown hair is down and straightened. Alone on the stage, she looks small, more like a scared girl than a spoken-word artist. She pushes back some of her chunky bracelets and lowers the mic.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” the crowd says back.

“I didn't write this poem. My friend Grace did. She made this list.” Hanna turns away from the mic and clears her throat. “She made this list of things she wanted to do. One of them was to perform a poem. But then she died, so she never got to. I know she loved this place, so I'm kind of doing this for her.”

I hadn't known about Grace's connection to the club. I feel a twinge in my gut, and suddenly I'm pissed. I check myself. It's not like I told Grace everything I ever did or wanted to do. But Hanna knowing this piece of Grace makes me feel like Grace had to hide part of herself from me. Why else wouldn't she have told me about the lounge? Did she think I would have made fun of her? And then there were those entries in her journal. She kept it a secret from me that she was talking to Mom. She kept her fears secret. She kept lots of things from me.

The whole audience seems to sit up a little straighter and lean forward after Hanna's introduction. She takes a deep breath and begins to read.

“ ‘If I could tell you, I'd start with how I think you look in
the morning. It's not all sunbeams and dew and mountaintops. It's more sleepy eyes and messy hair and pillow lines on your cheek from resting so hard.' ”

Hanna's voice falters. She stops and stares down at the paper, and I want to run to the stage, to stand with her, but I can't move.

“It's okay, girl,” someone says from the audience. “You can do it.”

“Take your time.”

“Go on.”

“We're with you.”

They call out with the same rhythm and cadence of a congregation ready to hear the message in church. Hanna looks up and gives a courageous smile before she starts reading again.

“ ‘If I could tell you, I'd start with how I'm feeling. It's not all butterflies and passion and my heart skipping a beat when you walk in the room. I am scared and shy and overwhelmed.' ”

As Hanna talks, her voice gets stronger. I close my eyes and listen to the words, and suddenly it's as if Grace is saying them, not Hanna. It's as if Grace is here, with us, speaking to me.

“ ‘I'd tell you not to say those words, the ones you're hiding in plain sight, the ones that will turn kisses and holding hands into promises. I want to say wait.' ”

Hanna whispers, “ ‘Wait. Slow. It. Down. I'm not ready.' ” She pauses, and we all wait with her.

“ ‘Time is churning, spinning, swirling us into infinity. I want to open my arms, lie on my back, and let the current take me. Close my eyes and not think about what is ready to pull me into the deep, pull me under. I don't want to think of forever and ever and ever. I want to follow where the water leads, which is to this moment.

“ ‘This moment is not forever. This moment is me and you and us in time. This moment I want to tell you everything, but I can't because I am not everything and you are not everything. Not everything needs to be spoken. Because when you or I speak things, they come to be. Our words become worlds where people dwell and live and hurt and laugh, and there's no destroying what our words create.

“ ‘If I could tell you anything it would be that I am here with you now. And that's better than forever, because lots of things can happen between seventeen and forever.

“ ‘So I will simply take your hand, kiss the tips of your eyelids, and walk with you toward tomorrow.'

“Thank you,” Hanna finishes.

The audience stands and applauds. Hanna is beaming. The MC lets us know that it's time for a break. It's my chance to get away unnoticed, so I hurry down the aisle. Outside, I double over on the sidewalk. I try to catch my breath, like someone's punched me in the gut.

“Are you okay?” a girl asks.

“Yes. No.” I stand up and it's Hanna with Sebastian. The three of us form an awkward triangle. They don't say anything, waiting for me to say something. The night is cold and Hanna rocks back and forth on her heels.

“You were really good,” I say finally.

“I messed up on the first part,” Hanna says.

“No, it was perfect,” I say. “Grace would've loved it.”

“Thanks.”

I think of Lily's drawing, taped to a wall in my room. “You guys are my best friends. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to be a porcupine anymore.”

“We all hurt people,” Hanna says. “We just need to make it right when we do.”

“I'm sorry for hitting you,” I tell Sebastian.

He nods. “I forgive you.”

I smile because it reminds me of the way that Dad would make Grace and me apologize to one another when we were little. Dad said it wasn't enough to say that you were sorry, it was important to also forgive the other person when you were wronged.

“Thanks, man.” I turn to Hanna. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things to you. Forgive me?”

“I forgive you,” Hanna says.

Their forgiveness makes me feel like I can breathe again, but I'm not sure where to go from here.

“It'll be okay,” Hanna says.

“How do you know?”

“Because nothing lasts forever.”

Normally that sentiment would make me sad, but I am grateful for it. I know she means she's not as mad. She's saying I have another chance.

We start walking and our triangle converges into a line, with me in between the two of them. Where we're going, I don't know, and none of us says anything. We walk a couple of blocks.

“I'm hungry,” Sebastian says.

“I could eat,” I say. I could do anything now that I have my friends back. But I'm cautious. I don't want to mess anything up.

We head toward the fluorescent lighting of a small diner. The hostess tells us to grab any table. We sit in the corner on ripped red leather seats, patched with silver duct tape, talking about the poets we heard and making our own Top Fives. I sneak glances now and then at both of them, glad that, for the moment, the world is becoming right again.

W
e live on the most perfect street for skateboarding. It's like six hundred yards long, all downhill, and there's not a ton of traffic because it's a cul-de-sac at the top, which is where I start and just let her go. Every now and then I get some freaked-out neighbor lecturing me about how I should wear a helmet because if I'm hit by a car, my brains will be splattered all over the road. My bass teacher would probably kill me, afraid I'd break my wrist or something, if he knew. I don't really care, because skating's awesome. The wind presses against your face, and runs through your hair. It's the closest thing to flying. Sure, I've eaten it a couple of times, but that comes with the territory. Sit out if you're afraid to get hurt.

I turn, skidding to a stop right before the street spills out onto a major road, flip the board around, and push it back up the hill. I could go over to the park, but I wanted some speed this morning.

Hanna comes out and sits on the curb, watching me. Though all has been forgiven, we're still working our way back to normal. I wad up the shyness in my gut, and I skate over to her.

“Want to join?”

“I don't skate.” She puts one hand on her hip.

She's lying. She does skate. I learned that a couple of days after she had moved in. I was doing some ollies off my wooden ramp and she came over with a board underneath her arm like she had been skating all her life. She started doing ollies and landed each one solid. I got cocky and tried to land a 180, but came down chicken-footed every time. Hanna stopped skating in the ninth grade, but that doesn't mean she can't.

“Chicken?” I ask, pushing my board up the hill, knowing that'll get her.

I wait for her at the top. She's got an old dusty black helmet on her head and carries her board under her arm as years before.

“Seriously?”

“I'm not going to get brain damage if I fall.” The straps hang from both sides.

“Here.” I help her with the fastener underneath her chin.
“If you're going to wear it, wear it right.” The strap's too tight, so I loosen it. I try to ignore her eyes and the way her skin feels against my fingers. My gaze falls to the rest of her, which I also try to ignore, and I step back a bit. “When's the last time you wore this?”

“Two years ago.”

“There.” I hit her on top of the head like we're teammates ready to take to the game. “Looking good.”

“Just one time.”

“Ready? Go.” I push off and Hanna is right beside me as we zigzag down the hill. I crouch low on the board, which makes me go even faster. Too fast. I'm not going to be able to stop, so I jump the curb and fall onto someone's lawn, rolling a couple of times.

Hanna gracefully skids to a stop at the end of the street and comes over to me. “You hurt?”

I hold up my elbow, where the blood is already oozing.

“Don't be a wimp. Race you.” She pushes off on her board.

I jump up and run with mine, throwing it down in front of me before hopping on.

“That's cheating,” she says.

“Look who had the head start!”

She picks up her board and starts running up the hill.

“Who's the cheater now?” I call after her.

•  •  •  •

After skating with Hanna awhile, practicing bass, and working on homework, I text Pete that I'm back in. His response:
Practice tomorrow after school
. Then I get ready for my dinner with Mom. Since she's coming from the south and I'm up north, we decided to meet in the middle at a little sushi place she suggested downtown. When I get there, I scan the restaurant, but she's not here. I take a table for two next to the window, which faces a busy sidewalk and gray bank building. I look over the menu, but know what I want. It's pretty much the same thing every time: miso soup, rainbow roll, and tuna hand roll, for starters. I'm a creature of habit.

I people-watch. Downtown offers a little bit of everything. An eclectic group of suits, a cyclist, an Asian couple walking their dog, and two skinny white hipsters walk by. An old man in black baggy clothes, most likely homeless, paces back and forth on a corner across the street. The waiter asks if I'd like something to drink. I glance at my watch and order a Coke.

About halfway through my second Coke I get a phone call. I let it go to voice mail. I finish the drink in one quick gulp, and leave more than enough money on the table to cover my tab. Outside the noise and the smell of the city rush over me. My stomach growls, but I ignore the hunger. I take a walk and play the message.