The Bad Decisions Playlist (20 page)

Finally, inevitably, Shane simply stops singing. He stops in the middle of one of the takes, stops singing and stands there. Not angry this time. Just staring off passively like he's observing clouds forming over distant hills. The rest of us keep on for a few more measures before coming to a disorderly, ragged halt.

Shane is still contemplating the distant weather system.

“Shane?” I say. “Shane.”

“It's the song,” he says. “The song is no good.
None
of them are any good. I haven't written a single worthwhile song since ‘Good Fun.'”

He takes a deep breath, then sighs it out:
haahhhhhh
.

Only then does he shift his attention to us, turning and stepping back so that he can address us all. The old Shane, generous with his warmth, eyes crinkling in the corners. Happy now, relieved, because he has given up once and for all.

“I'm sorry, everyone. You're all doing great. It's my fault, not yours. Thank you all for your time.”

“You're giving up?” says Todd.

“Yep. Taking off my skates. C'mon, why y'all looking so glum?”

“We still have some time left,” I say.

“It ain't time that's the problem,” says Shane. “I've been stuck for ten years​—​it's not something that I'm going to fix in the next hour.”

“We wrapped, Shane?”

Ed's voice, coming over the studio address system.

We all look at Shane.

“Shane, are we wrapped?”

Shane looks at us.

“Shane?” says Ed.

Now Shane looks at me. Then at Josephine. Then back to me. Then a few more repeats: me, Josephine, me, Josephine.

Uh-oh.

“No,” says Shane. “No, we're
not
wrapped.”

The reflections and glare make it hard to see through the double-thick glass, but I think I can discern Ed clapping a hand over his eyes.

“What we're gonna do​—” says Shane, and I'm already saying “Shane, no . . .”

“​—​is sing one of
Austin's
songs.”

“No way. There are no Austin songs.”

“You got that song we were singing together yesterday by the river. We're gonna take that half song and make it a whole song.”

“Shane, don't sing that one. Not now.”

Shane gives a sly sidelong glance at Josephine, and as I feel the panic rise he starts singing,
“Oh,
Rosalie, Rosalie,
hear my plea / someone has got to love me and it can't be me . . .”

Winking at me on the “Rosalie.”

He keeps going, strumming the chords skeletally, twisting to give a nod to Todd, who starts a tentative rhythm that quickly gets stronger.

“Shane, come on,” I say, but he keeps going, adding verses: “She calls me on the phone to say / she won't call me no more / She tells me to come over / just so she can slam the door . . .”

He comes around again to the chorus, looking at Josephine with raised eyebrows, singing the words to her with the exaggerated emphasis you use when you're teaching someone, and Josephine is starting to smile, then leans in to the microphone to add her voice, Shane signaling to keep the chorus going so he can add a harmony (me saying, “Shane, I don't think . . .”), and he responds by giving me a soft kick in the ass and I start singing too.

We get to the part where the bridge should be, except there's nothing but river between the first part of the song and the second, and Shane twirls his finger to encourage Todd to keep going and shifts back and forth on his feet, eyes rolled skyward, muttering to himself, running experimentally through different series of chords, then hits one and sings: “I'm tired of all my old mistakes / we can do it wrong but let's make it new . . .”

And he trails off, muttering again and thinking, and I surprise myself by singing, “It would be good for me / if you were good to me / I think I might be good for you too . . .”

And Shane laughs out loud and we all sing,
“Rosalie, Rosalie, hear my plea . . .”

We have a song in about twenty-five minutes, Shane putting out some lyrics, me responding, Shane scribbling them down as we go, and before we can catch our breath or stop to think he says, “Y'all got it? Got it? Yes? All right, let's go. One take. Let's do it.”

So we do it. We stand around that microphone and Todd plays and I play and we all sing and Shane has the happy look he had last night at the party, and so does Josephine, despite herself, and I know I do too, just having fun singing a song together, sloppy and unpolished but true, all our problems and arguments and anger put away for three minutes and ten seconds, and when we finish we don't all collapse into laughter like it's a movie musical, but we do take a moment to grin stupidly at each other​—​well, not Todd, he just sits there blank faced​—​until Ed's voice comes over the speaker again: “Okay, clear. Can I go home now?”

∗  ∗  ∗

Shane needs to stay to do some mixing on the song. Todd and Josephine need to go home. I need to figure out how to get them home, get myself home, get my bike home, and (I hope) arrange it so that Josephine rides with me as part of the deal. I mention this in a low voice to Shane and he gets it immediately, and when Josephine steps away to use the bathroom he hands Todd $100 in twenties and says, “Good job today. You can take a cab home, right?”

Todd blinks at the money, then shrugs.

“Sure.”

I walk with him down the hallway toward the exit. You'd think we'd have bonded and we'd be chatting in an animated fashion, saying,
What an unusual experience we underwent today,
new friend!
But no. Todd is hermetically sealed. At the door he gives me a nod without really looking at me, muttering an impersonal
thanks
as he exits, the sort of thing you say to the driver as you're getting off the bus. Then he pauses.

“You ever want me to play again, lemme know.”

When I get back to the control room, Shane and Josephine are listening to a playback of the song, Josephine looking stricken. When it ends, she says, “I ruined your song.”

“Nope,” says Shane, “you made it work. And it's not my song, it's Austin's.” Then he stands up and gives her a hug, gives me a hug, and says, “Thank you both.” He puts the big headphones back on. “Go. We'll catch up later.”

Walking down the hall again, this time with Josephine.

“Where's Todd?”

“Took a cab home. Which you can totally do. Or I could give you a ride on my bike?”

A few too many more steps as she considers it.

“Yeah, okay,” she says.

∗  ∗  ∗

Her hands are warm on my sides. She's got them in the I'm-not-sure-where-to-put-them position, tentatively placed on my ribs, her fingers gripping reflexively each time we go over a bump. Which tickles like hell, but I'm not about to say anything.

I go down Hennipen Avenue to the route that curves us around Lake of the Isles, huge lawns sloping up to giant old mansions to our right, the lake to our left. It's hard to have any sort of conversation when you're on a motorcycle, so we don't. Nor was she especially responsive to my attempts when we were walking to where my bike was parked near the restaurant:

“Thanks for coming today.”

“Sure.”

“Pretty fun, right?”

“Yes.”

“You know, you have a really nice voice.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh my God would you please please please tell me what is going on because last night we were kissing in a sea of stars and today you hate me again but you still came with me to the studio and it's all insanely weird and driving me friggin' crazy.”

(Thought, not said.)

So now we're riding, and I'm going to drop her off and she'll go in her house and we'll be exactly where we were when I received her
Let's not even be friends
text. Then, just as we're coming into a wooded area she says, “Stop.”

“What?”

“Stop. Pull over.”

I do. She gets off the bike without explanation and crosses the road toward the lake, taking off her helmet, walks across the grass and foot and bike paths until she's standing by the fringe of reeds at the edge of the lake, looking out at the water.

“You okay?” I call out, but she doesn't answer. A car beeps behind me, Minnesota polite. I give the driver an apologetic wave and steer the bike to and then over the opposite curb, parking it on the grass. It's dusk. There're a few joggers and strollers and bikers out. A middle-aged woman with silver hair notes the bike and gives me the side-eye but doesn't say anything. Minnesota disapproval.

“You okay?” I say again when I get close. She doesn't answer. Instead she spins around and says,
“Why?”

“What why? Why what?”

“Why did you kiss me last night?!”

“I'm
sorry.
I told you I'm sorry! I'm sorry if I insulted you!”

“I'm such a fool!” she says. I have a flashback to her saying that as she stormed out the first day we met. “It's all just a game to you! You just collect people!”

“I don't know what you're saying! I don't understand!”

“I'm just another stupid girl to you,” she says, “Another girl on . . .”

“On what?”

“Your frigging playlist!”

Oh, Devon, you stupid, loudmouth idiot . . .

“‘Playlist'? What are you
talking
about?”

“You
know
what I'm talking about!
Everyone
knows about your playlist!”

“It's not . . . I don't . . . it's not even my idea!”

Taking a shovel to an already deep hole.

“Oh, so you
do
know what I'm talking about! It's real!”

“No, it's
not.
Or
yes,
fine, but
no
—​it's not my idea! I never called it that!”

“Oh, really? What do you call it, then?”

“Call what?”

“Your cute little list of all the girls you've had sex with!”

“I've never had sex with anyone!”

It jumps out of me way too loud, way too emphatic. Timed just as some college-age guy jogs into earshot, his smirk pretty clear evidence that he heard me.

He's at least fifty yards away, receding in the distance, before Josephine can muster, “What?”

“Nothing!”

“You've never . . . ?”

“No! Yes! No! Whatever! Leave it!”

“You're a
virgin?
”

“Would you please?”

“But​—”

“I've done lots of other stuff, okay? I just haven't​—​You know, this is embarrassing for me, and I don't want to be standing here talking about​—”

“Why?”

“Why don't I want to talk about it? Because I​—”

“Why are you still a virgin?”

“Is that bad?”

“No! But why?”

“I'm still a virgin because my mom had me when she was eighteen, and look how great
I
turned out.”

“Oh.”

“And . . . because it's special. Okay? I want it to be special, and with someone special. Is that all right with you? Now can we go? Please? Or do you just want to yell at me some more for kissing you, which I thought
you
wanted to do too, or yell at me because Devon made up the whole playlist thing, or make fun of me because I haven't done it yet, which, yeah, I'd prefer you keep to yourself, if you can manage that. Oh, what now? Why are you shaking your head?”

“Who
are
you?”

“Augh! I don't know what you're talking about, Josephine!”

“Who
are
you, Austin?”

“What do you mean?!”

“Who are you? Are you the guy who has a joke for everything, and a playlist, and it's all charm and laughs and your motorcycle and BS, or are you that other person?”

“What other person?!”

“The person who . . . The person I see when you're singing.”

That stops me.

“I don't know, Josephine. Maybe I'm all of that.” I scrub at my face with both hands like I'm trying to wash this all away.

“Let's just go. And we can forget today and forget last night and forget everything that happened since I met you. I projected all this nonsense on you, thought you were something. Why did I kiss you? I kissed you because I
hate
you. I kissed you because I think you're stupid and boring and ugly.

“I kissed you,” I say, “because I can't stop thinking about you, and having dreams about you and pretend conversations with you, and wishing I was with you, because you're twice as beautiful as your awful sister and you don't even know it, and because you're smart and funny and you're like the songs I hear in my head, like every song I've ever tried to write. And
you
feel like a fool?
I'm
the fool. I'm the idiot, for liking you, and for thinking you might somehow like me back, and​—​What, what are you​—”

​—​is as far as I get, because we're kissing again.