Being Friends With Boys by Terra Elan McVoy Page A

seriously. Whatever happened yesterday at practice, he’s already let it go, and so should I.
    It’s hard to concentrate, though, because while he’s singing, Oliver’s phone bings next to me on the coffee table, with about ten incoming texts. When he finishes playing he turns it off. I’m sure it’s Whitney, but I don’t ask.
    We move on to “You’re Ugly, Too,” and after an hour—Mr. and Mrs. Drake leave for a benefit dinner in the meantime—end up changing the entire third verse, making it into more of a kick-in-the-throat song than a pathetic attempt at an insult.
    “Fabian’s going to like messing around with that one,” I say from nowhere.
    “He’s good, right?”
    I nod. Oliver saying Fabian is talented gives me a little thrill inside. But I can’t let Oliver of all people see that, so I keep my face even. “Really good.”
    Working out “Just Hang Up” is harder. The chords Oliver’s trying are all wrong.
    “Stop playing and close your eyes,” I finally tell him. I’m sitting on the floor in front of him, legs crossed.
    He does, and his placid, trusting face is startlingly sweet.
    “Think about a girl—a girl who’s desperate to get the lastword in. A girl trying her very hardest to hurt the dickhead boyfriend on the other end of the phone. She has no way of knowing she’ll never succeed. Because he doesn’t really care and is just doing all this for some kind of twisted amusement. But she keeps trying. She won’t let go. She’s like some kind of pit bull.”
    He opens his eyes. “A pit bull hanging on to a dead man.” The way he says it, there’s some personal experience behind his words.
    “Exactly. We should even put that in.”
    “Okay, here—”
    He tries another progression of chords, these definitely darker. I test out a few lines along with him. We sketch out a melody and for a second try some harmony but just end up scrunching our faces at each other and laughing.
    It isn’t perfect. We have to go back, change some things, but we do it. Together. No egos and no awkwardness. Just me and him, working to make these songs the best we can.
    Which is why I don’t realize how late it is. “Oh, shit,” I say, squinting at the digital clock on his elaborate entertainment console: 11:23. “Is that clock right?”
    “Looks like it,” he says, turning on his phone and holding it up for me to see.
    “Damn. I’ve got to go. Like, right now.”
    He stands up. “It’ll be quicker if I drive you.”
    Which is another good thing about Oliver: he is totally respectful when it comes to parents and their demands. Chores, groundings, curfews, family dinners, whatever, he understands it. He doesn’t tease you or say, “Screw your parents, man,” or anything like that. So when I jump up from the floor, all he does is switch off the power on his equipment, and then he’s behind me up the stairs, grabbing his jacket, out the door.
    We make it back to my house at 11:28.
    “Thanks, man,” I breathe.
    “No, thank you . That was . . . enormous.”
    “It was kinda, yeah.” I nod. “I mean, it was cool, working with you that way.”
    The wide, no-teeth, I see you for real smile fills up his face. For a minute I say a little silent fuck you to Whitney and all the girls who glare at me when I hang out around Oliver. He never smiles at them this way, I know. Or, at least, maybe not as often.
    When I shut the car door I wave at him, and he waves jauntily back. Walking up to my house, somebody might accuse me of bouncing or something, and that’d be okay. Because tonight I feel really, completely, deep-down, all-around happy and good.
     
    The feeling continues on Saturday. Oliver plays the new songs for the guys, and they get them almost right away. Even Abe throws in some truly inspired drumming, and it’s just amazing to seehow quickly Fabian can follow—and then play with, and then add to—whatever it is Oliver’s doing. It makes my Oh my god I dig you so much feeling accelerate