covering his eyes. His brotherâs hair is surfer blond, tousled, but in a very planned way. Hankâs is less studied. Unstudied, in fact, and darker blond. The kind of hair that threatens to turn blond if you live on the beach, but not if you work at Planet Guitar. âI just play what I want. If I feel like hearing Big Audio Dynamite, then Iâll play it. And if right after that I segue into an English Beat song, thatâs just because I can. Not because Iâm, like, wanting to make the audience swoon.â He cracks up with the last part, affecting an Elvis stance as he says it.
âBut if you play, say, âThe End of the Party,â which is one of my favorite Beat songs, by the way, then it fills the room with a certain energy. Electrodes or currents or justâ¦â I think of that song. Of hearing it in my own room and hearing it, too, in my head at a certain party this spring when I found out, finally, what it was like to kiss Pren Stevens, the lead singer.
ââ Say it now, you know thereâs never a next time ,ââ Hank says, his voice monotone. Weâre paused directly in front of 202.
âGreat line. Of course, then they contradict themselves later in the song by saying thereâs always a next time. Butâ¦â I falter, standing in my uncomfortable jeans, not because I want to get rid of Hank, but because I donât want to. Not for any reason I can pinpoint, but hanging with him beats having to deal with my parents before I get on with the rest of my summer.
My mother chooses this exact moment to stick her head out, ostrich-style, of the room. Her whole face yells perky even though her voice stays totally calm. âDaddyâs fine,â she tells me, and casts a glance over at Hank.
âMy dadâs fine,â I tell Hank just so Iâm not standing there saying nothing and feeling weird.
Hank nods and looks over his left shoulder toward the room where his brother is getting stitched or snapped into place.
Chase is fine, I think, though not in the health-related way. I recall his rather buff physique, his sly smile. Total player. I stick my hands in my pockets so I donât seem too jittery from the caffeine buzz. My fingers toy with the note. The entire note is only one word. When I think about it, this whole moment, the hospital corridor and Hank and my mother recede. Itâs like even though Iâm not the sick one, I somehow have the diagnosis in my pocket.
One word. When I first looked at it near my locker, I actually flipped it over thinking that thereâd be more to it. Like whoeverâd sent it had more to say. Or wanted to elaborate.
Slut .
First I thought this was proof the sender lacked brain power. Was less than stellar in the creativity department. Now I think they might win the Most Succinct award. Slut. Slut. The word is any part of speechânoun, adjective, and hey, if you believe the rumors, a verb. She sluts around. Doing what, exactly? Use your imagination, folks.
âHoney?â My mother beckons me back into the room.
I rejoin the waking world here in the corridor, and erase thoughts of Hankâs brotherâs hotness.
âSoâ¦â I turn to Hank, who pushes the sleeve of his T-shirt up and bobs in place, probably desperate to leave. I think about saying âSee you later,â but I probably wonât, so I donât. âI guessâ¦â
Hank takes no cue from me because right before he darts off, he says, âThere is a next time, though, right? Like the song. So you donât have to say whatever it is you were going to say. âSay Say Sayââterrible song. Definitely Paul McCartney sinking to new lows, even by Wings standards.â
âHank?â I rub my eyes, wired from the coffee, tired from the day. Itâs been fun having this random interaction, but now itâs starting to feel like work. Or maybe heâs easy and the rest of life is hard.