The Calculus of Change Read online

  “What are you doing?” Jon leans over my desk, reading the contents of my computer screen. I shove him back.

  “Knock it off, you snoop. I’m looking at Brandeis’s website.”

  Jon plops onto my bed. “Oh.”

  “You ready for the motto?”

  Jon grunts.

  “Don’t overdo your enthusiasm. It’s Truth, even unto its innermost parts.”

  Jon repeats the motto in a mumble.

  “What does that even mean?” he says, stretching out, his shoes now on top of my comforter.

  “It means . . .” I walk to the bed, shove his feet to the side, and sit down next to him. “I think it’s about perseverance—learning a thing even when it’s uncomfortable or inconvenient.”

  “The truth is almost always inconvenient.” Jon studies me before he says, “Don’t get too attached to Brandeis, okay?”

  “Why?”

  “Dad’s always acting like this lacrosse scholarship is guaranteed, but it’s not. Truthfully, it might be kind of a long shot.”

  “So?” The stupid truth. The truth is I do want him to get a full ride so there’s enough money to pay for Brandeis.

  “So who’s going to send you to Brandeis if Dad can’t afford it?”

  I shrug. “I’ll figure it out.” Though, even as I say the words, I’m uncertain. “Besides, what will you do if you don’t end up at some D-1 school?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I study my brother’s creased brows as he stares down at his shoelaces, blue and coming untied. “You don’t know?”

  “No, okay?” His face and his defensiveness say he does know something he’s not saying.

  “What is it, Jon?” He’s still not looking at me, and his untidy shoelaces have held his interest for far too long. Something is up. My brother has always been so busy doing what we all expect of him, playing lacrosse, keeping his temper, holding the silence. But maybe expectations weigh as heavily on him as they do on me. So I ask him, “What would you do if you could do anything?”

  He sighs. “I’ve thought about . . . getting more into gaming.”

  “I’m pretty sure you can’t game for a living.”

  “No, dumb ass. Like, computer programming. Designing games.”

  “Oh.” My face must show my shock. “Really?” I knew he liked playing video games, but I had no idea it was a passion.

  “Yeah, really. You don’t, like, get the monopoly on doing what you want.”

  “I sure as shit don’t, apparently.” I cringe a little because I so often don’t do or say what I want, but I think right now he’s talking about Brandeis. “But you’ve never programmed before.”

  Jon rolls his eyes. “I program all the time, Ade. What do you think I’m doing in my room typing away at my computer?”

  “Uh, homework.”

  “Uh, not exactly.”

  “So you’re programming? Games and stuff?” He nods. “Whoa.” I thought I knew everything about my brother. “Why wouldn’t you tell me that before?”

  “I just started over the summer. And I don’t know. I don’t have to tell you everything, okay? Jeez.”

  “Ouch.” I thought we did tell each other everything. Or most things.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  It’s weird to think there are facets of Jon I don’t know. “I’m here if you want to talk about it or anything.”

  “Talk about what?” My dad stands in the doorway.

  I look at Jon, willing him to say it.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “Come on, Jon. Tell him.”

  Jon shakes his head. “Shut up, Ade.”

  “Why? It’s awesome.” Just the thought of Jon having dreams or ambitions beyond playing lacrosse and video games gives me hope. I think Dad should know.

  “What’s awesome?” Dad asks.

  “Jon wants to be a video gamer.” My brother glares at me. I shrug, mouthing, What’s the big deal? He rolls his eyes.

  “What’s a gamer?” Dad looks from me to Jon.

  “Gamer’s not the right word, Aden. I want to design video games. It’s programmer.”

  “Well, whatever. He wants to do that.”

  “Fantastic,” Dad says.

  “It’s not fantastic, Dad. I’ve been looking into programs, and I want to go to Rhode Island School of Design.”

  My dad stares blankly at Jon, as though he doesn’t know his own son. Jon looks back at Dad and then adds, “They combine the technical side with design in a way no other school does. And they don’t have sports.”

  “Oh,” my dad says, his face falling. “Oh. Well, I’m sure plenty of D-1s have programming or design or whatever you need to be a . . . gamer, programmer, whatever.” My dad stumbles over his words.

  “Maybe,” Jon says, “but D-1s won’t have the design component. Or if they do, it won’t be as focused or ranked as high as RISD.”

  “Listen, Jon, I know you have a shot at a scholarship. Playing a sport you love. You’re bummed you didn’t get attacker this year. That’s okay; you can still play the heck out of this sport. And get whatever degree you want. You can do both.”

  Jon shakes his head, sad and slow. Dad isn’t hearing him. He can’t see Jon outside of the box he’s always fit in. And maybe I can’t either. My brother’s words ring in my head: The truth is almost always inconvenient.

  Dad/Mom

  The spin of the ceiling fan is rhythmic as I sit hunched over my desk, working on a song. Whoosh, whoosh-whoosh, Whoosh, whoosh-whoosh.

  Beauty is love

  What? Beauty is love? That’s seriously the best I’ve got?

  Put the pen down, Aden. You’re ruining it.

  I rest my head in my hands and resume listening to the whirl-whoosh of the ceiling fan. It sounds way better than my song at this point.

  “Ade.” Whoosh, whoosh-whoosh. “Ade, hello?” My dad stands in the doorway. He clears his throat.

  “Hey, Dad. What’s going on?”

  He clears his throat again.

  “Okay, now you’re acting weird.”

  “What, why?” And then, in what sounds like a half-Russian, half-Japanese accent, which is not a reference to anything but his bizarreness, he says, “I’m not weird.”

  I laugh. “Right. Obviously.”

  “But I wanted to give you this,” he says, handing me a piece of paper.

  “What is it?”

  “Just look at it.”

  I unfold the yellow lined paper and immediately recognize my mom’s handwriting. I’d know it anywhere from all the old notebooks I have stashed in the closet. The paper holds a set of lyrics.

  I look at the song my dad gave me and wonder where he got it. I thought I had everything. There is no title on the page.

  “You should learn it,” my dad says. “She was working on it when she . . . You know. I never got to hear how it turned out.”

  “Really? Do you have the chords somewhere? All I see are the words.”

  “Yeah, I know. She had some of the music figured out, but it must’ve been in her head. That’s all I have.”

  “Where’d you find this, Dad? Maybe the music is there.”

  “I was just going through some old stuff. That’s all there is. Promise. And now it’s yours. If you want it.”

  “You were going through Mom’s stuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It was after we talked the other night. You know, when you were asking about her.”

  “Oh.” That conversation. I look up at him and notice the wrinkles between his eyebrows and around his mouth.

  “So, you want these, right?” he says, and it’s like someone’s hit the pause button. He scrunches his eyebrows together, worried-looking. I wonder if it’s hard to give her songs away.

  “Of course I do. Thanks. What’s it about?”

  He grunts a wordless response.

  “Again with the throat clearing, Dad?”

  “I’m not s
ure what it’s about, Ade. Could be me. Marriage, family. Who knows? It’s yours now.”

  When you said

  Love is everything

  I believed you

  I needed to

  When you said

  I need surrendering

  I followed you

  Into a place I didn’t

  Know

  I’d never seen

  Does that make me

  A follower?

  A believer?

  Or just rash and blind.

  When you said

  Love is letting go

  I let it all go

  Again and again

  With abandon

  And now there’s this

  This little soul

  She needs me

  And I need you

  I love her

  And needing

  And loving

  It’s all just one thing

  Does that make

  Me needy

  Or loving

  Or just poor and weak.

  When you said

  Love is everything

  I believed you

  I needed to

  And now

  I surrender

  With abandon

  Because

  Needing and loving

  Is all

  There is left

  Of me

  I read the lyrics again and again, wondering what love and surrender and weakness all have to do with each other. Love is letting go and I let it all go. I think about the conversation I had with Rabbi Morrey about my mother’s dreams, and I wonder if she’s talking about letting go of her dreams in order to get married and have children. She was twenty-four when she married my dad—twenty-five and twenty-six when she had me and my brother. I’d never thought of her as a young mom, but maybe twenty-five is young to become a mother. She wrote that needing and loving are the same, and the idea cuts me. I needed her like every child needs a mother. And as I get older, the needing gets different, but it’s still there all the same. So missing my mom and needing her coalesce in me until I can’t tell which is which. But it doesn’t matter because sometimes, all I can do is surrender to the pain of her absence and the pieces of me that will never be fulfilled.

  As I let the sadness of my mom’s words seep into me, the tune of her song seeps out of me. As though I’ve tapped into something that has been waiting for me to discover it. The chords are easy to pluck and strum. Without knowing what this song meant to her, I know what this song means. To love someone is a kind of desperate need. I feel it every time I think about Tate. But does loving someone, anyone, mean giving up a part of yourself?

  Me

  Tonight is open mic night. It’s one of many I’ll play this year, but knowing Tate will be there, seeing this side of me, makes it matter more. I want him to watch me, to experience this side of my soul and fall in love. So I have to look beautiful, too. From my closet I choose a long flowing skirt and a formfitting shirt. I wear my feather earrings and dark eyeliner. I check the full-length mirror before leaving my room. I look good.

  My dad is standing in the kitchen wearing his nicer clothes, khaki pants and a button-down shirt with a belt.

  “Why the fancy clothes?”

  “I’m going out,” Dad says.

  “Oh yeah?” I have a feeling I know where he’s going.

  “Yeah,” he says. “It’s a hot little place called Ike’s. I know the band.”

  “I’m not a band, Dad. Just a one-woman show. Sit in the back, please.” I’m smiling. I’m glad he’s coming. He hasn’t seen me play in a while.

  Jon is in the kitchen drinking whole milk right out of the carton.

  “You’re gross,” I say.

  “Nah,” he says, “this is gross.” He takes another mouthful, then spits the milk back into the carton.

  I whack him on the arm.

  “Hey, that hurt,” he says. “I was just kidding. The milk’s almost gone. You think I’m a Neanderthal or something?”

  “You think you’re not?”

  “So do you want me to wear some kind of disguise tonight?” Dad says, wandering into the kitchen.

  “Can you?”

  He laughs. “Only if it’s these.” He puts on a pair of fake teeth made to look like they’re rotting out.

  “Very country bumpkin,” I say. “But I was hoping you’d wear the Dracula teeth and cape.”

  “Only if I get to paint fake blood dribbling down my chin,” Dad says.

  “But seriously, Dad, if you whip those teeth out in front of my friends, I will kill you silently while you sleep.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” he says.

  ***

  I’m at Ike’s, trying not to focus on droves of my Bentley classmates milling around before the show. I’m sitting at a table with Marissa and two guys. I don’t know the boys, and they aren’t interested in my existence. My dad, my brother, and Sabita are at a table toward the back of the room, and I wish I’d sat with them.

  I’m staring above Marissa’s head at a photograph of a woman lying on her back. She’s in a grassy field. It’s black-and-white, and the sun illuminates a few blades of grass and the woman’s upturned cheek. The woman’s hair is dark and long, extending beyond the reach of the camera’s lens.

  I turn back, feigning interest in Marissa and the boys’ conversation about Instagram. Marissa stands up to refill her coffee. She’s wearing hip-hugging jeans and a tight T-shirt. She looks great.

  “So you’re playing tonight?” one of the boys says.

  “Yup.”

  I’m tuning my guitar, trying not to make eye contact.

  “Are you any good?”

  “Yup,” I say.

  I surprise myself with the answer. But it’s true. I am good.

  “Well, good luck,” the boy says, smiling.

  His kindness surprises me. I thought he didn’t know I existed.

  I scan the crowd for Tate. I wonder if he decided not to come.

  The show starts. I’m slated for the third slot. There are five performers. I’ve forgotten all about Tate by the time the first guy is done playing. He has shoulder-length, wavy, honey-colored hair and a beautiful singing voice. It feels good to love someone else right now.

  It’s my turn, and I’m making my way to the stage, trying not to take someone out with my guitar. I sit on a small stool in front of the microphone and lean over the guitar, retuning a little, my hair reaching all the way to the strings, covering the sides of my face. I look up, but all I can see is the bright spotlight and a few strangers sitting close to the stage.

  “Hi,” I say into the microphone. I angle it down to my mouth. “My mom wrote this song. Her name was Vivian. She never titled it, but I call it ‘Viv’s Last Song.’”

  And then I sing. I sing the beautifully sad lyrics my mom wrote. And I’m transported into the song. Each chord, each strum, each note, each word, it all means something as it comes out of me. As it comes to me—because that’s what singing this feels like. It feels like letting go. Like floating helplessly down a river. I don’t know what it sounds like, but I know what it feels like. It feels like I know this song better than I know my own heart. It feels like the only thing I should be doing right here in this moment is singing my mom’s song.

  The room is silent as the last chord melts away. I feel full and drained all at once. The applause is raucous, and the sound of it orients me as I make my way offstage.

  I look for my dad. He’s where I left him in the back of the room, his face buried in a cup of coffee. He catches my eye, sets his cup down, and raises his hands, miming applause. He’s smiling, but I see the sadness in his eyes. I blow him a kiss. I know he gets her song better than anyone else.

  Jon is already surrounded by a group of friends. He looks at me and gives me a thumbs-up. His face is glowing. My brother’s pride is the pillar I need right now.

  I make my way through the crowd. A few people stop me to say good job. I smil
e and thank them.

  I’m heading toward Tate. He stands at the back of the room, shadowed by a bookshelf. He hasn’t broken eye contact since I spotted him. His gaze is steady and dark, but warmed by the upturned corners of his mouth. He is all I see.

  I set my guitar on the ground and fold into his arms. He rests his chin on my head, and I’m so sure that he knows my soul.

  Dad

  When I get home that night, Dad is watching TV.

  “Hi, Peanut.”

  I relax, knowing that tonight I get the dad I love. The one I need.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say.

  I plop down on the other end of the couch.

  Dad stares at the TV when he says, “I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks,” I respond, pretending what he’s said is no big deal.

  “You know, your mother . . .” My dad pauses because it pains him to say the word mother out loud to me. “She would’ve been proud of you. You are so much like her. She would sit on the back porch for hours with her guitar. Even at the end.”

  He stops, and I think that’s all he’ll say, because we so rarely talk about her.

  “That damn guitar went to the hospital and back with her every time.”

  Then he sad-laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that shouldn’t be a laugh at all. It should be a howl. But crying isn’t something he does. Anyway, it wouldn’t bring her back. So we laugh together, pushing the grief down into the depths of our bodies where it’s more appropriate, where it won’t betray us randomly. We laugh.

  I think of my mom’s twelve-string guitar sitting idly in my closet. Buried under old photo albums and clothes I grew out of in middle school.

  The first song I ever learned how to play was Neil Diamond’s “Shilo.” My mom loved Neil Diamond. I remember one summer afternoon, my mom, me, and my brother in the car, each holding cups of soft-serve ice cream on our laps. The windows are rolled down, and we’re singing “Shilo” along with the radio at the tops of our lungs, the three of us. The sky is swollen with afternoon thunderclouds, and it already smells a little like rain. My mom is driving with bare feet, one hand out the window, catching the wind. Her hair, my hair, it’s a mess in the wind. We’re not going anywhere in particular I can remember. Just driving, singing, inhaling ice cream and wind, being kids together.