Just Like a Musical Read Free

bed rewinding. I rewind the movie of my family to the moment when my parents first met at Brooklyn Flea, both eyeing that antique coffee grinder that still stands on my bookshelf between The Wizard of Oz and Ham on Rye .  Then I edit, repaint, and rearrange. I make my father a little more sensitive and just a bit taller, and my mother less self-oriented and more jolly. I watch them making snow angels or eating junk food in their pajamas. Then I remove the mysterious man – the “other ” man – from my mother's path with a magic eraser. I can see myself being born healthy and wrapped in good fortune. That's what I do sometimes. But on other occasions, like when my father, whom I haven't seen for almost a year, calls to tell me that he won't be able to make time for me in his busy schedule, I can't even think. I just go numb.
    ***
    The sight of a beautiful gray cloud interrupted my inner lament. Gray clouds in April are rare in Southern California, and that’s why I love them. I decided to go outside to clear my thoughts and take some photographs with my old Polaroid camera, my most precious gift before Mrs. Wheeler gave me that Audrey Hepburn photograph. It belonged to my grandfather; when he had passed away three years ago, my grandmother Julie, a sweet and quiet person, gave it to me.
    I was at the front gate when Mrs. Wheeler appeared at her kitchen window reminding me not to forget our agreement. We were supposed to try out some new tea later that afternoon. She had also persuaded me to pick one of her dresses for Tanya’s party. I wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea to wear something so glamorous at a teenage party, but I didn’t want to make her feel bad by turning down her offer.
    I went to White Oak Park and took a couple of photographs before I sat on the bench. It was one of those quiet afternoons when everything seems to be indolent and all the colors are kind of melted. I closed my eyes, enjoying the warm air and pushing away all the bitterness that I was feeling after the one-and-a-half-minute conversation with my father. I was trying to find comfort in my great SAT scores that I’d gotten earlier that week, and for a moment, it really worked. I was dancing my way through the University of Los Angeles’ door when I heard someone giggling. I can’t stand those people who accost you in the park, always trying to make you talk about the weather, or shoelaces, or cheese, or trumpets, or just anything. Not that I’ve met many of them, but I’ve been interrogated by a few, and I try to avoid them when I can. So I ignored the giggling and drifted back to my sweet reverie. When I finally opened my eyes, after my dreamy ears caught a strange sound from the outside world, I saw a guy sitting on the bench opposite mine. There was no one else around.
    “Uh… I’m sorry ,” he mumbled.
    I looked at him, stretching my shoulders.
    “Sorry for waking you up.”
    “Oh, never mind. I wasn’t sleeping anyway,” I said, jumping up from the bench and pretending that I was going to take some more photos.
    I have never been good at casual talk with strangers, especially with quite good-looking, tall strangers in black chucks and hand-painted T-shirts with laughing skulls and poppy flowers. That’s why I decided to take a particular interest in two pigeons that were waddling around. Sure, pigeons can be quite interesting. Way more interesting than good-looking boys who have just tried to strike up a conversation with you. I carefully approached the pigeon couple and took a photograph, when the guy in the quirky T-shirt popped right beside me.
    “Hi again!” he said cheerfully.
    I looked into his eyes for a moment. They were midnight blue and they were smiling and I was ready to fall in love. But then he did something really strange – he pulled his left ear very hard. So hard that it turned red.  
    Then he blinked and said, “May I see them?”
    “See them?”
    He pulled his ear again. I was confused,