Page 35 of Goodbye Days

“Good point.”

“You had Sauce Crew. Now you have Sweat Crew.”

I let the words melt on my tongue. She’s joking, but I relish their taste. “Sweat Crew. Yeah.”

“Do we have any classes together?” she asks. “Let’s see.”

I pull out my schedule. “I have AP English lit, creative writing, writing critique group, lunch, AP history, teacher’s aide, and AP biology. How about you?”

She starts to pull out her schedule. I instinctively put my hand over hers. “Not while you’re driving.”

“Don’t worry,” she says softly. “I was giving it to you so you could read it.”

She gives it to me, and I read: music theory and sight-reading, piano performance, lunch, show choir, calculus, yoga. “Yeah, not much similarity here.” This is no surprise. I rarely had classes with Eli, Blake, or Mars. Eli was always music heavy and Mars was always drawing/painting heavy. Blake and I sometimes had writing classes together, but then he had his A/V stuff that I didn’t.

I tuck her schedule in her bag. “Do you want to hang out at lunch?”

“No, I’d rather have that moment when I’m walking through the lunchroom with my tray and nobody will let me sit with them.”

“She’ll be here all week, folks. Don’t forget to tip your waiter.”

She turns up the volume on her stereo. “This is one of my favorite songs.”

“What is it?”

“ ‘Avalanche’ by Leonard Cohen.”

“I’ve never heard of Leonard Cohen.”

Her expression is abject disbelief. “Whaaaaaa— Dude. We gotta fix that. You’re a writer. He’s like the best writer.”

“I’m a little dumb about music. I listen to whatever people—Eli, Georgia, whoever—introduce me to.”

“Okay, then you’re going to start listening to music I introduce you to.”

“Deal. What’s funny is that my dad used to be a songwriter. That’s why he came to America and moved to Nashville. He even had a medium hit in the nineties.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yep.

“Come on.”

“It was called ‘When My Heart’s Torn Up.’ Bowie Lee Daniels cowrote it and performed it.”

She pounds the steering wheel with both palms. I notice that her fingernails are painted in the NAA school colors: blue, except for her ring fingers, which are painted yellow. “I’ve heard that song a million times. I used to have to line dance to it in grade school PE.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s cool. You said he used to be a songwriter?”

“He teaches English at Belmont now.”

“I want to meet him.”

“Someday.”

We pull into the NAA parking lot and my heart starts pounding. I’d lost myself in our conversation. Jesmyn navigates to a parking space, parks, and turns off her truck.