Page 5 of Smile for the Camera

I narrow my eyes at her. “This better not take long.”

“Relax, we’ll leave if it gets too dark. Your mom has nothing to worry about.” She takes another lick of her ice cream. “And you shouldn’t either. It’s summer.”

I almost ask her what the season has to do with my worries until I notice my surroundings. People are creating all kinds of art. Some write stories on their laptops, others paint on paper using watercolors, and a few sketch fashion designs in their sketchbooks. There’s an aroma of coffee blended with whipped cream, paint, pens, and pencils. A combination I never thought would be so pleasing.

I catch a glimpse of one person’s sketch and immediately think of Aprilette. She dreamed of being a fashion designer, sketching different dresses and skirts after she finished her homework. But she threw that dream away without finishing a single design. “What good jobs require fashion design as a skill?” Aprilette once said. I almost wanted to ask why she couldn’t try or at least keep sketching. But I’m the little sister. What do I know?

There’s a twanging of guitar strings in front of us, and our heads swivel to the direction of the music. Pink tickles my cheeks. Turns out the mystery musician is cute. His hair, the color of sunflowers, is pushed all the way back. He’s sporting a plaid button-down shirt, black jeans, and Converse. The cute guitarist twists one of his guitar pegs and plucks a few more strings. When he lifts his head up, his eyes meet mine. He smiles and shows off his dimples. I’m not used to guys smiling at me, much less acknowledging my existence, so I glance behind me, seeing two people absorbed in their laptops. I look back to the cute guitarist, and (I think) he smiles at me again. I feel like one of those girls who screams whenever a hot musician does anything at a concert. As much as I enjoy this thrill, I look back down at my ice cream, my eyes snagging on the cookies. He may be nice to look at, but I’d rather not creep him out.

More members step up on the stage. A brown-skinned guy sits behind his drums and taps his drumsticks together, a curly-haired guy tunes his bass, and a Black guy with glasses does a mic check.

After making sure that the microphone works fine, the guy with glasses says, “Hey, we’re Say It Proudly. The first song we’re going to play is an original. Let’s celebrate summer!”

The coffee shop booms with cheers. My eyes drift back to the cute guitarist. He stands with the kind of confidence that says, I’m good at what I do, and I’m ready to perform. His stance isn’t arrogant. It’s clear that he believes he can perform well and, even more fascinating than that, he looks excited, like he wants to show us how he plays.

“Are we ready?” the cute guitarist says loudly in his mic.

There’s a scatter of yeahs.

“Man, that’s all you guys got?” the cute guitarist says. Upon closer scrutiny, I notice there’s a hole torn at the front of his shirt. Does he know it’s there? If he does, he’s not trying to cover it up, and for some reason, I get a sense he doesn’t care at all. “Does everyone here like summer or not?”

“Yeah!” There are more responses.

“So, are we ready?”

“Yeah!” The whole audience shouts.

This is the loudest they’ve been all day, but the cute guitarist cups his hand around one ear and says, “What?”

“Yeah!” Everyone, including me, shouts. Though I’m positive I shout the softest, even when raising my voice at max volume.

The guy with glasses chuckles. The bassist mimics the way the cute guitarist calls to the crowd, and the cute guitarist fires him a shut up leer, albeit fighting a laugh. The drummer crosses his arms, already wanting the show to start.

“That’s more like it!” the cute guitarist shouts.

I crack up at this. I’m amazed he can command such a loud reaction from the audience. Even when few people respond, he pulls something out of them, and it becomes the reaction he wants.

Now, the song starts. The melody is slow and light, and the song crescendos as it builds to the chorus. The lyrics are sweet, singing about holding hands while walking under the sun during summertime.

I still can’t stop looking at the cute guitarist. When Nora notices, she glances back at him, then turns back to me, a smirk slithering across her face. Twice she raises her eyebrows. My cookies and cream ice cream starts melting, a slither of white and faded brown drizzling down my cone and onto my fingers, wet and sticky against my skin.

There’s magic to the way he plays. He strums lightly, stroking heavier as the song culminates, acoustic strings buzzing in the air. I tuck back my hair and let the melody of this mystery song stream through my ears. The guitarist’s hand arches around the fret board, fingers pressing down against the strings. My hand wraps tighter around my cone, fingers sticky with melted ice cream.

A woman and her son walk to the front and watch from the side. I recognize them from the line at Ice Cream Queen. The woman’s son draws his eyes to the cute guitarist. Her son’s mouth, which is caked with pistachio ice cream, falls open.

After the band plays three more songs—two with a chill yet upbeat summer sound, the last a ballad—the show ends. The cute guitarist and the lead singer thank everyone. As the band takes down their equipment, the little boy from Ice Cream Queen shuffles up to the guitarist.

“Want to learn how to play, little guy?” the cute guitarist asks. He squats down so he’s at level with the little boy.

“Yeah!” the little boy says, clapping his pudgy, little hands.

The cute guitarist leans forward and strums the bottommost string, which rings and vibrates. “This is the E string.”

“Would it be weird if I ask him what songs they were playing?” I whisper to Nora. Luckily, the cute guitarist is talking to the little boy, so there’s no way he can hear me.

Nora smirks. “You’re really going to talk to him?”

“I just want to know the names of the songs.” After today, I’ll probably never see this boy again. Yet there’s this confident energy surging through me, one that’s willing to say at least a few words to him.