Several people came out onto their balconies and listened, applauding when he stopped. I found myself leaning on my elbows against the railing, unwillingly mesmerized by the resonating, majestic notes from songs I didn’t recognize.
Guitar Boy played for a while longer, then sat around with my shoe, all the while ignoring my many adamant signs.
This went on for the rest of the evening with intervals for bathroom and dinner breaks as he toyed with my sneaker. After every song, he held his hand to his ear in the shape of a phone. Every time, I shook my head with as much annoyance as I could show.
At first, everyone else minded their own business. But his music, or our quarrel, or whatever led to a gradually increasing balcony audience. People got nosy, wanting to know what our tiff was about and why I didn’t want to talk to him when he was essentially serenading me. One person, then another, then a few more, cried out, “Oh, come on!” “Give the poor boy a break!” “Give him your number!” “How romantic!” “What music!”
Romantic? No. Opportunistic? Yes.
He played into the night. Maybe I could bide time. How long would he last? How long before his back hurt and his fingers bled?
“That’s lovely music. Who’s playing?” Ma asked as she walked through my room.
I went inside. “Some guy who won’t let me have quiet,” I grumbled.
“Ah, beta. Come watch a movie with us,” she said instead and went into the living room with Lilly’s pillows and blanket.
“Maybe.” But all I really wanted to do was figure out how to get my shoe back.
—
Strange that the first thing to pop into my head as soon as I woke up the next morning was not having to pee or what to eat for breakfast, or even the realization of blissful morning peace, but Guitar Boy. After going through my morning routine and doing some reading, I went outside.
There he was. Sitting on his chair, facing me. He waved.
Without breaking eye contact, I held up my sign.
SHOE!
He held up my sneaker in one hand and his phone in the other. A dozen scenarios gushed through my brain. Could I throw a pot at him? Could I climb up to his balcony and take my shoe while he was gone? Could I figure out which apartment was his and knock on the door and tell his mom what he’d been doing?
Guitar Boy played smooth, soft notes for almost an hour, a new song each time.
We took breaks and came back out to continue our standoff.
In the evening when more people got home, as well as other kids, they’d come out to listen and take sides and add irritating commotion. Except those who took my side, of course. They got imaginary brownies for being on side ME.
This went on for another day. The division of sides quickly shifted. More people turned into Team Guitar Boy. I was losing the battle.
—
While Marly posted IG stories of her cats dressed in tutus and hand-knit caps, and Janice group-texted us her new monthly workout challenge for that better booty, I complained about Guitar Boy. Today’s standoff included snacks on the balcony, shades for high noon, a fan, a pillow for my back, an icy fruit drink, and my trusty sign that Lilly would need back any minute now for a summer school presentation (!!). Guitar Boy was equipped with a bottle of water and his own snacks. We pretty much lived out here now.
He played. Always slow and melodious, sucking me into a trance with songs I’d never heard. His music lured me into a daze, one that I had fought against all this time and wanted to be upset over. But over the course of these past days, it had created something sorta bizarre. I hadn’t noticed it until now, until I fully gave in. Because one: being annoyed added to my headache. Two: his music was kind of soothing. Three: this was a free show, to be honest.
I’d lost track of time as everything around me melted and blurred. It didn’t matter how hot it was, or if my butt hurt from sitting in this folding chair. Musical notes fell around this backstreet width of space between us. Notes that ballooned into plump, swaying raindrops and dancing fairies of round, thrumming beats.
For once, noise didn’t give me a stabby headache, or induce anxiety, or make me want to throw something.
Was this what music did for him? All cathartic and stuff?
This time when he stopped, there was a void. Silence was too…quiet. I actually missed his music. Badly. Like absolute hollowness. In a world full of colors and chaos, there was now a splattered goop of a black abyss with a sign that read You Are Here.
I went inside and cooked dinner for my family, giving Lilly the task of measuring ingredients. My parents had taken a nap earlier and now were folding laundry.
“You two need to make your beds and clean your room,” Ma scolded.
“Okay,” we told her.
“Honestly. We need routine and cleanliness. We don’t want ants, do we?”
Dinner came and went. Then Lilly and I cleaned our room. Well, I did most of it. She put away her things but I made the beds and cleaned up all the snacks. She immediately went to the living room for movie night, which was every night.
I went onto the balcony, ready for the standoff during the seven p.m. serenade, but surprisingly found several people on their balconies around us, all quiet, like they were waiting for something. Guitar Boy didn’t have his guitar out. He waved.
One by one, people across the balconies held up signs—on paper shopping bags, on dry-erase boards, on Amazon cardboard boxes—imploring me to give the guy a chance. And with those signs came hoots and
