Chapter Two

“CUH cuh cuh-ca—” Carter stopped. He took a breath and lowered his eyes from the barista’s wince. She was a diminutive twenty-something with a logic-defying hairstyle framed by her visor that involved two chopsticks and a few hundred dark brown cornrowed braids twisted on top of her head into a loose bun that had no business staying in place. She had better things to do than listen to Carter make an idiot of himself, but apart from the wince, she didn’t rush him despite the line behind him. Carter tried again. Café au lait. The air was hot around him; his throat strangled the consonants and didn’t give the vowels a chance.

“Maybe you could just point,” came a woman’s not unkind voice from behind him. He squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn’t dared a glance behind himself, but he could hear as the rumblings got louder and knew that the line had increased while he’d stood there. The barista drummed her nails against the side of the register. They were three inches long and each painted with a different immaculate flower. He recorded the absent rhythm. Tap scrape tap tap scrape and twitched, neck and shoulder, to it.

“Just give him a coffee,” a guy said. “Come on.”

Carter shook his head. Caffeine, no, bad. That would tighten him up even more, make it impossible to unwind, make the tics worse. “Duh duh de deca—”

“Decaf?” The barista asked.

Carter nodded. He hated having his sentences finished; it reminded him even more that he was the one slowing everything down. Getting stuck on sounds was one of his tics, and also his mind was too fast for his mouth, but no one saw that part of it. They simply thought he was stupid or, if he was lucky, shy, which was another reason for his stuttering.

She held up different sized cups. Humiliated, Carter pointed at the smaller one.

“What are you, a moron?” A different voice this time, the angriest one yet. Carter folded in on himself, shoulders scrunched and head down. Get your money out. Get ready to go. He had it in hand already: a five dollar bill clutched from the start of this debacle. The barista emerged from behind the counter and stormed past him.

“N-no, p-puh please.” He didn’t think he could ever come back here as it was; if she came to his defense—oh God, was there anything more humiliating?—he wouldn’t be able to talk himself into leaving his house. She was five foot tall at a generous guess. What was she going to do? Head-butt the guy in the stomach? He turned around, using the motion to hide a tic that started from his side and jerked up to his shoulder, to watch the carnage.

Carter froze as he took in the tableau. The man who had yelled stood red-faced and arguing with his hands; the barista faced him, pissed off and waving back, and off to the side, Carter’s new neighbor held a dripping towel. His hair wasn’t dark as Carter had concluded the previous night. Rather, it was a deep orange-ish red. It stuck up from his head in thick tousled points that went every which way. Carter was right about him being tall. He was a comfortable six feet at least. He wore an apron that matched the barista’s over a white long-sleeved shirt. Carter followed the trail of drips from his towel to the table that the customer stood beside. The relief he felt when he realized the man’s outburst hadn’t been directed at him ended the moment Carter saw his neighbor’s fragile expression.

“I’m sorry,” Carter’s neighbor said.

“Ethan, do not apologize for someone else being a jackass,” the barista said.

“He knocks my coffee over and I’m the jackass? You get what you pay for when you hire re—”

The barista stepped into the man’s space. “You finish that word, Ned, and I’ll ban you for life.”

Ned closed his mouth.

“For now, you’re banned for today. Get out.”

Ned looked at the overturned cup on the table as if he were considering taking it with him. Glancing at Ethan, who stood squeezing the towel and staring at the floor, he left. For a moment, no one spoke, although everyone pretended not to be looking. The barista had a quiet conversation with Ethan. When they finished, Ethan stepped over to the table and wiped up the mess. People resumed talking.

The barista returned to the counter. She sighed at Carter, as if settling in for another challenge. “You want milk?” she asked.

“Yes,” Carter said. He was too shaken by the distraction of what had happened to notice he hadn’t stuttered until the transaction was over. He started for the door, coffee in hand and change in his pocket, when he switched his course and headed for Ethan.

“Hi.”

Ethan looked up. He’d polished the table to a shine. Now he held the towel in front of him like a shield.

“I’m Carter. I just moved in next door to you.”

“I know,” Ethan said. “I saw you. You have a lot of stuff.” Ethan talked faster than Carter, but each sound seemed selected with care. Instead of making him sound robotic, the effect was musical. He had a warm voice, softer than Carter had expected from his size (and he was big: not only in height but broad-shouldered as well).

Carter laughed in agreement. He’d wanted to leave a portion of his things behind, but Alice and John had frightened him into taking everything. They’d said, “You never know when you’ll need a….” and dropped in the name of the item he wanted to toss. “I saw you too,” Carter said. “You were in the yard with another man. Was that your—?” He hesitated, not wanting to say “boyfriend” in case Ethan was in the closet.

“My dad,” Ethan said. “I was showing him the music in the clouds. But he doesn’t always understand it.”

“Oh.” Carter wasn’t sure what to say. He’d never met anyone who heard music in the sky. “Your name’s Ethan? I heard her—” he pointed at the barista “—call you that.”

“Yes. She’s Vera.” Ethan peered at him. “You’re talking better.”

“I… guess I’m more comfortable with other freaks.” Carter grinned; he felt good and safe talking to Ethan, but Ethan’s smile disappeared. Too late, Carter realized what he’d done. “I didn’t mean—”

“I’m not a freak,” Ethan said.

“No, no, no, I’m sorry.” Carter flailed his hands, trying to catch the words before he tensed up too much to say them.

“You’d better go.” Carter turned to see Vera standing beside him and, again, the line of people oriented toward them. This time, her sharp glare burned into him.

“Yes, I’m sorry, I… Ethan, I didn’t mean….”

But Ethan had already shut down. His face flooded with hurt that Carter couldn’t bear to see.

“Now,” Vera said.

Silent and shamed, Carter retreated. In his car, he took his first sip of coffee. He winced at the sharp taste and stuck it into the cup holder to sit as a bitter reminder of his stupidity.

CARTER was a symphony. He tapped his feet when he stood still and drummed his fingers on his leg. His eyebrows rose above his dark glasses in undulating movements and Ethan bet if he could see behind them his eyes would have rhythm too. He wanted to tell Carter he could see his music, but then Carter called him a freak.

“You all right, honey?” Vera asked.

“I’m not a freak,” he said.

“That’s right; you aren’t.”

He liked that she agreed about that. He tried to keep working, but his stomach hurt. He didn’t want to show it, but he couldn’t help rubbing it and moaning, which made the customers look at him funny. A few asked him if he was okay and tried to get him to sit down, but it was against the rules to sit when he was working. He’d have to go into the back for that. After a few more minutes Vera took a break and put Andy in front of the register, which meant now there was no one to deliver food to the tables.

“Do you want me to take you home?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.” Now Andy would have to do Ethan’s work too.

“It’s okay,” Vera said. She rubbed Ethan’s back and helped him untie his apron. He didn’t need help, but he let her do it anyway. Lifting it over his bowed head, she handed it to him. “Go hang this up and meet me at my car.”

“Okay.” Taking it, he stumbled toward the back room and hung his apron on his hook. He changed out of his work shirt and put his T-shirt on before finding his time card and punching out. Elliot had given him the T-shirt for his birthday. It was yellow and said “Likes Boys” on the front in pastel colors. Ethan had loved it. Mom and Dad hadn’t wanted him to wear it outside the house, but Ethan asked and asked until they said he could wear it to and from work as long as he was getting a ride from someone.

“Ready?” Vera came into the back with her keys in hand.

“Yeah.” Ethan held the exit door open for her. In the car, they listened to Vera’s Tori Amos CD for the millionth time. Vera sang along as Ethan watched out the window. Carter’s car sat in his driveway when they drove past it. Ethan turned to the other side of the street where the Radlington kids ran around in their swimsuits, jumping over their sprinkler. They waved. Ethan waved back.

Vera pulled into Ethan’s driveway. She walked up to the house with him. He took her elbow to climb the three steps up to the porch. “Do you want to call your parents?” She asked as they stood in his living room.

“No.” He wasn’t going to hurt himself or burn the house down. Ethan wondered if he should offer her a drink or something to eat. He was supposed to offer guests something to be a good host, but this wasn’t a normal visit, so maybe he didn’t have to. He wanted to be alone anyway, and if he gave Vera food, she’d stay longer.

“All right, sweetie. You call me if you need anything.” Vera kissed his cheek. He bent almost in half for her to reach. After she left, he crawled into bed. He could see Carter’s house from his window, but he turned his back so he didn’t have to look at it. He’d had plans for Carter to be his new friend. Now, he didn’t want Carter to be anything.