“Later is better,” says Meer. “I’m an at-home boy at the moment.But I just wanted to tell you that you made me think. About a life beyond Hidden Beach. And that’s part of why I don’t want you to leave yet.”
I pick a spiky pink clover blossom and rub it between my fingers. “Why exactly?”
“I feel like there might be more thinking that will happen if you stay. It’s very selfish of me.”
A fat brown hen waddles in front of us, pecking at a bit of scone near Meer’s feet.
“You could have chickens now,” I tell him. “And still be an at-home boy.”
—
That night, Juneskips dinner again. We eat at the picnic table: grilled fish with crispy, burned skin shoved into warm hot dog buns and piled with the boys’ favorite coleslaw; and tortilla chips with green-tomato salsa that June made back when everything in her garden was still unripe. Icy bottles of beer and seltzer chill in a cooler by our sandy feet.
As Brock and I take plates back to the kitchen, Tatum brings his guitar outside. He sits on the table with his feet on a chair and tunes it. I’ve heard him messing around with it in the evenings, but he’s never played in front of anyone in any formal way since I’ve been here. Meer sees him tuning it and runs up for his ukulele.
They play folk-rock-type stuff I mostly don’t know, the kind of songs I think Tatum played with his high school band. “Ain’t No Ash Will Burn,” “Seven Bridges Road,” “Man of Constant Sorrow.” Brock joins his voice with theirs on a few songs.
I lie back on the long grass and listen, letting the music fill my head. I watch Tatum’s hands move across the strings. He seemscompletely immersed in these simple songs. He has none of the rock swagger of the guitar boys I know in California. He’s not performing. He’s just playing and listening, unselfconscious.
It’s the way he does most everything, I realize. From swimming in the sea to making smoothies to playing guitar to drawing on my leg—whatever Tatum is doing, he gives it his entire attention.
It’s completely dark out when he plays the opening the chords to a song I love. It’s by a band that has only two albums so far. They’re called Wooden Cage, and I know all their music. Their first big hit was this song from the second album. It’s been everywhere this spring. The lead singer’s voice is ragged and has huge range.
Meer looks at Tatum quizzically. “What is it?”
“ ‘Wasted’ by Wooden Cage.”
“I don’t know this one.”
“It’s a good song. Play it,” says Brock.
Tatum sings the first line, low. “We all stayed out too late / We fell apart and made mistakes.”
Then he stops. Looks at me.
Self-consciousness comes into his face. Just the thing I was thinking never does. He flushes slightly and his upper lip twitches. “Never mind.”
“Go on,” I say, sitting up.
But he still hesitates.
If I sing it, maybe Tatum will change back into the boy who isn’t performing, isn’t second-guessing himself. “We all stayed out too late,” I sing. “We fell apart and made mistakes.”
He picks up the guitar mid-verse.
They said we didn’t matter
So we mattered to each other
When we get to the chorus, Brock sings with us, and Meer finds his way with a simple ukulele part.
Our youth is wasted
We will not waste it
Remember my name
’Cause we made history
