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He once read somewhere that it takes around sixty-six days to form a habit. Looking around the studio, Alex wonders how long it takes to create a tradition. They had their first sleepover/ice cream party on the last day of sixth grade – the year they all became best friends. They’ve been doing it ever since. Tradition, and all that. Four years now. And four of them.
Three of them, Alex realizes as he looks around the studio. Reggie and Bobby are sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV, Bobby oh-so-subtly trying not to smile as Reggie raves about the Star Wars soundtrack between bites of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
Luke is missing. Good thing Alex knows exactly where he’ll be.
Quietly, he puts his ice cream bowl on the coffee table and heads toward the door. Luke likes to be tall, but especially so when he’s sad. Which means he’ll be up on the roof, probably strumming his guitar and gazing up at the stars. (A true tortured artist.)
Except he’s not; he’s laying on his back on the driveway, just outside the door, wrapped up in one of Bobby’s sweatshirts, the hood pulled over his head and the strings drawn to obscure his mess of hair. He scrambles to a sitting position when the door closes behind Alex, who yelps, because his first instinct is to think that there’s a body in the studio’s drive, and from everything Alex has ever seen on the news – or on Law and Order – being the first to find one of those is hardly ever a good thing.
“Jesus.” Alex clutches his heart.
“Um, no, it’s Luke.” The guitarist pushes back the sweatshirt hood and offers the most halfhearted jazz hands that Alex has ever seen. But if he’s joking, then maybe he feels halfway okay.
“Well Jesus, Luke, or anyone else: why are you out here asking LAPD to come give you a chalk outline?”
Luke frowns, fiddles with the strings of the sweatshirt. “I didn’t want to bring everyone else down with my mood.”
There’s a beat of silence; Alex waiting for him to say more, and Luke waiting for Alex to console him, because the drummer always knows exactly what to say in any situation.
“What do you tell yourself when you get worried?” Luke asks.
“Worried about what?”
“Anything. Everything.”
“Is this because I worry about anything and everything, or . . . ?”
“No, I just mean –” Luke scrubs a hand over his face with a groan. “I already came out to you guys. I came out to my parents. I have the haircut I want, the name I always dreamed of. It should be easy now, but I’m still scared.” He flops back down on the ground, looking up at the night sky.
Slowly, Alex moves towards him, the way he’s seen people approach skittish animals. When he’s on the ground beside him, he’s surprised to find the guitarist reach out and squeeze his hand.
I’m still scared, Luke had said. Alex racks his brain, trying to think of what could be making him so nervous. Luke has been so confident ever since he came out, and then even more confident when he started presenting the way that he wanted. But the last few days, he’s been sort of reserved. Ever since he –
Oh.
“Is this about starting testosterone?” Alex asks softly.
Luke nods, the back of his head scratching against the pavement. “I’m happy. Like, so, so happy. But I’m also scared.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Another beat of silence. When Luke breaks it, his voice sounds small. It’s startling; Alex is used to his friend’s voice filling the studio and spilling over into the neighborhood. His voice is meant to wake up clubs and shake stadiums, but it can also hold the fragile edges of secrets. It’s easy to forget that sometimes.
“When we finished that gig for the book club last week, one of the ladies told me that her daughter studies opera, and that she’s always so impressed by how well I can control my airflow on high notes. And then it just kind of hit me . . . My voice is going to drop. I’ll never be able to hit high notes again. But before it drops, it’ll get all weird, and it’ll be squeaky and crack a lot, like yours, Reggie’s, and Bobby’s all did in middle school.”
Alex nudges him half-heartedly. “Hey, mine wasn’t that bad.”
Beside him, Luke grins, and it’s like the sun has come out from behind a cloud for a split second. “I’m not scared of going through puberty. I did it once before, even if it was the wrong way. I’m actually kind of excited to do it properly.” His face falls again. “But what if this time around, it ruins my voice?”
“I’m not going to pretend to be a testosterone expert, but I think your voice will just get deeper.”
“Yeah, but what if?” Luke stresses. “Alex, you’re good at everything. Bobby is a great artist and a great guitarist, and Reggie is a math whiz who can also shred on the banjo. But I’m only good at one thing. What if by doing the thing I thought would make me happier, I’ve ruined the thing that makes me . . . me .”
“You’re good at lots of things, Luke. But I’m guessing that’s not what you need to hear right now.”
“I just want to know that everything will be okay. Even if my voice does get ruined, I can still play guitar. It just won’t be the same, though.”
“You’ll be able to sing,” Alex assures him, praying that he’s right. “And you’ll still be good at music. And, more importantly, you’ll still be Luke . I promise you, Luke is good at a lot of things. I wish I could give you more comfort than that . . .”
The guitarist squeezes his hand again. “Thank you, Alex.”
“You’re welcome.” He squeezes back, wishing that he could offer his friend more solace than this. There is the uncertainty of what testosterone will do to Luke’s voice, but for once, Alex is optimistic. Because out of everyone in their friend group – and possibly everyone that Alex has ever met – Luke is the most stubborn. Somehow, Alex feels like if anyone can convince something this big to go their way, it will be Luke. And if he can’t, then Alex will just be stubborn enough for the both of them.
“Your voice will be great, Luke,” Alex says, his usual indecisiveness nowhere to be found. His voice is firm, daring the stars above them to defy his oldest friend’s wishes. “I know it.”