Haze, Andrea Wolfe [english novels for beginners txt] 📗

our table. He was wearing a hoodie and torn-up jeans

"Hey, you're Jack Teller!" He nervously pointed at Jack as if he were literally driving the point home.

Jack smiled and nodded. "Yeah, that's me. And this is my date, Effie."

I gave a polite smile and an awkward wave. The guy didn't seem that interested in me.

"Dude, your album Feedback is awesome. I've listened to it so many times. It changed my life, really."

Even though this stranger was obviously a big fan, it made me feel stupid that I had never researched Jack's albums, especially since I'd had ample time to do so. I would have to ask him for input later, because I didn't know how much longer I could go on not knowing that part of him.

"Thanks. That means a lot, really." Jack maintained eye contact the whole time, ensuring that the fan felt warm and welcomed. "That was from a tough time in my life, but I'm glad I captured it."

"Yeah, man." He turned back toward his table, where a girl and another guy seemed to be watching him with amusement. "Wow, it's just such an honor."

"What's your name?" Jack asked, keeping the interaction moving.

"Marc."

Jack suddenly procured a pen from nowhere and started writing on his napkin.

To Marc, my ultimate fan.

-Jack

"Don't sell it on eBay, okay?" He handed it to Marc who accepted it as if it were a bar of gold.

"That's so cool, man. Thanks so much." His face oozed genuine gratitude

"It's my pleasure, Marc. I've got to get to dinner now. I can't keep this beautiful girl waiting any longer." He reached his hand out and shook Marc's. "Thanks for the kind words."

Marc was clearly floored by the interaction. "Yeah. Cool, you're welcome." He turned and walked back to his group, looking prouder than ever.

"Jack, you're so full of shit," I said.

He downed a gulp of water and smiled, apparently unfazed. "About what?"

"We've only been out for five minutes and somebody already recognized you!"

"I guess I got lucky," he said, casually running his hand through his hair and looking as superficially cool as possible. "I do get lucky sometimes, Effie."

I laughed and picked up one of the lamb samosas. "I can't believe how well you handled him. That was really nice." After adding some mint chutney, I took a bite and couldn't believe how good it was. The spices were so rich and flavorful.

"Well, thanks," he said humbly. "It's a combination of being polite and efficient. If you're nice in a forward way, it keeps them moving, surprises them. They're nervous as hell already. Takes a lot of guts to walk up to someone you really admire like that."

"That's exactly how I felt with you," I said teasingly. "I was so nervous I spilled coffee all over myself."

Jack's lips curved into a huge smile. "Oh yeah, that. We forgot to order coffee." He shook his head with disappointment.

I was barely paying attention to his obvious body language. "What if he wanted to sit down and eat with us?" I was already on my second samosa before Jack had finished his first.

"I would have said no, obviously. You can draw lines with this stuff." He finished his bite; it made me feel less like of a pig to actually see him eating with me. "I'm okay with him stopping by, but I don't want him to stay all day."

The more I thought about it, I didn't know what to say. How did it feel to have someone tell you that something you poured your heart and soul into changed their life? What was that feeling like? Would I ever feel something like that? I hoped so.

"That must be pretty flattering," I muttered.

"What?"

"That your album changed his life. Why haven't you ever showed it to me?"

He groaned. "I don't much care for Feedback anymore. It was ambitious, but you grow out of that stuff. Every album you make is your most brilliant album ever—until you make the next one."

"Huh." I stared down at the empty appetizer platter, deeply wishing there were more samosas. "Was that album about—"

"They were all kind of about her," he interrupted, ending the sentence with a chuckle.

"Oh." There appeared to be some tension on his face, but I was certain I that I was reading into it too much.

"Have you ever kept a journal?" he asked suddenly.

I dug into my mind. "Yeah, actually. In high school. I wrote down stuff that I thought was important. Pretty stupid stuff."

"Have you ever gone back and looked at it?"

I thought about his question again.

A couple summers ago, I had been cleaning out my room and uncovered my journals under a pile of old homework assignments. I remember gagging as I read my very decorated and pretentious entries about prom and general social anxiety, the loquacious verbiage a product of my tenth-grade AP English course that happened to have an excessive focus on vocabulary.

I couldn't even interpret much of what I was trying to say, even though at the time it had seemed to flow out so freely and clearly.

I could barely make fun of myself since I didn't even know what the hell I was trying to say:

My decision anomalous, I would forego prom and not bore myself with that wretched facade. Prom is merely ephemeral, an event solely for the philistines that only remember it via their facile, photographic evidence. It is no quandary—I will not attend.

God, I was glad that phase passed quickly. I actually did end up going to prom that year, despite my brazen turmoil. No one had asked me yet when I was ranting away in that secret book—a full two months before the event. My fear was entirely premature.

"Oh God," I whined. "They were terrible.

"That's basically what those albums were—journals." He seemed quite satisfied after realizing he had conveyed his message so efficiently. The look of disgust on my face confirmed his success. "Some stuff was serious, obviously, and some of it was just superfluous and over-the-top. Listeners can't tell, but I