Pedro had been refining his song for five years before he gave it to Kelly Whalen. The first few lyrics and a hint of melody came to him while he was a student at Columbus Junior High School in Edison, New Jersey. A longing stirred within him, and, though he tried, he couldn’t ignore it.
          Dev Suresh was a center on the basketball team. He seemed to be friends with the entire school. In contrast, Pedro was a shy, comic-book obsessed nerd. They were seated next to each other in Ms. Jansen’s Global Studies class. Dev always said good morning to Pedro. He offered him Life Savers and complimented him on his superhero t-shirts. Each time Ms. Jansen announced a pop quiz, he stealthily turned to Pedro, made his fingers into a gun and fired it into his own head.
          On the last day of class, Pedro felt sad, knowing he and Dev might never find themselves in close proximity again. Ms. Jansen handed back their finals, an essay test. Dev asked Pedro how he did so well, having noticed Pedro’s “A.” Pedro had glimpsed Dev’s “C.”
          “I just memorized the textbook,” Pedro replied.
          “I should’ve done that. Free thought’s overrated,” Dev said. They laughed. Pedro felt a spark between them.
          “You like me like a girl,” a voice whispered.
          Dev glanced away uneasily. Pedro realized he was staring.
          “Sorry,” Pedro mumbled.
          “It’s not your fault. It’s the world.” Dev shrugged.
          “I hide you from the world,” the voice sang.
          Pedro had no musical training. Still, he found himself humming the tune, changing it slightly and adding new lyrics. It was usually prompted by thoughts of Dev. They occasionally passed each other in the hall. Once, while Dev was at his locker, he stuck three pens in his fist, like claws, and jokingly winked at Pedro. Pedro was wearing a Wolverine t-shirt.
          Dev went to a zone high school. Pedro was accepted into Ludlow Academy, a specialized public school in Trenton, New Jersey. Even with Dev gone, the song wasn’t finished. Mr. Bunning, his young, soft-spoken English teacher, inspired a line, “Why are you so kind to me?” Owen, a peevish troublemaker with striking green eyes, inspired another, “Oh, I see your cruelty.” On the night of the rave at Club Z the song got its chorus.

*

          Pedro had been invited to the rave by his friend Mei. She was pretty, despite her coke bottle glasses. Her parents were fond of Pedro. “Handsome,” Mei’s mother had whispered to Mei his first time at their house. “Such a polite young man,” Mei’s father had remarked approvingly. He enjoyed being around her. He knew they would make a perfect couple. Yet, each time he caught her staring at him longingly, it filled him with dread.
          Mei mentioned meeting up at the rave during one of their SAT study sessions. He was puzzled. She wasn’t the type to stay out late, nor was he. Still, he agreed to it.
          The rave was held at Club Z, a converted abandoned warehouse. Inside, strobe lights flashed and graffiti murals covered the walls. He spotted Mei on the dance floor. To his surprise, she wasn’t alone. She was with a group he recognized as Ludlow seniors.
          As the night progressed, Pedro gleaned the situation. Kelvin, one of the seniors, had invited Mei out. In turn, she had invited Pedro, hoping jealousy might spur him to make a move.
          Watching Kelvin try to dance with Mei, and her becoming gradually more receptive, Pedro felt relieved. She glanced at Pedro less and less. She lost herself completely to the music, bouncing around, spinning and shaking her hips. Pedro caught Kelvin sneak a kiss. Mei blushed shyly, but happily.
          Seeing them kiss, Pedro did become jealous. He wished he could experience the same joy they did. Moments later, he noticed a thin, blond boy in a white safety vest that glowed under the blacklight. He wore no shirt underneath. A voice inside sang.

          “We yearned for connection.
          You saw my defect,”

          When the safety vest boy smiled at Pedro, Pedro smiled. When he pursed his lips thoughtfully, Pedro ached to kiss him. When he danced, Pedro imagined dancing against him. When he approached Pedro, Pedro froze. He threw fretful glances at Mei and the seniors.
          The safety vest boy sensed something was wrong before he reached Pedro. His steps grew hesitant. Confusion crept into his expression. With a dismayed twist of his mouth, he swerved right. He stopped to examine a spray-painted mural of zombies feasting on brains, then circled back to his friends.

          “Offered me salvation,
          Then left me a wreck.”

          The voice was faint, yet somehow louder than the beats blaring from the speakers. He glanced at Mei, who was laughing with Kelvin, now utterly oblivious to Pedro’s presence. He turned to the safety vest boy, who also ignored him.

          “I adored you so, bared my soul.
          You weren’t impressed,
          Tore the heart from my chest.”

          Pedro silently sang to him, before he, too, forced himself to look away.

*

          Pedro came up with his song’s title on graduation day. He was Ludlow Academy’s salutatorian. His speech had been handed to him by the principal, with a warning that should he feel impelled to make revisions, they would need to be submitted for approval two weeks beforehand. Pedro left the speech as is.
          When the principal welcomed him to the stage, there was a roar of applause. Pedro was stunned. He didn’t consider himself popular. He kept to his small group of grade-obsessed friends. He gazed into the crowd. His mother blotted her eyes with a Kleenex. His father snapped photos on his camera. His older brother chanted his name. Pedro’s brother had earned his GED last year. Now he worked as a janitor in the same office building as their father.
          Standing at the podium, he gaped at the audience. He was a fraud, he realized. If they really knew who he was, they would be booing. He felt dizzy. The room spun. Everything seemed to blur.
          “What if they see my secret self?” he wondered. When he glanced down at his speech, he saw the lyrics of his song: “See My Secret Self” was its title. If he read it aloud, his innermost thoughts and desires would be exposed. The principle coughed.
          “Nice speech,” a classmate cracked, prompting snickers.
          “Greetings class of 2000. It is my great honor to commence this occasion,” Pedro read mechanically. After he finished, the audience cheered. No one seemed to realize that the speech wasn’t his, that he hadn’t written or meant it.
          Later, when he returned to the stage for his diploma, a new lyric came to him. Though he averted his eyes from the audience, he still sensed their scrutiny.

          “Do you see my secret self,
          Past the lies to the truth?”

          He knew this was how his song would start and end, or almost. He knew it was nearly done. As it turned out, all it needed was one more heartbreak.

*

          Kelly Whalen was an odd fit for Delta Kappa Phi’s keg party, as was Pedro. Pedro and his friends at Bradford University, in Shelby, Connecticut, usually spent their Saturday nights studying. His scholarship was contingent upon maintaining a 3.5 GPA. His roommate, Arnold, was the son of a Trinidadian senator. Arnold had political ambitions of his own and was determined to graduate at the top of his class. Their socializing was largely limited to mealtimes in McHugh Dining Hall.
          One afternoon, as Pedro, Arnold and their friends ate lunch, Nicole proposed attending Delta Kappa Phi’s keg party. Nicole was the outlier in the group. She began the school year shy and unassuming. By October, she had decided to switch her major to Printmaking and dyed her hair purple with green streaks. It was clearly only a matter of time before she found a less uptight social circle. Predictably, her suggestion was met with silence.
          “Sounds fun,” Arnold remarked at last. Shocked, Pedro coughed up his Pepsi. Arnold avoided anything remotely “fun.” He made Pedro promise to never buy a TV, and even forced Pedro to keep his radio in the closet so that they wouldn’t be tempted to turn it on.
          “There’s a band playing, The Taints,” Nicole explained.
          “I love music,” Arnold said. Sensing his incredulity, he shot Pedro a preemptive glare.
          “Let’s meet there at ten,” Nicole said.
          “Cool,” Arnold replied. Once he and Pedro were back in their dorm room, the usually stoic Arnold was on edge.
          “You have to come with me. If we’re alone and she’s miserable, she’ll blame me. If you’re there, it’s not my fault,” Arnold pled. Pedro hadn’t guessed the secret crush that Arnold had been harboring. The conservative Arnold and free-spirited Nicole struck him as completely incompatible.
          “Okay,” Pedro mumbled.
          “Thanks, man,” Arnold gushed, clasping Pedro’s shoulders. Pedro smiled awkwardly, grabbed his books and went off to the library to study. He was afraid Arnold might get the urge to hug him.
          Pedro and Arnold spotted Nicole on the line to get in. Arnold greeted her with a terse, “hey.” Even Pedro, who had no experience with girls, knew Arnold should have complimented her appearance. She had clearly made an effort, wearing a satin, navy blue cocktail dress and matching blue lipstick. Arnold paid the five-dollar cover for himself only. Once inside, he went straight to the keg. He returned ten minutes later with only one plastic cup. When Nicole headed over to the keg, she pointedly asked Pedro if he wanted a beer.
          “No, thanks,” Pedro said.
          “Do you think she likes me? You know, romantically,” Arnold asked as soon as she stepped away.
          “Maybe,” Pedro answered diplomatically. He wasn’t sure she even liked him platonically.
          While waiting for the keg, Nicole chatted with a boy. He was a handsome, hawk-nosed Latino with deep-set eyes. He obviously wasn’t competition for Arnold. He had a high-pitched laugh, meticulously plucked eyebrows and gestured flamboyantly with his hands as he spoke. He was literally limp-wristed.
          “Why does she gravitate to people like that?” Arnold grumbled.
          “She’s artistic,” Pedro offered.
          “Look at that fruit.” Arnold glared at them.
          “I think I will get a beer,” Pedro decided, irritated by Arnold, and desperate for anything to make this night pass easier.
          The performance was scheduled for eleven in the basement. Arnold refused to dance or mingle, so they went down early, securing spots near the platform. The space soon became packed. The air turned stale with sweat, marijuana and beer. At a quarter past eleven, a blonde in a white, button-down shirt and black slacks stepped onto the platform. She had a guitar case in hand. The crowd rumbled with dismay.
          “You’re not The Taints!” a drunk male shouted.
          “No shit. I’m Kelly Whalen. It’s called an opening act, genius. It’s easy to pick out the legacies, isn’t it?” she retorted. She nonchalantly removed her guitar from the case.
          “Hey!” the drunk male protested.
          “She’s just a girl,” one of his friends said, trying to calm him down.
          She resembled a porcelain doll. She had alabaster skin. Her frame was petite. Her hair was long with bangs. Her face was heart-shaped, with a round forehead, big, pale blue eyes, a button nose, rosebud lips and a pointy chin.
          “Any more assholes with asshole questions?” she asked, adjusting the mic stand. The mic was positioned a foot too high.
          “Good,” she sneered. She strummed on her guitar, then began to sing.
          He was immediately captivated. Her voice was startlingly pure, capable of rich nuance and soaring power. Even her shrieks of anguish were achingly beautiful, like an angel wailing. Her lyrics were just as striking. Within them, she lay bare her soul.
          Her first song, “S.O.S.,” alluded to suicidal thoughts.

          “I send out an S.O.S.
          ‘Cause I’m Sick of Others’ Shit.
          Keep the hell away,
          Or I’ll slit another wrist.”

          The next song, “Sick,” implied past abuse.

          “He hushed my pleading,
          Stabbed me in my core,
          Ignored my bleeding,
          Wiped my sick from the floor.
          ‘It’s love,’ is what he said,
          That’s why I love to hurt.”

          The third and last song, “Creature,” was seemingly about mental illness.

          “In the dark, a creature growls.
          I can tell she’s on the prowl.
          I shout, ‘Come on, pounce,
          Shred me apart,
          Let’s have some fun.’
          I’m unwell, you see, but you, you should run.”

          After she took her bow, she received resounding applause. She stepped to the platform’s edge, as if to hop off, but lingered. As she gazed out into the audience, her face twisted into a grimace. Now that she had their adulation, she seemed repulsed by it.
          “Thanks, Delta Kappa Phi. It’s been an honor playing in this hotbed of rape culture and male chauvinism,” she proclaimed. The applause abruptly stopped.
          “Girls, be careful where you set down your cups, is all I’m saying,” she added.
          “Shut up, bitch,” a male shouted.
          “Typical frat boy response to a woman speaking her mind,” she remarked.
          “Dyke,” a male taunted.
          “I wish,” she replied.
          “What’s wrong with you?” a female cried out.
          A hulking male in a letterman jacket rushed onto the platform. As he closed in on her, she let out an amused giggle. Suddenly, a hand grabbed her wrist and yanked her down. A male with a foot high mohawk ushered her through the crowd, up the stairs. After a moment of bewildered chatter, a chubby man with long sideburns stepped onto the platform.
          “Uh, sorry, it looks like there won’t be a Taint’s show tonight. Our lead singer just took off,” he said into the mic. “I told Ian to break up with that psycho,” he muttered to the goateed man behind him, who began dismantling the drum set.
          A chorus of boos erupted. Someone quickly turned on the stereo. Eminem’s rapping filled the basement, appeasing the crowd and transforming the space into a dance floor. No longer transfixed by Kelly Whalen, Pedro turned to Arnold. Glitter nail polished fingers caressed the back of Arnold’s neck. Nicole pulled away, gazing dreamily into Arnold’s eyes. Pedro felt a familiar pang of envy. Others seemed to find love so easily.
          “Good night, I’m tired,” Pedro said. Arnold turned around.
          “Okay,” Arnold mumbled indifferently. Nicole’s blue lipstick was smeared on his mouth, looking like he had chewed on a leaky pen.
          As Pedro ambled home tipsily, he thought of Kelly Whalen. Her delicate beauty, her fierce soul. He longed to kiss her. He heard his song, now sung in a new voice, powerful, but brittle, despairing, but defiant.

          “Do you see my secret self,
          Past the lies to the truth?”

          He nodded, seeing Kelly’s face in his mind’s eye.

          “Is that why I need you?
          I lose me if I lose you.”

          She sang, and he knew his song was finished, just as surely as he knew that he was in love.

*

          Kelly Whalen lived in the Telfair Dorms on the opposite end of campus. Pedro had found her profile on Bradford’s online student directory. Hoping to run into her, he took to studying between classes in the Telfair Courtyard, sitting in the grass with his satchel full of course books.
          The first time he saw her she was with Ian, The Taints’ lead singer. He glanced up upon hearing the dorm’s door slam open. She stormed out. Ian hurried after her. He grabbed her arm. She turned around, shoved him back, then gave him the finger. Throwing up his hands in frustration, he darted inside. She stomped off, heading in Pedro’s direction. He pretended to read, deciding it wasn’t the best moment to introduce himself.
          The next time he saw her, a few days later, she was alone. It was around noon. She rushed out of her dorm, carrying her guitar case. He hesitated. In a moment, she was gone. He didn’t see her for another week. When he did, it was around noon again. As before, she had her guitar case and seemed to be in a hurry. Unwilling to lose another chance, he jumped to his feet and followed her.
          She cut across the Telfair Courtyard, through the Fritz Science Center, headed up Vine Street, where the deans’ offices were, then exited campus. Since arriving, Pedro had only ventured out into the city of Shelby once before, to find a barber. Most of Shelby was a far cry from Bradford’s idyllic campus, full of majestic, Neo-Gothic architecture. Shelby was littered with abandoned buildings, dingy houses and untended yards. He couldn’t fathom why Kelly was here with her guitar. Even an instrument repair shop seemed too high-end for Shelby.
          She turned on Main Street, walked past a McDonalds, a liquor store and a church where homeless people lined up for food. She entered a small, triangular park. Stopping at a statue of a colonial era figure, she removed her guitar and set the open case down in front of her. A handful of people sat on benches eating lunch. Wary of being spotted, he sat on a tree stump off to the side.
          “This is my newest song, ‘Venom,’” she announced. No one paid her any mind.

          “Our love’s turned to venom.
          I scratch my skin, everywhere you touched.
          Each cut releases your poison,
          Bleeds you away, so I don’t succumb.”

          Pedro guessed it was about Ian. The line, “Your only care that stupid hair, gelling it up as I fall apart,” confirmed it. Her next three songs were covers, “Help Me,” “Fast Car” and “Criminal.” The crowd was more receptive to these familiar tunes. Within fifteen minutes, over a dozen people formed a semicircle around her.
          The next song was an original called “Sick Ones,” with lines about Dad being “aberrant,” Mom “complicit” and herself “easy pickins for sick ones.” The disturbing lyrics notwithstanding, it had a rollicking beat, and even those indifferently eating their lunches bobbed their heads along to it.
          The audience grew steadily, until the park was packed, and Pedro had to stand atop the tree stump to see. She played for nearly two hours. The crowd demanded an encore. She finally wrapped up her set with “Enjoy the Silence” and “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life).”
          “I’ll be back next Thursday, same time,” she said, to claps, whistles and cheers. She bent down to count her money. He made his way towards her.
          “A whole forty-seven dollars,” she exclaimed sarcastically. After stuffing the tips into her pocket, she returned the guitar to its case and swung it to her back. When he reached her, she gave him a cool stare.
          “That was amazing,” he gushed.
          “Amazing, but not worth a buck, huh?” she sneered. Mortified, he took out his wallet. All he had was a twenty. His parents had sent him off to school with three hundred dollars. This would have to last him the two weeks until Thanksgiving. He removed it, but couldn’t make himself hand it over.
          “Sweet,” she said, snatching it. “Look at me, acting as if I’ll starve without it.” She laughed.
          “You won’t?” he asked. Despite himself, he hoped she would graciously give it back.
          “Of course not. I go to Bradford, the rich kid school. My family’s loaded,” she replied.
          “That must be nice,” he said wistfully. She slipped the twenty into her pocket.
          “Everyone thinks that. Who needs love when you’ve got an Amex Black Card, right?” She paused. “Wait, I like that,” she said.
          At once, she unzipped a side pocket on her guitar case. She removed a pencil and small notepad. She scribbled down “love/Amex Black Card.” Pedro gaped with awe, honored to witness the moment inspiration struck. It was worth the humiliation of having to beg Arnold for laundry money.
          “It’s not about the money. I’m competitive with myself. If I don’t make more than I did last week, I feel worthless, like I want to slit my wrists, jump off a bridge and swallow a bottle of pills at the same time,” she explained. She gave a satisfied nod, then jotted down “slit wrists/jump off bridge/swallow pills.”
          “How can you feel worthless? Talent like yours is so rare,” he said fawningly.
          “You’re kind. You’re not a Bradford student, are you?” She gave him a wary sidelong glance. “That place is full of phonies. It’s supposedly so liberal, so big on equality and diversity. Meanwhile, every dorm, every center, even the cafeteria, is named after some old, rich white dude,” she spouted. He laughed.
          “So, you don’t go there, right? You look familiar,” she said, squinting.
          “No, I live in Shelby,” he said, fearing she would scorn him, or worse, recognize him and realize he had been hanging around her dorm for weeks.
          “Thank God. I can’t wait to graduate. I’m miserable there,” she confided. At once, he realized his mistake. Now that he had lied to her, he couldn’t ever tell her the truth.
          “Why are you frowning? Is it because you think I’ll be miserable everywhere?” she asked, her voice wounded.
          “No!” he said adamantly.
          “You’re probably right.” She sighed.
          “One day, the world will appreciate your brilliance,” he said, deflecting. She seemed destined for fame, less so for happiness. She was too perceptive, saw the flaws in everyone, the hypocrisy in everything.
          “Thanks.” She blushed. “What’s your name?” she asked.
          “Pedro,” he said.
          “Kelly,” she said. She seemed to like him. He felt optimistic that she might forgive his deceit. “Can I ask you something?” she said. He nodded.
          “Was there any part of my performance you didn’t like? I won’t be offended.” She pressed her pencil to her notepad, ready to take notes.
          “Nothing. It was perfect,” he assured her. He smiled. Her mouth twisted sourly. He sensed that, out of all the possible responses, he had just given the worst.
          “Bullshit. Nobody ever thinks a performance is perfect. Everyone has a critique. Even my Aunt Dina, the one person in my life who actually cares about me, tells me I need to sing more love songs. That’s the nature of art. It’s only perfect to the artist,” she declared. Incensed, she stabbed the pencil down, snapping off the tip.
          “Your songs could be less personal, sometimes, more general, so everyone can relate to them,” he said, just to say something. To the contrary, he loved that her lyrics were so intimate. It made him feel like he knew her utterly.
          “So now you want me to be a fucking Spice Girl?” she snarled. She flung her broken pencil into the grass. Obligingly, he dug a pen out from his satchel. She snatched it. Scowling, she scribbled “less personal.”
          “I’m guessing you watched from one to two? Or did you get here closer to one-thirty?” she asked, her tone all business. Her only interest in him, apparently, was how he could help her hone her craft.
          “I watched all of it, from when you got here,” he said gamely, happy to be of any interest to her at all.
          “All of it? Don’t you have, like, a job?” She glanced up. Her brow was raised skeptically.
          “I’m a McDonalds cashier. I work the early shift. I get off at noon,” he said. As he spoke, he noticed her peering down at his open satchel. The spines of his Advanced Physics textbook, Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment and Plato’s The Republic were visible. Caught in his lie, he cringed.
          “The truth is, I’m a Bradford freshman. I was afraid to admit it, after you told me how you hated everyone there,” he blurted. He smiled nervously, hoping she would find the humor in the situation.
          “Who are you?” she spat, her face contorted with rage.
          “I told you, I’m a freshman,” he replied.
          “Did my father hire you to keep tabs on me?” she screamed. He shook his head, no.
          “He pretends he’s worried about me. He’s just worried that I’ll expose him. I won’t be silenced. You tell him that. Tell him, if he wants me to stop singing, he’ll have to kill me,” she hissed.
          “Please believe me. I’m just a fan. I saw you perform at Delta Kappa Phi. Since then, I’ve been obsessed with you,” he pled.
          “Obsessed with me?” She scoffed disbelievingly. Yet, a small smile crept onto her lips.
          “Your music blew me away. It was so real, so raw,” he explained. Her glare softened. She seemed to perceive his sincerity.
          “I write music too. Well, not music. Just one song, really. I’ve been working on it for years,” he revealed. She responded to honesty, and it felt good to open up to someone. For so long, he had kept his thoughts private. She nodded pensively.
          “It’s kind of like your stuff, introspective,” he said.
          “You can’t be an artist with only one song,” she noted dismissively.
          “I know that,” he said, ashamed for implying he was anywhere near her level.
“Stay away from me, okay?” She jabbed her finger hard into his chest. He flinched back, wincing.
          “Most stalkers at least wait ‘til you’re famous,” she muttered. She turned around. He clutched his heart, sure there would be a bruise there.
          After watching her walk away, he lumbered morosely to a bench. He waited before returning to campus, afraid she would think he was following her. He wasn’t a stalker, he told himself. Stalkers were dangerous. He would never hurt her. He only wanted to love her.
          He tried to figure out how to win her over. Talking to her had failed miserably. He wished he could buy her a gift, but she had taken the last of his money. He did have something else to offer her, he realized.
          When he returned to his dorm, Arnold was out. Arnold had practically moved in with Nicole. He found Kelly on the student directory and dialed her number. She didn’t pick up, which he had been counting on. She seemed the type to screen her calls.
          “Hi, it’s Pedro. I’m sorry about today. You probably think I’m a lunatic.” He laughed. He cringed, worried his laugh came off as maniacal, rather than nonchalant. He wondered if he should stop now, delete it. But what if, he thought, he never felt this way about a girl again? What if she was his only chance to get married and have kids?
          “I mentioned my song to you. It’s called ‘See My Secret Self.’ I’d like for you to have it. Only you can do it justice. I’ll still try…” He cleared his throat.
          “Do you see my secret self…” he sang. He had a terrible voice. Still, he concentrated on the phrasing, on conveying the melody. He knew it wouldn’t sound good, but he made sure it sounded right.
          When he finished, he almost said “thank you,” but caught himself. He wasn’t a performer, basking in applause. She had said so herself: he was no artist. He only had one song. Now he had none. He whispered, “It’s yours.”
          After setting the receiver down, he felt exhilarated. He lay flat on his bed, a satisfied grin on his face, imagining her listening to it. Surely, it was the most romantic gesture anyone had ever done for her. For hours, he waited by his phone, afraid to leave his room even for a moment. When she didn’t call back, he told himself, she must not have played her messages. Or, she was considering how to respond. Perhaps, she would show up at his door with her guitar, serenade him in return.
          Only upon starting awake in the morning did he think, “What did I do?” It finally occurred to him what, in all likelihood, happened when she heard his message. Her jaw dropped, horrified. She feared for her safety. She called campus security. He would be expelled, if not arrested. His life would be ruined.
          He skipped his day’s classes. He lay in bed, unable to think about anything except how upset his family would be, how disappointed in him. When Arnold stopped by for some toiletries, he pretended to be sick. He felt sick, imagining Arnold’s appalled reaction, once he found out what Pedro had done.
          For weeks, he was certain his expulsion was imminent. Campus security was gathering evidence, taking statements from Kelly’s dormmates, who had noticed a creepy Latino skulking about. Every day, he expected a security officer to knock on his door. During lectures, he envisioned an officer interrupting, pointing to his seat. He would be escorted out as the stunned class looked on.
          Eventually, he realized she had shown him mercy. He knew not to push his luck. He never stepped foot on the Telfair Courtyard or Main Street again. She probably wouldn’t be allowed back inside Delta Kappa Phi, but he stayed away from there too, just in case.
          It was the spring semester before he saw her again, at a party at Inspiration House, the self-proclaimed “artist’s frat,” which Nicole was determined to join. Arnold begged Pedro to accompany them, saying they fought less when he was around.
          An hour in, a barefoot girl in a sundress appeared at the top of the staircase.
          “Some music,” she announced. Suddenly, Kelly descended with her guitar. She looked almost preppy, in khakis and a polo, her hair in a ponytail. She stopped midway down, coughed up a wisp of smoke and giggled.
          “Just a warning, I’m stoned out of my fucking mind,” she confessed to cheers.                   Pedro’s heart pounded. Sweat poured from his armpits. He eyed the exit.
          “Hook me up!” Nicole shouted.
          “Pot makes you stupid and stinks up all your clothes,” Arnold grumbled. As if sensing Pedro’s intention to leave, he put his arm over Pedro’s shoulder.
          “She gets high every weekend now,” he whispered, shooting Nicole a dirty look.               Surmising the gist of his words, Nicole rolled her eyes.
          As Kelly scanned the crowd, Pedro turned to hide his face. After a dread-filled minute, he heard the strumming of her guitar. He snuck a quick glance at her. She stared straight at him, a wry smile on her lips. He was sure she would point him out to the room, her “stalker,” demand he be ousted. Then she started to sing his song.

          “Do you see my secret self,
          Past the lies to the truth?”

          She didn’t alter one word or note, yet it was more exquisite than he ever imagined it could be. A tear rolled down his cheek. He felt so proud. When the song ended, the audience applauded wildly. Momentarily, he resented her; she gave him no credit. But he knew, without her no one would have ever heard it. No one would have appreciated its beauty, not even himself.
          “I call that one ‘Secret Self,’” was all she said about it. He agreed with the title change. It was stronger, more concise. Now it was truly done. She moved onto her next song, “Weighed Down.”

          “You weigh heavily on me.
          I descend to the earth,
          Am pulled underneath.
          While I sink, you rise,
          Glide in the sky,
          Buoyed by my misery.”

          It struck him why he had become infatuated with her. He had spent so long not allowing himself to feel. Her music elicited deep emotions from him; he had confused that with love. He couldn’t really love her. He couldn’t love any woman, not in a way that touched his soul, stirred his blood, like a beautiful song.
          He had noticed the hawk-nosed Latino as soon as he walked in. He stood beside two girls in floral headwraps, casually examining his nails as they made out with each other. Pedro had forced himself to look away from him, terrified that Arnold or Nicole might see the longing in his face.
          Right now, the hawk-nosed Latino was by himself. He stood outside the kitchen door, a replenished drink in hand. Pedro allowed himself to admire his handsome features. If his desires were wrong, how could they inspire such lovely music? The hawk-nosed Latino noticed Pedro. He gazed back at him. They shared a smile.
          Without giving himself time to chicken out, Pedro strode up to him.
          “Excuse me, do I know you?” Pedro asked.
          “I don’t think so. I’m Luis,” he said.
          “Pedro.”
          “Great music, isn’t it?” Luis grinned.
          “Yeah,” Pedro said, though he scarcely heard Kelly Whalen. Something else resounded inside him. It pulsed through his body, made him feel alive. It was joy. It was attraction. It was the letting go of fear. He wasn’t ashamed of his true self. He wouldn’t keep it “secret” anymore.

*

          Twenty years later, Kelly Whalen read the Instagram replies from Pedro, the boy who had written “Secret Self.” Her post was the statement composed by her PR firm. It began, “I sincerely regret my past behavior,” used terms like, “self-reflection,” “do better” and “accountability.” She felt like a child brought before the class, made to apologize for shooting a spitball. She wasn’t really sorry, only sorry she got caught.                
          Everyone seemed to realize that, except Pedro.
          The comments were mostly insults, or barf emojis, or suggestions that she kill herself. Her downfall started during the COVID-19 pandemic, when a supermarket cashier objected to her mesh face mask. She removed it, retorted, “better now?” flipped her off and stormed out. The cashier’s tweet about the incident went viral. The store cam footage leaked. Soon, people all over the internet were sharing anecdotes about their horrendous encounters with Kelly Whalen.
          The media ran with it. TMZ interviewed a legendary record producer who described her as “heinously unprofessional.” She refused to make eye contact with the crew, remarking, “nobodies sap my energy.” A pop star she had collaborated with called her “rotten to the core.” Her ex-boyfriend, Eddie Bazooka, lead singer of Scourge, blamed her for his recent relapse and subsequent overdose. “I survived Kelly Whalen,” was how he began his Facebook open letter. A drummer she toured with sued her for emotional distress, claiming he had PTSD from the experience. On the advice of her attorneys, she settled the case out of court.
          She had always taken pleasure in offending people. They invariably deserved it, either by their hypocrisy or stupidity. She was a troll before social media existed. Of all the people she had ever wronged, only Pedro made her feel a twinge of remorse.
          Now he was Pedro Ruiz-Wu. She recognized him right away. His profile photo showed him beside a slender Asian man, wearing matching tuxedos. A perennial patsy, Pedro defended her over and over.
          “Show compassion,” he replied to TeddyNYC81.
          “How can you call her ‘vindictive,’ then tell her ‘Eat a bullet’?” he scolded Kayla_P_Adams of Rich Vegas Wifeys fame, account verified.
          “No one’s perfect,” he reminded EmilyFerretLover, who looked fifteen at most. Emily wrote she thought about mailing her a pipe bomb, but decided she wasn’t worth the postage.
          It boggled her mind how he could still worship her, how he didn’t despise her. She remembered playing his voicemail message. When she first heard his pitiful warble, she laughed hysterically. It wasn’t often she found someone crazier than she was. As he continued, it became less funny. The lyrics were impressive. The melody was haunting.
She realized his song would be perfect for her first album. Aunt Dina told her she needed more love songs, and she knew it was true. She could never bring herself to write a song that was solely about love. There was always resentment mixed in. It was always equally, or more, about hate. Unrelenting angst was a hard sell to the public, let alone record executives. She refused to include any covers. To cultivate the image of a DIY musical genius, she had to be the lone songwriter credited on each track.
          He said, explicitly, she could have it: “It’s yours.” She tape-recorded the message to use in court if it came to that. Of course, it would have backfired. He may have been a lovesick, idiot stalker, but he had still written that song.
          “Secret Self” was her first single, deemed the most accessible track by her label. Though only a minor chart hit, it proved to be one of her most enduring songs, appearing in a ubiquitous Samsung commercial and the climactic scene of a beloved indie romantic comedy. A songwriting credit would have netted him half a million dollars by now.
          She was certain he could have used the money. She remembered when she shamed him into tipping her a twenty. Only someone poor would look so pained. That didn’t stop her from snatching it.
          For a time, she had wrestled with her conscience. She could have at least paid him off. Twenty grand would have been nothing to her. Her father would have cut her a check made out to cash, no questions asked. It was during the party at Inspiration House when she ultimately decided to screw him over.
          She had acted as if it was an impromptu gig. Every weekend, she begged a house party to let her perform, desperate for the practice and exposure. “Secret Self” was the first song on her carefully prepared setlist. She wasn’t about to change it, just because the real songwriter showed up. She gave him a smile, the sweetest she could muster, hoping he would be flattered instead of outraged.
          She considered feigning interest in him, persuading him into signing away his rights. As it turned out, she wasn’t his type. Once the song ended, he strode up to a cute boy across the room. Through three songs, they chatted and laughed, eventually exchanging numbers on scraps of paper. By the way Pedro glowed with excitement, she could tell he had only recently come out. Perhaps this was the first boy he had ever flirted with. He left the party soon after, before she even finished her set. When the couple he was with had a spat, he took off, annoyed.
          She realized why he had only written one song. The sadness inside him, as profound as it was, was easily overcome. All he had to do was accept that he was gay. He didn’t have to spend countless hours, as she did, with a pencil and paper, sorting out everything that was wrong with him. His mental struggles were over, not hers, not ever.
          Even back then, she understood that she was irrevocably broken. Only music made her feel whole. Onstage, she experienced a joy that dispelled her sorrow. When a song came out perfect, pride briefly replaced her self-loathing. Without music, she would be dead. She would have eaten a bullet long ago.
          “Let him have his normal life,” she had thought scornfully. “I’m taking this.”
Royalties or not, Pedro had done fine. His Instagram profile listed him as an ophthalmologist. He looked happy with his husband. He posted photos from their vacations, their romantic dinners and their nights out with friends. During the pandemic, they adopted a Labrador, naming her “Basil.” No doubt, they would soon be renting some woman’s womb to create their own little gayby. Their life together was so adorable it made her want to vomit.
          CoolMom87 called her a “terrible person.”
          “If she wasn’t a terrible person, she wouldn’t be a great artist,” Pedro replied.
          Without thinking, she hit “like.” She paused, considering the blowback from her million-plus followers, who now took pleasure in reviling her. She imagined how the media would jump on it, use it as proof that her apology was insincere. She still had time to unlike it. If anyone saw, she could claim it was a mistake.
          “Bingo,” she typed.
          So what if the ingrates crucified her? Whatever pain they inflicted, she would turn into art. It was how she became famous, and how she survived. She grabbed her notepad on the table. She always kept one within reach, had since she was young.
          “Terrible person/great artist,” she scribbled down, thinking he got it, he saw her.