Free The Guardian by Carey Corp

sip. I’m savoring a mouthful of tea when Steven’s next words practically make it shoot out of my nose. “So when can we expect your young man over for dinner, Alex?”
    Fighting the urge to spew across the table, I force down a rough swallow despite the choking spasms in my throat. My eyes feel like they’re bulging dangerously out of their sockets. Still sputtering, I grab my water and take small, controlled sips. A blush creeps up my neck, burning into my cheeks and I’m helpless to stop it.
    When I finally find the courage to look up, Kate and Steven are smiling benignly at me, amusement sparkling in their eyes. The ever-present butterflies at the thought of Gabriel form a mosh pit in my stomach. Hastily returning my attention to my water glass, I ask, “When do you want him to come?”
    When I peek through my lashes, I see Steven lean back in his seat, crossing his arms. There’s something playful and fatherly in his demeanor. “How about a week from tomorrow, for Sunday dinner?” With a hasty glance at Kate to secure her agreement, he declares, “We’ll expect him at four.”
    “Okay.” I continue to blush into my drink until our food comes. Trying not to have a total meltdown at the thought of state-appointed custodians meeting  my significant—yet frustratingly undefined—“boy” friend. Is it too much to hope that one of Gabriel’s hidden flaws is parent-phobia? He might say “no.”
    Right—and he just might sprout wings and fly while he’s at it.
    *
    Monday is dark, overcast and dreary. By midmorning, rain’s assaulting the city. The storm pounds against the walls of Midlands High, creating a confined, claustrophobic effect. The whole student body seems restless, like rats trapped at the start of a maze, waiting anxiously for something to happen. The pervasively gloomy atmosphere darkens the halos of those around me, and gives me an ill, edgy feeling. When the final bell of the day rings, the collective relief is palpable.
    After school, Gabriel produces a giant red umbrella that instantly reminds me of one of those romantic black and white posters. The kind where you see two bodies close together—maybe the Eiffel Tower in the background—and the kissing’s implied but you can’t see it because a giant red umbrella is blocking the view. Stop it.
    Find Derry. Avoid the darkness until I am no longer a minor. Keep control of my life. D o not fall in love. I repeat the things that matter, like a mantra.
    As we start walking, the “Umbrella” song rolls around in my head. Not the bubble gum girl version, the techno one by Scott somebody. This gets me thinking about all the great bands that have covered the pop song, like Linkin’ Park, Plain White Ts, Manic Street Preachers, All Time Low, Biffy Cyclo, OneRepublic, and My Chemical Romance.
    “Come on!” Suddenly the ache for music—and Derry, since the two are intertwined—has me clutching Gabriel’s arm. Ahead, I see the little shops with the cheerful, green awnings. Veering off course, I drag Gabriel across the street into the CD store.
    Inside, while Gabriel closes up the red umbrella and carefully places it against the haphazard pile in the corner, I assess the occupants. Weak grays and yellows—I’m relieved to find no reason not to stay. Strangely Gabriel seems uncomfortable, so I smile reassuringly and taking his hand in mine, I lead him down a dark, narrow aisle flanked with overstuffed metal racks to a promising section label “Alternative.” There’s something so soothing about being in the shop, surrounded by music. Something centering.
    Letting my fingers sift their way through the alphabet of bands, I ask, “What kind of music do you like?”
    He shrugs, “All kinds, I guess. But I’m always looking to broaden my tastes. What do you like?”
    “Everything.” As I continue sifting, I call out specific bands and albums: 311, blink182, Coldplay, Eels, Evanescence, the Fray, Garbage, Nickelback… Pausing at the Os,