Better Than This

by Tia Souders

  He spoke as though he and I were a team. And I loved it. Even if it did make me a bit nervous. Relying on someone gave them the opportunity to disappoint you. Disappointment was certainly familiar territory.

  The thought made my stomach clench, but I ignored it and let the feel of his arms around me soak into my bones. Turning, I leaned up on my toes and kissed him.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You make me feel like my problems aren’t impossible when I’m with you.”

  “What other problems are those? Beside your mom, I mean.”

  I glanced away from him, remembering my afternoon.

  * * *

  I had been catching up on schoolwork when Lauren, Faith, Derek, and Ron sat down beside me in the cafeteria.

  “Hey,” Derek said. He turned toward me and slid a cigarette behind his ear, a constant accessory to his spiked, black hair.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  Lauren screwed up her face in annoyance. I wanted to smack her, but Faith saved me the effort by rolling her eyes.

  At least I wasn’t the only one sick of Lauren’s attitude.

  “We need to talk about the gig tomorrow. It’s your big debut, so you need to play it up big. You haven’t been around much lately to practice. Can we trust you’re up to the performance?”

  I shuddered at the repulsive idea of pretending to play. “No, I’m good. I’m ready.” If I can play Django Reinhardt, I think I can handle a little alternative rock, I wanted to say, but held my tongue.

  Ron chuckled. “This is gonna be so awesome.”

  “We’ll want you front and center so everyone can see your hand,” Derek said. Then as if an afterthought, he added, “I’m glad you finally stopped wearing those dumb bandages. People need to really see it.”

  I bit down on the side of my cheek. The metallic taste of blood coated my tongue, but Derek continued, unfazed by my clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. “We’ll do all our fan favorites, the ones we practiced last week.”

  “You mean at the one practice session she actually decided to attend all month.” Lauren flipped her long, blond hair over her shoulder, whipping Ron in the face.

  Derek glared at her. “At the end, I’m going to make a special announcement. Something about thanking you for your performance, and I’ll say something about your injury. That’s when you should step forward, maybe do a little solo, and give the crowd your signature sign off.”

  I said nothing.

  “Have you worked up some kind of sign off? I’m thinking you could kiss your index and middle finger, and then hold out your hand for everyone to see. We want people to get a good look at it.”

  My stomach lurched at the vision. Me, dressed in the skimpy outfit Lauren had given to me to wear last week, probably as punishment—a black mini and midriff-baring tight tank top—holding out my mutilated hand for the world to see. Okay, maybe not the world, but The Clover was bad enough. I pictured Carl and Laird in the crowd, watching the spectacle as my friends nudged me on. Then, an image even more horrific came to mind as Tad’s small frame, with his thick black glasses perched over his nose, appeared amongst the cheering fans.

  My head throbbed like someone smashed my brain with a hammer. Wincing, I leaned into my hands and kneaded my forehead, willing the tension away.

  Across the cafeteria, I noticed Todd, another senior, staring in my direction. He seemed to look right through me as I shifted in my seat, further shielding my face. Did he know what we were talking about? It certainly looked like he did as he watched on with an unwavering stare.

  When I couldn’t take anymore, I straightened in my seat and began to say something when out of the corner of my eye I noticed Faith. She tucked her purple hair behind her ear, fished a piece of gum from her pocket, then very slowly popped it into her mouth onto her tongue and winked. So, that’s why he was staring.

  I almost laughed in relief when Derek cleared his throat way louder than necessary. He snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Hello?”

  I blinked at him as if he spoke for the first time.

  “So, what to do you think?”

  I couldn’t, I wanted to scream. Not one coherent thought coursed through my brain except the intense desire to be anywhere but where I was at that moment. But agreeing was easier, so I said, “Sure. That’s fine.”

  Anything to get them to leave me alone.

  * * *

  “Sam? Samantha?” Laird’s voice brought me back to the present.

  What had we been talking about?

  Oh, right. The usual. My problems.

  “What else is bothering you, Sam?” Laird asked. He placed his fingers under my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.

  I shook my head. “Nothing. I—I just haven’t gotten much rest lately,” I lied.

  He eyed me before saying, “Yeah. This doesn’t have anything to do with your little comeback performance Friday night, does it? I saw the flyers. They’re posted everywhere.”

  Crap. “Um. It might have something to do with that, yes.”

  Laird sighed and dropped his hand. “Sam, I thought you didn’t want to do it.”

  I turned my back to him, unable to look him in the eye. “I don’t.”

  He grabbed my arm, pulling me to his side. “Then, why do it? Tell them no.”

  “I can’t. They’re insistent on this stupid show. They’d flip if I told them no now. Derek’s been sending out those dumb flyers for weeks. He even has the local radio station doing advertisements.”

  Laird shook his head and paced a few steps away from me before turning back. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

  “Do what?”

  “You let them control you. You do whatever they ask. As far as I can see, they don’t give a crap about you except using you. You’re the best one of them, and they know it.” His voice rose as he spoke. “They have no future without you. When you leave them, they’ll just be another band struggling to get gigs with nothing special or great separating them from all the rest. Yet you lie down and let them walk all over you.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling the heat of anger rise in my chest. “They may not be much, but they’re my friends! When I had no one else, they were there.”

  Laird laughed. “I wouldn’t call getting drunk with you actually being there for you.”

  I knew he was right, but it didn’t matter. My eyes widened and my muscles coiled, ready to pounce. “So what? They gave me an outlet. One I thought I needed. Not everyone can have friends like Carl who stop them from self-destructing!”

  Anger flashed in Laird’s eyes, the already deep blue becoming even more intense. “What are we doing here, Sam?” he asked as he motioned to the area between us.

  I straightened, preparing myself for the blow of rejection. I had foolishly let the time we spent together tamp down my fear of his realizing he was too good for me. But maybe that time had come.

  I steeled myself, as I asked, “What do you mean?”

  “What are we doing? We’ve spent countless days over the last six months with each other. We go out, touch, and kiss as if we’re together.”

  “We are together.”

  Laird’s brows arched. “Really? Do your so-called friends know about us? Who, other than Tad?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but what could I say? He was right.

  The moisture in my eyes blurred my vision. I turned my head, avoiding his gaze, before he could notice.

  “I’m good enough for you as long as you don’t have to dirty the waters. Why would you admit you’re with the goody-two-shoes college guy, right? We wouldn’t want to make your friends mad because they might show their true colors, then. You know they’d ditch you the second you didn’t follow along with whatever crap plan of theirs they had for your life. And what would you do then? If they bailed on you, all you’d have left is myself and Tad. And you can’t have that, can you?”

  My hands fisted at my side, and I clenched my jaw so hard my body trembled. “What do you kn
ow? You have normal parents. Normal friends.”

  My chest heaved, and for a moment I thought I might get sick, right there on the dirt road of the colonial village. “I thought you understood.” Turning, I hurried down the narrow road we strolled through just moments ago. I walked as fast as my feet could carry me. But when it still felt too slow, I began to jog. When I reached my truck at the intersection bordering the colonial village from the modern shops and restaurants of downtown Williamsburg, I didn’t bother looking back. If he was behind me, I didn’t want to know.

  My truck welcomed me as I jumped in and started the engine. The slow pace of the traffic pricked at my already worn nerves while tears battled my will to suppress them.

  I tried to focus on the road, to forget the fight we just had, but I couldn’t. He was right. How did he see right through me? How could he see even the things I myself couldn’t recognize? For so long I had clung to the band and to their one-sided friendships because having someone was better than no one. Because with them, I didn’t really have to let them in. And keeping them shut out meant there was no chance of getting hurt. By contrast, the ones you loved could easily turn their back on you. And when they did, it tore a part of you to shreds. A part you could never heal again. In the blink of an eye, you could be left with nothing and no one. People betrayed you. They hurt you, but music never did. Laird and Tad were nothing like my friends. They truly cared. Yet I couldn’t let go…

  I arrived home and raced to June’s. I threw open the door, thankful when I discovered Tad’s absence, and grabbed my guitar from its position in the corner of the living room. Launching into the strings, I played without forethought, just primal need, until the sounds and words of by Elvis Costello spilled out of me. Though I knew it was dramatic, I followed it up with a heart-wrenching song about lost love. I played for hours—until my hand and fingers ached, until I tore a nail and blood stained my cuticles, seeping onto the strings. I played until my heart bled dry, and the pain of my fight with Laird receded into something numb.

  * * *

  There were days you wish could last forever. Then there were days where you wished the minutes away, fiercely resenting every second. Today was one of those days—the kind that no matter how quickly it went, lightning speed wouldn’t be fast enough.

  I poked my head inside the bathroom and glanced toward the shower. Satisfied my mother was washing up and not prying the bathroom tile off to reveal some secret stash, I ducked back into her bedroom. The three-inch heels of my black pumps dug into the plush carpet, making my ankles feel as though they might snap any second.

  I hated heels. Almost as much as I hated dressing up, which made the black dress and blazer I wore icing on the cake.

  Two days passed since my date with Laird. I hadn’t talked to him since, and already I missed him. The night before, I sat cross-legged on my bed staring at my cell phone as if waiting and wanting might conjure him to call me. School was torturous as my friends merely served as reminders for the reason Laird wasn’t talking to me. I had always known my relationship with them was a shallow one. But with every comment they made, I found myself analyzing them and realized just how little they cared about me.

  I thought about Laird all morning. He was like my favorite album set to loop in my brain, and I had no idea how to stop it.

  When I entered the cafeteria at lunch, I walked up to our table. Summoning all my courage, I adjusted the messenger bag over my shoulder and watched as Derek took a monstrous bite of a taco like it may be his last meal.

  “What would you say if I told you I wasn’t going to do the gig tomorrow night?”

  His smile faded. A drop of grease dripped from the taco suspended midair in his hand. He lowered it and looked hard into my eyes. “You wouldn’t let us down.”

  “What if I did?” I asked. My fingers twitched as I watched his expression flicker into one of annoyance. I had to suppress a sudden, violent urge to rip the cigarette from his ear.

  “It’s not an option. The band relies on this performance. We’ve already spread the word and have pushed it back months for you. There will be tons of people there. If you flaked now, it would kill our reputation. We can’t have that.”

  In other words, it was put up or shut up. If I didn’t follow through with their silly comeback show, I may as well sign the death certificate of our friendship. I wasn’t surprised. His answer was merely a confirmation.

  Shaking the thoughts of my friends away, I cocked my head and listened for the sound of water running. When I heard none, I entered the bathroom with a fistful of my mother’s clothes. When I glanced at her getting out of the shower, I gasped.

  Water dripped from her silvery blond hair onto the tile floor. All knobby knees and elbows, the parts of her body not covered by the towel consisted of little more than flesh on bone. Despite taking in an exorbitant amount of calories from alcohol, she ate very little. And as a woman who had always been rail thin with an ability to burn through anything she ate, she was now shockingly so.

  “Here are your clothes. They’ll be here soon, so if you could just get dressed quickly, you’d be ready to go. Just towel dry your hair and pull it back. You don’t have time to do anything more.” When Mom nodded, I turned to leave, wishing away the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Any minute, Mr. Neely would arrive with Mr. Fransisco. In many ways, today was as important as my audition. Without the financing to attend Juilliard, an acceptance meant nothing. I had made no mention of the meeting to her the day before. Not because I was worried she would tell my father. They didn’t speak much, and when they did, the conversations were superficial. The reason I withheld the information was because I knew the pressure would lead her to drink heavily to avoid the responsibility. Instead, she had imbibed all night, keeping a steady drunk on but not to the point where she was delirious or incoherent. This morning, she woke up with a slight buzz. Just enough to keep her content through the morning with nothing extra to drink, lending me the advantage of talking her into playing along.

  I paced over the hardwood floor in the living room, periodically stopping to check the driveway for the expected guests. My mind raced with all the things that could go wrong with the interview, but mostly, the image of my father arriving home in the middle of it. I glanced above my head to the ceiling. The floorboards squeaked as my mother walked, and I prayed I found all her hiding places. Every bit of the alcohol in the house, along with the minis I found in her top dresser drawer, the bottle of whiskey under the bathroom sink, and the half-empty bottle of Jack in the hamper with dirty laundry, sat on the floor of my locked truck.

  I waited another five minutes. The flare of irritation pricked at my skin. What was taking her so long?

  “Mom! Come on,” I yelled up the stairs.

  A moment later, she descended the stairs. The shower and change of clothes did little to help her appearance. The suit hung on her emaciated frame, and the shade of navy enhanced her already ghostly pallor and under eye circles. But before I could make any changes or prep her further than I already had, a sleek, silver sedan pulled into the driveway.

  I took a deep breath and announced, “They’re here.” I glanced over at her and motioned for her to sit down. The idea of my mother greeting them on her feet made me too nervous. The less work for her, the better. “Remember, they’re here for a music scholarship. They might ask you some questions. You need to act happy and like you care.”

  At her blank stare, I nearly broke down. “Mom, please. Listen, just go along with whatever they say. For the next hour, pretend to be normal. Just for one hour, like you used to do for Dad at his parties. After that, you can do whatever you want. Drink a whole bottle of whiskey if you want to.” I regretted the words the second they left my mouth, but there was no taking them back now.

  Hunger glimmered in her eyes like she was starved. I glanced outside again. Mr. Neely got out of the car with a tall, gray-haired, distinguished looking man I assumed to be Mr. Fransisco.
He wore a tan colored suit with a white shirt and pink tie, looking every bit the part.

  As they exited the vehicle and approached the short walkway to the front door, I turned and grabbed my mother’s hands. “Please, Mom.” My voice quivered. “Please.”

  She nodded like she understood, so I heaved a sigh of relief and allowed myself to relax a bit.

  I greeted them before they had a chance to knock and stepped aside for them to enter. Mr. Neely raised his brows in greeting. Once inside, I asked, “Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

  “No, I think we’re fine,” Mr. Neely said, looking to Mr. Fransisco for confirmation.

  “No need to go to the trouble.” He glanced at my mother.

  “Um. Mr. Neely, Mr. Fransisco, this is my mother, Sandra Becker.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Mr. Fransisco said.

  Mr. Neely stepped forward and shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure. You must be very proud.”

  Every muscle in my body froze. I held my breath, waiting. My mother replied with a half-smile. “Yes.”

  I could care less about her floppy grip which looked about as firm as a dead fish. She hadn’t pulled a flask out of her bra, so we were off to as good a start as I could get. Releasing my pent-up breath, I ordered myself to relax and directed everyone to the sofas in the living room.

  “Well, Miss Becker, Mr. Neely has told me a lot about you. He says you’re quite the talent,” Mr. Francisco said. He stared at me over thin wire glasses and a long, straight nose.

  “It’s been a challenge, for sure,” I said.

  He glanced down at my hand. “I’m sure it has. But from what he’s told me, you’ve managed quite well, and if possible, have become even better in the process.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And if you were to get the scholarship, you would use it for Juilliard?”

  The next ten minutes passed with a handful of questions from Mr. Fransisco regarding Juilliard, my grades, and future goals, followed by a discussion on the terms of the scholarship. The entire time, my mother sat next to me rigid and stiff as a board, but blessedly quiet. She answered them when spoken to, which wasn’t often. Still, I hoped they didn’t notice how little information she provided. She skirted a lot of the questions. After all, how could she discuss things about a daughter she barely knew? There was no bragging, no expanding on statements like most parents might do. Her answers were forced, like she wasn’t sure what they had asked her in the first place. Nevertheless, I was satisfied. Nothing damaging had happened. I just had to make it through with no major mistakes, and I was confident, with Mr. Neely’s influence, the scholarship was mine.