“Wait, are we going with current or grain? Can we stick to one metaphor, please?”
“Shut up.” I punch his arm.
“Seriously though, come on. You were never attracted to any guys?”
“I thought I was a couple times, I guess. I tried to be, before I knew there was another option. Before I knew what it was supposed to feel like.”
“What about Isaiah?”
“Isaiah was a mistake, a gigantic mistake.”
“But you were attracted to him.” He won’t let up. Suddenly, I’m irritated by this conversation.
“You know what he was like. He beat the shit out of me.”
“I know. He was a piece of crap, but the only reason you dealt with him in the first place is because there had to be an attraction, right?”
“No, there was pressure to be ‘normal,’ nothing more.”
“Okay, okay,” he says.
“And what’s with the interrogation? I thought you wanted me to be with Jaselle.”
“I totally do. I love lesbians.” His grin comes back.
“You’re such a loser.” I finish my beer in one swig and retreat to the alley. I don’t even know why I hang out with Benny. He always leaves me drowning in some memory. This time it’s Jayden peeling me off the floor of Isaiah’s apartment, Jayden taking me to his place and cleaning me up, Jayden rambling about how he should kill Isaiah, asking what happened, frantic.
Now I want to hug Jayden, or slap him upside the head maybe and tell him I’ll always love him. I’ll always be here. He doesn’t need to be jealous. But even as I think about that I don’t feel the need to rush over there and beg him back into the band. I don’t even feel the need to rush around looking for a new guitarist. I just feel defeated.
There’s one thing I do have the motivation to do. Talk to Jaselle.
Chapter Nine
I call Jaselle from the bar, ignoring the time. She picks up right away. She asks what’s wrong, and I’m shocked when I find myself choked up trying to spit it out. She doesn’t press it on the phone, just tells me to come over.
The buses aren’t running anymore. It’s late, but I don’t let that stop me. I hang up and head out. When I get there, I knock on the door. Noah answers.
“She ran out for a minute. She’ll be right back.”
“Okay.” I nod, feeling completely awkward, waiting for some verbal jab.
He sighs. “Don’t just stand there. Come in.”
“Really?”
“You’d better hurry or I’ll close the door.”
I step inside, shoving my hands in my pockets. I follow him into the living room. He flops down on the couch, kicks his legs up, and reaches for the remote. I take the chair across from him. It seems more appropriate than retreating to Jaselle’s room alone, even though that’s exactly what I’d like to do.
“So, Jaselle told me to be nice to you tonight,” he says. I laugh a little. “She says you’re dealing with some personal shit or something.”
“It’s not that big of a deal. You can be mean if you want,” I say.
“What is it?” he asks. I’m a little taken aback he’s bold enough to ask, given our intense dislike of one another. Honestly, I can’t deal with him being nice. I just feel like I’m waiting for the mean Noah to resurface, but he just keeps looking at me like he’s truly trying or something. I figure I can either tell him it’s none of his damn business and set this rivalry in stone, or I can loosen up and maybe not feel like I’m about to get kicked out at any given moment.
“It’s just my band. My guitarist flipped out on me and quit.”
Noah nods and grabs a pipe off the coffee table. He takes a deep hit. “So you need a new guitarist then?”
“I don’t know. He was pretty much the best I’ve ever seen. And he has huge stage presence. I’m not sure he can be replaced. I can’t even imagine us with someone else.”
“So you need him back then.” He hands me the pipe. I accept it, trying to cover my elation from the gesture.
“I’m kind of thinking about just throwing in the towel, actually.”
“What?” He jolts up on the couch.
“Well, yeah. It’s just—”
“Your music is the coolest fucking thing about you! What do you mean you’re thinking about throwing in the towel? You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“I, uh…” He’s throwing me off caring like this, and was that a compliment? Sort of?
“And what the hell are you going to do with yourself once you quit the band? Huh?”
“I don’t know. Get a job, I guess. An apartment.” I smirk. “Conform.”
“You don’t mean that. An apartment, maybe, so you can stop bothering me, but you’re not going to quit playing music. The only time I don’t want to smack your face off is when you’re playing the piano. And now you want to quit? You really are in bad shape, aren’t you?”
“I guess. It was already going downhill.” I can’t believe I’m making a solid effort at opening up to Noah. I’ll probably regret giving him this much information later. “This guy, Brad, who was supposed to be a break for us, flaked for the millionth time, and even before Jayden walked out he was all over the place.”
“So maybe Brad isn’t the guy that’s going to be your break. Cut him loose. Look for something else. And either your guitarist is worth the trouble or he’s not. Decide which it is and either get him back or replace him.”
“You always want things to be simple, don’t you?” I say.
“It is simple. If you want it, make it happen. These problems you think you have with your band, they’re pathetic, really. So the music industry is hard to break into; what, are you shocked?”
“Of course, I’m not.”
“Then dry your eyes and be a bitch. Let some of that savage out where you actually need it. Kick life in the balls.”
I start laughing and take another hit of the weed. I can’t help but repeat him. “Kick life in the balls.” I’m shocked I actually feel a little better.
“I got a question for you, and for once I’m not trying to offend you.”
“Okay,” I say. I figure he’s earned a slightly offensive question. “Go ahead.”
“How does a skinny, dirty, homeless girl from a back alley know how to play a piano like that? Chopin for God’s sake. How’s a homeless girl even know who Chopin is?”
“How does a mangy, stoner drug dealer know who Chopin is? And by ear?”
“Well, that’s no exciting story. I just like classical music. There’s more to life than reggae,” he says. I hear the front door open.
“Hellooo?” Jaselle calls. She turns the corner and sees Noah and me sitting together. Concern fills her face. I wonder where she had to go in the middle of the night, urgent enough to leave me here alone with him with a plea to behave. I get up and give her a hug. She kisses my cheek.
“Everything okay?” she asks, looking from me to Noah and back.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Okay, well, come on.” She grabs my hand and pulls me toward her room.
“Savage?” Noah says and exposes his palms. I know it means where’s my answer?
“I wasn’t always a dirty, skinny, homeless girl from a back alley,” I say. Jaselle studies me when I say it, trying to take in the vibe I guess, probably confused as hell.
We sit down on her bed, and she comes over and kisses me, her hair falling in my face. I grab her neck and pull her down on top of me. She backs away gently. “Are you okay?”
I nod and I pull her back down. I can’t get enough of the taste of her. No matter how close she is, it’s never close enough. We’re wrapped in each other for hours.
It’s not until the sun is rising that we get around to what happened with Jayden, and by then I feel stupid for being upset about it to begin with. Of course, he’ll be back. And of course, the band will go on. Jaselle picks her pants up off the floor and digs in the pocket, emerging with a tiny plastic bag. Inside, it looks like a smal
l piece of glass. Meth. I guess that’s exactly why they call it glass.
“More?” I ask.
“Yeah, I just need to crank out some work. The show is coming up and I’m behind. I’m telling you, it doesn’t just keep you awake, it broadens your mind.”
“Yeah?”
“I get some of my best stuff done on this. You want some? You can go try to write some music on it. I bet you’ll love it.” She pulls an old piece of foil out of the drawer by her bed, already covered in little black spots where she’s smoked off of it before. Where we’ve smoked off of it before? Yes, we.
I smoke it gently, timid about getting too high, but after the first one my conviction fades. Before I know it I’m hitting it again. Jaselle looks so beautiful through the smoke. What a bizarre thought.
She goes to work setting up her paints. I’m wired again, for sure, but not feeling particularly compelled to create much of anything. Jaselle reads my thoughts. “Try it at least. Play piano, and I’ll paint what you play.”
That idea fascinates me enough to get up and go to the other room. I wish she’d come in here with me, but she’s already set up in her bedroom and says she can hear me easily.
I start with something low, a pulsing, deep rhythm. The sound is amazing. I get stuck on it, with no desire to complicate it. Finally, I force myself to add a layer, some high notes sprinkled in with the somber bass. Next thing I know I’m so wrapped up in every little note that they’re just running away with me.
I feel like I’m floating on the surface of the ocean, rolling with the waves, smooth. But then, a jolt, a sudden fear there’s no way I’ll remember any of this tomorrow after I’ve come down. I try to pay better attention, burn it into my memory. It’s exhausting. Isn’t the point of being high to get lost? Not to focus.
I don’t hear Jaselle come in. I just feel her arms on my shoulders, then her hands slide down my chest until her breath is in my ear. “Come to bed, baby.” How long has it been? A long time already.
I let her guide me under the covers. Everything feels incredible. She tells me I’m peaking. My hand runs up her thigh, the warmth so inviting. I kiss her neck, tasting her skin while I slip my fingers inside her. She moans as my fingers go deeper and grabs a handful of my hair. I obey her pull. She grinds into me while I push into her and she drives me crazy. Every little movement she makes, every sound that comes from those lips, I can barely stand it.
Her orgasm is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed. Her hips thrust against me as she wraps her arms around me so tight I can’t escape, like she’ll never let me go. Her face is smooth and arresting. I kiss her exposed neck while she’s still breathing hard, sinking back into the sheets.
I pull her closer to me. She’s almost asleep already by the time I get her all gathered up. I put my arm around her waist and squeeze. She’s so small I feel like I could wrap my arm around her twice. I breathe her in, making a conscious effort to memorize this moment.
I finally notice the canvas in the corner of the room, her painting of my music. There’s long sweeps of deep blues and purples, with small but brilliant specks of red. The longer I look at it the more I see. I feel like it’s sucking me inside this other world. I want to stay down here with her.
Chapter Ten
“So, are you going to call him?” Jaselle asks. My eyelids feel heavy still. I haven’t gotten my fill of sleep. I force myself to sit up before I pass out again.
“Yeah, I should,” I say.
“Just do it. Don’t overthink it. You’ll feel better when it’s done.”
How does she know I’m having so much anxiety about this? Am I that easy to read? “Okay, okay. I’m getting up.” I reach for my shirt.
“You have to get dressed to call him?” she asks.
“I was going to go to that gas station, call him from the pay phone.”
“You’re kidding.” Her eyebrows crinkle. “You’re not just going to use my phone?” She extends it out to me. I take it from her, deliberately brushing her fingers as I do.
“I didn’t want to be presumptuous,” I say.
She scoffs. “Give me a break. You need to stop with that crap already. Are you my girlfriend, or aren’t you?”
My anxiety over Jayden vanishes in favor of happiness I can’t contain. “Am I?”
“You better be.”
“Then I am.”
“Then you should feel comfortable using my phone.”
I give her a kiss and dial Jayden’s number. It rings a couple times. I’m surprised how relieved I am at the notion it’ll go to voice mail. But then he picks up.
“Yo.”
“Hey, Jay. It’s me.” The silence that overtakes the line is brutal. For a second I think he hung up. “Hello?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh, how are you?” I feel like a jackass. It’s not helping that Jaselle is watching.
“Fine, I guess.”
“Look, Jay, you know why I’m calling. I don’t want it to end like this.”
“How do you want it to end, Rainn?”
“I don’t want it to end. I’m sorry, okay? I should have been there. I shouldn’t have said some of what I said. And you’re right, you made the band. It wouldn’t have started without you, and it can’t go on without you, okay? We need you.”
“Wow,” he says. “How’d that feel?”
“What?”
“Apologizing. Saying you need me.”
“It felt fine.” It stung a little. “It’s the truth.” It stung a lot. “I’ve never taken your talent for granted, you know that. We do need you.” We do need him.
“I’m sorry too, I guess,” he says. Was that supposed to be satisfying? I just sit there waiting for him to go on, forcing him to go on with my lack of response. Finally, he does. “I shouldn’t have talked about your girl like that. That was a jerk thing to do.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’ll try to stop being late all the time.”
“What I really want is for you to write again. You know that,” I say.
“I know. It’s just…”
“You’re so good when you want to be.”
“I’ll think about it.”
The line goes quiet for a while. Finally, I decide that’s about as successful as it’s going to get. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow then?” I say.
“Yeah.”
“All right.”
“Hey, Rainn?”
“Yeah?”
“I do still love the band, okay?”
I smile. “Okay.”
* * *
Sometimes things sneak up on you. Sometimes they sneak away from you. I don’t notice the alley fading out of my life. Funny how fast we adjust. I thought television would be a glamorous luxury forever, now I need some mindless chatter in the background to fall asleep. I thought her bed would swallow me in ecstasy every night.
Don’t get me wrong, I still think about these things, but the bruises on my spine from sleeping on concrete are healed. Already it’s becoming the past. I guess the meth does its part in that effect, but it’s mostly Jaselle. She’s my home now.
I don’t notice I essentially live with her until she goes to her art show and leaves me in the house alone. I want to go, but she says it’s pointless. I’ve already seen all the art, and she’ll just be busy all night anyway. I can’t help but assume it’s because I’d damage her image. It burns a little, but this is her night, so I swallow it, kiss her good-bye, and wish her luck.
Now I’m biting my fingernails, watching South Park, waiting. I picture her in some classy loft with a martini in her hand, discussing abstract art with some dude with slicked back hair and a red tie. I’m sure she’s raking in all kinds of money. It was hard to see her cart off the one she painted of me. I know that was always its purpose, but I’m a little attached to it.
Who needs the painting when you’ve got the model? That’s what she said to quell the hurt I was failing to hide. That was cute enough to make me feel bet
ter at the time. Keepsakes are for people who expect it to end.
I look around the room at what’s left, the ones that didn’t make the cut for the show. A lot of the ones she’s done recently are still here. She’s been amped up on meth for the past few weeks. We both have, pushing out all the creativity we can find. And yet, all of it is still here, in the bedroom, apparently not impressive enough for her taste. I guiltily confirm to myself that they aren’t as good as the ones she did take, almost all of which were done before I met her.
And my music? Can I remember any of it? Is it worth remembering? I’m questioning the artistic value of the drug we love breathing together. The truth is, I’ve tired of it. I’m relieved we’ve come to her show. This means the last-minute rushing and painting and scurrying around has come to a close. Her “need” for it is over.
The door slams. I jump to my feet as fast as I can and still she bursts in the bedroom door before I reach it. How she crossed the entire apartment before I crossed the room I can’t tell you. “Hey,” I say, but she goes for the nearest painting. She picks it up and hurls it into the dresser, putting the wooden corner right through the fragile canvas. I jump back involuntarily.
She goes for another. I watch her smash it into the wall again and again until it snaps in half. “Jaselle,” I say it soft, afraid to intervene. She rakes the walls with both arms spread wide, knocking all the hung ones to the ground. She stomps them, kicks, picks them up and throws them. She reaches for one I particularly like, and I have to stop her.
I grab her arms by the elbows from behind. “Jaselle!”
“Get off!” She pulls away, much harder than I expected. I reach for a better grip, but she just keeps fighting. “Fucking piece of shit!” she screams at the painting in her grasp. She launches it across the room. It breaks her lamp. Glass shatters into the air. I finally have a good grip, and I pull her back.
“Stop, baby, stop!”
“Why? It’s all shit, every last one of them! Might as well throw them out now!”
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