by Kim Holden
It’s the same photo I have on my phone, cropped to show just his face. It shows up every time he calls. The one in the frame includes both of us. We’re laughing. I’m standing up straight with my head thrown back and he’s doubled over, his long hair hanging over one eye. His other eye is looking into the camera with an expression of joy and mischief, calm and wild abandon. It’s classic Gus. Our friend, Franco, took this photo a year ago when we were all at the beach. “Yeah, he’s got great eyes.” They’re so dark brown, they’re almost black. They sparkle.
She glances at the photo of Grace like an afterthought. “Who’s she?”
“My sister.” I linger on Grace’s face. I took this photo one evening this past April when we went down to the beach to watch the sunset. Grace is posed in front of a blazing orange sunset. It’s washed across the horizon and dancing on the water like fire. But it pales in comparison to the smile on her face. It lights up the photo. It’s the same smile she wore every day. It’s the same smile that made everything better. It’s the same smile that was tangible proof I was surrounded by goodness. It’s the same smile that made me feel like the luckiest person in the world to have her as a sister. That smile, this photo, it’s everything that’s pure and honest in this world.
“Well, I’m outta here. I’ve got people to see and places to go.” She grabs her bag.
She’s wearing very tiny white shorts and a white tank top with no bra. I’m all for letting the girls run free every now and then, but you can clearly see her darkened nipples through the thin white material. What if she just forgot her bra? I can’t let her go out without saying something. “Um, Sugar.” I gesture to my own chest trying to be subtle.
She looks down at her gigantic and unbelievably perky boobs. Those can’t be real, can they? “What?”
“Not sure what you’re going for, but you do know that the twins are on full display, right?”
She shrugs. “Yeah.”
I throw her a thumbs up. “Okay, you’re all good then sister. See ya.”
I decide today is the day that Clayton must be introduced to Grounds. I open the door gently this time and damn if the bell isn’t thunderous again. The laws of physics have been proven false; the amount of force exerted on the door cannot be equal to the volume forced from that fucking bell. The beast cannot be tamed. Romero is here again and remembers my name, first and last. I introduce him to Clayton and Clayton orders a mocha macchiato with soy and light whipped cream. He looks on the verge of ecstasy the entire time he’s drinking it. Can you climax from drinking a cup of coffee? You’d think I’d know the answer to that. Clayton’s been rendered speechless. My black coffee is epic again too, but obviously not climactic. Maybe that’s what’s so great about putting all the extra shit in it.
Clayton and I spend the afternoon listening to music in his room. Clayton’s strictly into dance, dub step, and house, which I’m all about. We dance our asses off like two thirteen-year-old girls. I love to dance. Gus and I went dancing a lot. There were always bonfires at the beach that turned into dance parties. Grace always loved the music so I would bring her along. Or sometimes Audrey would take Grace for the night and Gus and I would go to a club where he knew the bouncer who’d let us in even though we were both underage at the time. Gus is amazing on the dance floor. After having sex with him, one pretty much explains the other. Let’s just say he’s very comfortable with his body and knows it damn well.
Pete walked in on the dance party, turned beet red, did a one-eighty, and left again. Guess he didn’t have any moves to bring to the floor. We’ll have to work on that. Clay is good, though. You know when you go to a club and there’s one person that everyone watches? They make it look easy? That’s Clayton. I’m impressed.
I’m sweaty when I leave to head back to my room around 6:00. “Clayton, you can tear up the dance floor my friend. We need to find a club that has a 21 and under night sometime.”
His smile is pure elation and he claps his hands so fast they look like hummingbird wings. “Oh Katherine, that would be fabulous. I’ve never been to a real club before.”
That surprises me. “Really? Where’d you learn those moves, boy?”
He blushes, then asks, “Do you think there are any gay clubs in Minneapolis?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
His blush deepens. “Katherine, would you, I mean if I can find one that we can get into, would you go with me? I don’t have anyone else to ask.”
I give Clay’s shoulder a little squeeze. “Absolutely. Just let me know when.”
He smiles so wide it almost takes over his entire face and throws his arms around my neck. “Thank you.”
I pat his back, gently trying to prompt some release from his death grip. “No problem.”
After I hit the shower I arrive back to an empty dorm room and decide it’s time to try out Skype again. I text him and by some stroke of luck, Gus is available. Rook is back in L.A. again. They recorded the entire month of July and they’ve been summoned back to approve album artwork and prepare for their tour, which is tentatively scheduled to kick off at the end of September. After the release of the album, the label is hoping to get some immediate radio play to hype them up and encourage a successful tour. Sounds easy, right? It’s going to be a stressful month, and if there’s one thing that makes Gus crazy, it’s stress. I’m already worried about him.
A warm rush of crazy happiness floods through my veins when I see his goofy smile light up my laptop screen. “Long time no talk Bright Side. What up?”
“Hey Gus. You first, how’s it going in L.A.?” Even though we text each other a few times every day, I always want to catch up on details.
“Dude, it’s been fucking exhausting.” Looking closer, I can see dark shadows under his eyes.
“Yeah, you look like hell. When’s the last time you slept?”
He yawns and thinks for a moment. “Thursday night was the last full night’s sleep I got.” The band got the call early Friday morning that they needed to be in L.A. by noon. So they packed up their cars and Gus’s pickup, and headed out. They’ve been in the studio since Friday afternoon working with their producer, going over the final cuts of all the songs. (Well, at least what used to be the final cuts.) This is the first they’ve seen daylight since.
“Dude, you need to get some rest, like ASAP.”
“This from Mother Trucker who drives halfway across the US of A without sleep?” He raises an eyebrow. “I’m a big boy, Bright Side, I’ll manage. I do feel spent, though.”
“I bet. So is everything wrapped up with MFDM?” The first time they met their producer in July he introduced himself as the Dream Maker. Gus ran with it and after calling him DM for about a week he christened him the Motherfucking Dream Maker. The dude was thrilled; Gus has had him wrapped around his little finger ever since.
“Yeah. We finally finished about a half hour ago. I mean I’m proud of it, but damn, these past few days have been brutal. Choosing the songs is like lining up your kids in front of a fucking firing squad. We all have a say, but MFDM makes the final call.” He runs his fingers through his hair and pulls it back into a ponytail. He’s frustrated. Five, four, three, two, one. “I need a smoke. Hold on.” He picks up his laptop and starts walking, making the image on the screen jump and jiggle like a bad home movie.
“Dude, you’re making me seasick.”
“Sorry Bright Side, I need to go out on the balcony to smoke.”
The laptop comes to rest on a solid surface and he’s fishing through his pocket for his lighter, cigarette already between his lips.
“You should quit.”
He smiles, cigarette held firmly between his teeth. “This is not the week I quit, or the month, or probably even the year with the way things are going, so don’t start.” He cups his left hand around the end of his cigarette and lights it. It flares to life and he inhales like it’s his last breath. After all of the smoke is exhaled he closes his eyes and slumps back against his chair.
“Better?”
He nods, eyes still closed, and takes another long drag.
“So are you happy with the way the songs turned out?” I ask nervously.
He smiles sleepily, eyes still closed. “I’m happy.” He means it.
I still don’t know what songs made the cut and are going to be on the album. They recorded fifteen, but only eleven survived to thrive. Gus has insisted on secrecy up to this point. I think he’s afraid he’ll jinx it if he talks about it too much. Like he’ll wake up and find out it was all a dream. “So what made the cut? Can you tell me now?”
His eyes open and he smiles the smile that means he’s really happy, like deep down in the pit of his stomach happy. “‘Missing You’.”
I’m floored. “No shit?”
He’s still smiling. “No shit. I didn’t want to say anything earlier in case the song didn’t work out, but when you were in the studio with us in July MFDM went fucking bananas over you. He thought the violin was genius, because it is.”
“Wow, that’s … I don’t know what to say … that’s … amazing.” I think back to July, recalling the experience in the studio. “He didn’t act too jacked up about it while we were playing. I thought he was just yanking my chain when he said he liked it.” I’m shocked. Gus wrote the song and told me it was a gift from me to Grace. It’s one of the only ballads he’s ever written. He wrote a part for violin and insisted I play on the song. I came out of retirement only for Grace. I went into the studio with the band and played, expecting it to end up on the cutting room floor somewhere. Which would have been fine, because simply playing in a studio was something I’ll never forget. Another night, after everyone else had gone home, Gus coaxed me into singing with him just for fun on another song “Killing the Sun.” This song is kind of their anthem at shows. Everyone sings along. It gives me chills every time I watch them perform it live. We sang it together, and once I even sang it alone. I’m not trained like Gus but I like to sing and I can carry a tune. We sing two-part harmonies pretty well. It was fun. He recorded and downloaded both songs for me, so I can say I had my rock star moment.
“Yeah, he was trying to play it cool in front of you, but the next day when we all listened to it again he went ape shit. So thanks, you know, for being some kind of virtuoso.” He winks as he stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray that’s already overflowing. “Enough about the album, I don’t want to talk about it right now. I want to hear the dish on what’s happening in the mighty metropolis of Grant. Fill me in.” He scoots his chair closer to the table.
“Okay, let’s see, I’ll make this short and sweet. I made two new friends, Clay and Pete. They live across the hall. My roommate Sugar—”
Gus interrupts. “Wait, hold up, your roommate’s name is Sugar? As in nature’s delicious sweetener?”
I nod. “Sugar Starr LaRue.”
He throws his head back in laughter. “Oh shit, that’s classic … What the fuck were her parents smoking?” He leans forward toward the screen. “Bright Side, tell me she’s a stripper or … or an escort or something?” His eyes look bright and curious.
I clap my hands together and laugh. “That’s what I said!” I shake my head, serious again. “She’s not.”
“Dude, that would’ve been fucking righteous. You know you just got robbed of some killer stories?”
“I know. I’m kind of sad about it myself. I still may end up with some good stories though, because she is built for the profession and this morning she left for the day wearing a see-through white tank top sans bra.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Damn, what’s your address again? I may have to come for a visit sooner than later.”
“Perv.”
He shrugs. “Guilty. I’m a guy, it’s embedded. So, what else? What about these two guys across the hall?”
“Clayton and Peter?”
“Yeah. What are they like? Do I need to be worried about your virtue?”
I roll my eyes. “Dude, you know that ship sailed years ago. But, um yeah, there’s a better chance of hell freezing over than me getting it on with either of them.”
“Why do you say that?” he says, looking almost hopeful.
“Well, Clay and I play for the same team, and I think Pete is one of those people who will either be a forty-year-old virgin or he’s kinky as hell and into some weird shit but uses his super uptight persona as a front so no one suspects it. Any way you slice it, I’m out.”
Gus nods and smiles. “If I were a betting man, and you know I am, I’m gonna say Pete’s a role-playing sex addict that gets off on S&M. Possibly bondage. Do you think he’s the dom or the sub?”
I cover my ears and shake my head. “Eww, you know I’m going to picture Pete wearing only leather chaps and holding a riding crop every time I eat lunch with him now, right?”
He smiles wide. “You’re welcome.”
I stick out my tongue at him. “Bastard.”
“Yup. So your roommate’s a clandestine stripper in training and you’ve been hanging out with gay men and gimps. I had no idea Minnesota was so progressive. That’s an impressive mix. Maybe I should’ve gone to school. What else? Tell me. Tell me.” He motioning his hands like bring it on.
I think for a moment. “I saw Maddie yesterday.”
“Dude, don’t tell me … she got her food groups mixed up again and you found yourself on the wrong end of the food pyramid. Second round of meat shits this week?”
“No, but food was involved. To tell you truth, I’m a little freaked out.”
“Freaked out? What happened?”
“Dude, she’s bulimic.”
His voice softens. “What?”
“Yeah. We went to breakfast. She ate like a champion and then ten minutes later she’s tossing it.”
“Dude.”
“I know. So, I walk in on her yodeling her breakfast. I confront her. She brushes me off. I appeal. She gets pissed. It was awful. I don’t know what to do.”
“Wow. She’s pissed huh?”
“Yeah, she totally deflected the intervention and asked me to leave.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“She’s pissed. I’m going to let her cool off and then I’m going to try to talk to her again.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks, I need it.”
It’s quiet for a few moments before Gus changes the subject. “Bright Side, do you have enough money, you know, for everything you need with school and food and—”
I interrupt. “I have a job.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me,” I insist, even though I’m not sure it’s true. I don’t know what I’m in for during these next few months. My small savings may not last. I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.
He huffs. “It’s my job to worry about you. Do you need money? We got an advance on the album. I can send you whatever you need.”
I smile. “Damn, what did I do to deserve you? Thanks but no, I don’t need any money.”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
I shrug. “Probably not. I can handle it.”
“Damn it, Bright Side. If you need anything you call me okay? I can afford it now. I know you and Grace had it pretty rough … God I wished I’d known at the time. I guess I always thought your mom was loaded. I still feel bad about that. So let me make up for it now. Let me help.”
“You know how you can help me?”
His pained expression relaxes. “How?”
“You can wake up tomorrow morning, and the morning after that, and the morning after that, and work your ass off to make sure this album and tour are epic.”
He smiles.
“You’re new motto is this: do epic.”
He laughs. “I can’t do epic. It’s an adjective. I can be epic.”
“Look at you Mr. Smarty Pants. You, my friend, can both be and do.”
He g
rins, and looks down with an embarrassed huff. “If you say so. That’s a lot of pressure.”
“I’m serious; you’d better blow my fucking mind.”
“You’re pushy tonight.” He raises an eyebrow. “I like it. It’s kinda hot.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. That’s the sleep deprivation talking. Go get some sleep, Rock God.”
“Yeah, I should probably do that.” He yawns. “Good luck with your first day of school tomorrow.”
I throw my fist in the air. “I’m gonna live the motherfucking Grant College Experience!”
“That’s the spirit.” He laughs but he looks a little confused like he’s missed something.
I shrug. “I guess you had to be there.”
“Apparently.” He chuckles sleepily.
“Do epic.”
“Do epic,” he repeats.
“I love you, Gus.”
“Love you, too, Bright Side.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
Monday, August 29
(Kate)
The first day of classes is outstanding. I know I made fun of The Grant College Experience, but I had goose bumps all day. I was living it. I walked around campus with the dopiest smile pasted across my face. For so long I’ve dreamed about going to college, a real college. I never thought it would happen, but here I am. I literally crossed it off my bucket list this afternoon. My list isn’t in any particular order, but “Go to college” was number five. I figure now is a good time to remind God that I’m happy with the way things are going. Happy Monday, God. So, I just wanted to say thanks, you know, for Grant. It’s a gift. Peace out.
Shelly is in full-blown flower-arranging mode when I arrive at Three Petunias at 2:30pm, but she stops long enough to ask, “Where’s your iPod? I brought my dock today. Let’s see if you’ve got anything good.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Take it however you want.” It’s a challenge all right. And suddenly I feel the need to defend my music’s honor. I fish my iPod out of my bag, hook it up, and put it on shuffle.
The first song that plays is Mozart. Shelly pushes the button to advance to the next song and looks at me almost apologetically. “I play that stuff all day long. I love it, but I need to listen to something else when I’m at work.”