How Far We Go and How Fast

by Nora Decter

  The sign declaring Cover says it’s five bucks, ten if you want a tape too. For a moment I worry door girl might be checking ID, but she just says “Hey” in a deeply disinterested manner and then searches the list for my name when I say I think I’m on it. “Jo or Jolene. I don’t think he knows my last name.”

  She runs a finger down the page. My pulse mounts as she doesn’t find me, doesn’t find me, and I’m fumbling in my pockets for some cash when she says, “Jo Tucker?”

  I nod. She gives me a blue stamp on the back of my hand. I touch it, and it smears into a bruise.

  The bands haven’t started, and I still don’t see anyone, so I take a lap of the room. It’s pretty packed, but I remember Ivy’s approach and find a break in the crowd and then force my way through it, applying my elbows to the sides of strangers until they move. At first I expect retaliation, but they just look at me, go blank and turn back to their talk.

  My pulse has been quickening with every moment that has passed without my finding someone, but now it slows. No one notices how alone I am.

  I make it to the foot of the stage, and on it is Graham, working to untangle a knot from a cord. My hand rises to say hello, but then I drop it. I need a drink, need to find a mirror. Then I can be seen.

  I ask the bartender for a beer and a shot, and my voice saying those words reminds me of Maggie’s, which would be disturbing if I wasn’t already kind of disturbed. Tina told me how to get served at bars while I’m still underage. Said it’s all about what you order and how you order it. But people have always tended to assume I’m older because of my height, and the bartender barely glances at me. I lean against the bar and smile so I don’t scare anyone, sip my shot, down my beer and wait to be drunk.

  While I’m waiting, I look at the girls. I hold myself up against them to see if I’m doing it right. I see torn stockings and hot-iron curls, shirts falling off shoulders just so. I see a silver ring piercing the swell of a lip, and I see through a lace dress to the tattoos below. But I also see the effort that went into them. I see how close they got to the mirror to put their mascara on. How they stood back to assess themselves and decided they were hot shit or pretty all right or good enough before they let themselves leave the house, and maybe it’s the whiskey, but I’m moved. I want to tell them they’re beautiful and I appreciate the effort. It just makes me sad because I can’t try. I did tonight, sort of, in my way, but my way’s not right. I want to wear my clothes as Ivy does. As if she put them on a year ago and then forgot about them. As if she couldn’t take them off if she tried. I don’t even know what I look like. I’m not like Maggie and Char, with all their iridescence and adornments. And I’m not like the girls here, with their careful nonchalance. When I’m not in front of a reflective surface it’s like I disappear. I can’t recall what I look like. I mean, I can see a vague outline of my body, but no details. Nothing stands out in relief.

  The band begins to play. Just the drums, beating, and then the bass, a rising, falling rhythm that relaxes somewhere in me—my spleen maybe. My hand takes the beer off the bar and my feet take me into the crowd, elbows aggressive now, hips turning side to side until I’m a few bodies back from the stage.

  The crowd has a climate of its own. It’s warmer in here by degrees, and you can feel the music on your skin, a sonic buzz. Against the bones of the song the guitars are a washed-out wall of sound, played by a girl and a guy, but she’s at the center and plays and sings more. She sounds angry and underwater, and it’s her I want to be. Not Ivy, not those other girls. The one onstage. I want to do what she does. I want to be the one who makes noise.

  Pictures are being projected from somewhere behind me, dappling every face with color. No use looking for anyone anymore. I let the music loosen me.

  A few songs later I still feel like magic, but I also feel like my bladder is uncomfortably full. En route to the bathroom I realize I’m drunk. My flesh feels different on my skull, as if it suddenly doesn’t fit right. I’m sort of slack-jawed and hot-cheeked, like all the blood has gone there and left the rest of me empty. In short, I feel amazing.

  The bathroom door won’t open, so I throw my shoulder at it until it does. Girls stand at the sinks, pretending not to stare at themselves in the mirrors. I wait in a stall until I hear them leave, then wash my hands and take myself in.

  I look weird and long and cavern-eyed. I look soft and dumb and over-styled. I run the tap, catch some water in my hands and rake my fingers through my hair until I feel better, until my effort from earlier is undone.

  During the rest of the set I stand at the back of the bar and watch the soundman. He’s sitting behind the soundboard with his back to me, and I think it’s Graham but don’t trust my eyes in this shifting light. So I just stand there behind him like a weirdo. I’ve never seen a soundboard up close. He adjusts a fader, and I try to hear what he hears, but before I can he turns and sees me.

  I sit down in the chair he offers me through pantomime. The band has gotten loud now, and they play so hard they’re glistening, and no one takes their eyes off of them except for me and Graham.

  It’s too loud to talk, but we try, taking turns putting our faces close and hollering. His lips are right next to my ear. I feel his breath, smell his beer, and I don’t know what he’s saying, but I know it’s a question. I mime deafness, and we both shrug. It’s too loud to try. So we sit next to each other and watch the band, and when I finish my beer he gets me another, and while he’s getting it I reach over and turn up what I think is the reverb, to see how it sounds.

  The first band finishes playing, and Graham goes to help the second band set up. Eventually I go get the next round, because he got the last. Then I wait behind the soundboard, trying not to stare at Graham, but it’s hard when I have no one to talk to and nothing to do. Plus, I like the way his hair falls into his eyes when he bends over to plug in some gear, and how when he straightens up, he moves it out of the way to look across the room toward me. I think toward me.

  He sits back down beside me when he’s done. With only the house music playing, we can almost understand each other. “What happened to your hair?” he asks, touching it.

  I tense. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s all wet.”

  “Right,” I shout. “I took a bit of a sink bath before.”

  His laughter is delighted, and I am irritated/confused/ flattered by this response. I wonder what other weird, true, unimportant thing I could say to make him laugh. I try a few.

  The second band is assembling onstage when a hand clamps down on my shoulder—bony fingers that squeeze hard. Ivy is here. “You’ll never guess what happened,” she yells, but the rest gets drowned in music as the band starts, and she motions for me to follow her. I glance at Graham and then go after her. She gets us real close to the band and then stops and gazes up at the players. I realize she is one of those people who needs to touch everything, even, or especially, fire.

  This band is the one Graham recorded. The lead singer is a sickly-looking guy, all angles, like he just had a growth spurt and hasn’t filled out yet. But his voice is deep, and he sort of sing-speaks the lyrics with great authority. There’s something anxious and neurotic about the guitars, and they grip me, reach into my chest and take my heart in their hands, squeezing the blood out. Ivy starts to dance, and then I do, mimicking her movements at first and then inventing my own as all around us motion spreads through the crowd, until no one is left standing still.

  After the bands play, it gets a bit vague. People I don’t know talk to me as if I do. I manage to perform cash transactions at the bar, and eventually we go outside to stand around and wait while the bands pack up their gear and get paid. My limbs are tired and good from dancing, and I know it’s cold, but I can’t feel it.

  Graham comes out carrying an amp, and I grab the door for him.

  “Thanks.” He sets it down at the curb and reaches for his cigarettes.

  “After-party?” Ivy hops around in front of me, p
ossibly because she’s only wearing her fur-lined jean jacket again and it’s not at all weather appropriate.

  “Good idea,” Graham says. “Our place?”

  Drew’s eyebrows raise. “If you say so, boss.”

  Off we go, everyone, all together, the people from the bands and the tattooed girl and the one who worked the door. A whole pack of us headed to Drew and Graham’s place over by the river.

  When we get there, I stand around in the kitchen, wondering if I should take my boots off. No one else has, but they’re tracking slush and sand in from the road. I’m surprised to find myself involved in a conversation with a girl wearing a giant tie-dyed T-shirt and a boy with a droopy puppy face. I have no idea what they’re talking about, but I lean against the counter for greater nonchalance and nod along.

  Through the kitchen door I can see Graham at the stereo, back to me, and I cross the room without too much trouble.

  “Any requests?” he says.

  “I dunno. Something funky but groovy?”

  “Funky but groovy, huh?” He begins to search the records for something that might fit that description.

  “Oh no, not actually. That’s just an inside joke between me and…someone who isn’t here. Sorry—it’s stupid.”

  “No,” he says. “I like inside jokes I’m outside of.”

  “Me too. I’d much rather infer things.”

  “Oh yeah, inferring’s the best.”

  “Wow,” I say, and then I say it again as I turn my attention away from him and to the records. The whole wall is stacked with milk crates filled with records, more records than I’ve ever seen. “Are these all yours?”

  “This half is,” he says, indicating the side we’re standing in front of. The record player and its various components are on a table in the middle, and the crates continue on the other side. “Those are Drew’s. We thought about merging our collections, but it would get complicated if we ever broke up.”

  “How are they organized?”

  “Roughly by genre. But really rough. Pick something.”

  “All right,” I say, surveying the extensive options for a place to start. “This is a lot of pressure. I wanna hear everything.”

  “Well then,” he says, “Pick twenty. We’ve got all night.”

  I look at the floor and it looks pretty good, so I figure fuck it and sit down on the floor to get a better look at the albums. Also, it cuts down on my swaying. I see Ivy across the room, and we have a conversation using only our facial expressions. She gives me one that says, You all right? and I give her one back that says, What could possibly be wrong? and then we crack open and laugh.

  Graham sits down beside me. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good.”

  All night we’ve been doing this thing. This thing where we say one thing with our words but with our eyes we’re saying another, and I don’t know what it is, but it’s significant.

  “So was it a boyfriend?” he asks.

  “Huh?” I’m running my finger along the spines to help keep track, pulling out albums that catch my eye.

  “The funky but groovy thing. Was it an inside joke with an ex?”

  He’s the headlights, I am the deer. I can feel the panic on my face, and I try to rearrange it. “No,” I say carefully. Not too fast—not so fast it’s obvious I’ve never had an ex. “Me and my brother. It was this dumb thing I’d say whenever he asked what I wanted to listen to. We weren’t actually into music that was funky or groovy, but my mom had this Australian boyfriend once, and he’d always say that…” I trail off. “He’s the one that got me into music. My brother. He left me all his records and his guitars.”

  “Cool,” he says. “I’d love to see them sometime.”

  “Um. Totally. Hey, what’s this band like?” I point at random.

  “The Beatles?”

  “Right.” I shrug. “I grew up in more of a Clash household.”

  He laughs. “That’s awesome.”

  “Oh, don’t actually put it on,” I say, mortified because he’s pulled out The White Album and is taking one of the records out of its sleeve. “What about this one?” I ask, grabbing an album I’d set aside and getting to my feet.

  “Pavement? Good pick. Go for it.”

  He lifts the needle and the turntable stops turning, and he takes the old record off. I slip the new one out of its sleeve and put it on, and he lines the arm up with the grooves and I let it drop, and we do this together, without speaking, until the silence goes on so long that I burst out, “Thanks for letting me hijack the DJ position!”

  “No problem,” he says. “I like how you live for music.”

  I sense it’s time to stop. I can feel the spins right around the corner, but suddenly it’s like I’ve stumbled into a bad romantic comedy and I’m just drunkenly reciting lines. “No, not for it. I live off of music.”

  “Even better.” He brushes my hair out of my face, where I like to keep it.

  I put down my beer and ask him for water. While he’s gone to get it, I talk to my cells. Come on, cells. Metabolize the alcohol. You can do it. Try.

  Hey, look, there’s Ivy on the couch. I swim across the room to her like she’s a life raft, and she scoots over so I can sit. I try to think of something to say so that when Graham gets back we can all talk together and it’s not just him and me and whatever that means. “Hey, so how did you start doing your graffiti thing? Is it graffiti—do you call it that?”

  Graham returns with a glass of water and sits down next to me. I can act normal. I am. I just have to try.

  We are less drunk now. We’ve reached peak drunk and are on the decline. People are leaving. I wonder if I should too, but then he says, “You can stay here if you want. On the couch. It’s comfy.”

  I open my mouth but don’t know what to say because I don’t know what I want.

  “Stay,” he says. “I don’t want you walking home this late.”

  So I say okay because it’s easy, and we sit on the couch, the couch that I will sleep on. Drew goes to bed, and everyone else is gone. Graham puts a movie on, and I’m having trouble with my eyes. They won’t stay open. They have to close.

  TWENTY

  I sleep until I can’t not wake up. The room is bright, and I’m the only one. I start remembering things, then something stirs, and there is the boy. His eyes red, and bags under them. He steps in front of the window and darkens the light. Bends down and kisses me a kiss that’s like a pillow to my face. Blots me out, erases me. I try not to let him taste my mouth even though it’s open, because it’s morning and I haven’t brushed. He touches my face when he stops. Looks at me. “Let’s get breakfast.”

  I drag body to bathroom. Cold water on face. No shower because of what it would do to my hair. Someone thinks I’m pretty, and I need to keep it that way. That means no water on the hair, and I can’t wear my hat, or if I do I have to keep it on, commit to it. That’s what I’ll do. Put on my hat and let it hug my head. Then wipe off the makeup from underneath my eyes and put fresh lines along the lashes. Slap some color into my cheeks, and I look all right. I look as good as I’m gonna get.

  We walk to the breakfast place without speaking, but it’s so cold it feels natural, not talking, and then we’re slipping into a booth and out of our jackets. There are menus on the table. I consider the shiny omelets, and the lamination makes me feel sick. The waitress comes, and I point at one and try to look alive. Now we’ll talk, I think, but we don’t. We don’t talk when the coffee comes or as we peel the lids off the cream and tear open packets of sugar or when the eggs arrive and I shake the ketchup bottle until it loosens and floods my plate. When the bill comes I reach for it and he says no, and I let him pay with his debit card even though I have cash. “Thanks,” I say as we put our layers back on.

  “I like your hat,” he says, and I think beneath his scarf he smiles.

  I go straight from him to school. Why? I dunno. I dig suffering, I guess. Sure enough, Gr
oves takes me aside after class and tells me Vice-Principal Lambert wants a meeting.

  “Oh goody,” I say.

  “They called your house.”

  “Cool. I’ll look into it.”

  “Did you do your homework?”

  “Uhhh…jog my memory?”

  “The list.”

  “Right.” The list of reasons I’m an awful person. “No. I’ll get it to you tomorrow. Shouldn’t take long.”

  “I’m trying to help you, Jo.”

  “I know,” I say, backing out of the room. That’s the problem.

  I stay on through lunch and bio and math. I even go to gym. I’m woozy, but we’re just knocking volleyballs around, and I tend to be all right at that. The gym teachers always look at me with hungry eyes because of my height. But none of that can touch me. I hold last night to my chest, close, for comfort. I run through it in my mind and then I run through it again. The way I felt in the crowd, watching that band. The way the sound soothed me. Wandering from one place to another in a pack, like I belonged. Math class can’t touch me, and bio can’t touch me, and nothing can. I remember the way he leaned in, and then the kiss. I feel bigger and smaller than I’ve ever felt. I feel a hundred things I can’t find words for. I feel totally unlike myself.

  After school I don’t want to go home. Everything I don’t want to face lives there. But Howl’s there too, and I’m tired and I smell bad and I should check to see if Benny’s called about shifts. All the melted snow has turned to ice, and I drag my feet across the streets, skating home, hoping no one’s there.

  But I have no such luck. Maggie and Char and Louie are in the living room when I walk in. He’s still here. That’s got to be a record. I grab Howl and try to slip out again, but Maggie comes into the hall.