Brutal

by Michael Harmon

  He ambled toward me, pale and hairy legs jutting from khaki shorts and a big belly pooching out under an untucked leisure shirt. Four big rings, all gold, decorated hairy knuckled sausages as he held out his hand to me. “Hi. I'm Theo's dad. Or so they say.” He smiled. “Poe, right?”

  I shook his hand, automatically liking him. “Yes. Nice to meet you.”

  He gazed over the spread. “Looks like you two got a head start on things. Get all the good stuff before the troops arrive.” He picked over the food. “Oooooh. Teriyaki meatballs.” He fingered one from the Crock-Pot and popped it in his mouth, chomping away just like Theo. “So,” he said, his mouth full, “how do you like our fair town?”

  “I think it's nice.”

  He looked at Theo. “You haven't begun hanging around normal people, have you, son?”

  Theo rolled his eyes and smiled. “Don't worry, Pops, she's not normal.”

  He eyed me. “I don't know. She sounds awfully normal to me.” He jabbed a finger at me, his eyes twinkling. “You don't breathe fire or suspend yourself upside down at night to sleep, do you?”

  “Sorry.”

  He nodded, raised his eyebrows, then ambled toward the sliding glass door to the back patio, another meatball pinched between his thick fingers. “I'll be damned. My son knowing normal people. Maybe the world isn't coming to an end.”

  Theo laughed. “It is, Dad. And I'm the anti-Christ. But don't worry, I put you on the good minion list with Mom. You'll be taking care of the sulfur pits.”

  He licked his finger. “God knows every father wants his son to be the anti-Christ.” He turned around, walking back to the counter and swiping another meatball. “Man, these things are good. Best thing in the world getting your mother into that class, if I do say so myself.”

  Then Theo's mom clattered into the kitchen. In her late forties, she looked like any soccer mom in the country, highlighted blond hair, fine cheekbones with a bit of age around her eyes, and a slim, toned body. She wore white capris, open-toed heels, a plum blouse, and a white summer jacket. Her gums showed when she smiled, and her voice, high and loud, echoed through the kitchen. “Oh my gosh, Theo, introduce me immediately to this lovely young lady.” She strode forward, and she did have a circus smile. It was huge. She held her hand out, and as Theo introduced us, I shook it.

  I realized I didn't know their last name. Here I was on the verge of dating a guy and I didn't know his last name. “Nice to meet you, ma'am.”

  “My pleasure, Poe. I'm so happy you came.” She looked at me. “I LOVE your top! Where did you get it?”

  “The Salvation Army in Anaheim.”

  It didn't register with her. She turned to Theo's dad. “Honey next time we're down south, we've just got to stop by and get one.” She turned back to me. “Do they stock them regularly?”

  I glanced at Theo, then shook my head. “They're used, ma'am. It just depends on who brings stuff in.”

  She spun, twirled her finger, and opened the refrigerator. “Well, let's just hope then that somebody brings one in.” With that, she brought out a bag of shrimp and replaced the ones Theo had eaten. She pointed to my top. “What do those letters mean?”

  I looked down at my top, which was basically a glorified pink T-shirt with three letters scrawled in fancy, Victorian handwriting across the front. I gave Theo a panicked glance. “FTW? Um—”

  Theo cut in. “Fuck the World.”

  She busied herself with replacing the green rolled things I'd eaten, smiling wider than ever. “Very nice. Very nice. A statement of sorts.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, they'll be here soon. Honey? The patio bar? Make sure there's ice?”

  Theo's dad made a beeline for the sliding door and Theo hopped from his barstool. “Hey, Ma, we're going to my room. If you need us, we'll probably be naked, so knock first.”

  She stacked cocktail glasses on the counter. “Safe sex, Theo. Remember that. We don't want any nasty nasties, now, do we?” I cringed, and she turned to me. “You two have a good time, and make yourself at home, Poe. Come on down and mingle if you'd like. Lots of treats.”

  I nodded, and Theo led me out and up the stairs. He chuckled. “I told you so.”

  “Holy moly”

  “You can say anything and she's unfazed.”

  Up the stairs and to the right, Theo led me down a wide hall, then opened a door. “My kingdom. Welcome.”

  I walked in. Black. All black. The walls were painted black and covered with eighties rock posters, a neon beer sign hung over the windows looking out on the backyard, and it was a mess. Clothes and shoes layered the floor, empty pop cans were scattered over his nightstand, dresser, and windowsill, and papers covered his computer desk. He grabbed a remote and switched on the stereo sitting next to the television. “The Number of the Beast,” by Iron Maiden, piped through the surround sound. I plopped on his bed. “Nice room.”

  “Yeah. I don't allow the housekeeper in. She'd probably steal my stuff.”

  “Your stuff?”

  “Yeah. Mary Jooo Wanna.”

  “I didn't know you smoked.”

  He shrugged. “Not a lot, but sometimes I have to.”

  “You have to?”

  “Mom. She gets crazy sometimes. Like not-joking-around crazy.”

  “Oh.”

  “Wanna toke? I got some good stuff a couple weeks ago.”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Angel girl.”

  “I don't like how it makes me feel. Had a bad trip once, so I stay away.”

  “Fine by me.” He looked out the window to the backyard. “The horde is arriving.”

  I stood, walking to the window. Five or six people dressed like they were related milled around the outside bar. A pool glistened blue in the sun, and a built in hot tub connected to it lay still as a mirror. “Nice.”

  “Come on, I want to show you something.”

  Down the stairs and to the far end of the house we went, and Theo opened a hall door. More stairs down. “What is this?”

  He flicked the light on. “Basement. Where we store the bodies.”

  “Cool.” I followed him down, and after we passed a humidified wine cellar with a glass door on it, he stopped at another door. I looked around. The ceilings were high, the basement deep, and half of it was unfinished. “What?”

  He opened the door. “Come on in. You'll like it.”

  I walked in and stared. Mikes and amps and mixers and a dubbing machine, the whole nine yards. Cords lay strewn across the concrete floor, and a drum set stood in the corner. It was a full-on recording studio. “No way.”

  “Way.”

  I walked further in, checking things out. State of the art. Thousands of dollars. “I didn't know you were into this, Theo.”

  “I'm not. The drum set is mine, but the rest is my mom's.”

  I furrowed my brow.

  “Yeah. Before the cooking thing, it was the music thing.

  She watched the first year of American Idol and decided she wanted to be famous.”

  “Wow.”

  He laughed. “She hasn't used it in two years. A twenty-thousand-dollar recording museum.” He walked over and flipped a switch. The buzz of amps lit my ears, and the mixing board lit up. “You said you were in choir.”

  I stepped toward the microphone. “Yeah.”

  “And you were in a punk band in LA, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  He walked over to the drums, adjusted the mike, and sat down, picking up a pair of sticks and twirling them. “You play guitar?”

  “Some rhythm.”

  He pointed to a case in the corner. “Strap on and plug in, baby. Let's see what you got.”

  I laughed. “Theo …”

  “Go. I want to hear it.” He tapped the cymbal.

  I clicked open the guitar case. A Fender. “How ‘bout we see if you can keep up?”

  He laughed. “How ‘bout.”

  I took a minute to tune, then plug in, plucking and tweaking until I fo
und the sound I wanted. Heavy and distorted. “You can follow?”

  He nodded. “Three years of the best drum instruction money can buy. Go ahead.”

  I did. I ripped out a chord progression, adjusted the tone on the amp, and faced him. “Pick it up after the first progression and we'll ease into it.”

  I began. The song was an original, and as the staccato of the guitar ripped through the room, I felt it rise in me. The power. The song was called “Machine-Gun Love,” and I'd written it myself. Fast, heavy, and totally punked, my fingers flew through the chords. Theo stared at me like I was crazy. I stopped playing. “Something wrong?”

  “Holy shit, Poe. Ease into it? You don't ease into that.”

  I rolled my eyes and smiled. “Would an Elton John song be better?”

  He growled. “Fine. Get into it and I'll pick up. I'm rusty, though, so don't say anything.”

  I started again, my fingers warmed up, and I nailed it head-on, pounding the chords out rapid-fire. It wasn't called “Machine-Gun Love” for nothing. Theo snagged up a couple of times on the bass drum, but he kept up. I smiled as I played, nodding the count for the lyrics, then leaning into the mike and belting out the first lines. The drums stopped again. Silence filled the room as I looked at him. “What now?”

  “What now? God, Poe. You can sing. I mean sing, sing. I've never heard a punk song with a voice. Crap, no wonder you're in choir. You should be the lead soloist.”

  I smiled. “I am.”

  He gaped. “Anna Conrad?”

  I gave him a sly look. “Not anymore.”

  He pursed his lips. “And so the real reason comes out.”

  “What real reason?”

  “Why you joined the choir.”

  I shrugged. “I like singing.”

  “No way. You joined to beat her out. Vengeance is mine, so sayeth the friend of Velveeta.”

  I chuckled. “Maybe, maybe not. You'll never know.”

  “And so the Poe mystery deepens.”

  “Mystery?”

  “Yeah. Half the school is wondering what your deal is.”

  “Then half the school can wonder. Are we going to play or sit here gossiping?”

  He nodded. “I'll pick you up. Go.”

  And so we did. We played for over an hour, cranking the volume up until the door to the studio opened. Theo's dad stood there with several partygoers behind him. Theo smiled. “Too loud, Dad?”

  He walked in, followed by the guests, all of whom had drinks in their hands. “Well, being that we got a call from two counties over, it might be considered loud.”

  “Sorry.”

  He shook his head. “That's not why we're here.” He looked at me. The last song we'd played was an old ballad by Motley Crüe. “We came down to see you.”

  I unslung the guitar. “Me?”

  “You are the person connected to the voice, I assume. Unless my son has been castrated.”

  I don't blush, but I blushed. “I guess so.”

  One of the guests stepped forward, a middle-aged guy in a baby blue polo shirt and white shorts. “Incredible. In credible voice.”

  Theo's dad stepped forward. “Poe, this is my good friend Bill Conrad. His daughter sings.”

  Anna Conrad's father, unless this tiny town had more than one Conrad family. I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Yes.” He paused. “My daughter is the lead soloist for the Elite Choir. Anna. Have you met her?”

  I slid a glance to Theo, then nodded. “Yes. Sort of.”

  Mr. Conrad smiled. “She's actually quite a singer herself. You two should get together sometime. She might show you a trick or two. She's a great girl.”

  “I'm sure she is, sir.”

  He raised an eyebrow to me. “Have you spoken to Mrs. Baird, the choir director? The tryouts are already over, of course, but I'm sure she could make room for such an outstanding voice.” He winked. “I could probably even put in a good word for you. Get you into the main chorus, probably even in the Elite Choir with that voice.” He went on, enchanted with his own voice. “Who trained you?”

  I smiled. “Sid.”

  He took a sip of his drink. “Sid? Do I know him? I'm pretty familiar with most of the top vocal trainers in the state, and I know you're from Los Angeles. Is he based out of that area?”

  “He's dead.”

  He furrowed his brow, confused.

  “Drug overdose.”

  “Sid who?”

  “Vicious.”

  Theo grinned conspiratorially, but Mr. Conrad went on, scratching his head. “Sid Vicious.” He waggled his finger. “You know, I think I've heard that name. Yes. I didn't know he'd died. He was very well known, wasn't he?”

  I nodded. “Sort of. At least in some circles.”

  He smiled sadly. “Well, my condolences. If you've a need for a new trainer, Anna can give you her teacher's number and I'll put in a word for you.”

  “Thanks, but I think I'm fine.”

  After they'd gone, Theo and I stared at each other, then busted up laughing. He set his sticks down. “You never know, Poe. He might have heard of Sid Vicious. The Sex Pistols were pretty popular with the upper-crust-attorney demographic back in the seventies.”

  I laughed. “Maybe.”

  “You are a heartless person. That poor man is going to drop Sid Vicious's name every chance he gets. You know that, don't you?”

  “I don't like name-droppers, and besides, it's not my problem. He did teach me to sing. At least punk. I listened to them for like a zillion hours the first time I got a Pistols CD.”

  He walked around the drum set, and by the look in his eyes, I knew what he was going to do. I stood there with the guitar in my hand and watched him. He stopped in front of me, sighing. “If you're going to kiss me right now, you've got to know that I will not be a groupie. I'm not a rag doll to play with and discard once you're done having your fun.”

  I smiled. “Me, kiss you?”

  “Yeah, like this.” He leaned forward, and his lips were on mine. A second later, he withdrew. I licked my lips, the touch of him still on me.

  “That was a lame kiss, groupie. I expect more from my fans.” Then I leaned forward, and we were blissfully sucking face with a Fender Stratocaster between us. If there was a heaven, I was in it. His hands went to my hips and he moved closer, his fingers roaming up my waist. Too high. I backed away. “Whoa. Slow down there, cowboy. I'm not a slut.”

  He sighed. “Dang, I was hoping you were. I go after all the sluts.”

  “Ha ha. I don't even know your last name.”

  “Dorr.”

  I stared at him. “Dorr? You're kidding, right?”

  “No. You met my mom.”

  “Yeah, but Theo Dorr?”

  He nodded. “She thought it would be cute to subject me to never ending ridicule and humiliation.”

  I laughed. “Theo Dorr. Is your full name Theodore Dorr?”

  “No, just Theo. Theo Dorr at your service. And if you don't stop making fun of me, I'll play Yellow Pages man again. Let my fingers do the walking.”

  “And I'll play bust your head open with this guitar.”

  He shrugged, glancing at my boobs. “They're nice.”

  I played the first few chords of “Love Stinks,” and he got the picture. I sat on a stool. “So, what's going to happen with this whole Anna thing? Her dad obviously doesn't know what's going on, and practice is Monday morning.”

  “Couldn't tell ya. Anna's not that bad, though.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, even though she writes love letters to dorks so they get harassed and abused by her buddies.”

  He looked away. “I've known her ever since she was in first grade.”

  I stared at him. “Don't even tell me …”

  “Oh God, here it comes.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Yes, I was infatuated with her all through junior high.”

  I laughed. “You and her? Oh my God, Theo.”

  “Hey, she is hot, and b
efore she got a stick wedged up her ass, she was nice. You've got to understand that there is a mentality around here. Even if I'm on the outside, all the townies stick together.”

  I rolled my eyes again. “And so the tribe has spoken. Is this going to cause a problem with her?”

  “This?”

  “Us.”

  “We're an us?”

  “Well, you did just kiss me, and I don't kiss boys unless I'm dating them.”

  He smiled. “No problem. She hasn't spoken a word to me in two years.”

  “Did you date?”

  “Not even. I don't rise to the social caliber she needs to maintain her reputation.”

  “Oh, a bitter love, then.”

  “A little bit, but nothing I can't handle. And I wouldn't call it love anyway. I just wanted to have sex with her because she was the first seventh grader to get boobs.”

  I smirked. “Typical male.”

  He smiled. “Totally, and thank you very much. I pride myself on liking boobs.”

  “So I'm dating a male chauvinist pig. Great.”

  “No, you're dating a guy who likes boobs. I can't help it, and besides that, I don't think you'd like to date a guy who liked penises.”

  I laughed. “True enough.”

  “Actually, you're my first, uh, significant other unless you count Kathy Bean in second grade.”

  “Really? She was your first girl, huh?”

  “Yeah. She didn't like Tater Tots and I did, so she let me have hers.”

  “Romantic.”

  “I thought it was grounds for dating. Still do, as a matter of fact.”

  “Well, you can have my Tater Tots.”

  He shrugged. “I already tried.”

  “Not those, jerk.”

  He laughed. “Sorry. The opportunity arose.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A sprinkle of rain misted my head and shoulders Monday morning as I walked to school early. Choir practice. The big announcement. Vengeance on Anna Conrad dissolved as I walked, replaced with nervous anticipation. I hate the unknown, and just as Anna left my mind, the thought of walking into that room entered, leaving me feeling like a little girl on her way to the first day of kindergarten. I hoped Mrs. Baird would keep it low-key No gala cele bration for the new kid on the block, but a quick and easy slide in.