As I begin to unfold it, I’m scared I might tear the thing. Soon three lists stare back at me, several spaces between them:
Wish List for the Future, by Damien Henry Randall. Age 14:
1. Be in a band with Az and Nate.
2. Astrophysicist
3. Astronaut
4. Beat Az in a sparring match
5. Kiss Jenny. R.
Wish List for the Future, Nathaniel Heathcliff Blake, 16:
1. Be in a band with Az and Damien.
2. Play piano with a symphony orchestra.
3. Buy a house by twenty-one and move the hell out.
4. Get a scholarship and a job in order to obtain funds for said house.
5. Never get married. Never have children.
Never get married? That’s sounds pretty much how Nathaniel spoke on the bridge. He really doesn’t trust women. No wonder he never settles down. As for the house, the scholarship and the job he sounded so desperate, as if he had no one.
What had happened to make him so jaded by sixteen?
I run my finger over the list, wishing it would reveal more. I can’t begin to imagine the young Nathaniel writing it, but I feel his sadness in every word. Even his piano wish seems tainted now that I know he was never really allowed to play.
A sudden urge to see Nathaniel comes over me. I think of today, of us standing in the shadows … Is he covered in bruises from Aaron’s fists?
“What do you think?” Aaron asks.
“Um.” I smile distractedly and peek across at him. He’s watching me with interest, and I know he’s counting on my answer. “Good, so far. Still one list to go.”
He frowns slightly, and I wonder if he knows how long I’ve stared at Nathaniel’s list. I smile brighter and make a point of smoothing out the paper, deciding it might lift the mood if I read it aloud:
Wish List for the Future, by Aaron Jack Randall, age 16.
1. Be a singer/guitarist in an international rock band.
2. Be in a band with Damien and Nate.
3. Work for MI6
4. Make corporeal in Special Boating Service by age 27.
5. Marry dream girl, whoever she is.”
I don’t mean to, but I laugh at his list.
Wiping his eyes, Aaron starts to smile. “You like our lists, Evangeline?”
“I do. Those are some pretty grand wishes. You didn’t think small, did you?”
“Never.”
“So how many of these have come true?” I ask, tracing my finger over the numbers.
“Since meeting you, I think I’ll be able to tick off number one now that we’re officially in a music contest. If that’s as far as my music career goes, I’d say it’s a pretty fair attempt. As for numbers two, three, and four, they’re all ticks.”
“Really?” I say, not hiding my shock. “You’ve done all that?”
He nods.
I wince. “All I’ve managed to accomplish is seven years in a coffee shop.”
He brushes my chin. “I don’t know. You’ve made it through some difficult times alone, and, honestly, I think those people at the coffee shop were exactly what you needed. Alright, you had to pull out of your music degree, but now you’ve got another chance at the music dream.”
“True.” I nod. “Back to the list.”
He snatches the list from me and reads, “Marry my dream girl. I’d say I was a pretty smart kid at sixteen,” he laughs.
“So, any ex-wives or fiancés’ I should know about?” I ask half-jokingly.
“No.” He smiles. “You seem interested by this.”
Of course I am!
I shrug casually. “Nope.”
“Okay. But I think I need to amend my list.”
“Really?”
I tilt my head, intrigued when he grabs a pen from the coffee table and places his list on his knee, shielding it with his hand. The pen dashes sideways as if he’s drawing a line, then he begins to write something, and I’m dying to know what it is. He folds the paper four times and hands it to me. “Keep this in your purse, but do not, I repeat, do not read it until after the competition.”
I close my hand around his list and do as instructed, sliding it into a secret zip compartment of my purse.
“You want to read it, don’t you?” he asks.
“Umm, yes. Yes, I do.”
He laugh-grunts in that way of his and seems to realize he’s still holding the time capsule’s contents. He stares down at the photo and sighs. For all Aaron’s laughing and flirting in the past minute, I’d almost forgotten what we were doing. He picks up the DVD and waves it limply. “Do you want to watch it with me?”
Yes and no. “Okay.”
He moves around the coffee table and fumbles with the disc as he places it in the DVD tray. Swearing under his breath, he returns to his sofa spot and presses the remote.
It’s nerve-racking. I’m about to meet his brother for the first time, and I will never have the opportunity to meet him in any other form. I glance over at Aaron, who looks as if he’d rather be alone. The screen fills with static, and I snuggle under the blanket as the footage begins…
The inner walls of a brick garage appear, lit by a fluorescent tube. Work benches and automotive equipment have been pushed aside to make room for the drum kit near the far wall, while amplifiers have been stacked in front of a banged-up garage door. In the center, oil stains blotch the concrete where the mic stand has been set up next to an electronic piano and another mic. Then two young guys strut into the shot with electric guitars strapped over their shoulders. The strut is overdone, possibly over-rehearsed, but in these boys’ minds they are rock stars to the very end.
I smile as the first guy stands in front of the mic stand. Even at sixteen, Aaron was in no short supply of muscles or surliness, just a fraction leaner and shorter.
The second guy swings himself behind the drum kit and picks up his sticks. He looks young, really young, on the cusp of puberty. Sadness creeps into my heart when I realize that this is Aaron’s brother Damien. Hearing them fling grunts back and forth between each other and exchange serious looks is proof enough. I soon discover this is all show, at least on Damien’s part, as he breaks into a massive grin. Aaron shakes his head and twangs a few strings which whine through the speakers.
I feel myself waiting for the next band member with too much anticipation. The brothers have also become restless, Aaron frowning at something off screen. Damien lightly beats out a rhythm. At the edge of the screen, a boy with a guitar swinging around his hips walks up to the piano and adjusts some settings. He seems bothered by the settings and pushes the blond hair from his eyes. His hair is neat and short, unlike the unruly hair that escapes his ponytail whenever I see him in person. It’s weird seeing Nathaniel in ripped jeans and a khaki hoodie, without a suit in sight. There’s not a shred of stubble, only the last remnants of a baby face that will one day be perfection.
“Come on, Nate,” Aaron says.
Nathaniel grumbles something and steps away from the piano, his gaze always to the ground even as he taps out a fast beat with his foot and launches into heavy chords that give way to a serious solo. The second Aaron takes over the chords, Damien pounds the drums. Nathaniel’s solo rises and builds, then descends into a relentless rhythm as Aaron begins to sing. His voice is nothing like the dark timbre it is now. Boy-Aaron is, dare I say it, a little screechy and pitchy.
I hold back a smile. Wise move, because Aaron sniffs beside me on the sofa. Damn it. I’d been so caught up in the video that I hadn’t even considered how Aaron must feel watching this. He looks my way, his face drained, eyes red. Unsure of what to say, I reach out and take his hand.
“You okay?” I whisper.
He shrugs non-committedly and gives my hand a tug. I let him draw me closer, falling between the sofa and Aaron’s chest as he pulls a blanket over us. We must watch the video for another half hour, and in that time Aaron sings every song with all the passion of a rock god. Damien is in some
kind of drumming zone, sandy hair bobbing up and down. But Nathaniel, he hasn’t looked up once, and it’s frustrating me no end.
When the last song is over Damien shouts out, “You gonna sing your new song, Nate?”
Nathaniel scuffs his feet on the oil blotches and removes his guitar, his shoulders stooped as he walks to the piano and takes a seat on an upturned barrel. He positions his hands over the keys and mumbles, “1, 2, 3, 4...”
All three boys strike their instruments in an explosion of sound. Damien is drumming a frantic beat, while Nathaniel’s fingers are winding up and down the keyboard in a foreboding melody that could be a classical masterpiece if it wasn’t for the way he thumped down the keys to compete with Aaron’s roaring guitar.
I’m totally entranced by the music before me, the three boys are that good. But the second Nathaniel leans over the piano and belts out “Run for cover” into the microphone I am spellbound. His voice might be young, but it is rich and strong, and tinged with a melancholy beyond his years. As the music pulls back slightly, he sings:
“Lying awake in my bed
Drones coming overhead
Brace myself for the worst
It might not strike this time, but it’s only a matter of time ‘til this building falls
Not so faraway I hear it
Alarm bells everywhere
No escaping the fire outside…”
The music builds to a rolling cacophony. Nathaniel chooses this moment to finally look up. His big brown eyes widen in alarm at the camera. He clenches them shut and sing-shouts the chorus:
“So run for cover…
Ain’t no angels coming this time
One more minute and then I’m gone
So run for cover…
Better run before I strike
One more minute and then you’re gone
Not so faraway I hear it
Alarm bells everywhere
No escaping the fire inside…”
The music drops to a quiet piano solo and Nathaniel leans into the microphone again, his mouth opening to begin the next verse when a man strides towards him and shoves the side of the piano, causing Nathaniel to stumble off the barrel and to his feet.
The guy must be mid-forties, with short wavy hair the exact same color as Nathaniel’s. Completely oblivious to the brothers behind him or the camera nearby, he wipes his hands on his greasy overalls and throws his hands out wide. “What the hell is this, Heath? Did I give you permission to touch my garage?”
Heath? Nathaniel’s father calls him by his middle name? More importantly what father speaks to his child like that?
No wonder Nathaniel had been repelled by that name. If my father had spat out my name like it was filth I’d be traumatized, too. I can’t believe I called him Heath!
Nathaniel slowly meets his father’s eyes, then murmurs, “No.”
“No, what?”
Jaw clenched, Nathaniel bites out, “No, Sir.”
“You giving me attitude again?”
He looks down at his piano. “No, Sir.”
“I want this garbage out of here, along with your pals, in the next ten minutes.” He walks up to Nathaniel and points repeatedly in his face. I flinch every time Nathaniel winces. His father lowers his arm, stretches his fingers and tightens them. “And if it’s not… Ten minutes.” Then storms out of the screen, slamming a door behind him.
No one moves on screen for at least thirty seconds. Aaron turns to Nathaniel. “I’d forgotten how much of an asshole your Dad is, man.”
Nathaniel doesn’t seem to hear him. Staring at his piano, he pinches the end of his nose. The angles of his face harden as he runs towards his piano and kicks below the keys, sending it crashing backwards with an almighty bang. The amplifier beside him erupts with feedback. He stares at it for a second before pulling the cables and smashing it to the concrete, yelling until his voice is a ragged breath.
Damien looks petrified behind his drum kit.
Aaron gives his brother a reassuring nod, then slowly crosses to Nathaniel, keeping an arm’s distance. “Nate. Maybe you should stay at our house tonight. There’s no way we are going to get this cleaned out in ten minutes.”
Nathaniel pulls his shoulders back, chest heaving. “Thanks, Az,” he says, a flicker of gratitude crossing his face before it turns blank.
“I’ll call Dad.” Aaron dials his mobile, talking quietly.
Having become so engrossed with what’s on the screen it’s only now that I notice my Aaron’s chest rising and falling faster. I peek up and see his nostrils flaring.
“Shocked?” he asks.
I think about lying, pretending nothing out of the ordinary happened on the movie before us, but I was shocked, time and time again. I knew Nathaniel was being modest today. If a record producer had gotten hold of this demo, they could have been the next big thing. The guy was practically a musical prodigy. His father probably didn’t even realize given that he was more interested in harassing his son to the point where Nathaniel couldn’t even look at him. I think I’m most shocked at Nathaniel breaking his piano, smashing his passion to pieces.
“Yes,” I breathe.
Aaron lifts the remote. “Do you want me to turn it off?”
I shake my head. “Unless you want to?”
“Me watching this isn’t about Damien anymore.” A muscle twitches in his jaw. “In light of what happened between Nathaniel and me today, Doctor Brown thought I should watch this to the end. He thought it might put things in perspective for me.”
“You said something to Nathaniel while you were fighting, something about his father putting the fear—”
“You heard that?” He groans. “You weren’t meant to hear that. Christ. I should never have said that. I spent the first half of my session with Dr Brown arguing with Nathaniel. Then I remembered this incident, and I was mortified that I could stoop so low. I couldn’t apologize enough, but by that stage Nathaniel was too pissed to accept anything from me.”
Nathaniel in a therapy session with Aaron? Considering how Aaron treated him today, I’m amazed that Nathaniel would bother.
No, Aaron wanted me to watch this, to support him. But, annoyingly, I can’t stop myself from feeling protective over Nathaniel.
“So, the two of you aren’t speaking, then?” I ask.
“Not so much.”
“Oh.” There’s no covering the awkward tension between us. “How ‘bout we watch the rest tomorrow?”
“No. Let’s not stretch this out. Best to rip the Band-Aid off quick, so to speak.”
There’s a loud creak on the television. At the corner of the screen, the three boys lift open the garage door and start shoving their equipment into the driveway. Boy-Aaron is like a machine, working quickly and methodically, moving the heaviest amps and drums. Damien collects the bags and tosses them outside, one after the other. Nathaniel is snatching up anything he can find, and I lose count of how many times he tucks his hair behind his ears.
Aaron and Damien are outside, zipping their instruments into bags when Nathaniel’s father storms into the garage, his eyes bugging from his head as he scans the remaining pieces of band equipment. Nathaniel hurries toward the garage door, dragging the broken piano in his arms.
“Heath!” Nathaniel’s father says. “Here. Now.”
Nathaniel’s eyes squeeze tight and he slowly releases the piano. He walks across the room, his face expressionless. “Yes, Sir.”
“Do you recall the timeframe in which you had to clear this room?”
Nathaniel falters for a second. “Ten minutes, Sir.”
“Ten minutes, and yet twelve minutes have passed.” The man taps his wristwatch. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Nathaniel simply stares up him. His fingers twitch by his side, then clench into a loose fist below his sleeve.
“Just like your mother. No backbone. She up and leaves without a word. Leaves me to deal with it all, with you. You gonna leave, too, Heath? Are you?
” He leans in and drops his voice so that it’s barely audible, “You want to. I can tell. Got that same defiant look in your eyes. Don’t you, Heath?”
Nathaniel gives him nothing, just stands there as if he’s transcended into a fog.
“Speak, you little shit.”
I lift my chin and watch in fear as Mr. Blake’s fist flies at his son’s head. Nathaniel ducks and backs away, glancing behind him for a quick escape. He never sees the fist speeding toward his eye. But I see it, and I hear the sickening thud of flesh hitting flesh. A small puff of air escapes Nathaniel’s lips as he staggers sideways across the floor. The man advances again. Nathaniel stumbles, sees the barrel and lifts it. His father swings again, then roars madly as his fist collides with the rusted metal. He curses violently and flicks off blood. That’s when Nathaniel darts past him and races toward the garage door, Aaron running in the opposite direction.
“Aaron, no!” Nathaniel whips around, seeing his father mapping a path to get to him. It all happens in a blur as Aaron collides with the man, grabs him in a chokehold and slams his knee into the man’s face. I never see how exactly how Nathaniel’s father breaks free, but when he stands back his nose gushes with blood and he is angrier than ever, launching a swift kick to Aaron’s gut. Aaron crumples to the ground. Nathaniel’s eyes widen and he rams into his father, swinging one shot after another. The man is ready, blocking his son’s every move, while throwing punches of his own. At least two connect with Nathaniel and I gasp, wishing I could take him away from there.
My Aaron tenses.
“My God, Aaron,” I whisper. “The way you defended Nathaniel like that…”
His eyes drift to mine and harden. He cups my jaw, kissing me chastely on the lips. Part of me is slightly irritated that he’s changed the rules of us waiting again.
Ardent Strangers_An Ardent Strangers novel Page 14