Beige

by Cecil Castellucci

  He throws his arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze.

  His best girl. That’s not me. It’s Trixie. Or my mom. His best girls are the ones he actually knows. Not me. I’m like a smudge.

  Like Lake says. I’m beige.

  I’m still thinking about how excited that kid was. He was actually freaking out over The Rat. I almost feel bad that I was sitting there having coffee with him and I didn’t care.

  When we get to the Vista Theatre, The Rat and I go and grab some seats, but there is still some time to kill before the movie starts.

  Ask a question. Ask a question.

  I’m thinking of all the names I’ve heard so far. The Punk House. The Yellow House. The Rockplex. Grunge Estates. It’s not just houses either. It’s the celebrity Mayfair Market. The Rock-and-Roll Denny’s. The Rock-and-Roll Ralphs.

  “Why do people refer to your place as Grunge Estates?”

  “It’s from back in the day,” The Rat says, already digging in to the popcorn.

  “It’s like you guys nickname everything. And everyone.”

  “It’s easier to remember sometimes.”

  Right, I think. Like when you’re drunk. Or high.

  The lights go down and the curtains open and I am happy for the cold air, the dark theater, the not having to talk, and the being transported out of here. Even if it is only for two hours.

  The phone rings. When I pick it up, the line is staticky.

  “Hello!”

  I feel blubbery. Just hearing Mom’s voice makes me all quivery and sad inside.

  “Mom! Mom!”

  I don’t want to lose our connection.

  “I’m here! I’m using the satellite phone.”

  “How’s Peru?”

  “It’s amazing. I wish I could show you the site. It’s in pristine condition. Vittorio says that the site is outstanding.”

  I love her little French accent. It’s more pronounced to me now since I haven’t talked with her for more than a week.

  “I wish I were there,” I say. I want to be there. There’s still time! I want to ask, When can I come down to Peru? I almost ask, but it would be so much sweeter if she asked me.

  “How’s L.A.?” she asks.

  “Ça va,” I say. She thinks I can take it. I don’t want her to know that I can’t. That it’s terrible. Get me out of here. You misunderstood my e-mails and text messages. I am not having adventures. I miss you.

  “And The Rat?” she continues.

  I look at The Rat, who’s trying to do his own thing and not listen in on my conversation but really is. He’s in the doorway of the hall, straightening out a poster.

  “He’s OK,” I say.

  “I want a full report,” Mom says.

  But instead of telling her what is really going on, I come up with things to tell her. I tell her about Millie’s and the pool. I tell her about the Suck show and Guitar Center. I tell her about Lake. I try to make everything sound interesting, as interesting as she then makes the dig sound.

  It is so good to hear her voice. It’s so good that I just let her talk and talk and talk. This is music to my ears.

  “The site is really robust,” she says at the end. “There’s a lot here. I’m really going to have to take my time.”

  “I’ll see you soon. Only eight more days!”

  For a minute I think maybe we’ve been disconnected because Mom doesn’t say anything. But the line isn’t dead. I can hear more static and Mom’s breathing as she kind of sighs before she speaks.

  “Well, I think we have to have a change of plans, Katy-bon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  But I know what she means. She already said it. The site is robust. She’s going to have to take her time.

  “I think I’m going to have to stay a bit longer,” she says. She says it gently, using the voice that she used to use to tuck me into bed with. It makes me miss her more.

  “How much longer?” I try not to sound like a needy baby.

  “Well, I need to talk to Beau. It depends on him. I’d like to take as much time here as I can.”

  I’m quiet. I don’t say anything.

  “Katy. I won’t stay if you don’t want me to,” she says. “We’re a team.”

  I want to say, Mom, get on a plane and come back to North America. I am dying here. I am stifled. I am not with my people. I want you back. I want my life back.

  But I am a good girl. A nice girl. I love my mother. I know how much this means to her. To us. And the site is robust. It’s a robust site. And I know what I should say. I can hear it in her voice.

  “You should stay,” I say. “You should totally stay.”

  “I knew we were of the same mind about this. I’m so glad you agree, Katy. I think I should stay, too. It’s a risk and it’s going to cost me so much money, but I think it’s worth it. I think my research is really onto something. Vittorio thinks so, too.”

  She talks more about the site and her thesis and her theory and her site boss, Vittorio, the Italian. She sounds different. Brighter. Happier.

  Do I sound different? Or do I sound the same? I know I don’t sound desperate enough for her to change her mind and stick with the plan.

  When she’s done, I pass the phone to The Rat.

  “She wants to talk to you,” I say. “She has a favor to ask.”

  “Me?” The Rat says. “She wants something from me?”

  The Rat enters my room without knocking.

  “Oh, shit. I’m sorry,” The Rat says. “You could have been naked.”

  “What?”

  “You could’ve been naked,” he says. “Or in here with a boy. I always hated that my parents wouldn’t respect my space. Next time I’ll wait till you say come in. OK?”

  “Yeah.”

  Then he leaves the room and closes the door behind him. I hear three knocks.

  He was already in the room. Why is he making such a big show about this? It’s stupid. I make him wait a bit.

  “Come in.” I say it as though I don’t already know he was there. As if it were a surprise.

  The Rat comes into the room. He smiles. He’s probably pleased with himself for getting it right. He comes over to my desk and sits in the chair. He rat-tat-tats on the desktop. Then he digs into his pocket and pulls out a pick. Then he grabs the guitar from its stand and plucks at it.

  I don’t know what he wants, and I’m not going to ask, so I go back to reading my book.

  “We’re going to have to figure out a new plan for you,” The Rat finally says, kind of in time to the music. “Suck is going to be practicing a lot, since we’re going to give it another go. And that’s on top of the other bands I’m in. I’ve also got some gigs set up that I can’t get out of, and I’ve got to start working again.”

  He won’t stop fiddling with the guitar. It’s annoying. “Maybe it’s not too late to register you for camp or something,” he suggests.

  Sleepaway camp, I think hopefully. Or adventure camp. Like Survivor. I could have a pup tent and make my own food on a fire. I could eat berries and mushrooms and wild game. You can live off that. I know. I read it in a book.

  “In any case, it’s going to be rad to have you here for the whole summer!” The Rat says.

  I nod. I smile. Yeah. It’s going to be great. I’m trying not to look as unsettled as I feel. Two and a half weeks was OK. The whole summer is not OK. How could my mother expect me to be fine with this?

  I just want to be away from this room and the piles of crap everywhere and the dirty kitchen. Everything that doesn’t feel like home. I just want to transport out of here. I look back down at the words in my book. I can’t concentrate on them; they just lie there on the page, promising me an adventure out of here. But I can’t focus with The Rat making noise. He’s either speaking too much or he’s plucking or drumming away.

  “Maybe I could get a library card,” I say. “I’m running out of books to read.” The advantage of having a book is that I can read at the ta
ble while I’m eating and look like I am doing something. If I’m reading, then I won’t have to talk that much. I can be alone in my own world, block out the real one.

  “That’s a great idea,” The Rat says. Then his face gets all serious as he plucks out a few notes on the strings. “I think, since you’re going to be here awhile, I should tell you that I’m seeing someone.”

  “Trixie,” I say. “I met her and Auggie the other day at the pool.”

  “Oh.”

  He kind of bangs on the strings a bit. He looks at the strings and at his hands, but not at me. It’s like he can’t look up at me. It’s like he knows he should have told me.

  “You OK with that?” he asks.

  I don’t say anything until finally he has to look up.

  When his eyes meet mine, I shrug.

  “I should have told you,” he says.

  At least he knows it.

  “I don’t want to jinx it. It’s still new. I really like her.”

  He strums the guitar some more. He hums badly. He should stick to just strumming, or drumming maybe. I want to tell him to get out of my room, because I want to be alone and miserable by myself. I want to tell him to please stop with the humming — it’s making me feel worse.

  But he just keeps sticking around, like he thinks I need someone in the room with me. Like it’s going to comfort me. It’s not. The only thing that would comfort me would be my mother coming home and taking me away from here. But that is not going to happen. She is in Peru. I agreed to the new plan. And now I’m not going home.

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea. You know what always makes me feel better?” he asks, not waiting for me to answer. “Pounding the skins. Let’s go to the jam space and jam. There is no one there tonight. I’ll play drums and you play guitar. It’ll be great! All right! I’ll just go change into my practice clothes.” He places the guitar back onto the stand and runs out of the room to get it together.

  Sid Vicious sits in the doorway and lets out a moaning meow.

  “Shut up,” I say.

  Sid Vicious meows again.

  I look over at the guitar. It’s kind of just staring at me, making me feel all guilty. I get a knot in my stomach.

  “Let’s go,” The Rat says.

  He’s pulled on a faded T-shirt that says ADOLESCENTS, which is fitting because that’s what he looks like. He’s just standing in my room like some kind of overgrown teenager. But I think Adolescents are a band. I think I saw the name on one of the rock posters in the hallway. Most of his T-shirts are band T-shirts.

  “I can’t jam with you,” I say.

  “Can’t?” The Rat is proactively putting my guitar in its case because I’m just sitting on the bed not doing anything.

  I’m getting madder by the minute that I’m even in this situation at all. If Mom had just stuck to the plan, I could have been gone before he found out.

  “Can’t,” I say.

  “Or won’t?” he asks.

  Suddenly the look on his face is like I’m rejecting him. And I am. Even when he kept trying to check in with his postcards and ill-chosen gifts for me, I could at least keep my distance, because I was far away. And when he was living far away, The Rat seemed unreal to me. But now I can’t get rid of him. Now he’s right here in front of me with a quizzical look on his face.

  I open my mouth. I say it quick, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

  “I don’t know how to play,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean: I don’t know how to play the guitar.”

  “But I sent you the guitar. I sent you books on how to play the guitar. I sent you DVDs on how to play the guitar. You said —”

  “I said thanks, but I didn’t say I played.”

  The Rat lets this sink in.

  “Don’t you like guitar?”

  I shrug.

  “OK, OK, maybe guitar is not your instrument. That’s cool. I get it. I’m a drummer. Maybe you’re a drummer.”

  “No.”

  “Keyboards?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Bass?”

  “No.” I say taking a deep breath. “I guess I don’t really like music that much.”

  He forced me to say it out loud. It’s his fault.

  The Rat’s face turns white. Like maybe he’s having a stroke. Then it seems like he swoons, like the women in the novel I’m reading. He actually has to sit down, so he sinks into the chair.

  I might need to get some smelling salts for him.

  “So, you don’t like playing music?” he says. “What about listening to music?”

  I take the pillow and twist it, like I am strangling it. Only I’m imagining that it’s The Rat. I’m not like him. I don’t want to be like him. Why doesn’t he just leave me alone and stop bothering me?

  “Well, listening to music sometimes is OK, I guess. When it’s on, like, in a store or a restaurant or in a movie. And there are a few bands I like, when the boys in them are cute. But I prefer quiet. I like to be able to think. I don’t know how you can think with all that clatter. Even when there is no actual music playing, there is always noise around here.”

  I motion toward his hands moving up and down the neck of the guitar case, slapping out an anxious beat. The Rat’s hands freeze.

  I just should be quiet, but the explanations and excuses keep spilling out of me, like I’ve got diarrhea of the mouth.

  “Normal people need quiet sometimes,” I say.

  The Rat always has music on. In the morning, when he gets home, when he gets in the car, when he’s in the shower, the first thing he does is turn on the music. I can never get away from it.

  “But music is in our blood,” he says.

  “Sorry, I’m just not that into it,” I say. Then I deliver the blow that does it, the one that is really going to shut him up. The one that is going to break his heart. “It’s not very me.”

  “OK.” He puts his hand up, gesturing for me to stop. Then he gets up slowly and backs out of the room, like I’ve killed him. Like everything that he ever thought would be cool about having a daughter was wrong. Like he’s ashamed that he accidentally created me.

  In a minute, I hear him in the living room. He’s locked himself into the soundproof closet with his drums. He’s closed the door, but I can still hear the dull thud of the thumping beats. He’s banging away on his drum kit.

  He just keeps banging away for hours.

  Like he said, it makes him feel better when he’s upset. And by the sound and duration of the banging, he’s really upset.

  I think about how he looked, as though I told him that I have some kind of incurable disease. And I guess, in his mind, I do.

  I am incurably uncool.

  I push my fork around my plate making a mountain out of my Devil’s Mess Scramble. Usually it’s my favorite thing to order at Millie’s, but I’m not really hungry this morning.

  “So, I hear that you’re going to spend the summer with us here in Los Angeles,” Trixie says.

  She is eating eggs Florentine, and the green spinach looks gross as it goes into her mouth, against the red lipstick she’s wearing.

  “Yeah,” I say. It feels like she’s rubbing it in, even though I know she’s not. It feels like if she didn’t say it, maybe my staying here for the summer wouldn’t be so real. It feels so final when she says it like that, all casual and out loud.

  “I’m excited,” The Rat says. He acts like he isn’t upset or angry or utterly brokenhearted about my disinterest in guitar playing and general dislike of music. Like he’s forgotten about the whole thing. Like the drumming worked its magic last night and he’s pounded out his disappointment. Even though on our walk over here he told me that it was OK. That he’s just never met anyone who doesn’t connect with music. So it’s weird for him.

  “Getting to know you is a bit like learning to speak another language,” he said.

  Was that supposed to make me feel better?

  “I think it’s lucky for us,
” Trixie says, giving The Rat a look. “I, for one, am happy that you’re staying. It’ll give us more of a chance to get to know each other.”

  “So, I was thinking,” The Rat says, “since I’m going to have to go back to work this week, you might want to take care of Auggie. It’d be something to do.”

  “You want me to babysit?” I say.

  I keep pushing my eggs around. No one is saying anything except Auggie. Auggie is babbling up a storm. I look straight at Trixie, who is squirming in her chair.

  “This wasn’t my idea,” she blurts out.

  “That’s true. It’s my idea,” The Rat says. “I thought maybe you’d want to make some extra cash, Katy.”

  There is more silence. I steal another look at Trixie, and she looks like she’s mad, too. She’s glaring at The Rat.

  “What?” The Rat says. “What did I do?”

  “Beau, I wouldn’t want to be pawned off as a babysitter on my dad’s girlfriend on my summer vacation in Los Angeles. There’s too much fun to be had. I told you this was a terrible idea. I’m sorry, Katy. I can totally find someone else.”

  “I was just trying to be helpful,” The Rat says. “You need a sitter; here is a teenage girl. Teenage Girl equals Babysitter.”

  “Ugh,” Trixie and I say at the same time.

  “Why do you need a sitter?” I ask Trixie.

  “My regular girl is taking a summer class that starts next week — Tuesdays and Thursdays. And I work.”

  “How do you know you can trust me?” I say.

  I might be evil. Or irresponsible. Or a witch. I might light candles and say spells. I might have the mark of the devil on me. I don’t, but I might.

  “You wouldn’t even get in the pool without adult supervision. I think I can trust you,” she says, and then as an afterthought she adds, “I trust Beau with Auggie all the time.”

  “I’m pretty good with babies,” The Rat says.

  “But not so much with diaper changes,” Trixie says. “I think you’re not good at that on purpose.”

  “Have you seen what Auggie’s packing in those diapers sometimes?” The Rat says.

  He’s good with babies now, I think. Not when I was one. When I was a baby, he just wasn’t interested. He just wasn’t there.