After returning all my books to the Los Feliz Library, I meet Garth at the Casbah. We don’t say much. We just kind of drink our coffee and stare out the window. It’s kind of hard to say anything.
“Well,” I say finally. “I should go. The Rat said we’re having a bon voyage dinner.”
“Cool,” he says. “I’ll walk you home.”
We walk slowly and I take in all the now-familiar sights on Sunset. I even say good-bye to that Walking Man, although he just walks right by me, too busy talking on his cell phone.
When we get to my door, Garth starts blinking like crazy.
“Are you OK?” I ask.
“I got some dust in my eye,” he says. “Stupid wind.”
But I know there’s no dust and that he’s really crying because he’s sensitive, and I like that about him. Thinking about not hanging out with Garth every day makes me get a little choked up, so I put on the vintage cat-eye sunglasses that Lake gave me as a going-away present so that anything that might come leaking out of my eyes won’t be seen.
“OK, bye, then,” I say.
“Bye, Beige.”
And then we kind of stand there. I look at the ground. Then I look at a palm tree. And then Garth pulls me in roughly for a hug. And we hug for a minute and his skateboard is kind of digging into my back and his helmet is pressing too hard against my cheek, but I don’t care. When we break apart, Garth puts his board on the ground and just skates away.
When I get up to the apartment, The Rat is MIA. I find a note on my bed that says, Dinner, Trixie’s, 6 p.m. — Formal Wear.
One thing I know for sure: if Trixie says dress for dinner, she means really dress for dinner.
I put my new skirt on, and at first I’m not sure it’s right for me. Maybe it’s too wild. But as I check myself out in the mirror, I think I look kind of good.
I open the door to Trixie’s and take in the scene. She’s painted a big bon voyage sign, which she’s hung with a bunch of vintage decorations in the living room. On the dining table, under the glass, is a poster of Madrid.
Auggie comes running up to me to give me a hug. He’s wearing a tiny little tuxedo. Trixie finishes setting the table, and she looks amazing in a black chiffon cocktail dress from the fifties with her hair done in an upsweep.
The room smells delicious.
The Rat comes out of the kitchen wearing his best suit and a skinny black tie. He’s got one of Trixie’s frilly aprons on.
“You’re the guest of honor, so you sit at the head of the table,” he says. Then he disappears back into the kitchen. I sit down and so does Trixie, who’s put Auggie into his chair.
A few minutes later, The Rat comes out of the kitchen proudly holding a platter. He sets it on the table.
It’s a roast. He cooked me a roast. My favorite.
“Open your present,” Trixie says, pointing to the envelope sitting on my plate.
“OK,” I say. The Rat makes a drumroll on the table as I tear it open.
“It’s a voucher for a plane ticket,” Trixie explains. “You can use it to go wherever you want.”
“But of course, we hope you might come back and visit,” The Rat says. “Just give me some notice so I can clean the place up before you get here.”
“And if The Rat is still on tour, you can always stay with me,” Trixie says, passing the rosemary roasted potatoes.
I don’t know what to say.
I look at Trixie, The Rat, and Auggie surrounding me as they meet my eyes when I look up.
They look like a family.
Wait.
They look like my family.
After dinner, I go back to my room and pack up my bags. I don’t have to pack everything. I am supposed to be paring down.
There’s nothing that I want to keep from this bedroom anyway. My eyes scan the room to make sure. They fall on the purple guitar, sitting in its stand in the corner next to the desk.
I walk over and touch it.
The strings squeak as I move my hands along the fret board. The squeak mixes nicely in the air. The squeak reminds me of Lake. And Garth. And Leo. And Trixie. And The Rat. And I feel sad. Sad that I’m leaving.
On the desk I notice Lake’s Sharpie pen. I pick it up and uncap it.
I stand up on my bed and face the wall. I begin to write.
I hear The Rat’s key in the door. I jump off my bed. I don’t have to turn back and survey what I’ve written because it’s not finished. I have more words to write down. But for now, it’s time to go.
We don’t say much on the ride to the airport. The Rat tap-tap-taps out a beat. I can’t stand it. I break down. I turn the radio on.
“. . . that was the punk news — glad to bring it to youse.”
The guitars start, then the others join in, then the drum kicks in. I know this song. I know it and I like it. It’s the Clash.
The Rat, still beating away at the steering wheel, opens his mouth and starts to sing, and then I start singing, and we are singing together.
I turn the volume up as loud as it goes.
I sing at the top of my lungs. I scream, scream, scream the song. The Rat duets with me, singing the guitar parts and the Spanish parts. We’re blasting down the highway, going just five miles above the speed limit, but it feels so fast. I roll down the windows and sing to the passing cars on the freeway. The sun is shining, the way it almost always seems to in Los Angeles, just a perfect blue cloudless sunny day. And the palm trees are swaying, like they are dancing to a rhythm they’ve made up all by themselves.
I am happy and sad at the same time.
It’s only a minute, but I want it to last forever. And then it’s over and we’re there.
We pull up to the parking lot at LAX. A new song has started on the radio. The moment in the car is over. We get out in silence. Don’t talk much. The Rat carries my luggage, and I’m finally on my way to Montréal, even if it is just to leave again.
Bags checked, I clutch my carry-on. Nervous. The Rat walks me to the TSA security check. The security checkpoint will separate us.
“You have everything?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Here’s a twenty in case you want some coffee or candy or a magazine.”
I take the twenty. I mumble a thank-you.
He looks down at his grungy Chuck Taylors. Then he looks back up at me. His eyes are kind of watery. He purses his lips.
“It was really great having you here, Katy. It was no trouble at all. Come back anytime. I want you to come back. Mi casa es tu casa.”
“Yeah, OK,” I say, but I kind of whisper it because I have to bite the inside of my cheeks. There’s a weight on my chest suddenly and my throat feels tight.
“Where’s your guitar?” he asks.
“It’s back in my room,” I manage to say. “Will you keep it tuned and ready for me?”
The Rat pulls me into one of his big bear hugs. I smell the cigarettes and the near-beer and the BO, and I don’t mind it. It smells like The Rat and I’ll miss it. I don’t want to be rid of him.
I can’t speak now. I can’t say anything, not even good-bye. I just reach into my bag and pull out my boarding pass, hoping to distract myself as I walk away. But I can’t.
I turn around. The Rat is still standing there. He’s actually crying. He doesn’t care that anybody is watching him as he’s watching me go.
And then I start to cry, too.
“DAD!” I call.
He looks surprised. “What is it?”
“Rock on!” I yell.
He smiles. And flips me the thumbs-up.
I step through the metal detector.
I’ve made up my mind. I’m off to Madrid. But really, I’m on my way.
I’m on my way.
MERCI BEAUCOUP:
Everyone I ever played music with — especially Julie McGovern, Nancy Ross, and Kim Temple;
my friends and gentle readers — Cylin Busby, Mette Ivie Harrison, Jo Knowles, and Lauren Myracle;
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Rachel Cohn — for lending me a laptop;
Liza Palmer — coffeehouse study buddy;
Holly Black — for a room to write in, a shoulder to cry on, and all things magical;
Joseph Brady — for coining phrases that make my heart sing;
Steve Salardino — as always;
Jennifer Laughran, Not Your Mother’s Book Club and Books, Inc.;
Kerry Slattery and Skylight Books for constant support;
my Candlewick peeps — especially Deb Wayshak;
Barry “Mr. Fantastic” Goldblatt — and all the members of Camp Barry;
and to the divine Ms. Kara LaReau — who is every color of the rainbow — this one is for you.
1. “No Way” Adolescents
2. “Too Drunk to F**k” Dead Kennedys
3. “Hanging on the Telephone” Blondie
4. “Spellbound” Siouxsie and the Banshees
5. “Lexicon Devil” The Germs
6. “Body Bag” NoMeansNo
7. “S**t from an Old Notebook” The Minutemen
8. “In the City” The Jam
9. “Tattooed Love Boys” The Pretenders
10. “U. Suck A. / We’re Fed Up” Scream
11. “F**k Armageddon . . . This Is Hell” Bad Religion
12. “Institutionalized” Suicidal Tendencies
13. “Los Angeles” X
14. “Oh Bondage, Up Yours!” X-Ray Spex
15. “Live Fast Die Young” Circle Jerks
Cecil Castellucci is the author of Boy Proof and The Queen of Cool. She is a writer, filmmaker, actress, and singer-songwriter, and engages in many other creative pursuits. Of Beige, she says, “When I first moved to Los Angeles from Montreal, I wrote in a café owned by Eric Melvin from NOFX, had Thanksgiving dinner with Tim Armstrong from Rancid, and had my taxes done by a guy who was in the Circle Jerks. It was like everyone was so So-Cal Punk crazy, and I felt so . . . beige. I wondered what it would be like to grow up surrounded by adults that cool and what it would be like if you were plopped into that scene if it wasn’t yours.” She still lives in Los Angeles, in the “belly of the beast” known as Hollywood.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2007 by Cecil Castellucci
Cover illustrations: copyright © 2009 by Doug Gray/Getty Images (guitar neck and strings); copyright © 2001 by Don Bayley/iStockphoto (top of neck)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2012
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Castellucci, Cecil, date.
Beige / Cecil Castellucci. — 1st U.S. ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Katy, a quiet French Canadian teenager, reluctantly leaves Montréal to spend time with her estranged father, an aging Los Angeles punk rock legend.
ISBN 978-0-7636-3066-9 (hardcover)
[1. Fathers and daughters — Fiction. 2. Punk rock music — Fiction. 3. Musicians — Fiction. 4. Self-perception — Fiction. 5. Los Angeles (Calif.) — Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C26865Be 2007
[Fic] — dc22 2006052458
ISBN 978-0-7636-4232-7 (paperback)
ISBN 978-0-7636-5997-4 (electronic)
Candlewick Press
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Somerville, Massachusetts 02144
visit us at www.candlewick.com
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