by Jean Haus
I blink at him. This comment, I’m aware, is an offering of peace even more potent than his sincere apology. I force myself to link the song to another while he stares at me expectantly. “ ‘Zombie.’ Cranberries.”
His full lips form a slow, authentic grin.
I’m caught in the beauty of that grin until Gabe’s voice disrupts the moment. “Cranberries? You have to be joking!” He leans forward and snatches the glass of whiskey and ice from Sam. “Something from Coldplay would be closer to U2 than the pussy Cranberries.”
Still grinning, Sam raises his glass to me. “ ‘Zombie’ is a perfect match.”
Gabe’s brows lower. “How?”
Sam tilts his head toward me, taking a long, slow drink of whiskey.
I consider how to explain our long-forgotten little game. “The match is about the feel and meaning of the song. It’s more complicated than just choosing two bands that sound alike. Both songs are angry about war.”
Gabe still looks confused. “Give me another one.”
“All right.” Sam lowers his drink to one knee as his fingers drum on his other knee. “‘Rush.’ Big Audio Dynamite.”
“That’s too easy,” I say.
“Huh,” Gabe says, swirling the ice in his drink by rotating the glass. “Nothing goes with that weird shit.”
I take a sip of beer and wait, but when Gabe continues to appear lost, I say, “ ‘Story of My Life.’ Social Distortion.”
Sam grins again. “Perfect.”
Gabe’s glance at me is cynical. “What are you, a fucking walking music library?”
A laugh escapes me. “Kind of. I’ve been obsessed with music since my grandpa, who worked at punk clubs in Detroit in the seventies, gave me his record player and albums when I was twelve. Overnight I went from a huge fan of boy bands like the Backstreet Boys to liking the Clash, the Ramones, Devo, the Dead Kennedys . . . anything hardcore punk or rock from about the seventies and after.”
“I think music sounds like shit on old-fashioned records,” Gabe says, still swirling the ice in his glass. “At least on the ones I’ve heard.”
I shake my head. “Not at all. There’s something so raw about old vinyl. All the fast punk stuff sounds better.”
“What about your dad?” Sam asks.
“What about my dad?” I ask back.
“Why didn’t your grandpa give his music to him?”
I smile at the thought. “My dad is pure country. Hank Williams. Johnny Cash. He wouldn’t have listened to the albums. But me . . . Well, my grandpa made up his mind to pass down his taste in music. When my grandma died, he moved in with us, and the music I was playing in my bedroom drove him nuts. Incredibly irritated, he started playing his old favorites, hoping to change my tastes. And he did,” I add, suddenly wishing I were back in Michigan and visiting my family.
I love them all, but my grandfather and I have had a special connection. I know he wouldn’t love me any less if I’d continued with my boy band obsession. He’s not a music snob. He believes whatever music touches you is fine, as long as he doesn’t have to hear it.
Sam laughs, pulling me back from my thoughts. “Just what every twelve-year-old should be listening to.”
“What?” I ask.
“ ‘Too Drunk to Fuck’ by the Dead Kennedys.”
I shrug and smile. “The language may have been part of the allure.”
Sam smiles back at me. “Exactly what I thought.”
The limo slows along the side of a huge building. A huge crowd waits in front of it to get inside. As we pull into the back lot, to an area that is fenced off with orange construction mesh, I set my half-full beer in a cup holder and haul the camera over my head as Sam and Gabe drain their glasses. The driver opens the door and we emerge to see a girl in the shortest shorts in the world—paired with the highest heels—waiting next to a rusted metal door.
She glances over the clipboard in her hand as we step closer. “The last two members of Luminescent Juliet, the indie band?” Her sultry black-lined eyes roam over Sam and Gabe. When Gabe nods, she looks to me. “And you are?”
“She’s our promoter,” Sam says levelly.
“Oh,” she says with a slight frown. “I didn’t know indie bands had those. Well, I’m Kayla from WZIK Rock.” She holds her hand out in a dainty manner. Both Sam and Gabe stare at the hand like it’s a foreign object. The indie comment may have hit a few nerves.
Holding in an offensive giggle, I shake her hand and introduce myself and the guys.
She lets out a small huff. “Okay, follow me. We’re going in the back.”
Sam and Gabe give each other a look, then follow Kayla as she opens the door. We step into a long, dark hall. Kayla’s heels echo on the tile until she stops and opens another door. As Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” blasts at us, Kayla shouts, “This is the VIP area! You have about a half hour before signings and pictures start. Drinks and food are complimentary. The radio station is footing the bill.” Her expression is smug.
Sam and Gabe breeze past her without a glance.
Even though she has a bug up her ass, I say, “Thanks,” as I enter the bar. The decor includes steer horns mounted all over the walls and strange lighting from a mix of disco balls and spotlights. Western chic? More like the seventies on crack on a ranch. The VIP area, located in the back and raised a few steps higher than the front, is half full of people. I recognize some of the other bands’ members and a few roadies. The bar beyond the wooden rail that separates the VIP area is packed. People lean over the rail and point at band members like they’re watching animals at the zoo.
Sam and Gabe are already at the bar. Instead of joining them for a drink or filling a plate with food, I pull out my camera and wander around taking pictures. I catch Romeo talking to a guy dressed in a suit, who I’m guessing is the tour manager, and Justin talking with some of Griff’s members. Then I turn and capture Sam and Gabe doing shots with a couple of scantily clad girls.
Maybe Sam’s girlfriend has a reason to be bitchy.
As Sam leans down and whispers something to one of the girls, a burst of annoyance shoots through me. Perplexed, I lower my camera and let it hang from my neck. What’s my deal? I try to think logically. My frustration has to be confusion. Of course it’s hard to know how to feel now that he’s gone from being a dick to being a nice guy—and back again, judging by the way he’s about to cheat on his girlfriend.
I scan the crowd until the irritation passes, then glance at a clock and realize the half hour warm-up is over. All the band members are rounded up—the phrase is a perfect pun, given our surroundings—and seated at tables in the front of the VIP area. Lines have already formed, with people waiting to get pictures, autographs, and meet the musicians.
After taking a few out-of-focus shots of the crowd, I decide it’s time to get a drink and a plate of food.
The night drags as I sip Diet Coke and watch Kayla direct the madhouse. The crowd of girls in front of Luminescent Juliet’s table grows by the minute. The band might not be well-known, but the guys’ hotness creates a draw that soon enough makes their line longer than the others.
The guys sometimes take breaks and join me at the bar to bitch about how dumb the event is, but I’m mostly alone and horribly bored. I do meet several members of the other bands as they come up for breaks. Most of the guys in Brookfield seem reserved and almost businesslike compared to the guys in Griff, who dress and act like rockers.
Near the end of the event, I head for the back door to get away from the noise and to call Bryce from the parking lot. When I step outside, the smell of weed is unmistakable. Spotting Kayla and Sam amid a haze of smoke a few yards from the building, I nearly drop my phone as I step back, stunned by the sight of them together. I feel a burst of annoyance like the one from earlier. I immediately justify it as shock that they’re getting high in the middle of a promotional event.
Kayla giggles at my look of surprise.
Sam pinches off the joint�
�s red, burning cherry and stalks toward me. “Go inside,” he orders Kayla, stepping up to me and tossing the butt onto the cement.
Her bottom lip juts out in a pout, but she does what he asks.
Though I haven’t seen him smoke since the day we left, Sam digs out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Don’t say anything to Romeo.”
He is not asking. He is telling me. I clench the phone in my fist. “So you’re assuming I’d go and tattle? I’m not like that, Sam.”
He taps a cigarette on the side of his wrist. “Peyton, I’m not trying to start an argument or be a dick. Romeo gets in my business too much, and I don’t want to deal with it. I didn’t expect you to run to him, just maybe to say something in passing.”
“I wouldn’t say anything.” Obviously, Sam must smoke pot somewhat regularly for him to be this adamant about Romeo not finding out about it. Still, I’m surprised. From what I recall, he never used to. He didn’t drink much when we’d hung out in the past either. Sam and I had usually been the most sober ones at high school parties. Fear of too many empty calories had always kept me from overindulging. I’d never been sure why he’d steered clear of partying. But it’s clear he doesn’t anymore. Really, though, his partying habits are none of my business.
“Thanks,” he says, lifting his lighter. A flame brightens his face as he lights his cigarette. His eyes are glazed and red.
I cock an eyebrow. “You don’t think Romeo’s going to notice?”
He blows out smoke, then laughs. “This tour has him wound tighter than a coke fiend. He doesn’t pay attention much anymore.”
The bass line of “Higher Ground” rings out of Sam’s pants.
He digs his phone from a pocket and sighs at the screen. “Yeah?” he answers in an irritated tone.
Even before he starts talking, the pained look on his face tells me his psycho girlfriend is on the other end of the line. Not wanting to eavesdrop again, I rush to the back door as he says, “Stop it. That shit isn’t true.”
Though I’m annoyed with him right now, a surge of protectiveness hits me. He needs to break up with this woman. Constant arguing isn’t a relationship. Been there. Done that. It sucks. As I step into the hallway, I wonder if this girl is the reason Sam drinks more now and smokes pot. Or why with other people he pretends to be the happy-go lucky-guy I used to know, when I can see that guy is mostly gone.
Chapter 8
It’s a bit odd waking up in a room with two men, especially knowing they stayed out late partying. I’m kind of wired to think of others—sometimes it turns into my downfall—so I try to be quiet when I wake up and sneak from my tiny rollaway into the bathroom. I’m certain Sam and Justin need their sleep. After we all came back from the radio station event, I called Bryce and went to bed, but Justin and Sam went to the hotel bar. I woke up briefly when I heard Justin come in around one. I woke up again when Sam stumbled into our room hours later. But now, as I tiptoe out of the bathroom, he is sitting up at the edge of his bed. He’s bent over his knees, with his hands covering his face.
“Sorry if I woke you,” I whisper. “I’m heading out to do laundry so you guys can sleep.”
Glancing at me through splayed fingers, he shrugs.
I grab my card key and quietly exit the room. At the bus, I give Gary a bag of bagels for meeting me and opening the bus, then drag our five half-full laundry bags to the laundry room, which is in the far recesses of the hotel. Given our limited clothes supply, I’m planning to take advantage of the washing machines at every hotel stop, even though we’re barely four days into the tour. Just as I finish dropping each bag in front of a machine, Sam waltzes in with two steaming cups.
As I stand there surprised, he holds out a hot coffee. “Thought you might like some company and some coffee.”
I practically snatch the drink from his hand. “Thanks,” I say, and take a long sip of the caffeinated goodness. Did he remember that I like it black? Or was he just guessing? Though I was planning to head to the exercise room for a half hour on the treadmill once the machines were going, Sam’s offer of company is too thoughtful for me to turn down. Besides, I’m only half awake.
After gulping down more coffee, I dig quarters out of my pocket and make a pile on the counter. “I was going to wash them all in cold. I planned on dumping them in without separating colors.” I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not touching dirty man underwear.”
Letting out a laugh, Sam sets his coffee down on a chair. “Sounds like a plan.”
We load the machines with clothes and quarters, then sit together sipping coffee in the line of plastic chairs. Water blasting into the machines fills the silence. I try to think of something neutral to talk about, something that doesn’t have to do with the past. Then I think, Screw that. Maybe it’s better to stop pretending there isn’t a past between us—well, except for that one night. That is so off-limits. But if we’re going to get along for real, pretending we weren’t friends just isn’t going to work anymore.
“So how is Seth doing?” I ask nonchalantly, and notice Sam’s grip around his cup tightens.
“He’s all right.”
“Is he at the University of Michigan?” Both Sam and Seth were supposed to go to school in Ann Arbor, which was why I’d dropped my purse freshman year when I saw Sam in the commons at our university. I’d never expected to run into him at college.
“No.”
“Where’d he go?”
“He went to the U of M for a semester and came home.”
“He isn’t going to college?”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“Seth found out college isn’t for him.”
“But he was so excited when he got accepted.”
Sam shrugs.
His short or lame responses are starting to get on my nerves. “Is he working, then?”
He shifts, turning halfway toward me. “He cooks at a diner on Main Street. Why are you still interested in Seth?” he asks evenly.
I put my hand up, palm toward him. “Don’t. I’m not hung up on Seth. How could I be after the way he treated me? Almost everyone who lived within a hundred-mile radius of the party where we broke up thought I was a cheating skank or a whore slut. In the months before all that happened, he’d turned from the perfect boyfriend into a jealous, possessive nut. I should have broken up with him months before that night.”
“Don’t call him a nut, but since you’re bringing it up—why didn’t you break up with him when he was treating you like that?”
The nut reference must have hit a nerve. I decide to ignore his response. “Besides the fact I wasn’t the most self-assured girl then, it was hard to let go of the Seth I knew at the start. The boy who showed up at my school with flowers. The boy who threw pebbles at my window and sang to me at midnight. He was the first boy who ever really liked me.”
Sam’s confused gaze searches mine. “What are you talking about? Every guy in our group wanted you at the first party Jill brought you to.”
Suddenly, I’m confused. Did Sam want me? He had never acted like it until maybe that ill-fated night. “I’d been—overweight through most of high school. The summer before we met, I lost over thirty-five pounds. The guys at my school who’d never looked at me didn’t change their minds, even after I’d lost the weight.” My thumb absently rubs the side of the coffee cup. “If I’m being honest, I have to admit that Seth’s attention went to my head.”
He studies me. “The guys at your school were idiots even before you lost the weight.”
I smile at that. “I liked to think so.”
He watches me with a slow burning gaze. “I wonder if you’d never . . .”
“What?”
With the shake of his head, his gaze returns to normal. “Nothing. No use wondering over the past. So your new boyfriend doesn’t have any issues with you being on tour with four guys?”
“He wasn’t super keen on the idea, but he trusts me,” I say, feeling a little uncomfortable talking to S
am about Bryce. Still, I did ask about Seth, so I guess we’re opening the floodgates. Kind of. “Plus, he’s on the baseball team, and will be gone for half the summer anyway.”
“So, what, if he wasn’t busy all summer, would you still have come?”
I tap my cup on my knee and seriously consider the question. “Probably. I’d like to work in the music business as a journalist eventually. This opportunity was perfect for me.”
“So your career comes ahead of your boyfriend?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it like that. I like him a lot but we’re not engaged or anything. There wasn’t some dramatic choice involved. It wasn’t like coming on this tour would mean us breaking up.”
He tilts his head in something like a half nod, and then the room is filled with the sound of whirling water as both of us stare at the washing machines.
“So you like our album?” he asks, breaking our silence.
“It’s good,” I say with a smile. “Real good. I’ll admit I was surprised. The mix of folk, blues, and punk really works.”
“Except for the surprised part, I’ll take that as a compliment coming from you.”
I nudge his arm with my elbow. “What surprised me was the complexity of the music. You guys go to my school. You’re a band from mid-Michigan. It’s just unusual to find such awesome talent so close to home. When I first listened to the album, it seriously impressed me.”
“That just came out. You never came to see us before we released it?” His tone is incredulous.
“Once,” I admit, then decide to be totally honest. “It was the U-Palooza at the beginning of sophomore year, and I still wasn’t over the whole Seth thing. When I saw you playing onstage, I kind of went into shock. The only band member I’d heard about in advance of the show was Romeo. I made sure not to go to any more shows.”
“Hell,” he says, running a hand through his messy curls. “You must have been really hung up on Seth.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t actually about Seth. It was more about me. The whole thing hurt me more than it should have, probably because I was so vulnerable from the start. The whole weight thing . . . and finally getting attention . . .” I don’t finish. I’ve said enough. A conversation about my body image and self-esteem issues? We’re just not going there.