by M. G. Reyes
The following weekend, he’d hightailed it out of there in his car. He’d been gone all day Sunday. Since she’d returned from the clinic with John-Michael, Lucy had asked Maya and Grace separately what time he’d come back that day. Grace didn’t remember that he’d even been away all day. Maya, on the other hand, had known precisely what time he’d left and what time he’d gotten home—around two in the morning, she reckoned, because he’d woken her. “I’m a light sleeper,” she’d confessed.
Weirdly though, when Lucy had commented that Maya seemed pretty clued in to her housemates’ movements, Maya had become evasive to the point of retracting what she’d originally said. “Maybe it was two? Maybe it wasn’t. I looked at my phone and saw a two, is all I know. It could have been midnight. Eh. I don’t really remember, I guess.”
Something about that cop’s news had jolted John-Michael into action. He rarely left the house apart from going to school and the grocery store. Sometimes he walked along the beach, alone, but there hadn’t been one day in which he’d been out of the house all day—until after the cop’s visit. Then the mysterious day out. And the following weekend, too, when he’d taken off to San Francisco with Paolo and Grace. Just like that. A recluse one minute and the next, on some kind of road trip kick.
And then, after San Francisco, he’d decided to take the blood test.
It was as though there was a connection between his father’s death and his fears about HIV.
Could his father have died of AIDS? He’d hated his father and had been thrown out of his home, forced to live on the streets. Somehow, John-Michael seemed to worry that he’d been infected, too. But how? Lucy’s mind began to go somewhere very dark before she pushed the thought away. God, no. It couldn’t be anything that horrible, could it? The thought was simultaneously sickening and pitiful. Was it possible that John-Michael could be hiding such an agonizing truth?
Lucy paused on the threshold of John-Michael’s room. She needed to choose her words carefully. You didn’t just blurt out a question like that. One of the guys she’d befriended on the beach, Luisito, had been sexually abused by an uncle. He’d run away from home rather than admit the truth to his parents. Lucy remembered very clearly how Luisito had resisted talking about it at all. He rarely spoke about it unless he was wasted; even then, he was cautious, wary. But most of all, sad.
Inside the triple room, John-Michael was sitting on his bed, back against the pillows, his knees folded up. Propped up and laying across his lap was a surf-green Fender Stratocaster. He was just staring at it. The sight of John-Michael with his guitar was such a nostalgic hit—it took Lucy’s mind clean off the issue with his father.
“Hey, JM. You gonna actually play that thing?”
“I was wondering if I even remembered how.”
Lucy leaned against the doorjamb and folded her arms. “If you brought it over when you moved in, I’m guessing you wanna play. And of course you remember how.”
John-Michael’s fingers tightened around the fret board. He flexed them a couple of times. Lucy could see his throat tense.
He was open and vulnerable—a rare thing for John-Michael. This could be her cue. Lucy moved over to his bed and perched at the other end. John-Michael seemed suddenly uncomfortable. He couldn’t look her in the eye.
The words froze inside Lucy. Abruptly, she changed the strategy and said, “Come to my band practice with me.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. Bailey brings his girlfriend all the time.”
John-Michael looked away, shaking his head. “Nah.”
“You just gonna sit home?”
“Yeah.”
Lucy tried to catch his eye. “Seriously, dude, I’d really like it if you came.”
“I’m not feeling sociable.”
Lucy sighed. “Okay, whatever.”
She stood up and turned to leave. It wasn’t going to be easy to raise such a delicate matter with him. Maybe she should stay out of his business. Whatever had gone down between John-Michael and his father, it was over now. Maybe dragging this particular pond would do nothing but dredge up the rotting corpse of something best forgotten.
The traffic on the 405 was insane. The taxi was easily going to cost twice what she’d expected to pay. The studio where they rehearsed was in Inglewood, where Ruben lived; a densely residential neighborhood, largely Latino and African American. It was pleasantly relaxing to go somewhere a little more ethnically diverse than Venice Beach, she realized. The main ethnicity around their beach house could be loosely classified as “white weirdo” or “trustafarian.”
She wound up being late for band practice. It didn’t go down well. Under his breath, Lucy was certain she heard Bailey mutter, “Lazy—”
For an instant she froze. The insult cut surprisingly deep. It made her blood run hot.
“What’s that now?”
Bailey smiled craftily and half turned to adjust his microphone stand. Louder, he said, “Hey, Lucy, glad you could make it.”
Lucy could see Ruben adjusting his drum kit. Tommy was busy tuning his bass. They showed no sign of having heard Bailey. Lucy gave him one final glare. He’d shown his true colors from the outset. She could already begin to see how this might play out.
Well, okay. Game on. She could handle Bailey. She’d handled worse than him.
The rehearsal went on for two hours. There was very little chance for chitchat. Lucy had agreed to learn four new songs, two of Tommy and Ruben’s as well as one by Green Day. Bailey’s girlfriend showed up after an hour; a skinny cutie pie of a white girl dressed in a tiny skirt and a tight leather jacket. She immediately sat down and proceeded to ignore the band, transfixed by her cell phone. Studiously, Lucy ignored her back.
At the end of the session the four new songs were beginning to sound competent. Ruben wanted to do at least two more rehearsals before they risked a live set. Tommy urged him to reconsider. “We need to get it tight, man. Only way to get that is live.”
Ruben flared up. “No. Rep is everything. We don’t go out there and do okay. ‘Yeah, I heard this new band and whatnot, they’re okay you know? They’re a’ight.’ Forget that shit. We go out there and we own it. First time. We totally kill. That’s how we get people talking. That’s how we build a reputation.”
Lucy couldn’t help smiling. There was a kind of thrill in seeing Ruben’s passion. It was always positive. Unlike that scuzzball, Bailey, who was mainly what Candace would call a “whiny brat.”
“Is that our name then?” Lucy said.
“What?”
“Whatnot?”
Ruben shrugged. “Maybe.”
Bailey looked incredulous. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“I like it.” Tommy nodded. “Yeah. Whatnot.”
Lucy glimpsed something close to hatred cross Bailey’s face as their eyes briefly met. He had the sense to tear himself away, stomping off to where his girlfriend was still engrossed with her phone.
But Ruben just grinned. “Ignore him.”
“I do.”
“Front men. What are you gonna do?”
“You know it.”
“But you, your Tele was sounding sweet.”
She chuckled a little. “Thanks, man. You too.”
Ruben opened his mouth as if to say something, and then seemed to think better of it. She watched his eyes move to a point somewhere behind her and realized that someone had just come into the room. She turned to see John-Michael.
“Hey, Lucy. Did I miss it? Jeez. I’m sorry.” John-Michael approached and took her elbow, speaking in a whisper. “I only just figured out that you might need a ride. I’m sorry, Luce.”
“No problem. I got a taxi.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you needed a ride?”
“You had to want to be here, dude,” Lucy said. “Hey, it’s all good.”
“This your ride home?” Ruben asked. Lucy watched him look John-Michael up and down. “Hello. I’m Ruben.”
John-M
ichael nodded hey. “Yeah. I’m the ride.”
From out of the corner of her eye, Lucy caught Bailey’s malevolent stare as he pulled a yellow beanie hat over his streaky-blond hair. His resentment seemed to extend to John-Michael, too. Lucy wondered if Bailey was homophobic as well as sexist and racist or if he just automatically hated all her friends. He might as well go for comprehensive knuckleheadedness.
The traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard hadn’t eased up much on the way home. Lucy and John-Michael drove with the top down, Lucy’s Telecaster stowed across the backseat. John-Michael drove with an earpiece in one ear. Partway home, his cell phone rang. He checked the number before he hit the answer button. Lucy was certain she saw his hand shake as he repeatedly jabbed at the touch screen.
His breathing became shallow. He nodded a couple of times, barely audible in his replies. After a minute or two he said very quietly, “Thank you.” His right hand dropped the phone into his lap. The traffic had completely stalled. He peered through the windshield as if confused.
“John-Michael.”
He didn’t answer.
“John-Michael.”
Still he was silent. Lucy could sense the pressure building up inside him. It seemed to explode from within, hitting his chest, throat, and then his face. He broke into a loud, single sob.
She stared, didn’t know what to do. She didn’t dare touch him, not when he was trying to drive the car. Tears began to roll down his cheeks. He dabbed at them absently with the sleeve of his hoodie. After a few long, horribly awkward minutes, he turned to Lucy.
Through his tears a smile of pure astonishment transformed his face.
“I’m okay, Lucy. I’m completely, totally clear!”
ARIANA CALLS LUCY
TUESDAY, APRIL 21
“What’s up, doll? You sound kind of frosty.”
Lucy resisted the friendly tone. “We’re about to have a big-deal dinner.”
Ariana kept her voice calm, friendly, inviting. She had to keep the girl talking. That information had to flow. “We?”
“The housemates. John-Michael got some really good news yesterday so he cooked us a fancy dinner. We’re all dressed up. . . . I gotta go.”
“You, dressed up? Now that’s a picture. You wearing a pretty dress?”
“As a matter of fact I am.”
“Sugar, take a photo and send it across.”
“Maybe later. Sorry, Ariana. I really got to go. John-Michael made Cajun snapper and some fancy French strawberry cream cake for dessert. We got wine and everything.”
“Wine! That boy sure sounds like a talented fellow. What’s his news?”
Lucy’s tone seemed deliberately dismissive. “Oh—a health thing. He had a blood test and, well, he’s got the all clear.”
Ariana didn’t miss a trick—whatever was going on, Lucy was playing it down. “Poor kid. He been hooking up a lil’ too much?”
There was an awkward pause. “Ariana, he’s calling me. I got to say good-bye.”
“I’m glad you’re getting along so well with those guys. You don’t miss home, your folks?”
“We message our moms all the time. Except John-Michael—his mom’s dead.”
“Poor kid. He’s the one whose dad died?”
“Yeah. Killed himself. . . .” Lucy took a deep breath.
“Ah! That why the police were at your house?”
“I guess.”
“Least now you know his secret.”
“What secret?”
“Last time we spoke,” Ariana said, “you said he had some kind of secret? He must have been thinking about the blood tests.”
“Oh. Yeah. Maybe so.”
“Well, Lucy, honey, you have a nice night with your buddies. We’ll talk another time.”
GRACE
KITCHEN, TUESDAY, APRIL 21
“Wow. Really. Just, wow.” Lucy held up both hands in helpless amazement as Maya gave a shy little twirl, showing off the first dress anyone in the house had ever seen her wear.
Candace arched an eyebrow. “We’re gonna have to look out for you.”
Grace watched as Maya turned red. She guessed Maya wasn’t used to getting this kind of attention. Grace would have blushed, too. Sometimes people stared at Grace and made comments about her eyes being like blue crystals or some other hyperbole. Comments like that always made Grace feel uncomfortable. Candace was the opposite, she seemed to revel in any attention. Maya’s response felt very familiar to Grace.
Only Lucy had actually said anything but Paolo’s appreciation was pretty blatant. His eyes couldn’t get enough of this sexy new version of Maya. Grace and John-Michael restricted themselves to nods of approval.
“So,” Candace said with a little toss of her head, “where have you been hiding those curves?”
“Under my jeans,” Maya answered, a little tightly.
“Well, geek girl, you got it going on.”
Grace picked up her napkin, a burgundy linen folded into a swan. Next to it, the place setting was immaculate; the wineglasses, out of their boxes for the first time, were filled with red or white wine. The kitchen ceiling lights had been dimmed and three brand-new steel candlesticks were placed along the table, each with a bloodred candle.
“The table looks beautiful, John-Michael!” Grace said. “Did you really do all of this yourself?”
He tried to brush off the compliment. “I wanted everything to be just right.”
“It’s beautiful. And everyone is dressed so nice.”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re all fabulous, darling,” Candace said, sipping from a glass of Viognier. “Now let’s eat! I’ve got a math test tomorrow morning.”
John-Michael went around the table, serving each of them a portion of blackened snapper. Then he did another round, offering Moroccan couscous salad and roasted red and yellow bell peppers. Finally, he went around a third time, this time topping off everyone’s wine. It was all done in such a slick, professional manner. Paolo commented how gracefully John-Michael did it all.
“Thanks, man,” John-Michael said. “I used to wait tables in a conference center.”
“Your year off?” Paolo asked.
“‘Year off’?” John-Michael laughed. “You make it sound glamorous. I was homeless for most of the year. Had to take work where I could find it. I got that job toward the end. A guy I knew got me hooked into the hotel where they did the conferences. I was working there until a little after my dad died.”
“It must have been awful,” Grace said softly. She hadn’t really taken time to get to know John-Michael. He gave off a friendly vibe, but she sensed that was all surface. He was surprisingly quiet for a young, good-looking guy. She guessed he could easily be out every night partying. But mainly he stayed home, watching TV, baking, and doing his homework. This was the first time she’d had a chance to hear him talk about his missing year.
John-Michael took his seat at the head of the table and picked up his fork. “A lot of it was bad. If I’m honest.”
Paolo chewed thoughtfully. “You ever get attacked?”
“A few times.”
“Raped?”
John-Michael kept his eyes down low. “Almost. On the beach, one time. But they were outta their heads on crystal meth. I managed to get away.”
“Jeez.”
“It wasn’t good.”
Paolo seemed determined to continue the line of questioning. “How about drugs?”
“Weed. Coke, a couple of times.”
“You ever inject?”
Grace reflected that John-Michael seemed very calm, almost blasé about all these revelations. As though he’d come to terms with the entire experience. Or perhaps that he’d suffered something even worse.
He shook his head. “Hard drugs scare the bejesus out of me.” John-Michael’s willingness to talk about his life on the street seemed to be running thin. He glanced across to Maya, who sat on Paolo’s left. “So how’s everything with you?”
“I’m working on my app,
you know . . .”
“An app?”
Maya gave a bashful smile.
It looked to Grace as though Maya was about to speak, but Candace interrupted her. “Hey, Lucy,” she asked, “you hooking up with anyone in that rock band yet?”
Lucy’s reply was ice cool with sarcasm. “No, young lady, I’m not hooking up with anyone.”
“That’s what I thought. Is anyone here getting any? ’Cause I know I’m not.”
Paolo chuckled. “Looks like it’s going to be that kind of evening.” He winked at Maya.
But instead of joining in with the joke, Maya replied innocently, “What do you mean?”
“Perhaps you’re all virgins,” Candace said. There was a brief pause, then Paolo laughed.
Maya looked at them in turn. “What’s funny?”
“Oh, nothing,” Paolo said, smiling. “I’ve just had too much wine. Yeah. Virgins. That’s it.”
“I lost mine when I was fifteen,” Candace remarked. “Grace was sixteen—just.”
Grace sighed. She gulped down some wine. “Thanks, sis. Now I don’t have to worry about keeping that private.”
Candace set down her wineglass, hard. “Oh, please. We’re all friends here. Aren’t we? Paolo, how old were you? I bet you were young. A hottie like you.”
Paolo gave a bashful grin. “I was fourteen. Not proud of it. A girl who used to be my babysitter.”
Candace guffawed. “Tramp.”
“I know.”
“Man whore.”
“Okay, okay.” Paolo turned to John-Michael, clearly reluctant to share any more about his own experiences. “How about you, John-Michael? When did you first get some sweet gay action?”
Eventually, John-Michael replied, “I was sixteen. A guy at school. We’d known each other since middle school, but we didn’t have any classes together until my freshman year. We were lab partners in chem and bio.”
“Classic. The Bunsen-burner meet cute. Who came on to who?”
“I did. He was so gorgeous. Tito, from Costa Rica. I really love Latino boys,” he said with a shy glance at Maya. “The caramel skin tone, the chocolate-colored eyes, the accent.”