They were all honest mistakes, I say to Devon.
Uh-huh, he says.
Honest or not, they pale in comparison with my real masterpiece. Which brings me to that explanation I promised earlier.
Jennifer Donaldson was in choir, and I wanted to impress her. You would too, if you saw her. So I auditioned for choir. Then dropped the class after a week, because really? Carmina Burana? But Mr. Peterson, the choir teacher, was always trying to lure me back. “Open-door policy, Austin!”
So, a few weeks ago: It’s late in the afternoon on the day of the year-end choir concert. The kid who was supposed to sing the solo on Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” gets stomach flu. A panicked call from Mr. Peterson: “Austin! I have a situation! Do you know the song? You do?! Listen, I’m going off the reservation here, because you’re not a member of the choir, but . . .”
I decline. He counters with promises of extra credit. Mother gets involved, applies pressure. I retreat to my room to consume illegal substances. Judgment altered. Bad decision made.
The concert is practically starting when I arrive. No time for rehearsal, just a rapid set of instructions, Mr. Peterson grabbing me by both shoulders and saying, “Austin, thank you.”
Five songs in and it’s time. The band is vamping. The choir is on the risers, hmmm-ing and oo-ing. The sold-out auditorium is silent and expectant. It is now the moment for Austin Methune to stroll from the wings to the spotlight-illuminated microphone and break everyone’s hearts with the purity of his singing.
Except Austin Methune never materializes. He is otherwise occupied, being at that moment in the prop room with a certain senior named Emily Sanderson and having lost track of time.
Which in the perverse high school scoring system you’d think might launch me into hero status. Except I couldn’t even get any cred for it: Emily made it clear that if I told anybody (a) she’d deny it, making me look like a pathetic liar, and (b) her boyfriend would adjust my life span to however long it would take for his fist to travel to my face. I couldn’t even tell Devon or Alex, because any vow of eternal silence from them would be good for about an hour. So the conventional wisdom became that I simply chickened out, and it was humiliating and agonizing and argh argh argh I can’t bear to even think of it. And I can tell myself that there were extenuating circumstances, that I didn’t pussy out, as Todd so crudely puts it, but . . .
I pussied out.
Sheer self-sabotage.
So when I say I’ll do anything if a girl is watching, I will.
Except the one thing I really, really want to be able to do.
“Maybe,” Alex told me once, “maybe you just need the right girl watching.”
Devon says, “Half-Song, you can’t finish anything, and you can’t perform. You won’t put anything online—”
“Have you seen the comments people put on there?”
“Fine. Whatever. So how’s your Big Secret Plan going to work?”
The Big Secret Plan: The second I graduate high school, I’m heading to New York. I’m going to be a singer-songwriter like Jeff Tweedy or Rhett Miller or Shane Tyler. And I’m going to write songs that make people think and feel, and I’m going to be successful and famous. I’m going to be successful and famous and inhabit the distant orbit that people like that do, free from gravity’s smothering pull, the pull that drags everyone down into sameness and sadness and defeat. Free in a way almost no one gets to be.
I have yet to present this plan to my mom.
I love her, and she’s awesome, but holy fuuuuh can she be moody. Like, she enjoys it when I sing old songs to her or make up silly verses and play them, then abruptly she’ll get sad and say, okay, that’s enough. The one time I floated the idea of me not going to college, because what’s the point, she reached over, took the guitar from me, and said, “If you ever say that to me again, I will slap the crap out of you.”
I believe her. Three weeks ago, I was listening to Shane Tyler’s Good Fun from a Safe Distance on CD, something dusty and untouched from her collection. She yelled at me to turn it off. I didn’t. She stomped downstairs, ripped the CD out of the tray, disappeared. Then there was a horrific ten-car pileup of a noise, an explosion of grinding and popping and whining gears, the sound a garbage disposal makes when it’s force-fed a CD.
Moody.
A seizure disorder. Christ. I just want to listen to the music. You understand, right?
∗ ∗ ∗
The music.
When Todd hits me with the mandolin, the music explodes in my head, a cacophonous burst like a cosmic orchestra and choir tuning up, fireworks erupting behind my eyelids. Somewhere behind the noise, I can hear everyone say, “Ooh!” and I stagger, stunned, my hand coming up. The orchestra and choir are fading, my vision returning as I unscramble my brain and reconstruct what just happened—did he really just hit me?—and that’s when I spot the crushed mandolin lying in the sand, so deeply wrong, like a swan with a broken back. I whisper, “Oh, crap.”
I drop to my knees and stare dully at the mandolin, dimly aware of everyone else repeating Oh, crap! too—in surprise and dismay in the case of the cheerleaders, pure joy for the hockey players. They’re laughing gleefully and high-fiving each other. Alison is saying, “Todd! Todd!” and swatting at him.
“I friggin’ warned him!” he keeps saying. “I warned you!” Like that somehow makes it reasonable that he has clubbed me over the head. I pick up the wrecked mandolin, gently brushing the sand off of it, and all I can think to say is “Dude, that’s so uncool, that’s so uncool,” over and over, and I think a majority of rational people would agree. Not the hockey players, though—they clearly think it’s so very cool, about the coolest, funniest thing they’ve ever seen.
On the plus side, the cheerleaders respond by gathering around me in a cooing, protective cocoon, mothering me, making sure I’m okay, pausing now and then to direct a high-pitched rebuke at the jocks. Alison is particularly solicitous, which, awesome:
“Austin, are you sure you’re okay? You poor thing. TODD, YOU ARE SUCH AN ASSHOLE! Oh, you poor thing, you’re bleeding!”
Her attention, of course, just makes Todd even more pissed off. “Methune, you better take your goddamn banjo the hell out of here or I’m going to hit you again.”
“TODD SHUT UP YOU ASSHOLE! DON’T TOUCH HIM! Let me see your head, you poor thing.”
I play up my injuries and indulge in the coddling and, yes, probably push things a bit too far, especially when I do my best Cumberbatch and tell Alison, “My God, you’re absolutely gorgeous,” and profess my love (all the girls: Aww! again). It’s also possible that I tell her my phone number and ask her several times to call me. Which leads to more pushing and shoving, with me on the receiving end, which leads to Alison shrieking at Todd, “We are SO BROKEN UP!”
Boom. Dramatic, stunned silence. Open-mouthed wide-eyed oh-my-God looks between the cheerleaders. Todd’s turn to stagger, like he’s been clubbed. Total reality-show highlight-reel moment.
Then everyone turns to me as it dawns on them that Alison’s abrupt dumping of Todd means she no longer has any sort of leverage over him or his behavior. Meaning I have no leverage over him either. Meaning time to go. Now.
I sprint to the canoe and launch it with the ruined mandolin in one hand, then toss the instrument into the half inch of water at the bottom of the boat and sprawl into it myself, all clumsy awkwardness and banged limbs and digits as I struggle to get upright and wrestle with the oar and start desperately paddling, Todd and his buddies pelting me with clods of wet sand and sticks and at least one half-filled beer can that comes within an inch of cracking me on my already-injured skull.
When I’m far enough offshore, I shout back at Alison, “Call me! I love you!” and duck another Miller High Life.
∗ ∗ ∗
Devon and Alex are waiting for me when I get back to the cove, wading out to help pull the canoe to shore, holy crap–ing about the busted-up mandol
in and the blood trickling down my face from the wound near my hairline.
“Dude, what the hell!” says Devon. “I told you—”
I cut him off, a hand held up for silence.
“Oh, great,” says Alex. “He’s got another song.”
Indeed I do. I sing them the snippet I’d been working on as I canoed my way back to them: “I crossed the night-black waters / the dark and angry sea / to tell you that I loved you / and ask if you loved me”
“Yeah,” says Devon, “and then you got your ass kicked.”
∗ ∗ ∗
I ride back home in Devon’s car, Devon telling me he’s just about had it with my crap and berating me for ruining the afternoon and never paying for the weed and for getting blood on his seats. He adds, “Half-Song, here’s what I don’t get. You go over to serenade those girls, even though you know you’re gonna get mauled. But you can’t just get up onstage and perform? You’re frigging useless.”
“That’s okay,” I say, “you don’t have to try to cheer me up.”
Next: What do I do about the mandolin?
Get rid of it, Devon says. If and when they figure out it’s gone, act dumb, say maybe it got stolen. They can’t prove anything.
Fake an accident, says Alex. Fall down the stairs with it, pretend you’re hurt. Get their pity.
“I could just fess up,” I suggest.
“True.”
“You could. You could fess up.”
Pause while we all consider that.
“Fake accident?” I ask.
“Fake accident,” they agree.
Rick will be over at some point next week, I figure, and I’ll offer to fetch the mandolin, and then—crash thump bam—I’m falling down the stairs, and Oh, no! What have I done!
It’s going to work.
I drop the mandolin at home and ride my not-at-all trusty motorcycle to the market to do my shift as a grocery packaging technician—Paper or plastic?—and conjure up some texture and detail for the narrative as I work. I’m still adding finishing touches on the way home and walking up the front path to enter the house, and—
My mom and Rick are sitting on the brown sofa in the living room, the mandolin on the table in front of them.
“Austin,” says Rick, “may I speak with you?”
Like I said, this is going to be a really bad conversation.
∗ ∗ ∗
“If I were still a prosecutor for the District Attorney’s office, I would address the court and say, ‘Considering the value of the instrument, one could easily make an argument that these actions constitute felony theft.’”
“Oh my God, Rick,” says my mom.
It’s a far worse conversation than I’d even imagined.
We’re sitting in the living room, my mom and Rick next to each other on the sofa, me in the chair. On the low coffee table in front of us is exhibit A, a vintage Gibson mandolin with its delicate arching back staved in and ruined, the curvature of the splintered wound conforming more or less to the shape of my skull. Corroborating evidence: the large Band-Aid on my forehead.
“Rick,” says my mom, “Austin is going to replace the mandolin.” She sights down an index finger at me. “You are going to pay Rick back, mister!”
Rick waves a hand, dismissing the idea.
“No, he is going to pay you back!” insists my mom.
“I’ll pay you back,” I say feebly, already dreading the weeks I’ll have to work bagging groceries to earn the . . . what? Several hundred dollars?
“I doubt he’ll be able to do that,” says Rick, “unless he has approximately four thousand dollars lying around.”
Holy shyuuuuuuuh . . .
“Oh my God,” says my mom again.
∗ ∗ ∗
What can I do? The mandolin is still moist and covered with sand, so I tell them the truth as to borrowing it to play songs in a pastoral setting. I absolutely do not tell them about Todd playing whack-a-mole with my head. I tripped, I fell, there was a rock, end of story. You think I’m going to squeal on Todd? And have that get around school? No way. I’m in enough trouble as it is.
“Austin,” says Rick, shifting to the slow, deliberate speaking style he uses when he’s signaling that something is important, “I would feel. Remiss. If I didn’t. Express. My . . . deep disappointment.”
He doesn’t look at me as he says it, instead delivering his disapproval to a fixed spot somewhere on the tabletop in front of him. His fingers are steepled together, and he does a little dip with his hands to emphasize each major syllable. It’s only after he says “disappointment” that he shifts his gaze to lock onto mine so I can feel the full weight of his reproach.
I drop my gaze. I hate him at this moment. Just hate him. I hate him and his blond hair and designer glasses and golf shirts and Prada shoes and forty-two years, eight years older than my mom. I hate him even more so because I’ve provided him with yet another opportunity to play parent, a creeping and creepy pattern that’s been growing in frequency since he appeared on the scene a year ago. Rick offering to take me to museums or movies or to see music. Rick buying me presents on my birthday. Rick wanting to hear my songs. Rick giving me life advice. Rick really thinks you’re special, says my mom. He thinks you’re great. He truly loves you. Well, guess what? I hate him.
I know what I’m supposed to say but can’t.
My mom kicks me in the right shin.
“Um srry,” I mumble.
“What?” says my mom.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
No one moves. Then she says, “Rick, could we . . . ?”
I don’t look up to see what she means, but I hear him rise out of his chair and I watch his feet and legs stride out of the frame of my field of vision. I listen to him pass me to my left and step out the door to the front porch.
“Austin,” says my mother. “Austin, look at me.”
I look up and feel my face flush, my heart beating.
“Austin, they told me you weren’t at summer school today.”
“Yes,” I whisper hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”
She nods. Then she reaches over to the oversize book sitting on the coffee table in front of her, lifts one side of it, and pulls out a glossy brochure from underneath. She wordlessly positions it on the table so that it’s facing me.
MARYMOUNT ACADEMY it says.
The cover photo is of a line of boys my age in uniform, standing at rigid attention against a Photoshopped background of the Stars and Stripes.
I look at her, mouth open.
“I’ve already contacted them,” says my mom. “They have scholarships. You remember cousin Eddie?”
Legendary cousin Eddie, famed in our two-member family lore for sticking up a Tulsa convenience store at fifteen. I continue to gape.
“He went there. He was being even more of a little turd than you—although you’re giving him a run for his money—and it straightened him right out.”
“Mom,” I finally stutter, “you can’t do that.”
“Yes I can,” she says. “I can and I will. I swear it. Austin,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper, “I love you, but you’re scaring me. You have to complete your summer school. You have to graduate. You have to grow up. You have to. And now you do this. Austin, I just can’t . . . I don’t . . . I really . . .”
I see it coming and I’m cringing, steeling myself, and now it’s here, the point where she breaks down, where the tears well up and her sentences fracture into disorder and incoherence: “. . . might lose my job . . . don’t want to ruin things with Richard . . . can’t deal . . . can’t deal . . .”
You understand it, right? How a mom can be your best bud, and fun and funny and full of life and want to take you hot-air ballooning or polka dancing and attract someone like Rick to her because of that spirit, and still be like this—so fragile.
It destroys me when she acts this way. It’s far worse than the threat to send me to milit
ary school. She can yell at me or ignore me or grind CDs in the garbage disposal or throw a bowl of cereal at my head, which she did once. But this, I have no defense against it. All I want is to make it stop, to make it better.
“I’m sorry, Mom, I’m sorry,” I say over and over. I feel her dread that she’ll be abandoned, that Richard will go, and I realize that even though I can’t stand him, I don’t want him to leave my mother. And I really don’t want to join the proud ranks of Marymount Academy. Right now, I’ll do anything to fix it all. It’s the new Austin from now on, hard-working, no screwing around, no stress for my mom. “I’ll fix it, Mom. I’ll fix it,” I say, hugging her, and she garbles something at me that I think indicates she wants me to go say as much to Rick. So I do.
He cocks his head expectantly when I step out onto the front porch—Well, young man, what have you got for me?—and I have to fight the urge to scream. Instead I say, “Rick, I’m sorry. Really. It was dumb. I’ll pay you back. I don’t make very much money at my job, but I’ll figure something out. I promise.”
He nods sagely. “I appreciate your taking responsibility. I’ve discussed the matter with your mother, and also the matter of your grades and summer school. Which is equally important, if not more so. And actually, Austin, I think we can address both issues, and I’d like to propose a solution.”
I’ll throw stones at you / until you notice / break your heart /
so you’ll fix mine / drive you off / so you’ll come closer /
I’ll be your anti-Valentine
School smells different during the summer. It sounds different too: empty and echoey and hollow. A barely detectable airy whoooosh of the HVAC system. I sort of like it, the sense of unrippled serenity, the interior cool and quiet and deserted, and I feel self-conscious about the squeaking of my high-tops on the polished granite of the corridors.
There were a few cars in the parking lot when I arrived on my motorcycle, but so far I haven’t seen or heard another soul—I just went in door five, surprised that it was open, and made my way through the near silence toward the classroom where I’m supposed to meet my math tutor.
The Bad Decisions Playlist Page 2