Crash (Band Nerd Book 3)

by Danica Avet

  “All those eeney-meeney-miney-moes,” I mutter. At her confused expression I elaborate. “Botticelli, Bernini, Michelangelo. They sound like eeney-meeney-miney-moe.” She laughs, her eyes sparkling and I feel myself puff up with pleasure.

  “I’d think you’d feel some kinda national pride,” she drawls. “Bein’ a Cracchiolo and all.”

  I shrug with a smirk. “The Italian’s so watered down by coonass, it’s practically nonexistent. Although my nana would slap me up back of the head for saying that. She’s all about Italian pride even though she’s a hundred percent French.” There’s a light of true interest in her eyes that prompts me to continue and I can’t help but wonder why she doesn’t miss her family. Mine might drive me insane, but I love them. “She has a house right between my parents and my uncle and refuses to move with either of them because she says they drive her crazy.”

  “Y’all sound close,” she murmurs, turning toward me and curling her legs up on her seat.

  “We are. Moiselle Bayou is a close-knit community. It’s where I grew up,” I explain when she quirks an eyebrow.

  “I thought you grew up in LaSalle.”

  I shake my head, stretching my legs out. “Nope. Moiselle is about twenty miles outside of LaSalle. It’s got one road in or out and nearly everyone’s related in some way or another. But when I decided I wanted to go to college, Sauvage was the only place I even thought of going to.”

  Jolene rests her cheek against the chair, looking at me with smiling eyes. “Do you go home a lot?”

  I make a face. “Not as much as I should according to my mom,” I joke and her smile fades, remembering what she’d said about her mama being upset she didn’t go home.

  I try to picture where she might’ve lived. Going by the way she acts, it was probably some great big ole house. Her mama a socialite or something.

  The thought makes me feel a little inadequate so I clear my throat. “I was thinking, you know Mardi Gras is comin’ up at the end of the month.”

  She nods slowly, a small smile lighting her face. “I’m looking forward to going to my first parade.”

  “Yeah, they can be fun as long as you’re not marching in them.” I start drumming my fingers on my leg as I work up the courage to ask her what I really want to. Fuck, am I sweating? I fight the urge to wipe my forehead. “Uh, yeah, so we have our own tradition on Fat Tuesday; food, music, parade, and all that. I, um, invite a few people to come home with me every year to my parents’ to check it out and I thought since this is your first Mardi Gras, you might want to come.”

  She’s staring at me and I want to kick my own ass for rushing through the invitation. It’s true I invite people back to Moiselle with me. Mom loves entertaining and— Fuck. Inviting Jolene, the only girl I’ve ever brought home with me, means I’ll have to explain to Mom and Nana and all my aunts exactly who she is.

  Jesus. They’ll want to plan a wedding.

  “Nessie and Becca said something about New Orleans,” Jolene says slowly, breaking into the possible nightmare I’ll face when the entire family decides it’s time to marry me off.

  New Orleans for Mardi Gras? All those drunk men eyeing her like a side of beef? And flashing for beads? Fuck. No. Unless she’s flashing me. Then I’d probably give her my prized drum kit.

  “You don’t want to do that,” I blurt. She blinks in surprise at the vehemence in my voice. I need to slow my roll. “Uh, it’s just really crowded and can get wild.” Then I realize I’m telling her what to do. Again. And that isn’t making her happy at all if the mutinous expression on her face is anything to go by. “I’ll invite them too, if you want,” I offer a little desperately. “They’ve probably never been to a parade like that. It’ll be fun.” Pulling out the big guns, I give her the puppy dog expression I used to give Mom when she was about to fuss me for something. “Please?”

  A pretty blush rises in her cheeks and she looks away, her eyelashes dipping down for a moment. “Well maybe. I’ll have to ask Nessie and Becca,” she says softly. “But I think I’d like to go.”

  Sitting back with a satisfied smile, I tell her, “You won’t regret it.”

  Jolene

  I try not think about Crash’s offer as I drag myself into the dorms later that evening. He’s just being nice, inviting me to hang out with him and his family. He’ll probably ask a lot of the guys from ensemble so it’ll be just like a regular get together. Still, my heart flutters as I push my way through the door on my floor. It’s stupid to hope for more with him, but it’s better than thinking about that call from Mama last night.

  The nasty, swamping emotion of despair and depression threatens to squash my giddiness over Crash’s invite, but he’s here. Mama and my sisters are not, so I allow myself to hope there’s more to his invitation than just friendship.

  But even that feeling fades as I realize Kimber isn’t expecting me to be back so soon. The original plan, which I wrote on the calendar she makes me fill out in our room, was that when the ensemble landed at Louis Armstrong we’d all go to Princess’s parents’ timeshare in the French Quarter. With it being the weekend, everyone wanted to go out to a nice dinner and have some fun, but the loss and the guys’ partying the night before meant no one was in any condition to go out tonight.

  Which means Kimber is going to be surprised to see me back so soon. With her normal attitude toward me filled with loathing, hatred, and impatience, I have no doubt me walking in our room is going to have her surprised as well. I really don’t want to see Kimber Mosch surprised.

  I’m tempted to knock on Darla St. Pierre’s room so I can hang out with her and Tina tonight. They know how Kimber is and wouldn’t mind if I slept on their floor, but I want my bed. I want a shower too. And I want to daydream about Crash in peace and quiet.

  Squaring my shoulders, I stroll to my room. Okay, I’m so scared I couldn’t spit if someone yelled fire, but that’s my room too. Not just hers. If she isn’t happy about it, she can leave the way she always does when I’m around. Or I can leave. But I won’t. I’m tired and drained from my emotions flip-flopping all over the place. I’ll just ignore her.

  With that in mind, I push open our door. One great thing about Sauvage State and its maintenance department is that the buildings are all in great shape. If hinges get squeaky, they’re fixed almost immediately. That’s come in handy when I sneak into our room once I’m sure Kimber’s asleep. I’m hopeful that she’s off somewhere being angry, but those hopes are dashed when I step inside.

  Right into a swell of sweet, airy music. Shock holds me immobile as I stare at Kimber sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, and lips pursed as she plays a beautiful flute. I don’t know much about woodwind instruments; I’m a brass player through and through, but even I can tell by the clear sound and the gleam of gold that this is a topnotch flute. Like beyond anything I’ve ever seen in person. Although it’s the way Kimber plays it that shows off the quality of the craftsmanship that went into making it.

  She sways slightly, her forehead furrowed as she concentrates on the music. She’s really, really good. I don’t know what song she’s playing, but she knows it by heart, never faltering once as she trills and throws vibrato here and there, the music almost magical the way she performs it. I had no clue she was a musician. I’ve never seen her in any classes and the little I’ve gleaned over the months is that she’s a Mass Communication major, yet she plays that flute like she was born to it.

  Finally, she brings the song to an end, opening her eyes and shrieking when she sees me standing in the doorway. “What the fuck are you doing?” she screeches, her face turning red as she jumps to her feet.

  Calmly closing the door behind me, I drop my bag and my trumpet case. “So it’s okay for you to play in here, but not me,” I say flatly, not addressing the beauty of her performance. That isn’t the point.

  “Fuck you,” she snarls as she starts to disassemble her flute.

  “It would be nice and save me a lot of time if I c
ould practice in here without going to Tauzin Hall.”

  She’s in profile, but I still see her lip curl. “Yeah, well, I don’t really want to walk in here and watch you practicing blowing anything.”

  God, she’s meaner than a wet panther. “Why are you always so rude? I’ve never done anything to you but try to be nice.”

  The flute case snaps closed before she turns on me, sneer in place as she crosses the distance between us until she’s right in my face. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re nice. What, you went through all the boys on campus already so you’re trying to broaden your circle of fuck buddies? Sorry, Jolene,” she says my name with such scorn, I feel my temper rising. “Even if I was into pussy, yours is too well-used for my liking.”

  The crack of palm meeting cheek is loud. My hand tingles and as I stare at a wide-eyed Kimber, a red mark in the shape of it forms on her cheek. I didn’t mean to slap her, but I’ve had enough of her barbs and hatred.

  “You hit me,” she whispers, taking a shocked step back.

  I nod although I’m feeling a little shaky myself. I’ve been in physical fights with my sisters, but I’ve never hit anyone who wasn’t related to me before and I don’t like that she provoked me into doing it to her.

  But I’m not going to let her see it. “Someone should’ve done it a long time ago,” I tell her firmly. “Yeah, I grew up in a trailer park. Yeah, I’m poor and boys like me for only one thing, but my mama would’ve taken a switch to my backside if I ever talked to someone the way you do me and everyone else who has the bad luck of runnin’ into you.” Although Mama has no problem talking that way to her daughters. Like last night’s phone call. But again, that isn’t the point. “You’ve got a chip on your shoulder for some reason and someone should knock it off.”

  I pick up my bag and case, pushing around her to reach my side of the room. Maybe if I ignore her, she’ll go away so I can calm myself. Of course I’ll probably have to sleep with one eye open in case she tries to smother me the way she threatened to when she first moved in the room, but I’m tired of her attitude.

  “You want to know why I have this chip on my shoulder?” she asks in a strangely quiet voice.

  Quickly dropping my things on my bed in case she comes after me, I turn to face her. She’s all flushed—the most color I’ve seen on her since we’ve been rooming together—and her eyes are bright with hatred, hurt, and tears. I refuse—refuse—to feel bad for slapping her.

  Okay, I feel horrible.

  “It’s because of girls like you,” she answers before I can respond that I do not want to know why she hates me because I’m sure the list is long and highly insulting. “Girls like you who think because they’re pretty and popular they can do whatever they want, hurt whoever they want without worrying about the consequences.” Those tears start slipping down her face, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Girls who act like they’re your best friend in front of you, yet the minute you turn your back they talk about you. Make fun of you.”

  In this moment, she looks young, not as hard. Almost against my will, my heart catches. I know the kinds of girls she’s talking about. They’d whispered and laughed about me too, except they did it without trying to be nice in front of me.

  Kimber reaches for the black band on her wrist, yanking at it angrily and I tense. I’ve never seen her without them on and part of me really does think she carries a weapon on her at all times, but it falls away and she holds up her arm.

  There on her wrist is a thick raised scar marring her pale skin. It’s ugly. Painful looking. And obviously self-inflicted. My heart twists.

  “Girls like you make fat girls like me want to kill themselves,” she whispers harshly, lowering her arm and calmly wrapping the band around her wrist again. “They pick and poke and lie and they don’t stop until their prey is either dead or nearly dead. But I’m not anyone’s prey. Not anymore.”

  Implying I’m one of the predators. Me. The girl who never tried to make those girls take their words back, who never fought for the boyfriends who used me without a second thought to my feelings.

  “Do you think you’re the only person who’s ever been bullied or made fun of? Who’s been pushed around just because of what you look like, where you come from, or who your family is?” I’m yelling, so angry at the thought of her believing I’m one of those girls that I let her have it with both barrels. “I’ve lived it for eighteen years. I was labeled a whore before I even knew what that word meant because of my family. No,” I correct myself abruptly. “My mother who whored herself, yet we were all slapped with the same paint brush because we were hers. But I learned just because they say it doesn’t make it true. I’m not a whore and you’re not fat.”

  I’m breathing hard and fast, all that hatred from Mama coming back to me, the way she blamed me for everything that went wrong in her life. As though it’s okay to sleep your daughter’s way to fame and fortune, then turn on her like a rattlesnake when she shows some ethics and morals.

  But Kimber’s staring at me with shock on her face and I make myself think. “Now this is gonna shock you, but everyone has scars. Everyone has a past and bad things that happened to them. It’s up to you how you go from there. You can be bitter and hateful, or you can try to make friends.” She opens her mouth, but I stall her by holding up my hand. “I was scared to talk to anyone, scared they’d only see—what did you call me? Trailer Trash Barbie?”

  She has the good grace to look ashamed of herself, but I’m not done.

  “Then I got here and found out that there are good people in this world,” I say a little more calmly. I think of my friends, and yes, of Crash and sit on my bed with a heavy sigh. “People who’ll have your back and love you no matter what. People who’ll fight for you instead of with you.” I look at her a little helplessly. “You just have to stop acting so stuck up you could drown in a rainstorm. Give folks a chance before they stop tryin’ to show you they can be trustworthy.”

  Kimber sits on her bed directly across from me and we stare at each other.

  Finally, she blinks and looks down, “I—” She stops and laces her fingers together, hands in her lap.

  “I’d like to practice my trumpet in here sometimes,” I finally say when she continues stalling as though she isn’t sure what to do with herself.

  She doesn’t need to apologize to me. Knowing what I know now explains why she’s so hateful and defensive towards everyone. It doesn’t make it right, but it makes sense now.

  “I don’t care,” she mutters, her fingers twisting hard enough her knuckles are white. She suddenly stops. “I mean, that’s fine. Just not when I’m trying to study or sleep.”

  “Okay.”

  An awkward silence fills our room. That mark on her cheek stands out like a beacon and I wince. “Um, I’m sorry I slapped you.”

  Her gaze finally meets mine. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch.”

  We stare at each other again before my lips start twitching. Her yellow eyes turn a little flinty so I explain, “I was just wonderin’ how much that apology hurt to say.”

  Her nostrils flare, the little piercing glinting in the light. For a second, I expect her to come at me again with more verbal abuse, but then she sighs, slumping her shoulders. “It hurt like a motherfucker,” she admits. Then she sits straight up, a look of horror dawning on her face. “Wait a minute, just because...you know, this happened, doesn’t mean I’m gonna start being nice to you all the time or anything.”

  I get up and start unpacking my bag. “Don’t worry,” I say, glad I’m facing away so she doesn’t see me grinning. “I wouldn’t want you to go into sugar shock from all the sweetness bubblin’ inside you. Now, how about you tell me about that gorgeous flute?”

  Jolene

  March

  This is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen and that includes the time the Piggly-Wiggly had a going out of business sale in Pepper Ridge. People are shoulder to shoulder, all of them laughing, talking, shouting up at the floats
as they pass by. But that isn’t the part that’s crazy. It’s the people on the floats.

  I duck as another pack of beads comes flying through the air, caught by Becca’s Uncle Johnny T. He’s apparently a popular man because it’s been like this all night. If Nessie and Becca hadn’t warned me about it, I’d probably be knocked unconscious.

  Still, despite the threat of concussion, I’m enjoying myself. The Krewe of Sagittarius kicks off the one-weekend long carnival season in LaSalle and it’s the most outlandish thing I’ve ever been a part of. From the fancy floats, to the high school marching bands, to the crowd of spectators, it’s full of excitement, fun, and—

  Someone knocks into me for the fifth time.

  “I’m sorry,” the man slurs, his beer breath washing over me.

  Drunk people everywhere.

  I give him a tight smile and move. The area in front of Wicked Bones Tattoo Shop is supposed to be cordoned off just for Johnny T’s friends, family, and employees, but apparently there are no rules during Mardi Gras. However, I’m not going to let a few drunk men trying to cop a feel destroy my first carnival experience. I have a neck packed with pretty, long beads, a fake rose tucked in my ponytail, and I’m watching my friends enjoy themselves. It’s awesome.

  Well, except I really need to pee. Glancing around for Becca and Nessie, I see them talking to a few guys. It’s been like that most of the night. Mardi Gras seems to be as much a social occasion as a holiday, where old friends meet up, or new friends are made, and those two have been chatting with tons of people all night. We’re supposed to be sticking together, but one benefit to being surrounded by most of Mr. Johnny’s family and friends is they’re not really allowing much to happen. Plus, being in front of Wicked Bones means we have a bathroom that isn’t a port-a-let.

  “Becca,” I shout over the noise of the approaching marching band. She looks around and spots me. “Bathroom,” I mouth, not wanting to let everyone know where I’m going. “Stay there, I’ll be right back.”