But there was something about the way he carried himself, something about the way he looked disinterested in everyone, not because he was arrogant, just because he was preoccupied with something in his thoughts, that always made Andy the kind of guy you wanted to know. Whose thoughts you wanted to read. The kind of guy who you somehow knew was more than what he seemed.
And that year, when I sat near him, I realized I was right. Andy Cooper was cool. And a little bit of a paradox. I mean, sure he wore khaki shorts and boat shoes without socks, and looked like he might be a conceited prick, but the boy read poetry and liked Van Gogh. He carried a book of poems with him all year, and in class discussions, he always said some pretty deep stuff that made me forgive his prettiness.
Most times when I saw him in the halls, he was by himself. But the weird thing is Andy was incredibly popular. I think everyone wanted to figure him out, or maybe everyone thought they had him figured out. Maybe that was the problem. Either way, I think everyone felt weirdly drawn to him even though he was never really close to anybody in particular. People knew him, but they didn’t really know him. Only if you watched him day in and day out for a few years, did you realize Andy wasn’t at all who you would think he was. I feel like only I knew that. And maybe Zeena Fuller, who was the only girl Andy ever dated that I knew of.
I close my eyes. I see Andy glancing back at me saying, “I’m crazy.” Did he really say that?
I run through the memory again, trying to recall everything exactly as it happened. But the harder I try to remember, the more unsure I am of what he said, until I’m left wondering if that moment even happened at all.
The doorbell rings, cutting into my thoughts, and I listen as Mom answers the front door. I hear a tone of surprise in her voice as she talks to whoever it is, and then the door shuts with a thud and footsteps get louder as someone comes down the hallway to my room. I look at my clock. Noon.
There’s a knock on my partially open door. “French?” It’s Joel. A small surge of annoyance shoots through me.
“Come in,” I say, but he doesn’t. “I said come in.”
“I have to make an entrance,” he says from the other side.
I sit up and look at the door.
“Are you ready?” he calls.
“Yeah, I guess. But what do you mean?” The door opens slowly, and then I see him and nearly die.
“Well?” Joel says. “What do you think?”
“What the hell, Joel!” I think he’s gone mad. I think I’m going to cry.
“It was Lily’s idea; she’s the one who did it, actually. But I was so ready for it,” he says.
Of course it was Lily’s idea. Who else would advise Joel to shave off his dreads.
He rubs his hand through his now nonexistent hair as he comes in my room. He sits down on the edge of my bed and all I can do is stare. It doesn’t even look like Joel anymore.
“It’s crazy, huh?” he says with a grin. And then looks at me like he’s waiting for an answer.
I close my mouth. Open it again. Then close it and swallow the lump in my throat.
“Well?” he demands, “Say something.”
“It’s so . . . different.”
“Different? Oh man, French. Why don’t you just tell me I look like shit?”
“No, no, you look good. It’s just . . . different. You look so . . .”
“Dashing?” He laughs again, and I swear, it’s like I haven’t seen him this peppy in a long time, and that’s saying a lot since he’s been so freaking happy lately anyway. He almost seems . . . lighter.
“Lily loves it. But I gotta admit, I kind of freaked out when she suggested it last night, but then I thought it really is time.” He looks around my room. “I’m kind of ready for something new, you know? I mean, think about it. This is probably the one time in our lives that we can really do what we want, right? Someday, even though we say we won’t, we’ll probably become these people who have to think about shit like jobs and house payments and all that crap, but right now . . . well, right now we can do anything. Think of all the things we can do. And . . .” He shakes his head like he’s embarrassed. “I know it sounds stupid or whatever, but cutting my dreads made me feel like I’m ready for anything, you know what I mean? I’m ready to kind of leave all this.” He gestures to everything around him.
“What, my bedroom is getting to be too much for you?” I ask. He laughs.
“No, you know what I mean. Just everything. This place. This town.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say, though I don’t. Not really. I can’t understand Joel’s excitement for the future because I just want to escape the present. And I kind of envy and can’t stand his enthusiasm.
I stare at his head and it makes me sad, too. I picture Lily cutting off his dreads, how they would just fall to the floor, cut off from Joel. And then get thrown out like they were never a part of him at all. I almost feel like asking him if he thought to put them in a box and bury them, like they rightfully deserved.
“Which is why your stupid ass should have found a place for us in Chicago while you were there,” I say. “We could already be out of here.”
He messes with his head again. “Right, I know. But like I said, I couldn’t find a whole lot.”
I pull at a stray piece of thread from my blanket.
“We’ll figure it out,” he says, and we sit there quietly. Suddenly he gets up and starts messing with the stuff on my corner night table.
“Hey,” he says holding up an old picture, “this one’s from my birthday?”
“Yeah,” I say, though I don’t really feel like reminiscing with Joel right now. I kind of wish he’d just leave.
The picture is one of him purchasing cigarettes. We made a big show of it and the guy at the counter thought we were freaks when I said to him, “Mama and Daddy and I are proud of this one,” and I nodded in Joel’s direction. “Our whole family’s future is riding on him. Don’t forget the lotto tickets, Brother!”
“Damn, French, that was so funny. How do you come up with shit like that?” Joel asks. We’ve laughed about that story countless times, so I know it’s what he’s referring to.
I shrug. “It’s a gift,” I say, even though it seems like a long time since I’ve been funny. I picture us that day, how we sat outside scratching off lotto tickets, winning more free tickets, and then ten dollars that we used for a show that night.
“We saw the Purple Lemons that night,” he says and puts down the picture. He picks up my book of Emily Dickinson’s poems and leafs through it.
“Good band,” I say.
“Yeah, good times, French.”
“Yeah, good times.”
“What’s Em up to these days?” he says as he closes the book and sets it back down on my table.
“Oh, you know her. . . . Just some secret late-night cemetery raves,” I answer.
“Cool,” he says and smiles. The room gets quiet again and I wonder why this conversation with Joel suddenly feels so forced. Why he’s been here ten minutes already and we’re not listening to the Vinyls yet, or searching for cool new bands on the Internet. He sits down at the edge of my bed again.
“Oh, hey, I can’t believe I forgot to tell you. So remember Lily’s show at Zylos?”
Here we go again. I say, “Yeah.”
“Well there was this agent there and he seemed pretty interested in the band and got Sugar’s info. Lily thought it was no big deal, but it turns out this guy is like a legit agent. And he’s going to their show again tonight at the Stage.”
The Stage. My stomach turns at the name of this other club downtown. “Uh, that’s cool,” I say. I pick up the remote and turn on the TV. My favorite animated movie that’s been in the DVD player for the last few months flashes on the screen.
“The Iron Giant,” Joel says, “I haven’t seen this in forever.”
“I’m sick of it,” I lie as I switch to TV mode and start flipping through the channels.
“So, you’ll b
e there, right? Lily can use all the support.”
I stare at the screen. I hate that Joel assumes that I even want to support Lily. But even if I wanted to, there’s no way I could go to that place ever again.
“Last time I went there, you totally ditched me,” I remind him.
“What?” I stare at him. “Oh . . . yeah, that. Sorry,” he says. I can’t believe he almost forgot. That night we were all supposed to meet up and then he and Lily didn’t show up. And I was there, alone. And that’s why everything else went the way it did that night. “But that was forever ago. And I promise, I’ll be there this time,” he says.
Of course he will. That’s where Lily will be.
“I’d go, but Robyn and I are seeing a movie tonight . . . ,” I say. I figure I can convince Robyn to go to a movie instead.
“No, I talked to Robyn already,” Joel looks at me with a confused expression. “She’s going to the show so she can see Bobby.”
“Oh . . . maybe she forgot,” I say.
“Besides, I mean, this is like an agent.” And the way he says it basically means that Lily’s show is way more important than anything else. “It starts at ten but come earlier so we can hang out,” he says, getting up. And even though I wished he would leave just moments ago, I also want him to stay. Now I want him to be here with me like he’s always been, like I always thought he would be. If he could just stay in this room and not talk about Lily, not go on with his own life while I’m stuck in mine, and just be here so that I wouldn’t be alone, that would help.
The phrase misery loves company runs through my head and I feel like a terrible human being.
“Hey,” I say, “Want to go to Harold’s?”
He smiles. “Aw, man. I wish I could. But I told Lily I’d be back to help her check the equipment and then we have to load it up and . . .” He stops himself.
“What, are you her roadie now or something?”
“Yeah, I know right?” he says, breezing through my sarcasm. But suddenly we’re both quiet and there’s an awkward silence again and he says, “But you know what, I can be late. It’s no big deal. Just let me call Lily. . . .”
“No, no,” I say, suddenly feeling like a pity case. “Go, it’s no big deal.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Positive. Get out of here.”
“Another time, okay? I promise.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “When we catch that movie together.”
“Right,” he says and smiles. “So, I’ll see you later?”
“Later,” I say. He leaves and I watch him go. And I don’t know how he’s done it, but Joel has managed to make me feel even more miserable than when he first walked in with his missing dreads. I can’t even stand myself. I can’t stand being in my own skin. I turn my attention back to the TV and flip through more channels. I wonder if Andy can see everything happening down here. What does he think of me now?
Chapter 10
I’m curious if Joel asked me to go to Lily’s show because he really wants to hang out with me or if he’s just worried about there being a good turnout. Or maybe he knows I don’t have anything else better to do and feels sorry for me. I wish I had an excuse to get out of it, but I don’t. I don’t even have a job anymore. I got fired. Or maybe I quit. I’m still not really sure because I just walked out during my shift the day after Andy’s funeral and never went back.
“Frenchie?” Mom says and comes into my room shortly after Joel leaves. I pull my covers over my head and pretend to be asleep because I don’t feel like dealing with the question of why I’m still in bed.
“French?” she pulls the covers off and I look up to see her standing at the foot of my bed.
“What are you doing?” she asks, as if me lying in bed doesn’t speak for itself. But she waits for an answer.
“I’m lying down, Mom,” I say, wishing she’d go away.
She frowns. “Still?” I get irritated because it’s such a stupid question. “Are you sick?” she asks.
“No, Mom. I just want to lie here is all.”
“But in the middle of the day?” she says, like it’s illegal.
“Do you need something?” I ask pulling the covers back over my head again and tucking them around me.
“No, you’re just so quiet. I thought I’d make sure you weren’t dead or something.” She kind of laughs and I cringe because it’s not funny. Some mothers do find their kids dead in their bedrooms.
“Why is it so dark in here? Open the window,” she says, opening the blinds. “God, French. You can’t just hole yourself up in here this way.” Mom is not really the kind of person you can get rid of easily by mumbling nothing to. She will keep at it until you give her some kind of answer.
“I’m having a midlife crisis,” I say from under the covers. The brightness of the light Mom has let in casts a reddish glow underneath my blanket. It’s like I’m inside a hellish festive casket.
She laughs. “You’re only seventeen. How can you be having a midlife crisis?”
“Maybe I’m going to die at thirty or something, in which case, I’m late.”
“Don’t say that.” She’s quiet for a minute, and I know she’s staring at me. I can feel it. “Frenchie?” she says. I can picture her, standing there, with her hands on her hips. I make pretend snoring sounds. “Frenchie?” she presses again.
I know she’s not going to leave unless I act semiserious.
I pull the blanket down. “Yes, Mother?” I say.
“Are you okay?” She looks at me with concern and it makes me feel both sad and guilty.
That cold, sweaty, nauseated feeling that makes you feel like you’ve eaten rotten oysters washes over me. I’ve never eaten oysters because they gross me out, but this is what I imagine it would feel like to eat bad ones. The acid from earlier creeps back up my throat.
“I’m fine,” I say, because saying this means I don’t have to really explain anything more.
She stands there silently for a moment before sitting on my bed. “You can’t get depressed just because life kicks you down sometimes,” she says softly. “You’re an amazing girl.” She looks around at my own paintings that I’ve hung up in my room. “Just look at these”—she says, shaking her head, and continues—“so you didn’t get in. Big deal. You try again.”
“Mom.” I groan. “I’m still going to Chicago. I’m fine, really,” I tell her. For somebody who doesn’t want me to dwell on it, she sure does bring it up a lot.
“I know, I know. And I’m glad you’ll get to take in the whole art scene there while you reapply. You have a plan, and it’s a great plan, but I just hate to see the rejection . . . ,” she says the word slowly, “get you down like this. I mean, you’re at a point in your life where you really have everything ahead of you,” she says. And the way she says this and smiles afterward, I know she actually believes it. I don’t have the heart to tell her that I no longer imagine myself walking around Chicago, hanging out in cool coffeehouses and art galleries. All I see is me, in this bed, in this room, forever.
It’s crazy how parents try to make you feel better and leave you feeling even more shitty than you did before.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “And I promise, I’ll get started on a new piece soon for the reapplication and everything. But right now, I’m just tired. Besides, I’m going to a show with Joel and Robyn later.”
“Oh,” she says and smiles, “a new piece is good. I can’t wait to see it.”
“I promise, Mom,” I say.
“All right then. But I’m not going to let you stay in this room forever. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say and Mom leaves. I roll over on my side and pull the blanket over my head again.
Chapter 11
I pull into one of the parking lots near the Stage and turn off the engine.
You can do this, I tell myself. I sit there wondering if I can really do this, if I can really go into this club again. But it’s just a club. It’s no big deal, right?
When I get to the line outside, the heavy feeling in my stomach somehow makes its way up to my chest. I close my eyes and take some deep breaths as I wait in line. The girl next to me is trying to look bored, but I can tell she’s wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
I imagine gasping for breath and grabbing onto this girl’s already torn fluorescent green shirt. She’d probably snarl at me and let me fall to the ground while her boyfriend watches with detachment and apathy. Then they’d probably just step over my sprawled out body on the sidewalk, as I make horrible sounds in my futile efforts to breathe.
I shake my head, trying to think normally again. I give the guy at the door my ID. He hands it back, slaps an “under 21” bracelet on my wrist, and waves me in. Except I don’t move.
I’m paralyzed. I look inside and that night from four months ago comes rushing back to me. Everything is exactly the same as it was. The same reddish lights, the same mass of people. The same loud music.
“Are you going in or what?” the ID guy asks me impatiently.
The girl who was next to me is now behind me, and she’s shoving her arm over me, waving her ID in the guy’s face.
“Listen, if you’re not going in . . . ,” the guy says, ignoring her.
“I’m going, I’m going,” I say and slowly walk in. Despite myself, despite my rational thinking, I look over to the far corner of the club, where I saw Andy that night. Part of me expects to see him there, staring back at me.
I can’t believe I’m back here, and I briefly wonder if maybe I’m dreaming. I look around, taking everything in under the swirling red and gold lights. The Stage is two stories and has a red and gold theme. It reminds me of an old theater, which I guess is the reason for its name. The bottom floor has a huge audience area that is kind of lower than the stage. The stage is surrounded on either side by a few high tables with no chairs, and a bar directly across from it. The top story is balcony-like because it’s recessed and you can see everything that’s onstage and the audience below.
Death, Dickinson, and the Demented Life of Frenchie Garcia Page 5