by Cat Mason
“I mentioned the break in the tour when I called last week,” I remind her. “I also called you earlier today when we stopped and left you messages here and at the lab.”
“Hmm,” she says, sounding completely shocked. Releasing me, she glances back at my father. “Brady, did you put it on the board? I know I’d have remembered had we written it down.”
“It’s fine,” I say, knowing that one will blame the other and it will only be another twenty minutes of conversation that won’t get anyone anywhere. “You’re busy, I get it. These things happen. Anyway, I’m just going to eat really quick and crash. I’m beat.” Turning, I make my way back into the kitchen to check my dressed up French fries.
“Well, had we known,” my mother says, stepping into the kitchen, “you could have accompanied us for dinner with the Miller’s and Bob Shultz. You remember Janice Miller. All she talked about was how exciting it must be being parents of a world famous rocker,” she rambles on and on about dinner, her back turned to me as she scribbles on the dry erase board and talks about people I have never met, as if they’re our closest relatives and I missed the family reunion. “I know!” Spinning around, she points the tip of the marker at me, a smile spreading across her face. “I should invite them to dinner, here, tomorrow night. They’d get a kick out of it.”
“I don’t know, Mom,” I say, using a pot holder to get the fries from the oven and placing the hot pan on the stove top.
“Oh, come on,” my dad says, stepping around the bar and opening the fridge. Digging out a container, he smiles at me while fumbling with the lid and popping it into the microwave. “You two girls could make an afternoon of it.”
Looking between them, my eyes stop on my mom. The excitement in her blue eyes is something I definitely don’t remember coming from anything that had to do with me. She found her joy in her work and my father was always there to push and take pride in each and every accomplishment, leaving no room for me. Though, I never liked it and wished it was different, I understood it was how it was supposed to be. In all my life, I was never invited to join in while my parents entertained guests. I was quickly shuttled off to bed or handled by sitters until I was old enough to handle myself. It’s always how it has been and I never in my wildest dreams expected it to change.
“Of course,” she says, agreeing with my father. “I suppose I could take a half day at the lab. You and I could spend the afternoon getting things ready.”
“Okay. Yeah, I guess that could be fun,” I reply with a nod. The words rushing out of me at the shock of her offering to leave work early.
“Prefect!” dad says, clapping his hands. “That settles it then. I’ll call in the morning and let them know that the plans have changed.”
Turning my attention back to my food, I peel back the foil and dump the steaming fries onto a plate. The delicious scent hits me, making my stomach rumble. Living on the bus or out of a hotel most of the time doesn’t always make it easy to eat well. Though I do my best to keep fresh fruit on hand, as much as possible, the guy’s diner habits have me eating a lot more French fries than I’m used to. I have learned that spices and seasonings are my taste buds’ best friends when it comes to dressing up a potato.
I don’t have the time, or desire, for anything in my life to be boring.
Unable to resist myself, I grab one and pop it into my mouth. “Mmm, just enough rosemary,” I say, reaching for another.
My father fumbles beside me, his attention going to my plate. “No, no, no, no. Try them like this.”
Before I can say a word, he dumps the contents of his container from the microwave onto my plate. My heart sinks, my appetite fading to nausea almost instantly. “I put turkey chili on everything. It is a dietary staple and should be its own food group.” Taking a fry, he swirls it through the meaty nightmare he just poured over my plate before shoving it into his mouth. “That’s so much better than the stuff they tried to pass off as edible tonight. I have never left a restaurant hungrier than I was when I entered. Hurry and eat them, or I will,” he taunts with a chuckle.
“Go for it,” I say, pushing the plate away. “I can’t eat that.”
“What on earth has gotten into you, Ireland?” he asks, lifting the plate and inhaling the scent.
Bile rises in my throat and I have to fight back the urge to heave into the sink. Or, better yet, onto the plate of food I can no longer eat. “I’m Vegan, Dad. I don’t eat meat.”
“That’s ridiculous,” my mother argues. My dad stands stock still, unable to say anything, his eyes going from me to the plate and back again. “Of course you eat meat. Who doesn’t eat meat?”
“Actually, a lot of people don’t eat meat, Mom,” I correct her. “As for me, I haven’t eaten meat since I was eleven years old and watched the movie Babe.”
For weeks, after watching that damn movie at school, I had nightmares. All I could see when I closed my eyes was talking animals being taken to slaughter, begging me for their lives, all with faces of people I knew. It was then that I began researching everything I could find. I quickly began realizing that animals have rights, the same as we do. They are living, breathing beings of this planet, no different than we are. I firmly believe that no one should live their lives in fear of being herded in mass quantity onto some truck and driven to where they are killed for the sake of someone’s sandwich filler.
I am fully aware that animal based products are heavily engrained in our society. There are some things that I simply cannot always avoid, especially with my life being as crazy as it is at times. I do, however, feel that I should do my part in making the world a better place for all who inhabit it. If I can lay my head down at night happy with the choices I have made, then it’s a good day.
“That’s just silly,” my father says, finally finding his words. “Not just cutting out the red meat for health’s sake, then, eh?” he asks, looking almost insulted as he studies me. I really should introduce my father to Hunter. “You’ve gone and cut it all out? Everything with a face? You know, potatoes have eyes, Smartass. Don’t expect me to jump on that bandwagon,” he chuckles, scrunching his face up in disgust.
“Night, Dad,” I say rolling my eyes. Scooping up my notebook and pen, I retreat up to my room to shower and crash for the night.
***
Just before two in the afternoon, I stand in the foyer, pacing, as I wait on my mother. By the time I woke up, they had already left, but her note on the kitchen island told me to be ready by noon. Not wanting to keep her waiting, I check my phone to be sure that there were no missed calls from Camaron, or anyone from the label, then hurry to get ready.
And she’s late…very late.
On my thousandth pass through the foyer, I stop and grab my cell phone from my bag on the table and scroll through my contacts for her number. It rings three times before going to her voicemail, that is completely full, and unable to accept messages. Confused, frustrated, and a little concerned, I search through my contacts for the number to the lab and press send.
“Lab eleven-thirty-two-b, Brady speaking,” my father’s voice says, his tone clear and professional.
“Dad?”
“Ireland,” he replies, sounding surprised. “How are you enjoying your break, dear? Do you need something?”
“Is mom on her way?” I ask, shaking my head. “What time is dinner tonight?”
“Oh,” he laughs, “Don’t worry. Your mother couldn’t possibly leave the lab early today. We have reservations for seven o’clock at Frazier’s.”
“We’re not cooking?” I ask, disappointed. I was going to take this dinner as a chance to show my parents, especially my dad, the foods I eat. I stayed up late planning out a 100% Vegan free meal that would make anyone’s mouth water.
“Of course not,” he replies, completely monotone. “I’ll text you the address. Do not be late.”
“I’m coming to dinner?” I ask, the shock clear in my voice. “I assumed…”
“Of course you are,�
�� he sighs into the phone. “Your mother and I put a great deal into this dinner, Ireland. We expect you to be there; counting on it.” I hear muffled voices and the mention of someone named Miranda. “I’ve got to run, Darling. We’ll see you tonight,” Is all I hear before the phone disconnects.
With more than enough time to kill before dinner, I give myself a once over in the large mirror in the foyer. Knowing that the silence of staying in the house all day will more than likely drive me insane, I grab my bag and keys. Digging in my bag, I retrieve the store list and shake my head. “Who would’ve thought I’d actually look forward to grocery shopping,” I laugh as I head for my car. Pinning my dark brown and purple hair up in a hat I keep in the glovebox, I cover my face with big black sunglasses in somewhat of an attempt at keeping a low profile for the sake of everyone’s sanity before pulling out and heading into town to shop and kill as much of the day as possible.
Chapter Five
Super Coolest Girl
Mack
“Can we go today? Can we? Can we puhleeeeeeeeeeease?”
“Oh pullin’ out the big guns, huh?” I ask, looking up at her in the rearview mirror. Leaning up in her seat, as much as the belt allows, Jazzie clamps her tiny hands together like she is preparing to pray. Wincing, I prepare myself for what is coming. five, four, three, two, one… Cue full on pout. She puffs out her bottom lip, it quivers as her big brown eyes widen innocently and fill with tears.
“Please, Mack. Pretty, pretty, pleeeeeeeease.”
As if I have a choice in the matter. I am helplessly wrapped around a six-year-old’s finger and will openly admit it.
Dramatically, I blow out a breath and check my exterior mirrors before signaling to change lanes. “I guess so,” I sigh. Glancing up into the mirror again, I wink at her. “But, you aren’t allowed to have any fun. None. You feel me?”
She giggles. That sound, I’d give damn near anything to hear that laugh every day. In the time I have worked with the band, I have made friends, in one way or another, with everyone, but I’ll admit I enjoy my time with Jazz the most. She doesn’t judge me and there are times she looks at me like I am the greatest person on the planet. I say something funny and it’s as if I hung the damn moon or something.
Only one other girl has ever looked at me like that and I was quick to disappoint her.
Flashers on a blue car ahead catch my attention, but that’s not what causes me to pull the car over to the shoulder. The woman beside the car has me stopping immediately. She kicks the flat tire before throwing her hands up.
“Is that Ireland?” Jazz says from the backseat.
“Stay here, Squirt.” Putting the car in park, I turn and give the kid my most serious face. “I mean it, no shenanigans outta you or we go straight home from here. You feel me?”
Nodding, she crosses her pink painted fingers over her heart. “Promise.”
Opening the door, I climb from the car, instantly met with one of Ireland’s profanity tirades. “Motherfuckin’ piece of shit car. Good for fuckin’ nothin’ roadside and their two shittin’ hour wait. Brand new tires my happy ass. Shit piss and sonuvabitch!” she screams, kicking the tire again.
“With all that hot air, you’d think you could just air it right back up and drive off.”
“This can’t be happening,” she mutters, before turning to face me. Her eyes narrow the second she sees me. “Of course it is. Nothing could top my day more than having the only person stop, in the last half hour, be you.” Turning to face her car, she buries her face in her arms on the roof. “I need a vacation from my vacation,” she mutters, her words muffled so much I can barely make them out.
“Does that toy even come with a spare?” I ask, amused with the situation. “If not, I think the kid has a balloon in the car we could use.”
“Ha,” she huffs, sarcastically. Pushing off the car, she glares at me. Her hair is pulled up in an old St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap, giving me a rare glimpse of her face without the veil of hair she usually hides behind. I can’t help eyeing up the rest of her. Her gray t-shirt and worn dark wash jeans hug every curve of her body all the way down to the brown combat boots she has left loosely laced and untied. Her make-up is subtle today, not the flashy emo-look she usually goes for lately. She looks like the girl I knew her to be. Except the smartass grin on her face, that’s new, but I can’t say it doesn’t suit her. It does, and it looks good on her. “I called road side assistance, not a comedian, asshole. Move on.”
“You were never taught how to change a tire, Ireland?” I ask in disbelief.
“No,” she snaps. “That’s why I have roadside, Dominick.”
“Those roadside clowns will keep you waitin until dark,” I tell her, knowing she probably has better luck winning the Powerball jackpot than having anyone show up in a tow truck around rush hour. Besides, Big Man would have my sack mounted on the grill of the bus if I left her here alone on the side of the road waiting for God knows how long on some stranger to come along and help her. “Pop the trunk. I’ll get you fixed up.”
Her brows furrow as she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, studying me, skeptically. “I don’t remember you being nice,” she says, opening the driver’s side door and hitting the release latch on the trunk.
“Do you want your car fixed, or not?”
“Ireland!” Jazzie screams from behind me.
Whipping around, my heart leaps up into my chest at the thought of her on the road with cars whipping past us. Her pigtails whip in the wind as she stands, poking through the now opened sunroof. “Sit down, Squirt. This will only take a minute.”
“Hi, Ireland!” she waves, ignoring me. “Did your car break?”
“Just my tire,” Ireland says, brushing by me and making her way around the passenger side of my car. “What did you do at school today?” she asks, leaning against the passenger side of the car and smiling at Jazz. “Drag racing? Trip to the moon? Win a Grammy?”
Looking at her, Jazzie scrunches her nose. “I’m only six ya big buncha crazy. Sheesh!”
Ireland throws her head back and laughs, the sound going straight to my cock. Fuck me. I haven’t heard that sound in years and, as if it was just yesterday, it has me by the throat.
“Excuses, excuses,” Ireland replies, her eyes glancing over at me before going back to the pint sized diva. “Why do they even send you to school all day if you’re not learning something useful?” she asks, causing both of them to giggle.
Reminding myself that I actually have a reason to be standing here on the side of the road, I dig through the trunk of Ireland’s car for the spare tire and jack. I keep myself amused with jokes about how I could probably tuck the whole car in the trunk of mine and haul it to a garage, or how the jack is a waste of time when a strong gust of wind could possibly flip it on its side for me.
Over the sound of the occasional car passing by, I can hear pieces of the girl’s conversation and the sound of their laughter while I remove the flat tire and swap it out with the spare. I make a mental note to make sure all the girls know how to change a tire when I get home tonight, even though they rarely, if ever, go anywhere alone.
Better safe than sorry, in my book.
Probable scenarios rack my brain. Who knows how long she could have been stranded out here if I hadn’t come along. Honestly, being who she is, she shouldn’t have been alone in the first place. Besides, what father puts a kid behind the wheel of a car without teaching them the basics of how to keep it up and running.
Gas goes here.
Oil goes there.
Oh! By the way, if you ever have a blow out, this is how you use the jack.
Lefty loosey, righty tighty and all that bullshit. Simple enough, right?
Once I’m certain al the lugs are tight on the tiny spare, I push to my feet. Glancing in the back window, I see some of her bags still in the backseat. I start to ask her about them, but don’t, figuring all she will give me is some smart ass remark about how it is none of my
business. Which it isn’t; so there ya go, Mack. “You’re all set,” I say, dusting my hands off on the front of my jeans. “Although, I’d get it fixed as soon as possible. I’ve eaten Krispy Kremes bigger than that donut.”
Ireland’s eyes snap to mine, all the lightheartedness, gone. “Do you really wanna play mine is bigger than yours, Nicky?” she teases. “I know how much of a sore loser you can be.”
“Nicky?” Jazzie giggles, looking at me. “There’s a girl named Nicky in my class. She smells like cheese and picks her nose. Ugh, she’s so irrelevant it makes me heavey. Can we go to the Happy Hut now? Ooooo!” Clapping her hands, her eyes widen. Turning, she grips Ireland’s face with both hands. “You have to come with us. Happy Hut is the bestest ever!”
“What is a Happy Hut?” Ireland asks through smooshed lips. “And why do I want to go there?”
“Because,” Jazz huffs, releasing her grip on Ireland’s face to cross her arms over her chest and scowl. “Rae is a Preggersaurus Rex.”
“A what?” Ireland laughs. Leaning into the side of the car, her eyes fall on me when I nearly choke on air.
“A Preggersaurus Rex,” Jazz says again, louder this time. “That’s what Mack and me call her when—“
“Okay, Kiddo, I’d say you’ve dug my hole deep enough for one day. Buckle up, I’m ready to go.” Bending down, I lower the car and start to pack everything up into the trunk.
“Bossasaurus,” Jazzie mutters under her breath, making me chuckle.
“You just broke my heart so much, I don’t know if I can bring my Bossasaurus self to drive all the way to Happy Hut,” I fire back, winking at her over my shoulder. Packing the jack back into the case, I slip it back where it belongs and put the bad tire in before shutting the trunk.
“Borrrrrring,” she says before disappearing back into the car.
“She’s cute. Bonus points because she totally puts you in your place,” Ireland says, leaning her hip against the tail light. Glancing back at my car, she smirks. “Thanks for helping me out.”