BONE DEEP

by Brooklyn Skye

  Any minute someone’s bound to pull out a vile of blood.

  Cambria slips two tickets from her pocket and hands them to a security guard who I’m pretty sure is one of “them” by the angel wings tattooed on the sides of his neck. He rips the tickets, hands her the stubs, and once we’re through the turnstile she looks up at me.

  “You, Krister, are going to experience life tonight.” A sea of seats sprawl out before us in the shape of a bowl, across from us a decent-sized stage. Drums, microphone stands, a platform to perch on.

  “Who are we seeing?”

  Please don’t say the Gas Caps.

  Cambria points to our left where a banner the size of my old house hangs from two, fat posts. A cluster of gothic dudes crouch like some sort of wild animal pack, and above their heads hangs a symbol I’ve seen before: three black rabbits in a circle.

  I lift her wrist and hold it up.

  “And…it’s a match,” she says, letting a chunk of hair fall over her eyes. She doesn’t brush it back.

  “Your tattoo is from this band?” Our conversation from a few weeks ago plays through my mind. “Why would you want to come here if it reminds you of what you want to forget?”

  “I got this when I ran away,” she says in a whisper, breaking the beat of silence between us. “That’s the reason I want it gone.”

  “Because it reminds you of running away?”

  She shakes her head. “Because it reminds me of the day I ran away. March twenty-fourth.”

  It takes a moment for the date to register. One day before the accident. A nauseous bubble rises from my stomach.

  “My mom was killed in the train accident last year. I’d called her from Middlerock…to tell her not to bother looking for me, that I wasn’t coming home. She had my brother trace the call and jumped on the next train. The Metro-transit departed at 4:36.”

  “And crashed at 4:42,” I whisper. All of a sudden, she looks up at me, head tilted and eyes questioning. Ah, fuck. I squeeze her hand and say quickly, “I remember reading the article.” That day, I thought my dad was dead when I got the phone call from Wrenn telling me through her sobs that there’d been a collision and to meet her at the hospital. I smooth the tip of my finger over the back of Cambria’s hand, following the lines of her tendons. “You didn’t know that was going to happen.”

  All expression falls from her face until it’s blank and detached, like she’s realizing she hadn’t considered this before. Then she points to the picture of the band members. The name Burn Me Up Inside. “The tattoo reminds me of all that. Not them. These guys give me something else—a reminder to be true to myself.” She starts walking down the steps in an obvious attempt to cease this conversation. I won’t push it. The carefree side of Cambria is much easier to be around, seeing that it doesn’t remind me spending my days with her is epically the dumbest decision I’ve ever made, or the fact that I can’t stop wanting her.

  A large, flat space of floor separates our seats—only a handful of rows back—from the stage. No doubt it’ll turn into a mosh pit considering the nature of people crowding into the arena. My red shirt stands out like blood on a black stretch of asphalt, and I would’ve been better off wearing the faded-black one. Cambria notices what I’m looking at.

  “At least I’ll be able to find you in the crowd if we get split up.” She giggles, and now would be a good time to give her what I brought.

  “Speaking of finding something…,” I say, slipping the hard, oblong bead out from my pocket. “I, um, found this when I was cleaning.” A lie; it’s been sitting in my glassblowing gloves since the day I left the shop for good, but she doesn’t need to know I intentionally searched it out.

  She takes the bead from my fingers. “Did you make this?”

  “The very first one.” And it’s much better than Seth’s. No scratches, the inside’s smooth as Cambria’s face. No ripples, either. I finger the clasp of her chain and slide it on.

  “I like it,” she says, lifting it as the lights start to dim and the lead singer steps onto the stage—unpredictably wearing all white—followed by the rest of the band. The crowd of black yells at the top of their lungs. Cambria screams, too. The music is loud and fast, and Cambria seems to know every word. She bobs her head to the beat and, every once in a while, squeezes my arm out of excitement.

  The singer of the band is quite a sight so I spend the hour watching him jump around every inch of the stage, wondering things like: Does he get thirsty? or How does he still have a voice?

  Finally, the last song starts to play, and I don’t know how I know it’s the last song because the singer never says so, but everybody in the amphitheater stills and echoes with silence and then the guitar solo starts and everything about it feels like some sort of closing routine. The singer has full control over the audience, even me, who I realize is standing now with Cambria squished in front of me, between my legs and the seat below us. With her back pressed into my chest, she leans into me and whispers, “Don’t take your eyes off Lewis.”

  “Lewis?”

  “The lead singer.”

  The song starts out slow, the guitar springing a slow string of notes that draws a deep holler from the crowd. Lights and smoke exaggerate the stage. The melody picks up, and Lewis’s eerie voice starts humming and, all of a sudden, chills prickle down my arms. The song alternates between Lewis singing in a slow, haunting tone and an earsplitting scream. Cambria sings every word at the top of her lungs, as does every other person in the audience. I’ve never been to a concert like this before. The audience becoming one—a single being—voices vibrating the floor, up through my shoes to my hammering heart.

  Toward the end of the song, Cambria stands on her tiptoes and stiffens. “Watch,” she instructs over the singing. Lewis, during a guitar solo, steps off the stage and right into the crowd. I expect him to fall through to the floor, only the crowd somehow knows his intentions and becomes a base of hands and arms for him to walk on. Lewis takes a few steps, hands gripping his feet and legs to hold him up. Lewis pushes his long, black hair out of his face and finishes the song standing on top of the crowd like he’s fucking Jesus.

  The deep tones of Lewis’s voice, the solidarity of the crowd—all singing and being along with him—surges a swell of life through my chest, like my body is waking up from a really long nap. Music’s never made me feel this way before.

  “That was incredible,” I say as the stage lights go out and the audience shouts raucously for more. Lewis and the other band members retreat from the stage.

  “Times a million,” Cambria says, staring at the now darkened stage. My hands are draped over her shoulders, her chest rising and falling like she just sprinted across a parking lot. We stand silent for a moment feeling the energy of the crowd, and then she turns into me. “Lewis did something horrible to someone he loves. That’s what the song was about.”

  “Who?”

  She shrugs. “No one knows who or what, but it was something he was really angry at himself for.” A strange look comes over her face, and I have a feeling she’s relating this to her somehow, but I can’t figure out how. Something she did? “And, yet,” she continues, “whatever it is, a part of him thinks it’s really good he did it.”

  I nod, but I don’t get what she’s saying. Seems like a messed-up song if that’s what it’s about. “What’s it called?” I ask because I feel like I should say something.

  She puts her mouth close to my ear and whispers, “My Angel Called in Sick.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I still can’t breathe. I stumble into my room, heave the box onto my bed, and throw it open. Those words: My Angel Called in Sick… I’ve heard them before. But what confused me when Cambria muttered them was that it was a memory of my voice saying them. Not anyone else’s.

  I find the last letter, addressed to Wrenn’s apartment and, right in the center of the page, six shaky words stare back at me. Your angel called in sick today. A fist of fear threatens to choke me as
the letters blur into a thin, blue line of what I now know is Cambria’s handwriting, and one fact becomes perfectly, horrifyingly clear.

  Cambria’s a damn good actress.

  ~*~

  “Rise and shine, big guy. Today’s the big day.”

  A warm hand clutches my foot and shakes. Platinum sunlight streams in my window and the silvery cheeriness should bring promise for the day, but my insides feel emptied out, dried up. Nothing good is going to come out of today. I should’ve never come home last night.

  And I really wish Wrenn would stop saying that.

  She pokes my calf, her long fingernail digging into my skin. Her hair’s done up in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a long, blue dress and a grin that makes her look every bit of young she is.

  “We need to leave in a bit,” she says.

  An hour later two men stare down at me, both with capes and funky spandex-like hoods over their heads. Ugly, that’s for sure, though these statues are much easier to look at than the waterfall of steps my father will be descending at any moment.

  The courthouse, in all its mightiness, is just a cement building. Nothing fancy, really. A few tinted-glass windows, large block lettering announcing its name surrounded by a parking lot littered with trash and news reporters who think there’s a single soul in Southern California who has any interest in the release of a careless, inconsiderate train operator. Dad’s the only one being released from Riverside County Jail today. A few others from additional facilities will be let go later this afternoon, scheduled a few hours apart—spaced out to keep the crowds down, I guess. Or so they don’t form some unsaid “I’ve been in jail” bond and start to take over the world.

  Beside me, Wrenn sniffs. Her happy-go-lucky attitude disappeared as soon as we left the apartment and, for the last twenty minutes, we’ve been hot-boxing the Camry at the edge of the parking lot. I can’t figure out if she’s upset because she wants to see my dad or not. I also can’t figure out whether I care.

  Smoke swirls around my face as Wrenn inhales again. She holds it in until her face starts to turn a strawberry shade of red then blows the heavy breath out with a sigh. I should roll down the window, breathe the fresh spring air outside, tell her to put it out before she gets caught. Instead, I snatch the joint from Wrenn’s lips.

  “You can’t hog it all.”

  She dabs the corners of her eyes with the thick strap of her dress leaving dark blue blotches dotting up to her shoulder. After the initial shock of losing my father to jail, Wrenn sulked for exactly one week—wearing pajamas all day, losing herself in a haze of pills and weed and HGTV. I didn’t tell her to snap out of it. How could I when I was jealous she could so easily fall into a stint of unfeeling? Then, after a week had passed, Jamon came to fill us in on the provisions of my father’s sentence—four years in prison, two if good behavior, and probation for another two. Jamon and Wrenn had multiple conversations in the following weeks. And I don’t know what he said or did or how he convinced her to get off the couch for good, but since then she’s been spewing encouraging thoughts around the house like they’re bouquets of fresh fucking flowers.

  “I want you to be nice to your father,” Wrenn says and rolls her head toward me. A variety of responses flutter through my mind, but they’re all mean and bitter and filled with hate so instead I inhale again and hold in the smoke until my lungs become fire.

  The two of us sit in the car, drowning in silence. Then, suddenly, the small pack of reporters at the top of the steps parts. A few heartbeats just before Jamon exits first, his head held high, an annoying smirk plastered to his face, followed by my dad and a security guard who is no help to the handful of microphones being shoved in my father’s face. I don’t feel sorry for him. In fact, he’s probably enjoying all this attention right now.

  Once they make it down the steps, Wrenn launches out the door and runs over to my dad, her sandals slapping at the pavement. She pushes through the reporters and jumps into my dad’s thick arms, burying her face into his neck. Cameras flash. Reporters’ eyes bug wide.

  Suddenly, I feel very stoned. Underwater. Every thought measured with a careful weight. It’s daunting, the idea of having him back home. Forgiving him for what he’s done. Moving on like none of it happened at all.

  Wrenn doesn’t care about having her face daubed all over the news. Can’t say the same for me. I slide the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, not caring if Jamon takes them home or not, and pull out of the parking lot.

  ~*~

  “Nice to see you, too,” I hear before the door latches shut. The voice is casual, cheerful even. Or maybe it’s the simple fact that it’s the first time I’ve heard it in person—without the obstruction of a clear, plastic pane—in over eight months.

  “Sorry I couldn’t stay. Had a statistics test.” The lie flows as easily as water from a faucet. I didn’t go to class, but seeing that today is a school day, it’s much easier saying this than “I spent the day at the beach, lying on the warm sand trying not to think about you or this very moment where I actually have to interact with you”.

  Dad appears, pulls me into a tight hug, and it takes everything in me to not vomit from the spicy scent of his cologne. It’s the same as he used to wear when I was a kid. The same he wore on the day he stepped into his prison cell. “How’s my boy?”

  Newsflash: I’m no longer a boy. And I’m not really his anymore, either, considering I live with Wrenn, go to college, and take care of myself. I have no words. Thankfully, Wrenn emerges from the kitchen. She’s got her hands on her hips and the best imitation of a mother-like gaze she can muster. For whose sake, I’m not sure.

  “Not exactly what I had in mind,” she spouts in my direction. Dad spins and looks her up and down, leaning forward on the balls of his feet. I wonder if he likes watching Wrenn act like my mother. Or if he realizes it would be physically impossible for her to be my mother being that she’s a measly six years older than me.

  I roll my eyes. Dad doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but I do. Somewhere on the outskirts of my weed-induced memory of this morning, she said something about being nice to my dad. Vanishing for the day obviously doesn’t count as such.

  I leave my dad, walk past her into the kitchen, and open the fridge. “You said it yourself, Wrenn. I need to keep my grades up.” An empty gallon of milk holds my attention.

  “Bullshit, K,” she whispers from behind me. “I know you didn’t go to school.”

  I turn, scan her face to see if she’s bluffing. Her lips will be pulled in on one side of her mouth if she is.

  They’re not.

  Her eyes blaze into mine. Cold fridge air washes over the back of my neck. “Suddenly you’re a psychic?”

  “I just know you and your predictable tempers.” She rubs her face. “Listen, never mind about school right now. Can we just have a decent dinner tonight?” she says softly, defeated. “Like a normal family? The three of us? Please?”

  “Normal family?” I snort. “You can’t be serious.”

  She frowns at me. “Listen, I know this has been hard on you, but did you ever think how it’s been on him? Look at him.” We both peek over our shoulders to where my dad waits, hands in pockets, rocking back and forth. Standing like a visitor in a house that isn’t his. Like he doesn’t belong. A twinge of pain clenches at my chest. It’s the first time I think that maybe it’s a little strange being in a place where everyone you love has been living their lives, moving forward, and you haven’t. Then I remember why he feels that way, imagining eight bodies in a line underground and look away.

  I want to ask her why she cares so much about acting like a normal family. How she can look at him without disgust and hatred. Instead I swipe a Coke from the fridge, mutter a “whatever,” and join my father in the tiny living room.

  “Saw your bedroom,” my father says, sitting on the opposite side of the couch. He doesn’t look older like I thought he would. No bags beneath his blue-gray eyes or increase in wrinkles under
his mustache. It’s disappointing, really—the idea that someone could spend the last eight months sleeping on a cot, eating ghastly food, interacting with murderers and rapists, or worse: no one at all, and not appear much different.

  He tilts his head to the side, hands clasped in his lap. Light from the window hits the side of his face, and the long, white scar shines like the piece of steel that formed it. It’s wrong, but seeing that scar loosens the marble in my throat. Still, I can’t talk to him.

  “Looks like you’ve adjusted,” he says, adding on to the fact that he’s been snooping in my room. Wonder if he found the box of letters I left out last night. All in Cambria’s handwriting. All, in some way or another, rubbing it in that she knows who I am and will go out of her way to make me suffer.

  She must’ve planted herself at the train station on purpose, cried her eyes out in hopes I’d fall for it. Gotta give her credit—she was pretty convincing. I swig half my Coke and put that thought out of my head.

  “It’s all right,” I break my silence and say.

  “That’s good because I think we’ll be staying here for a bit until I can get back on my feet. Find a job and get us a house.”

  “You’re a convicted felon.” Words jet from my mouth like daggers. Being courteous would take up more energy than I have. “You killed eight people. You were on the news as a released prisoner. Hate to break it to you, but I doubt anyone’ll hire you.”

  “Actually,” Wrenn’s voice hollers from the kitchen, “he’s going to help me with deliveries.” She pops her head out and glares at me. “And we’re thinking about starting an online store, too. For all the pottery.” She has the nerve to sound pleased with this idea, and all I can think is: Why would you do that to yourself?

  Wrenn disappears back into the kitchen and my father looks over at me. “We’re getting married, too,” he says, and it doesn’t send the life out of me like it should.

  “Of course you are,” I mutter from behind my Coke can. Because…it’s him he cares about.