Hannah’s explanation sounds way too trivial to be the cause, but it’s not my problem or my business.
I bite into the truffle and rich, sweetly bitter chocolate melts on my tongue. It has a hazelnut filling, and I hurry to finish it before it coats my fingers. “That was so good,” I yell to Hannah as I climb the stairs. “Tell Jared I said thanks.”
She laughs.
April is on the computer in the attic, but she whips out her earbuds when she sees me. “We need to get moving on an attack plan immediately.”
I don’t have time to deal with this now because I have to decide whether I bring my guitar with me to dinner. “Can we talk later? My band is here and we don’t have much time to practice.”
“Claire, are you listening? Dad and Nikki went to the beach today, and he was rubbing oil on her. I’m still nauseous. We have to act.”
“Okay, okay. Any ideas?” My sweaty T-shirt lands on the floor, and I dig in my drawer for a clean one.
“I’ve been researching poisons.” April taps the keyboard. “Listen to this: ‘Silver nitrate poisoning exerts a distinctive effect on its victims. Over a period of time the poison turns their skin a grayish-blue.’ We could do that to Nikki.”
Tempting. And it probably would be a turn-off to my fashion-conscious father. “Where can you buy silver nitrate? And how would you get her to eat it?”
“Dunno.”
“Well, research that.” Until today, I didn’t realize “research” was part of my sister’s vocabulary. But even if we never poison Nikki—which would be sad, but probably better for our futures and our permanent records—this has to be a useful hobby for my sister. At least until she turns her findings against me.
“I’m on it. Have fun with the band.”
“Thanks.”
I opt to leave the guitar home for now because I don’t want to drag it to the restaurant. Getting a table’s going to be challenging enough.
Fifteen minutes later I stand outside one of the many crowded seafood shacks on the main drag. The sky is overcast, and the air is heavy with the sound of competing radio stations and screaming children. Like me, they’re probably hungry and in need of dinner.
The crowd waiting to be seated at the restaurant spills out the front door, and I have to worm my way inside. My nose is assaulted by the aroma of fried seafood, but that’s why I’m here. A couple of my bandmates desperately wanted lobster rolls, and according to my aunt and uncle, this place is the best at the beach.
Hopping to see over all the heads, I catch a glimpse of Nate’s pinkish-purple hair, the result of a dye-job gone wrong and a bassist too lazy to do anything about it. I wave off the hostess and skip over.
“I can’t believe you guys drove up here.”
I’m awash in hugs before anyone bothers to respond. They’re crowded around a scratched wooden table better suited for two than four, but I squeeze in next to Erica.
“It’s a trip to the beach. You think we came up all this way for you?” Nate grins.
“Good thing. You didn’t warn me so I have to work tomorrow.”
Alex passes me her menu. “Welcome to my world.” She’s been working every summer since she turned fifteen.
We don’t talk about the band while we eat. Instead, they fill me in on their summers, and I update them on mine. I leave out Jared, of course. The less said of him, the better.
The lobster rolls are huge, but I prefer the fries. Lobster is just one of many things in life I don’t get the hype about. You can also add to that list: caviar, champagne, designer jeans, and most celebrities.
“So,” I say as we head outside after dinner. “What do you guys think about the battle of the bands thing? I’ve been working on some new songs, and I can run back to the house and get my guitar.”
The wind off the ocean is strong and cool. I wrinkle my nose, waiting for answers, but my friends are gazing at the beach with longing. It’s mostly deserted, too chilly for anyone except runners and Frisbee players this time of the evening.
“Guys?”
“We can do it,” Nate says. “But we’ll need some serious time together to practice.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s what I’ve been saying all along. I can drive down on my days off. Maybe crash at one of your places if that’s okay?”
Erica nods. “Oh, yeah. Absolutely. My parents would be fine with that.”
“All right.” Alex taps imaginary drumsticks against the air. “We’ll do this. It’ll be like our grand finale, farewell concert. Woo hoo!”
I stop in the middle of street. Alex’s words make no sense, and puzzling them out and walking at the same time takes too much brain power. “Wait? Farewell concert?”
“Well, yeah,” Alex says. “It has to be, right?”
I look at the others, expecting them to be as surprised by Alex’s pronouncement as I am, but they’re looking at me funny. Like I’m the one who’s not making sense. “Why does this have to be a finale? I can continue to write stuff, and we can all continue to practice.”
“Yeah, but....” Alex glances around at the others. “We’re all going different places. Different states.”
“True, but everyone will be together over breaks and during the summer. It can work. I’ve thought it through.”
Erica tucks her black hair behind her ears, kind of sheepishly. “So have we. We’ve talked about it, Claire. I mean, we.” She gestures among herself, Nate, and Alex. “It’s a nice idea, but we’re going to be dealing with college stuff soon. We’ll have more work and other commitments and adjustments, and what if our breaks don’t line up? We just don’t think it’s going to work out. There’s too much we don’t know yet.”
I stare at her. Nate jumps in then, but I can’t hear him. I hear nothing but Erica’s words reverberating in my brain. And, of course, she’s right. All this time I’ve been blind. How could I not have anticipated this? How could I have been so stupid? Of course, my bandmates are going off to college. Of course, they’re going to be overwhelmed and want to focus on new friends and new opportunities. Of course, I’m the only one stuck back home and stuck in the same mindset. Of course, the band is doomed. Of course. Of course.
Of course.
But the band is all I have left. My family’s disintegrated. My college life’s on hold for at least one year. Music, and the hope of some success with it, is the only thing separating me from total loserhood.
This can’t be happening, and yet I know how ridiculous it ever was to hope we could make it work. It’s just that music was supposed to be in my future. Music and Jared. And because he got lucky without me, somehow I’d assumed I’d get my chance, too.
But that was delusional. There will be no studio time. No performances. There won’t even be a chance to show off in front of Jared. What was ever the point of that anyway? As though he’d have to be grudgingly impressed if we placed well in some stupid battle of the bands? It’s not like I have any reason to believe him when he said he wanted to hear me play. I’d probably be giving him something else to laugh at.
“So what’s the entry fee again?” Nate asks.
“Entry fee?” My throat’s closed and my voice is thick. I don’t see the point. I’m better off hoarding my cash. “You know what? Let’s just forget it. There’s not enough time to practice, and you’d have to drag all your stuff up here, and it’s not worth it.”
Alex pouts. “You sure? You sounded all gung-ho about doing it, and I wouldn’t mind splitting on a high note. It’ll be fun.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Sure I’m going to be sick if I hang around here too much longer. I can’t keep my face neutral forever, and my mind is reeling.
What do I do now? When I pushed Jared away, the only person I turned to other than Kristen was Erica. We’d known each other since seventh grad
e, and although we were never close friends, she’d been secretly teaching herself guitar at school with the hopes of annoying her parents. Erica jumped at the idea of a band, and between the two of us we found Nate and Alex. It wasn’t the same as the chemistry Jared and I had when we wrote or played together, but Stabbing Shakespeare was something. We worked well together even if I had to nag about practice sessions. The band was my chance. I mean, sure—I could strum away at my guitar alone and it would help me pass the time, but I want more. I want to perform, not to be the loser Jared left behind.
Before Ringo Starr, the Beatles had a different drummer: Pete Best. The band dumped him before they became famous, and he’s now nothing more than a footnote in music history. I don’t want to be Jared’s footnote.
Funny how you don’t realize how much you want some things until the possibility of having them disappears. Maybe if I had college to look forward to that would ease the sting. Then I could go off and meet new people, too, and even form a new band. But all I have in my immediate future is a bed in my dad’s condo and the hope of a minimum wage job so I can save up for school. How do you get through life if you don’t have a dream to keep you sane?
“Claire?” Erica puts a hand on my arm.
“What?” I shake her off. “It’s fine. I just didn’t think it through very well. It makes sense.”
Alex turns her face toward the sky. “We should still do the competition. It’ll be fun. One last party.”
“No.” Clean break, that’s what I want. If it’s over, it’s over and get any hope out of my system. That’s the only way to survive—something I’m figuring out the hard way with Jared. The last thing I need is to make myself miserable with this, too. “Seriously. It’s a waste of time, and I’m not sure I can get in the practice with my work schedule. What you said about breaks lining up with school—same is true for me now.”
Alex’s face falls.
“We all need to cheer up,” Nate says. “This is summer. It’s the beach. It’s supposed to be fun, and I have just what we need back in the room.”
But I’m not in the mood for fun. I’m in the mood to do something destructive, like hurl my guitar into the ocean. In my mind’s eye I watch it drift away on the waves along with my dreams. What good has either one done me?
The question makes my heart ache. I remember Jared telling me the story about his father tossing his guitar in the trash. At the time I thought that was crazy, but I think I get his pain now.
“Claire?”
I start. They’ve all begun walking toward their motel, leaving me behind. That’s my problem right there, isn’t? Everyone else gets to move forward, but not me.
I take a deep breath. These people aren’t just my bandmates; they’re my friends. They drove all the way up here because I’m here, not because this is the closest beach. They have no idea what a punch to the gut they’ve given me, and there’s no sense in letting them find out. It’ll only make me seem like some pathetic dreamer.
Which, maybe, I am.
“Coming.” I force my feet to move forward. It’s got to be better than going home and bemoaning my life to a guitar that, in retrospect, I shouldn’t have bought.
Chapter Fourteen
After my attempt to fake happiness, I’ve never been so relieved to get away from my friends. Or from my music. The two things that should make me the happiest spent last night making me the most miserable, and the more the friends tried to help about the music, the more miserable I became.
Erica had brought up her guitar, and she repeatedly asked me to play the new songs I’ve been working on. When I refused, she persisted like she could be annoy me into some musical revelation.
“There’s no point,” I finally tell her. “It’d be one thing if I was trying to show them to the band, but since there is no more band, this would be like performing them for you. And I don’t do that.”
Erica frowns at me, mindlessly braiding her hair. “You perform all the time. It’s what we do.”
“We performed.” I draw an imaginary circle around their motel room to indicate the whole group, though Alex and Nate have wandered off in pursuit of sodas. “I don’t.”
“But you could. I don’t get you. You sang lead. When we performed, everybody watched you.”
“Everybody watched Nate. I don’t have that sort of presence.”
“Everybody watched both of you. But whatever.” She leans forward over her knees, so earnestly. “I still don’t see the problem. This was your band. I know we cofounded it, but it was yours really. I always knew that. I’m not half as good at writing songs, and you have plenty of presence. Orange Hair? Come on—how could anyone not find you interesting to watch?”
Orange hair does not stage presence make, but I can’t summon the words to explain. My brain keeps falling back on the same argument: I’m not Jared. I’ve seen him perform. I don’t give off the same kind of aura, and that’s clearly what’s necessary to make it in this industry.
I close my eyes. “Can we drop it?”
She does. Finally. But it seems I can’t, given where my thoughts keep heading.
It’s too late to call Kristen when I get home, so I stay up in bed, texting with her. She doesn’t take the news well, either.
WHAT? NO MORE STABBING SHAKESPEARE?
Her outrage almost makes me smile. It’s good to know I’m not alone in my pain, even if her pain can’t cut as deep.
I explain to her what Erica and the others said as I listen to April breathe across the room. Why couldn’t I have devoted myself to tennis like she did? It seems safer, less prone to making a person go crazy with irrational dreams.
My phone vibrates with Kristen’s next message. But we planned! I could totally have made a practice schedule that would work. I’m a master at organization.
I know.
They lack vision. Screw ’em, C. You’re better off without them. You have drive. You have TALENT.
I have no band. Beyond my open window, the night is filled with the sounds of insects, rambling voices, and passing cars. But typing that makes me feel so cut off from everything.
You don’t need no stinking band. If you-know-who can do it, so can you.
Nope.
Bullshit.
I frown at her last message. She means well, but like Erica, I can’t trust her opinion. Best friends are supposed to always take your side, regardless of the blinding reality telling them otherwise. I should go to bed. Have to work tomorrow.
Luckily, the next day is Saturday. Eight hours of scanning, bagging and making change mean it’s incredibly difficult to mourn.
Because that’s what I’m doing. I’m well acquainted with it by now. I mourned losing Jared. I mourned losing my mom. And now I’m mourning losing my band.
On the epic scale of suckiness, losing a band doesn’t even belong in the same state, let alone same ballpark, as losing a mother. But when the band holds your dreams? Well, it’s a bit more traumatic than a hangnail. If I had to compare, I guess this ranks right down there with having to defer my enrollment at Brown. Only worse. Because Brown will be around next year. My band won’t.
Bottom line is that in only two years I’ve conquered the trifecta of loss: love, family and dreams. There ought to be some award for that.
Back home at last, I fling my head around and shake out my braids. My reflection stares back at me, somewhat feral.
Mirror, mirror on the wall? Who’s the biggest loser of them all?
Why yes, that would be you, Claire.
Freaking lovely.
I run my fingers through my hair until it calms down, then pull it back in a ponytail. My stomach snarls at me. It’s eight o’clock. I got off work an hour ago, and I told Zach I’d be over at his apartment for pizza by now.
“I don’t know why you’r
e bothering,” April says as I grab a sweatshirt.
I walk out. That’s a conversation we don’t need to have a second time.
When Zach called earlier and asked if I wanted to come over, he promised Mike and Jared were gone for the evening. He’d better be right, although I can’t see him inviting me over if they were going to be around. So all should be fine.
All. Fine. Hear that, universe?
I snag the last parking spot labeled Visitor at the apartment complex. Sadly, this is enough to brighten my mood.
Zach welcomes me inside with a loose hug, and the stubble on his chin irritates my skin. I wonder if I’d notice or care so much if I were more into him. I’m trying to be. I’m working at this relationship thing at long last. That ought to count for something.
“I’m starving,” he says. “I almost ordered without you.”
“You could have. I’ll eat whatever.” While I’m hungry, I’m mostly interested in the beer or anything else he has to drink.
We order, and Zach gives me the choice of the two rentals lying around the apartment. One’s a comedy; the other’s action. I pick the one that promises explosions because I’m not in a laughing mood.
I finish my first beer by the time the pizza arrives, and Zach brings us each a new one. We poke holes in the movie’s plot as we eat and it’s almost comfortable. More likely though, the beer’s numbing me a bit. That’s fine, too. Whatever it takes.
Finally, Zach drapes an arm around me and kisses my neck. I’ve been expecting it, yet I stiffen, torn. Part of me, aided by the beer no doubt, responds well. Another part of me isn’t into it at all.
It’s fine, I tell myself. Remember? All fine. I should go with it.
I wedge myself closer to him on the sofa and try very hard to enjoy being so close. Cute college guy, after all. What’s wrong with me?
Zach’s hand slides under my T-shirt. I taste beer and tomato on him as his tongue works its way into my mouth. I can barely breathe. Obviously, I’m not numb enough.
Another Little Piece of My Heart Page 14