“Which lighthouse did you want to visit, hon?”
“I’m not sure.”
Auntsie perks up. “Well, Sandy Hook Lighthouse is the oldest working lighthouse in the country. Absecon is the tallest in New Jersey, Cape May is the farthest, and ‘Old Barney,’ that’s Barnegat Lighthouse, is the closest.”
“And you know all that because?” Evie asks.
“Uh, coastal town librarian?” I can hear the duh in her voice.
“How about we visit Cape May?” Mom says. “I haven’t been there since we were girls.”
“Okay if we stay here?” Evie asks.
“Fine. But swim between the lifeguard flags.”
The girls giggle.
“We don’t swim, Mrs. Gallo. We stare at our phones and tan,” Kate explains.
“Even better. I won’t worry as much,” Mom says.
“Well, I have to work, but you two enjoy yourselves,” Auntsie says. “Wear comfortable shoes. It’s 217 steps to the top.” Auntsie shakes her head as she shuffles toward her bedroom. “And I wonder why all the kids come to me when they’re writing reports. I’ve got to get myself a life.”
FORTY-ONE
When your fitness routine consists of exactly one sit up a day—the one you do each morning when you get out of bed—walking up 217 steps on a never-ending cast iron spiral staircase is tough. Every so often, we have to pull over to let people descending pass, and I, for one, welcome the break.
“Is it possible to get altitude sickness in a lighthouse? Did the sign say anything about it?”
Mom laughs. “This is a lighthouse, not Denver.”
Mom made a joke. Interesting.
We wait for a young couple with three little kids to go by before resuming our climb.
“So,” Mom says. She’s walking in front of me, huffing and puffing and holding the stitch in her side. “How’s the application to community college coming?”
“Almost finished. There’s not much too it. I still have plenty of time to register for October classes.” I’m breathing as heavy as she is and using the rail to pull myself along as we climb.
“Still thinking about a writing course and psychology?” she asks over her shoulder.
“Maybe music theory too.”
Mom nods. “Good. They sound like the kind of credits that would transfer.”
In addition to playing the part of the tourist this week, I’ve been taking some time to get my shit together. I’m not going to lie, I was secretly hoping for some change of heart from Malcolm—an excuse to abandon my online application. Something more than: “You can follow me to Florida and play tambourine if you want to.” But that didn’t happen, and what he’s offering isn’t enough. I can’t keep waiting.
“And the band? You’re okay with your decision?”
“Yeah. I told Malcolm I haven’t changed my mind.”
We’re almost to the top. A middle-aged couple in matching polo shirts and visors are descending, and Mom and I have to squish ourselves against the wall to let them by. I wait until they’re gone to start talking.
“I’ll still be at the gig tomorrow night. I wouldn’t miss it.” It is, after all, the record release party for an album I helped create. “An A&R person from Malcolm’s old label is going to be there. Malcolm hired a professional drummer for the tour. That’s who should be playing the showcase and the tour, not me.”
Maybe I’d feel differently if I were Malcolm’s girlfriend. But I’m not.
We finally reach the top and emerge through the door out onto the enclosed platform. The colors seem so bright after the darkness in the stairwell. The view is spectacular, and the waves sound like hushed voices below.
“This view is better than from the free fall tower.” I can take my time and look as long as I want. I like being more in control of gravity.
“The sign says we’re one hundred and sixty-five feet above sea level,” Mom says.
We circle the tower, taking in the views from all sides—Cape May Harbor and Wildwood Crest to the north, Delaware Bay to the west, and to the east, nothing but the vast Atlantic Ocean. A small motorboat, like a shooting star, slices a white path through water the color of Medusa’s curls. I turn my face toward the sun, close my eyes, and breathe in the fresh salty air. My heart slows, and I’m hit with an unfamiliar calm. I am 217 steps away from the life waiting for me below, and I want to forget about it for a while. My thoughts reach past this summer, the scandalous conclusion to my lackluster high school career, the accident, all my bad choices…
“Remember how Lynn and I used to build fairy houses and leave them all over the yard?”
Mom smiles. “I do.”
I open my eyes and stare straight ahead, looking but not seeing. “We used shoe boxes and baskets and ribbons and whatever else we could find in the craft drawer.”
“Once you used an entire jar of glitter glue.”
“You weren’t happy about that.”
“It’s still embedded in our kitchen floor.”
“No it’s not,” I protest.
“It is. Glitter is evil. Keep that in mind when you have kids someday.”
“Lynn had this book with black-and-white photos of fairies taken by these two cousins like a hundred years ago. Supposedly they were real.”
“The Cottingley Fairies. It was a hoax, but you two were convinced fairies were real.”
I laugh. “And yet we doubted their ability to conjure suitable housing.”
I press my hands against the safety fence. Mom’s eyes glance at the cuff bracelet on my wrist.
“I didn’t want to die, you know,” I say quietly.
And it’s true. I had started off scratching and cutting myself in places no one could see. My upper thigh, my lower belly. That day, I don’t know what possessed me to cut my wrist, but I knew as soon as I pierced that thin skin above my bluish veins that I’d gone too far. I was terrified.
Mom puts her hand on mine. “That was the single worst day of my life.”
I unsnap the leather bracelet. The skin underneath is a blinding beacon of white. It’s been years since it’s seen the sun. I turn my wrist up and trace my scar.
“I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo to cover it. Something with Lynn’s initials, maybe. Auntsie knows an artist who does good work.” I shrug. “Who knows? Guess I’ll wait and see. In the meantime, I don’t think I want to wear this anymore.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Would it be weird if I left it here?”
She pulls me into a side hug. “Come on. I’ll help you find a hiding spot.”
FORTY-TWO
The next day, I work a double shift at the Ben Franklin, hoping to keep my mind off the fact that I would otherwise be getting ready for my one and only gig with my short-lived band. Instead, I can think of nothing else while I’m in the throes of the end-of-summer blowout at the five-and-ten.
We have tons of stuff on sale. Mugs, T-shirts, car magnets, key chains—everyone is snatching up their tiny piece of the Jersey shore to display in cubicles and on kitchen counters and refrigerators until next summer. I work through my lunch and dinner breaks and wind up eating an entire bag of Twizzlers in my car as I ride over the bridge to my second job. I volunteered to work because, while I wanted to be there to show my support, it’s not going to be easy to be a voyeur to what could have been. Keeping busy will make it easier to not be seated behind the drum kit. Maybe.
By the time I get to Keegan’s, the opening band is already on and the room is buzzing. Last night at work, Liam told me he and Malcolm had been posting about tonight’s gig on social media to get the word out.
“With the label guy coming, Malcolm wanted to make sure we weren’t playing to an empty venue,” he said.
Whatever they did, it worked.
My eyes pa
n the room looking for Liam, Kiki, Arnie, or anyone else I know. My breath catches when I see Malcolm. He’s standing at the far side of the “stage,” bookended by Trent and Liam and looking all clean-shaven and rocker-like in a tight black shirt and ripped jeans. He’s talking to a woman I don’t recognize, but she’s sporting her best New York hipster attire, so I assume she’s from the label. She keeps touching Malcolm’s arm when she talks to him, stoking my jealousy and longing. I try to shrug it off as I duck behind the bar and grab my apron. I have no idea how tonight is going to play out, but my pulse is already racing.
“Hey, Quinn,” Caleb says as he fills a mug at the tap. “Can you do me a favor and adjust the bass on the board? It’s too loud.”
“Sure.”
I notice he’s looking spiffier than usual with an actual button-down shirt, black jeans, and boots as opposed to his usual T-shirt, cargo shorts, and Converse high-tops. Caleb looks like an adult.
“And when you’re finished, can you help with barbacking now that Liam is a rock star?”
I guess he kind of is, isn’t he? I’m happy for Liam, but nervous for Kiki. I can’t think of many girls who would be rooting for their boyfriends to go on the road without them. Too many temptations, although Liam’s not the cheating type. Neither is Malcolm. With him, it’s obviously the “drugs” part of “sex, drugs, and rock and roll” that I worry about. Though I have to remind myself that along with drumming duties, I’ve been relieved of my pseudo girlfriend role too.
I work my way through the crowd and make the required adjustments to the board as unobtrusively as possible. My eyes dart sideways, seeking out Malcolm like a divining rod drawn to water. He’s still engaged in conversation with the woman from the label. Now they’re leaning close, cupping each other’s ear to be heard over the band. At one point, he looks up and sees me. He breaks into a grin, holds my gaze, and puts up his hand. Emotion tugs at my heart. I smile and wave back, hoping my face doesn’t betray all I’m feeling. Suddenly, the ten feet between us seems more like a chasm.
I retreat to the bar and feel a hand on my elbow before I scoot around the other side.
“Q!”
“Liam! You’re looking good, but you probably knew that.”
He smirks, and I can tell he’s proud of his charcoal gray skinny jeans and the hint of product in his hair. Kiki’s fine handiwork, no doubt.
He opens his arms and I hug him, letting a summer’s worth of shared experiences pass between us. Who knew after this douchebag called me a Benny back in June we’d end up as friends?
We separate, and he puts his hands on my shoulders.
“Tell me you’ve changed your mind?”
I shake my head. “Kill it tonight, okay?”
“You belong up there with us.”
I place a hand on the bar. “I belong right here. Somebody’s got to be the barback now that you’re about to become famous. Besides, you need to play this showcase with the new guy. Get one gig under your belt before you leave. I’m good.”
I say I’m good but really, me being here tonight is how Malcolm described wanting drugs—like being on a diet surrounded by all my favorite foods. Or maybe it’s more like standing on the platform watching my train leave. Either way, this night is not going to be easy for me, but I’ll get through it. And then I’ll get on with it.
“Quinny!” Kiki screeches my name as she emerges from the crowd behind Liam.
I lean down and kiss her cheek. “You look smoking tonight!”
She smiles and flips a thumb toward Liam. “Needed to remind him what he’ll be missing.”
“He won’t forget. You should find yourself a spot up front. Is Lucy coming?”
“She’s going to try. Princeton’s already keeping her busy. Hopefully Connor and Andrew will represent.”
“Ah, so I’ll get to meet the one and only Andrew.”
“I’ll introduce you when he gets here.”
I nod my head toward the bar behind me. “Caleb needs me.”
She squeezes my hand. “Go.”
I stand beside Caleb and immediately start washing glasses.
“So, I hear your aunt is making her musical debut tonight.”
The soapy mug I’m holding nearly slips from my fingers. “What did you say?”
“Your aunt. She’s living out her rock and roll dream and sitting in on cowbell.”
No. Effing. Way.
As if on cue, Auntsie enters with her entourage—Mom, Evie, Kate, and Ashley.
Caleb chuckles. “It’s funny, I always used to tease her about wanting to get in on my act.”
“I had no idea they were coming.”
Auntsie calls out and waves. “Quinn, babe!”
I force a smile and raise a wet hand. Dishwater trickles down my arm to my elbow. I’m wearing the vintage combat boots and sleeveless plaid shirt I had on the night I met Malcolm. I was hoping for closure through symmetry. Auntsie on cowbell throws that balance all out of whack.
“She didn’t tell you?” Caleb looks both happy and amused as Auntsie and company walk toward us. “She asked my advice about classic rock songs that were heavy on cowbell.”
He pours two glasses of Pinot and has them ready by the time Auntsie and Mom reach the bar.
“Oh, and I think your sister is singing backup later on,” he whispers from the corner of his mouth.
What the hell is going on here tonight?
“Ladies!” Caleb calls as they approach.
Auntsie beams, while Mom barely cracks a grin. Old grudges die hard, I guess. But Caleb doesn’t seem to notice. He only has eyes for Auntsie as he leans over the bar to take their hands and kiss their cheeks.
“You missed sound check,” Caleb jokes.
Auntsie holds up her bell and a drumstick. “This doesn’t need a mic.”
“Is that my drumstick?” I ask.
“Yep. Got the other one right here.” She pats her bag, then lifts her wineglass and chinks Mom’s. “Cheers!”
Mom looks at me. “I think your aunt’s having a midlife crisis.”
Auntsie swallows a big mouthful of white wine. “I beg to differ. I’m living the dream.”
I turn to Evie, slightly hurt that she didn’t tell me she’d be singing tonight. “What about you? Are you living the dream too?”
“Malcolm’s hoping I can convince you to play on ‘That Last Night.’”
He’d texted me earlier today trying to convince me to do the same.
Come on. It’s only one song.
I don’t want just one of anything.
I know it was unfair to throw his words back at him, and I wasn’t trying to be insensitive and compare my feelings to an addiction, but I needed for him to understand how I feel. I thought he did. Apparently not. I look at Evie, who’s waiting to hear what I have to say.
“I can’t,” I say. Then I walk down the bar to gather dirty glasses and fill the bowls with Chex Mix. I notice Arnie and Spoon Man on the end of the bar and say “Hi!” I sense my family talking about me as I move out of earshot, but I don’t care.
“Hey, baby girl,” Arnie slurs. “I’m feeling a tad under the weather, but I came out to hear you play.”
I’m pretty sure it’s not the “weather” Arnie’s under.
I’m about to throw black coffee on his alcohol binge and tell him I’m not playing drums tonight, when he adds, “Who knows if I’ll ever get another chance? We’re all on a one-way trip, know what I’m saying, baby girl?”
Isn’t there a saying about the wisdom of drunks? Or maybe it’s babies. Either way, Arnie brings up a good point. The next time I show up for work, all of this will be over. Malcolm and Liam will be in Maryland, Mom and Evie will be back in North Jersey, Auntsie will have retired her cowbell (I hope). Perhaps Arnie will have found himself another dive bar.
As ri
ght as Arnie may be, I’m still not playing this set. He’ll be disappointed, but I’ll make it up to him.
“Thanks, Arnie. Did you know you get a free appetizer with your Bud Light tonight?”
“I do? I’ve been coming here for years and I’ve never gotten a goddamn thing for free before.”
“Well, tonight is your lucky night. What’ll it be? Chicken fingers, nachos, wings?” Buying him an appetizer is the least I can do.
“I can’t decide between nachos and calamari.”
“How about both?” I point my chin toward Spoon Man. “You can share.”
By the time I work my way back down the bar to put in Arnie’s food order, the opening act has finished and Auntsie has left to join Malcolm and the band on stage. Five minutes later, they’re set up and ready to go. Auntsie counts them in on the cowbell and Liam lays into this ’70s-sounding guitar groove.
“Yeah! Blue Oyster Cult!” Caleb screams on his return from introducing the band. “This was my suggestion. No other rock song in history features this much cowbell.”
He’s not kidding. Auntsie is nonstop wailing on that thing in a somewhat ironic way, which is good because it’s making Liam, Malcolm, and Trent smile and offering levity to a song titled “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper.” Probably wouldn’t have been my first choice for a set opener, but the crowd seems into it.
“Wow, Liam is shredding that guitar solo,” Caleb says.
“No kidding.”
He’s getting a chance to show off those superior skills he’s always telling us about, and the new drummer is handling a part that would have had me barely hanging on. Add to that Malcolm’s sweet vocals, Travis’s harmonies, and Auntsie’s enthusiasm, and they sound like a band. One that’s been playing together much longer than a week.
Minus Auntsie, this is what Malcolm needed, not me. He’s must be thinking the same thing. I’m relieved to be behind the bar, not up onstage holding him back.
When the song ends, Malcolm has Auntsie take a bow.
“Annie Gallo on cowbell, everyone.”
Caleb claps his hands and gives a soul-piercing whistle through his teeth.
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