by Kieran Scott
“That new kid. Heath,” he said with a sneer. “Asshole told him I overcharged on the Porsche job and Gino believed him. Now I’m out on my ass and that jagoff is the new manager.”
“You overcharged on a job?” Katrina asked as the automatic doors slid open.
“More like charged what Gino should be charging,” Ty said snidely. “I mean, we’re the ones who do all the frickin’ work, anyway. Who the hell does he think he is, telling us what we’re worth?”
His employees, I answered silently.
I didn’t get a chance to hear what Katrina said in response, though. The doors had already slid closed. On the far side of the room, Charlie shook as he stuffed his books into his backpack. My heart went out to him. He was just making some headway with the girl he loved. To be interrupted, and that violently, by the girl’s boyfriend . . . that couldn’t feel good. He stormed toward me, clutching his backpack in one hand, his jaw clenched.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Sure. Fine. Why?” he asked, shifting around.
“Because of what just happened,” I replied.
“What? That?” He gestured at the door. “That guy’s always been an ass, you know that better than anyone. I just don’t get . . .”
He trailed off and shook his head at the floor.
“You don’t get why she’s with a guy like that,” I finished for him.
He blew out a sigh and pulled his drumsticks from his bag, gripping them alongside his hip like a saber. “You know what, forget it. If that’s the kind of guy she wants, then screw it. I have a girlfriend anyway. One who actually wants to be with me.”
He tromped by me and the doors slid open before him. My heart was in my throat. This couldn’t happen. He couldn’t give up. Not when I was so close.
“Charlie, wait!”
But he didn’t listen. He grabbed his bike and zipped off into the waning sunlight without looking back.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Charlie
I was messing around on my drums on Friday after dinner, waiting for Darla and her mom to come pick me up for Josh’s party, when the door opened. I looked up, expecting my dad to tell me to keep it down. But instead I saw my brother Corey. His blond hair was clipped short, as always, and he had a cut under his eye. A football injury, no doubt.
“Hey, man,” he said.
“What’re you doing home?” I asked.
“Came for the weekend.” He stepped tentatively down the two concrete steps and chucked his chin in my direction. “Sounds good.”
I looked at my hands. “Yeah, right.”
Corey blew out a sigh and crossed the wide garage, stopping right in front of the drums. “I wanted to clear something up with you, man.”
“What’s that?” I asked, still not getting up from my stool.
“Last week when you told me about cross-country, I wasn’t trying to insult you,” he said, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I was just surprised.”
I felt a flash of anger and dropped my sticks on the snare. “Right. Because how could I possibly do anything athletic? Why even bother trying to be as good as you guys?” I got up and walked out from behind the drums to face off with him.
“No! That’s not it!” he said. “I was surprised because you’ve always done your own thing. You never wanted to be like us. You never let Dad browbeat you into playing football. . . . I just never thought you would cave.”
I pulled my head back. “I didn’t cave.”
“Come on. You’re telling me Dad didn’t talk you into it?” he said with a laugh.
“No!”
“Then who did?” he asked.
I paused, feeling suddenly stupid and completely clear at the same time. My dad hadn’t talked me into it, but Corey was right. Someone had. “These guys at school,” I admitted.
“Oh,” Corey said, looking down at his feet. “Big guys?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Yeah, but it wasn’t like that. It’s not like they threatened me or something. I just . . .” I sat down atop one of the unpacked boxes. “I guess I wanted to fit in.”
I dropped my head into my hands and groaned. “God! Did I just say that?”
“It’s okay,” Corey said. “Happens to everyone.”
“Not to you!” I said, looking up at him. “You guys always fit in everywhere you go. You never have to try.”
Corey sat down on my dad’s favorite fishing cooler. “Not exactly,” he said. “College is . . . it’s different, man. It’s different from any school we’ve been to.”
“Different bad?” I asked.
“No. But different hard.” He kneaded his fingers in front of him. “But just so you know, I get it, Charlie. And I think it’s cool that you’re . . . diversifying,” he said, and we both laughed. “Just don’t forget who you really are.”
We both turned to look at my drum kit. “I won’t,” I promised him.
“Can you keep a secret?” he said.
“Of course.”
“Chris doesn’t even know.”
I blinked, stunned and flattered. “Damn. What is it?”
“I’m taking guitar lessons,” he said.
My jaw dropped to the floor. “Seriously?”
He grinned. “Yep.”
“Are you any good?” I asked.
“Nope.” He laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “Not yet anyway. But maybe over Thanksgiving we can, I don’t know, jam together or whatever?”
“Sounds like a plan.” I reached out and we slapped hands.
• • •
Standing in the center of Josh’s living room, I could tell something was wrong. Everyone around me was drinking and laughing, telling stories and checking out girls, but I was watching Fred. He and two other guys I’d never seen before were setting up their gear in the corner of Josh’s massive, cathedral-ceilinged living room very, very slowly. One of the guys kept checking the door while he tuned his bass, and Fred looked pale, like he was about to throw up.
“I know!” Darla said suddenly, reaching her arm around me. “Don’t you love his hair like this?”
She ran her fingers up into the back of my hair and smiled. Josh and Brian smirked. Veronica gave me the once-over. She was wearing a tight black dress that showed off her cleavage. Darla was wearing the exact same dress in blue.
“Okay, I’ll admit it. You’ve done an admirable job with him, D,” Veronica said, taking a sip from her red cup. “You picked out the shirt?”
“Yep. I think red is totally his color.”
“Totally,” Josh said, earning a laugh from Brian.
“What do you mean, an admirable job?” I asked Veronica, sidestepping as a pair of girls traipsed past, holding hands.
In the corner, a cymbal crashed to the floor. For a second everyone got quiet, but then the noise started right up again. Fred glanced around nervously, then picked up the cymbal and attached it to the stand.
“Dude, don’t you get it? You’ve been extreme makeovered,” Brian said with a snort.
I looked down at the shirt I was wearing, not the one I’d tried on the other day, but a different one that Darla had brought over when she’d picked me up for the party. It was red-and-black plaid, more my speed, and I was wearing my own jeans. But I had let her put gel in my hair. Which was now making my scalp itch.
I heard Corey’s voice inside my head. Just don’t forget who you really are.
Darla’s phone beeped, and she released me.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, grasping my freedom while I had it.
“Where’re you going?” Darla asked.
I didn’t answer. I was already halfway across the room, annoyed that I’d let her mess with my look. Not that I thought I had a look, per se, but clearly that was a problem for her and her bestest friend Veronica. And I’d let her fix it because I didn’t care that much what I looked like. Well, now I did. I reached up and patted my hair down in the front. My fingers came back sticky.
Gross. I wiped them off on the butt of my jeans.
I stopped with my back to the band, pretending to check out the pictures on the mantel. A row of smiling family portraits. Josh and his three older brothers and their parents. For a split second I felt like Josh and I were meant to be friends. I had barely handled growing up with two big brothers. I couldn’t imagine three.
“ ‘Where the hell is he?” one of the guys in the band blurted under his breath. He had a scruffy beard and a huge Adam’s apple. The worn Steve Miller Band tour T-shirt he was wearing was half tucked into his baggy jeans.
“All I know is he’s missed school for two days,” Fred replied, slowly unwinding an extension cord. “He said he’d be here, but . . .”
“And he hasn’t texted you?” the second guy—the bass player—asked. He was more clean-cut—slick hair, black T-shirt, black jeans.
“No. I know. Dude has bailed one too many times, but don’t worry. He swore he’d be here.” Fred pulled out his phone. His hand shook as he stared at the screen. “Shit.”
“He’s out?” Steve Miller Band asked, dropping his guitar strap over his shoulder and letting his ax hang.
“He’s out.”
All three of them looked over at Josh. And they looked scared. Like scared-for-their-lives scared.
“What do we do now?” the clean-cut guy said. “God! Doesn’t he get we can’t play without a drummer?”
I froze. Did he just say drummer?
“Can you do it?” Steve Miller Band asked Fred.
He wagged his head, looking at the floor. “You know I can’t sing and keep the beat. I been working on it, but . . .” He blew out a sigh and his head hung even lower. “I guess I gotta tell him. Get ready to run for it.”
“Wait,” I said.
Fred turned around. His eyes widened when he saw me.
I squared my shoulders. “I can do it.”
“Seriously?” Fred asked.
The other two guys edged over. “You play?” Steve Miller Band asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “What’s your set list look like?”
Clean-Cut unfolded a piece of lined paper from the back pocket of his jeans. “Mostly classic rock covers, with some newer pop stuff mixed in. For the ladies,” he added, lifting one shoulder.
I ran my eyes over the list. “I can do this.”
Fred eyed me suspiciously. He was about to ask me something when Darla, Josh, and Veronica joined us. Darla looped her arm around mine and held on. Tight.
“You guys gonna get going anytime soon?” Josh asked, sipping his beer. He glanced at his phone. “’Cause I thought we said eight o’clock, and it’s already eight fifteen.”
“Sorry, man,” Fred said. “We’re down a drummer.”
“Dude,” Steven Miller Band said, gesturing at me.
“No, you’re not,” I said. “I’m sitting in.”
Darla and Veronica exchanged an alarmed look. Darla’s fingernails dug into my flesh.
“Why would you?” Fred asked warily. He’d been a jerk to me since day one, lording his seniority over me. I kind of liked that the tables had turned. That now I was in charge and I was helping him out instead of screwing him over—being the bigger man. At least that’s how it would look to him. But really I just wanted to play with a real band for once. And okay, yeah, it was nice to help these guys out. They were so obviously terrified of letting Josh down.
“Because I want to,” I replied simply.
“No no no no no,” Veronica said, shaking her head. “You cannot play with them.”
“Why not?” I asked.
Behind her, I saw True and her new friend Heath enter the living room, Heath slapping hands with everyone in sight. That dude had made friends quick.
“Because. They’re, like, band geeks,” Darla hissed, turning away from the others. Veronica laughed. My face burned. Had she seriously just said that to my face?
“Darla, I’m in the band.”
“Yeah, but do you have to advertise it?” Veronica said loudly.
“Veronica,” Josh said through his teeth. “Are you serious right now?”
“What?” Her blue eyes widened innocently. “I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.”
“Actually, you’re not,” Josh replied. “If he wants to play, he should play.”
“Josh. Come on,” said Veronica, who was turning a kind of awful shade of purple. “It’s total social suicide.”
Clean-Cut’s eyes narrowed. “Thanks a lot.”
“I’m just saying,” Veronica said, ducking her chin.
“You ever think maybe you should just stop saying things?” Josh asked.
“No, man. She’s right,” Brian said, fiddling with the collar of his varsity jacket. He leaned toward me, talking out the side of his mouth like he was in some cop drama. “All the guys from the team are here.”
“So?” I replied.
Brian lifted his shoulders with this face on, like the answer was obvious. “So, they don’t know you’re in the band.”
“What’s the matter with you people?” I blurted. “Can’t I be a runner and a drummer? What’s the big freaking deal?”
“It’s just,” Darla said, bopping her knees like she had to pee. “These guys are . . . you know . . . and you’re . . .”
Everyone squirmed except Veronica, who was pouting. Clean-Cut and Steve Miller Band had gone from terrified to looking like they were about ready to throw-down.
“What?” I asked. “I’m what?”
She just stared at me, and suddenly it hit me. She didn’t even see me. All she saw was the Josh clone she wanted me to be. And I had let her. I had let her try to turn me into him, the same way I had let my dad make me feel like crap my whole life for not being more like my brothers. Suddenly I was sick of it. I was sick of feeling bad for just being me. I was sick of not sticking up for myself. I was sick of caring what other people thought. Especially the wrong people.
“That’s it,” I said through clenched teeth. “Who has the sticks?”
Steve Miller Band fumbled behind the drum kit and came out with a pair of drumsticks. I grabbed them, holding one in each fist. It was the first time in forever I had left my own at home. Because Darla had asked me to.
“Let’s do this,” I said.
“You sure?” Fred asked.
“We band geeks gotta stick together,” I told him, staring daggers at Darla. I climbed over one of the smaller amps toward the drum kit, and Fred smiled. I’m pretty sure it was the first time I’d seen his teeth.
“But, Charlie—”
I ripped off the plaid shirt and handed it to Darla, revealing the band T-shirt I wore underneath, a souvenir from this awesome show at SXSW I’d seen last year. I’d had to sneak out to do it, and it was the only time I’d ever been grounded, but it was worth it. And so was this moment. Worth it, I mean.
“You can keep this,” I said. “And also, we’re done.”
Darla let out an indignant noise as I used one hand to mess up my hair completely, then sat down behind the drums. She turned around and disappeared toward the back of the house, and Veronica followed. Fred shot me an impressed look as he got behind the microphone.
“We are Universal Truth!”
I lifted the sticks and counted out the beat. “One! Two! Three! Four!”
It had never felt so good to take out my anger on a set of drums. And as it turned out, Universal Truth might have been a crappy band name, but they were actually a really good band.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Katrina
I sat on the edge of the fraying faux-leather couch and stared at the food on the kitchen table. The whole roasted chicken. The bowl of cornbread stuffing, which was Ty’s favorite. The fresh green beans I’d chopped and steamed myself. All of it cold and congealing.
The clock read 9:00. It had been three hours. Three hours since he’d seen it, snorted, and walked out with a “Thanks, babe, but I gotta meet some people. I’ll be back s
oon.”
I’d tried to do my trig homework, but I couldn’t. I was too busy being pissed. Later I’d tried to do my chemistry homework, but I couldn’t. I was too distracted by the slowly ticking clock, wondering where he was. Finally I’d attempted to outline my history paper, but I couldn’t do that, either, because by that point I was shaking from anger, worry, and to top it all off, hunger.
So now I was just sitting. Sitting with my legs crossed tightly, my arms clamped over my chest, and my bag packed at my feet.
The door at the end of the communal hallway slammed, and I heard the jangle of Ty’s keys as he approached the door. I started to sweat. I had to remember why I was doing this. Yesterday at the library, Ty had made me feel about two inches tall and even less significant in front of Charlie and True and, maybe worst of all, Mrs. Pauley. And still, I’d done all of this for him. I’d done it to make him feel loved and special and like everything was going to be okay. But did he even notice? Did he even care?
A few weeks ago, even a few days ago, I might have let it roll off my back, but not now. Now I knew I didn’t have to feel that way.
There were other ways to feel. Like proud. Like special. Like smart and appreciated and seen.
My bag was packed at my feet, my backpack next to me on the couch. But as the key was shoved into the lock, I started to double-think my plan. I had thought that this was something that had to be done in person, but maybe I should just get through the night and text him tomorrow.
No, Katrina. Don’t chicken out. You can do this.
The voice in my head sounded a lot like my dad’s.
The door swung open. Ty’s eyes were shot through with red veins. He looked at me, looked at the bag, and turned away with a laugh.
“You moving out?” he asked, throwing his keys on top of the bookcase. They slid right off the other side and hit the floor with a clatter. He shrugged out of his leather jacket and tossed it toward the hook, but it landed in a heap at his feet.
I stood up. My knees were shaking. “We should talk.”
Ty slammed the door and stormed past me to the fridge, kicking the jacket aside. He cast a dismissive look at the table, then came back with a bottle of beer and downed half of it before replying.