by Ina Zajac
She frowned. “Of course, he’ll do it,” she said. “Right?”
“He thinks it’s a hoax. Fifty grand is more than we expected to raise in the first place. The Kidz Rock guys haven’t tried to cash the check yet. I think it’s legit. I think it’s from Mike McCready and those guys. They’re always donating money.”
“Who?”
“Think Pearl Jam, you know Eddie Vedder, of course. I met their drummer, Matt Cameron, you know. He came last spring and did a four-hour workshop for the kids. Such a good guy; brought them all drumsticks. He was with Soundgarden too.” Nick was captivated by the cupcake in her hand. His sweet tooth was raring to go.
“How long have you two been teaching there?” she asked.
“We started as students in junior high school, weekly lessons, small shows. As we got older we took on mentoring some of the younger kids. It wasn’t like one day they were like, ‘You’re a teacher now, go forth and be awesome.’”
“Oh? You don’t get paid?”
“Just in green-room food and praise.” He was ready to change the subject. It sucked when women brought up the subject of money.
“Matt still hasn’t texted?” she asked. Again. “Shouldn’t he be back from Portland by now? Should we be getting worried?”
He looked at the wall clock and did the math in his head. Matt’s trips were a quick twelve to fourteen hours. Portland was only three hours away, but Matt picked up then delivered to Carlos’s three clubs down there before driving back to Hotties with the bulk of the product.
“It’s not even midnight,” he told her. “Chill. He’ll be back in an hour or two.”
“Thanks for letting me take over your kitchen,” she said. Again.
“I told Matt I would be a good host.” He didn’t mind. In fact, he was hoping to use their time alone to figure her out. He wanted to ask her about the fiancé. He wanted to ask her about her sincerity. He wanted to confess that he was worried because he’d never seen his best friend so ape-shit idiotic over a girl before. Instead, he just watched the meticulous way she swirled frosting atop the cupcake in her hand. “So, when can I have one?” he asked.
“Take one of the crappy ones,” she said, pointing to the reject tray. “The good ones are for youth group.”
He wanted the one in her hand.
“So, when is Alicia coming over?” she asked in an ooh-Nick-likes-Alicia voice.
“Settle down,” he told her. Alicia was cool; one of several cool women he spent time with. She was older, independent, and told him exactly what she wanted from him. They had just negotiated a mutually beneficial sexual contract. He wanted enthusiastic blow jobs and the freedom to see other women without guilt or penalty. She wanted passionate kissing and lots of snuggle time. He had also promised to shave before she came over. He didn’t mind her terms because he loved to kiss and cuddle, so it was the least he could do.
He licked his lips and watched Via. There must have been sixty cupcakes there. Each batch had gotten progressively better looking. He couldn’t stop lusting for the one that she held. She was like Eve in the garden, except she wouldn’t give it up. She had been working on it for like five minutes. Her quest for pastry perfection was beyond annoying.
“Damn girl, you know you’re crazy too,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You and Matt are like two OCD peas in a pod.”
She stopped and gave him the strangest look—wide-eyed, like he had called Santa Claus a child molester.
“OCD?” she asked, her voice little more than a hush. “He’s never called it that,” she said. “I didn’t think you ever called it that. You know he hates labels.”
He laughed in her face. Was she really schooling him on his best friend? “He’s a big boy,” he said as he leaned over, snagged her cupcake, and started undressing it. She reached for it, so he licked it.
“You dick!” She gave him a swift smack on the side of the head, but it was so worth it. She punched his shoulder and then his arm while he scarfed it down.
“Hey, watch the arm,” he protested, his mouth full of sweet satisfaction.
“That’s right, don’t want to wreck your epic drumming career.” Her tone was playful, but tinged with snark.
He thought she was hot when she embraced her inner bitch; he liked it so much more than when she gave off the Christian-girl vibe. He tried not to think about kissing her. How he wished he hadn’t. But at the time, he hadn’t known they were going to end up being friends.
“You know it,” he said.
“Matt says you are crazy-talented. Like Dave Grohl in training.”
Her words seized him and held strong. He felt himself blush. While he knew he should be asking her questions about her life on Vashon and her intentions toward his best friend, he never tired of compliments. And so he waited for her to continue. He wanted more. Praise was his currency. It was time to get paid.
“He says you’re way too good for Obliviot, for covers.”
It was true, but it didn’t feel good to hear it. Her words just reminded him that he and Matt needed to get serious about their own material soon, or else he was going to lose it. Crawl out of his skin and slink down to the snake pit that was LA.
“What else does your man say?”
Now it was her turn to blush. Her hair was pulled too far back to provide any cover, so she had nowhere to hide. Her flushed cheeks were all the evidence he needed. Matt wasn’t in this alone. Good to know.
“He says you’ve been playing since grade school.”
“Yep. My grandma bought me a cheap little drum set for my eleventh birthday. I’d only been living with her for a couple of months.”
They had set it up in the basement and she’d told him to wail away on it all he wanted. She had bought him a punching bag, too. Damn clever woman, providing outlets for his inevitable emotions long before he admitted to having any.
“Tell me about your mom,” she said, hard at work on another cupcake.
He rarely told women too much about his childhood, but it didn’t seem like a big deal to tell her. It was probably because she was Matt’s, so the possibility of sex with her was off the table anyway. He wasn’t running a game, trying to get in her pants, so could let his guard down. Matt had mentioned she had an uncle in New York. Sounded like he was her only family, so there must be a story there. It was quiet for a moment. She just sat there frosting and waiting.
“My mom had me young, and my dad didn’t hang around,” he said. “She has shitty taste in men. We ended up living with some loser in Tacoma, and after him, some other loser out by the airport.”
She looked up at him and nodded. It was subtle, but he found it comforting. As if his story, his “scary tale,” wasn’t too pitiful.
“And then?”
“And then she met a new loser, some guy from Florida. He promised her this great life in the Keys. She hated the rain, so she bailed.”
Via finished a cupcake, put it down, and reached for another. “Have you seen her since?”
“She comes out for a week every summer,” he said. “Leaves the loser at home. She says she’s happy. She hugs me like every five minutes. She’s come to see Obliviot. It’s cool.” Of course, it was not. Being around her was a feast of awkward. She served up a dozen different flavors of negativity.
“It’s cool, really?” she asked drawing him out. “Seems like it would be rough.”
“I guess,” he confessed. “But my grandma does her best to keep the mood light. It feels kind of fake, but it’s easier to just smile and hug than to be honest.” Thinking about his grandma’s antics made him smile. “You know what my grandma does every year after my mom leaves?”
“What?” She was already smiling, anticipating.
“She clarifies the house with sage. She cranks New Age lute music and walks through the entire house with burning sage. I give her shit for doing it, but I actually kind of appreciate it. It feels symbolic. Like an annual reset.”
“Maybe...” she began, but stopped.<
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He leaned in. “Maybe what?”
She pointed to the jar of sprinkles on the table. “Maybe we don’t need sprinkles after all.” She admired the cupcake in her hand. “This one’s pretty close to perfect.”
“Oh.”
“And,” she looked into his eyes. “Maybe your mom knew you deserved the best. Maybe she didn’t trust herself to give you the best and knew you’d be better off here. She loved you too much to raise you herself.”
He smiled at her. Maybe she was right and maybe she was wrong. Either way, it was a cool thing to say. He would abandon his qualms about her worthiness. Matt would be lucky to have her. They would be good for each other. Now, if she could just inspire him to write some fucking lyrics.
She stood up, looking quite serious.
“Nick?” she asked as she held out her latest cupcake, the one just shy of perfect. “Will you accept this cupcake?”
“Yes, dork,” he said, flattered she remembered their balloon animal exchange. “Yes, I will.” He took his time pulling down the paper this time. He decided not to eat this one like a mangy beast.
She went to the sink and started washing her hands. “So, it’s midnight. Shouldn’t Alicia be here soon?”
Alicia. Shit. He stood up and popped the rest of his cupcake in his mouth. He needed to shave in a hurry.
“Via, let her in when she comes?” he called back on his way through the dining room. “Grab her a drink?”
“Got it,” she called back. “And Nick?” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs so he could hear her. “Nick, can we do a little blow tonight? While we’re waiting up for Matt?”
He knew Alicia would be up for that. Plus, he had promised to be a good host. “Yeah, but you don’t want to stay up all night. Remember you’ve got your Jesus kids in the morning.”
***
MATT
MATT GRABBED A BEER from the fridge, turned around, and took in the tower of cupcake trays occupying the island. On the counter was a plate of brownies with a note that read, “NOT for Jesus kids.” He grabbed one and made his way back to the living room. He was so done with blow for the night. Three lines was three too many. He resumed his position on the couch next to Via. Nick and Alicia had taken up the other end of the sectional. They listened to KISW as they discussed random questions of the day. It was only three a.m., but it had been a long-assed day. His mood was fluctuating between cool and cranky. He had hoped to find Via snuggled up in his bed when he’d gotten back from Portland, not snorting rails with Alicia. His supposed best friend was serving as line-tender, high only on brownies and beer. Matt’s whole day had revolved around the shit. He was upsetting himself, so he took a deep breath and tried to center himself.
Nick was describing the television show he had watched the night before about alien sightings throughout history. “And so, what if the dark hooded figure they saw wasn’t ghostly at all?”
“I still don’t get it, dude,” Matt admitted. He looked over to see if Via was getting the gist of Nick’s claim. She leaned over the coffee table, situated the straw, and snorted the first half of the fat rail on the end. Some of her hair fell in front of her face and she paused. He reached over to tuck it back behind her ear and watched her expression soften into a smile. It was good to see her smile.
“Nick’s saying the Grim Reaper is an alien,” she said, then snorted the rest of her line.
“Think about it,” Nick went on. “People see the Grim Reaper just before they die, right? This show said medieval villagers saw a dark hooded figure in the fields spreading some sort of mist before the plagues hit. Maybe the Grim Reaper was actually an alien charged with reducing the human population.”
Matt didn’t bother to laugh. “That’s some crazy-assed speculation, even for you.”
“Whatever,” Nick said. “But, Ancient Aliens is a good show. It’s on the History Channel. It’s not bullshit. It’s been fact checked.”
Matt rolled his eyes. “How in the hell do you fact check medieval aliens?”
Nick glared at him and they stared each other down. Finally, Nick leaned back and said, “Fair enough,” which was his way of saying, “You win.” Such a smug bastard.
“Have you heard Nick’s worm idea?” Alicia asked Via.
Alicia was getting on Matt’s last fucking nerve. What was she talking about now?
“So, if the early bird gets the worm,” Nick said. He leaned over the table as though he were imparting sage advice. “Then the smartest worm is the one who sleeps in, am I right?”
Via nodded, but didn’t laugh. Instead, she grabbed the eye drops from the coffee table and unscrewed the tiny plastic top while giving him a lame little, “Good one.” Then she leaned hear head back and put a few drops in each eye.
Matt watched as a few drops of stray saline made their way down her cheek. Gently, he used his finger to push them aside. His gesture made her stiffen; it seemed to annoy her. There was no warmth in the moment. He hated the disconnect.
She had been a tease all night, first flirty, then distant. No SHFT all night, no snugs, no private time at all. He couldn’t even get her up to his room. Couldn’t pull her away from the cocaine/coffee table. She was focused on Nick’s hand. He had been swiping triple time: skim, skim, skim, tap, tap, tap. Matt wanted to slap the credit card right out of his hand.
Nick saw him glaring. “Here, Rain Man.” He handed over the credit card. His tone was significantly snotty.
Matt swept the coke back and forth over the glass. Skim, skim. Tap, tap. He felt better now, in control. Via began rubbing his back. She mirrored his double-time movements. Rub, rub. Scratch, scratch. Rub, rub.
Her touch felt amazing. He wanted to drag her upstairs and keep her there for a week.
“I’m done with this shit,” he vowed as he lined up two long bumps for the girls. “I’m going to bed.” He had hoped she would offer to join him. He had hoped she would drop the straw and take his hand, but she didn’t.
***
MATT
HE TENSED UP when he felt something hard whack him on the side of his neck, just under his ear. Surprise, surprise—she had finally come to bed. Not only that, but she had actually fallen asleep, in spite of the half gram of coke in her head—must have been the weed brownie. He opened his eyes and saw that his bedroom was still dark. He turned toward her and brought her arms in and under his. He couldn’t help but notice the insult she had added to his injury. He hated that damned “enragement” ring. It was bad enough he had to see it sparkle in bar light at Hotties or feel it when he reached for her hand while they were driving home. It was messed up that she was now literally hurting him with it too.
She had been spending the night more and more often, so he had come to expect her nightmares. He had learned that the best way to stop her thrashing was to wrap his arms around her and whisper “shh” until she stopped resisting. Once her breathing returned to normal, he inhaled the sweet smell of her hair. She still wouldn’t tell him what made it smell so good. He couldn’t help but wonder if her fiancé did the same when he was with her. That inconvenient asshole who would be home in a couple of months. The thought turned his stomach sour. Did he love the way her hair smelled too? What was she going to do when he got back into town? Was she really going to leave that guy? How was that even going to work? These were the crazy questions that occupied his mind.
Coming down from coke was hellacious. It was an ocean of evil and he was tired of treading water. He fucking hated coke. He hated himself for building his life around it. The weed brownie hadn’t helped soften the landing.
She started thrashing. “Please,” she whined, “pretty lights.” He braced his calves for the onslaught of her boney little feet. His flannel pajama bottoms did little to protect him. Lately, her dream world had seemed a horrific place. She called out for the pretty lights often, but he couldn’t tell if they were good or bad. When they had done Molly, she had explained them in positive terms, but tonight, like so many other nights,
they seemed to be tormenting her.
“Shh,” he told her. It wasn’t like he enjoyed seeing her like this, but it was like their demons connected them somehow. He held her while his mind wandered back fifteen years to that therapist, Tadd, the one with the train set taking up half his office. He had asked a lot of questions about responsibility. “Do you sometimes feel responsible for the others? Like if you don’t repeat certain things or do certain things something bad will happen to them?” He had been the one to tell Matt’s parents it wasn’t their fault. That certain neural pathways in their son’s brain were wired differently.
He nuzzled in as he felt her starting up again, shaking her head, mumbling. Sad stories were common at the club; most girls had been either molested or ignored at some fundamental level. And it was obvious there was something not right about Carlos. His dad was in prison. Whitney, however, seemed to like her family. They had been there for her when she’d gotten knocked up at seventeen. They helped her limp through senior year. She still lived with her mother, who thought she was a bartender. Word was, Bella’s dad died of a heroine overdose. He had never known the guy. He and Nick had never gotten into that scene.
Via had stopped thrashing. He relaxed his grip on her, but still held her close. He whispered in her ear. Now that he had her in his life, he needed to tell her she was pretty every time he saw her, or else he worried he wouldn’t see her again.
***
VIA
SHE SAT BACK against his pillow and closed her eyes again. That had been a bad one, so real. Like the devil himself had been running the projector. She wiped sweat off her forehead. Were her nightmares getting worse or was she just remembering them more? She used to have dreams where Mama would sit next to her and run her fingers through her hair. She would sing to her in Swedish. That dream always felt real, as though her mother was using a portal to reach back into her life and touch her. Why weren’t those dreams visiting her anymore? It was almost Thanksgiving. And on its heels was Christmas, ugly goddamned Christmas. And then New Year’s. She loved New Year’s.