“Hey.”
I looked up expecting to see one of the Center volunteers. It was Jackson.
“What are you doing here?” I asked with more shock than politeness.
“I’m on my lunch break.”
“And you’re spending it watching a building get torn down? How did you even know?”
He shrugged. “Public record.”
I didn’t have time to ask him to elaborate, because Avery caught sight of me and came running up. She gave me a huge hug and stared so pointedly at Jackson that I had to introduce them. He shook her hand and asked her what she did and whether she played an instrument, but he didn’t bring up the fact that my fiddle was sitting in his apartment untouched.
Avery was, of course, utterly charmed by him. “So, how did you two meet?”
“It’s not like that,” I said. “Jackson is a friend of my brother’s girlfriend.”
“Oh, I see.” She was grinning. “So,” she said, not looking at Jackson but speaking loudly enough for him to hear, “have you found a place to stay?”
“Uh—yeah.” The backhoes started moving broken concrete around. “Kind of weird to see it like this, huh?”
“Hold up,” she hissed under the sound of the machinery. “You’re staying with him?” She gave Jackson an extremely unsubtle once-over. He wisely concentrated on the accumulating piles of concrete.
I flushed. Avery grinned and mouthed, “Wowza.”
“It’s not like that.” I was getting uncomfortable with how often I was saying things like this.
“Uh-huh.”
I looked up and saw Doc getting out of her BMW. “You know I have blackmail material on you, right?” I looked meaningfully in Doc’s direction.
Avery stopped grinning. Thank God.
Doc came over and gave each of us warm, two-handed handshakes. I introduced her to Jackson, and she narrowed her eyes a fraction.
“Reardon Engineering?” she said.
He looked surprised, and not quite pleasantly, but he nodded.
“Hmm,” Doc said.
“I’m on the commercial end of things.”
“Oh, well then.” Doc folded her arms and turned away.
The wrecking ball hit the stucco with a crunch, and Avery squeezed my hand. She was tearing up.
“Damn pregnancy hormones,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” I said, but when I looked at Doc’s grim face, I teared up a little too.
I stayed until Jackson’s lunch break was over. As we walked back to the Muni station together, I asked him, “What was that about, with Doc?”
“My firm’s responsible for designing a lot of the new developments.”
“So she’s pissed at them?”
“I’m not happy about it, either.”
“So why do you work there?”
“It didn’t start out that way. Five years ago...it was different.” We crossed the street and passed a rental office right next to a Hispanic food market.
“Yeah, well, nothing stays the same forever.”
We came to the Muni station, and Jackson paused at the entryway. “I have to get back,” he said. “See you tonight?”
“I’ll be there.”
I spent the afternoon wandering the city and checking out rental units. Even with my under-the-table job, ninety percent of them were out of my budget. The ones that weren’t were rooms in houses with peeling paint and too many residents, people sleeping in converted living rooms and dining rooms, a dozen men and women sharing two tiny bathrooms. I held out hope I’d find something—anything—better.
That night, I ate a peanut butter sandwich in Jackson’s kitchen, brushed the crumbs into the compost, and thought again about going home. The reasons I had for staying and going tangled together, and I couldn’t follow them to a decision anymore. I’d thought I had no place among shadowminds, that I could never be around them again, but here I was, caught up in the underworld beneath the underworld. I paced back and forth through the condo and ended up in front of Jackson’s piano.
I hadn’t done it consciously. When I was still whole, music had always been the way I dealt with shit. But that was before. Now, playing felt like new shit, more difficult shit. I sat down in front of the instrument anyway.
I lifted the lid and noticed the total lack of dust. Jackson’s maid must clean the thing; I’d never seen him touch it. I sat down and settled my hands on the keys. They were cool and slick and familiar. Something in me tightened, and something in me loosened. Before I could think about it too hard and stop myself, I launched into “Hallelujah.”
I slipped up once or twice, but the piano was perfectly in tune. I sang under my breath. I played “Clocks” next, then “Holiday in Spain.” When I was done, I sat with my hands on the keys, sweating, and thought about the piece I’d been working on in the months before the attack. I’d been dating Reggie then, writing a fiddle-piano duet based on minor key twelve-bar blues. I played the first chord, and stopped short when I heard Jackson’s keys in the door.
I tried to stand up and move away from the piano before he caught me, but I ended up tripping over my feet and nearly falling backward over the stool. He was already in the doorway, loosening his tie. I straightened up and tried to look normal.
“Here.” I walked up to him and handed him two twenties. “I want you to take this.”
“Mina—”
“Just take it. I’m not living here and eating your food for free.”
“Fine.” He took only one of the bills. “Satisfied?”
I grumbled, but I let it go.
“Why did you stop playing?”
So I hadn’t stopped in time after all. Hell, for all I knew he’d been standing in the hallway listening for an hour. I decided the truth was probably the best option.
“I don’t like playing for people anymore.”
“Not since you lost your powers.”
It was the first time he’d said it. It might’ve been the first time anyone said it to my face so plainly. I was shocked for a moment—as if no one was supposed to know, as if saying it made it real when it hadn’t been before—but then my whole body relaxed around that feeling of acknowledgement. I nodded.
“I can’t imagine what it’s like,” Jackson said.
“I’m not sure I can either.” I cracked my knuckles. “It’s a nice instrument. How come you never play it?”
“Who says I never play it?” He smiled.
“Oh.”
“I’d like to listen to you. Unless you want me to leave again?”
I shook my head. He nodded and walked out of the room.
I sat back down. What was the last thing I’d played for a crowd? I couldn’t remember, not anymore. If he’d stayed in the living room, I couldn’t have done it. But he was in the kitchen, taking out pots and banging them around with—I was pretty sure—more racket than necessary.
I played a random chord. It wasn’t as scary as I’d thought it would be. I started “To Make You Feel My Love” while Jackson kept at it with the pots. After the first verse—I hummed the lyrics—I stopped hearing him. After the second, I forgot he was there. It felt as though something hard was cracking in my chest, as though a stiff plastic shell around my heart and lungs was splintering and falling away.
When I finished the song, I looked up and saw Jackson sitting on the couch with his smartphone. I hadn’t noticed him come in. The seed of some new feeling took root where the void of grief had been, and I found myself with a sense of gratitude. Jackson looked up, dark hair falling untidily after a long day, dark eyes calm. He’d said he didn’t listen to my thoughts, but I wondered if he understood them anyway in this moment.
He didn’t comment. I went into the bathroom and hunted through his medicine cabinet until I foun
d a nail clip, and I clipped my fingernails to the quick. Then I called Malik on his cell. He picked up after one ring.
“Supergirl. What’s happenin’?”
“I’ll do it,” I said.
Chapter Ten
Two days later, I was already regretting it.
I hadn’t touched a keyboard in a year and a half, and I sucked. Really sucked. I didn’t have to be a mindreader to see it in Malik’s face.
“You’ll get better,” he said. At least he hadn’t lied.
I’d spent the entire weekend practicing with the band. Malik was on bass, Paulie was on drums, and Erica, a Latina woman with a short cap of platinum blond hair and a nose ring, was lead vocals and lead guitar. She was good. Much better than any of the others, myself definitely included. She was a soprano, and she had range. I loved to listen to her.
By the third day, I’d gotten a little less shaky. The set list for the gig had a few covers, but mostly originals written by Erica and Malik. They had a style I liked—sort of Counting Crows in their mellow, minor key phase. Malik even played accordion on some of the songs, and Erica took out a harmonica. She tried to tease me into singing a couple of covers for the fun of it, but I steadily refused. I’d never done vocals before, and I wasn’t going to start now.
Paulie and I had settled into a routine, too. Before practice, he’d meet me in the alleyway behind Featherweight’s so I could neutralize his powers. James hadn’t come up with any new criminals for me to ground, so this was the only way I had to keep my own powers under control.
I was starting to get better at it. It took me less time now that I knew I could focus my gift. I could zero in on Paulie’s powers through the contact between our palms and pull the energy out of him in less than thirty seconds. It was a rush, probably for him, too, and it was gratifying to know I could control it. I took to discharging the energy on the old Dumpster, trying to keep it slow and controlled instead of quick and shocking. After our first few sessions, I learned how to release the power as slow heat instead of lightning-fast electricity.
My powers weren’t the only things I was learning to control. My fingers were getting back into shape too. By Wednesday, I could play Erica’s keyboard without thinking I sucked. So I started worrying about what I was going to wear.
Back home, when I’d played gigs with friends or gone out and played in the Quarter, it had never seemed to matter. I’d just put on jeans and whatever old T-shirt I had lying around, maybe something a little nicer if we were playing somewhere with a wine list. But I’d never actually worried about it. This time, in this city, it seemed important that I show up looking as if I halfway belonged.
My best option was still my good jeans and my favorite cotton V-neck shirt in faded red. High fashion, it wasn’t. I tried it on and looked in the full-length mirror in Jackson’s bedroom.
It was the only time I’d actually been in his bedroom. He’d left his bed unmade, and I wondered if he always did. His pajama pants were in a heap on the floor, and a discarded tie was draped over a chair in the corner. On his dresser was a picture of him, much younger, with another man about his age. They were smiling, wearing reflective sunglasses and short-sleeved T-shirts. It wasn’t a flattering shot—one of them was clearly holding a cell phone camera himself—and I wondered why he’d chosen it. A close friend, maybe? I stood contemplating the picture for several moments before I realized how much I was invading his privacy.
I shook myself and turned back to the mirror. I looked like I was ready for a long day of lounging on a futon. This outfit was never going to work. I’d been drawing a paycheck long enough to have a little extra cash, but whatever I got would mean an extension on how long I kept crashing at Jackson’s. For once, it felt worth it.
I decided not to think too hard about why I felt that way.
I hadn’t done much shopping in San Francisco. The dress code at the Center had been casual, so I hadn’t had to update my jeans-and-cotton-shirts wardrobe. I thought about my options for a few minutes, then I broke down and called Bridget.
I’d meant to only ask if she knew of a place to get good clothes cheap, but before I knew it, I’d agreed to meet her at the intersection of Church and Market for a shopping trip, and before we hung up, it had grown to include a late breakfast at a local bakery. Despite the fact that I was half-dreading the gig, I found myself excited at the prospect of going shopping with a girlfriend. It had been a long time.
I took the Muni, and Bridget was waiting just outside the underground station. She waved when she saw me, big and wide, as if she were trying to signal a rescue plane.
She gave me a tight hug before I could stop her. My cheek ended up against her neck, and heat flared at the contact point. I jerked away. It had been too long since I’d last neutralized Paulie.
“You have to be careful around me,” I said, wishing I knew how to stop it. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s no big deal. Come on—the café’s this way.”
She led me to a tiny bakery on the corner, too narrow and too crowded with tables for the number of people lined up at the counter. I ordered a cinnamon roll and a coffee, and Bridget got hot chamomile tea. She paid before I could stop her.
“Malik told me you’d been practicing with them,” she said as we made our way to a cramped table in the corner. “Are you excited?”
“More like nervous.” I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup. “It’s been a long time since I played for an audience.”
“Oh, I know you’ll be great.”
“Thanks.” I stared at my cup and wondered where her confidence came from. “So, has there been any news about Conner?” I hadn’t heard, but Bridget was a dowser. Maybe she’d picked something up.
She shook her head, and I was immediately sorry I’d asked. I couldn’t say I was sure he’d turn up, because I didn’t want to lie. “I’m sorry. I hope you hear something soon.”
“Me too.” She stared into the distance for a long moment, seemingly mesmerized by the window display of bread shaped like a pumpkin. When she spoke again, it startled me. “He said he was going to make some changes. Right before he went missing. And I was so angry—you have to understand, he owes me so much money, and he’s always losing his job and looking for a cheap place to live. I’ve heard him promise to change so many times. He told me he has a new ‘opportunity’ lined up and he’s going to pay me back.” She said “opportunity” with a level of disdain I’d never heard from her. “And I...” She sniffed, her voice growing thick. “I told him I’d believe it when I saw it. I keep thinking that if I’d just listened to him...” She swiped at tears with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”
“No, no. It’s okay. You think he’s in some kind of trouble?”
“Conner’s always in trouble.”
“I’m really sorry.” I paused, wondering if I should reveal what had happened in the bar. I decided that if it had been my brother missing, I would want to know everything I could. “Listen, Bridget, I don’t know if this is relevant or not, but some guy came into Simon’s looking for him a few nights ago.”
She perked up. “Who? Did you get his name?”
“Uh, well...” I was already regretting bringing it up. “He, uh, he died. Right there in the bar. It looks like he OD’ed on something.” The stricken look on her face made me regret telling her even more. “I’m really sorry. I thought you’d want to know—”
“No. Don’t apologize.” Her voice was clear and firm again. Maybe she was tougher than I’d given her credit for. “At least now I know I’m not the only one looking for him.”
“I’ll keep my ears open,” I promised her. “If I hear anything else, I’ll tell you. If you want.”
“Thank you. Really.” She squeezed my hand. “I want to know more about your gig.”
I t
old her, if only to distract her, and we finished our drinks. As soon as we got up, three people pounced on our table.
“Ready for shopping?” Bridget said as the door shut behind us.
“No, but let’s go anyway.”
I followed her to what turned out to be a used clothing store. It was huge, taking up almost half the block. Handwritten signs were posted above all the racks. SEXY Summer CLEARANCE! Gotta-Go-To-Work Pants. Manly Men’s Dress Shirts! There was no coherent color palette, no stacks of identical cardigans. But there was a mannequin dressed in bright blue fishnets and a purple halter dress.
“Are you sure this place is going to have something my style?” I stared at the fishnets warily.
Bridget cocked her head at me. She was wearing skinny jeans and a pale green tunic with a Mandarin collar and tiny antique buttons. “Well, what are you looking for?”
“I don’t know.” I wasn’t all that into clothes, actually. “Something red?” I had this idea that I should go for something sexy and vibrant.
“A dress, a shirt...?”
“Dress. Definitely. I think.”
Bridget laughed. “You’ve never been shopping with a dowser, have you?”
“Um, no.” The only dowser I’d known back in New Orleans had been over twice my age and prone to wearing T-shirts that could have doubled as couch upholstery.
“Well, just watch.” She waggled her eyebrows at me and walked down the aisle marked Date Dresses, her eyes closed, her fingers trailing behind her over the hangers. Fabric swayed gently in her wake.
I followed uncertainly behind her, thinking it wouldn’t be wise to interrupt her, wondering if a “date dress” was really what I wanted. She paused and cocked her head, her outrageous orange hair bobbing, then she started up again. No one in the shop so much as glanced at her.
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