by April Lurie
“Listen, Angie, I gotta go. And about the movie, I’m sorry, but I can’t—”
She places one finger over my mouth. “Dylan, don’t decide now. Just take a little time and think about it, okay?”
Angie’s so close I can smell the spearmint on her breath, and her finger pressed against my lips puts me in mind of things completely unrelated to short films and grumpy art teachers. I’ve already made my decision—I’m not going to help her with the film, not if Jonathan Reed is in the equation—but for now I say, “Fine, whatever, I’ll think about it.”
The only seat open in class is the one next to Val Knudsen, so I have no choice but to take it. As I slide into the chair, she unrolls a large sheet of paper and spreads it across her desk. It’s filled with her usual amazing pen-and-ink drawings of werewolves, vampires, dragons, and other gothic creatures, some with swords piercing their hearts and dripping blood. When Mr. Wiseman makes his way around the room, checking out our summer projects, Val leans over and whispers, “Hey, Fontaine, seriously, what happened to your face?”
I pull out the cardboard tube that’s holding my da Vinci drapery sketch. “Nothing. I got into a fight with my brother.” Val hangs out with the alternative crowd, so even though she’s just a sophomore, she’s acquainted with the guys in the Dead Musicians Society.
“You got in a fight with Randy? Why?”
“Oh, lots of reasons. Mainly, I got arrested last week because of him. The cops found his weed in my pocket.”
“Wow, heavy.” She studies me for a while, then starts to grin. “So, how does Randy look?”
I crack a smile. “Not much better.”
She nods. “Vengeance is sweet, isn’t it?”
Mr. Wiseman pauses at Addie Myers’s desk, admiring her depiction of the Brooklyn Bridge, then approaches Val and me. “Mr. Fontaine, are you planning to share your artwork with the class, or are you waiting for a special unveiling?”
“Oh, no, here it is.” I open the tube and shake out its contents. As I unravel the paper, he looks on and begins to smile.
“Well, well, an old master sketch. Nicely done. Da Vinci would be honored.”
I feel a warm surge of pleasure. Mr. Wiseman might be a crotchety old pain in the ass, but he’s a very good artist and I value his opinion. “Thanks, Mr. Wiseman.”
Val takes a look at my sketch and snorts.
“Is there a problem, Ms. Knudsen?” Mr. Wiseman says.
“Um…well.” Val looks at me. “Yes, actually.”
“Maybe you’d like to share your observations with the class. Mr. Fontaine, do you mind if Ms. Knudsen critiques your work?”
Before Val started drawing gothic fantasy creatures, she drew realistic landscapes and portraits that Mr. Wiseman called “unique and haunting.” Everyone, including me, thought they were awesome. But after Val pierced her tongue and got the Chinese symbols for life and death tattooed on either side of her belly button, she became more cutting-edge. “Um…” I look at Val. “No, I don’t mind.”
“Okay, then, Ms. Knudsen,” Mr. Wiseman says. “You may have the floor.”
Mr. Wiseman takes a seat on an empty desk while Val clears her throat. Underneath the black eyeliner, piercings, and tattoos, Val is really quite soft. I can tell she’s nervous. “Well,” she says, “I understand why it’s important to study the old masters, but I think Dylan is at a point in his artistic career where he should move on. You know, find his own style.”
Great. First I have to listen to Angie tell me how non-spontaneous I am, and now Val announces that I have no style. Maybe the two of them should get together and critique my whole life.
Mr. Wiseman nods. “I see. In other words, the same way you did, Ms. Knudsen?” He peers over at Val’s summer project. Although Mr. Wiseman is not one to squelch creativity, he is not a fan of Dracula Slays the Evil Centaur.
“Yes,” Val says, defiantly. “The same way I did.”
“Fair enough,” Mr. Wiseman says. “Mr. Fontaine, Ms. Knudsen may have a valid point. It’s certainly something to consider for your next project. Now, moving right along…”
While Mr. Wiseman hands out the semester syllabus, Val reaches over and touches my hand. “Sorry, Fontaine. Sometimes the truth hurts.”
Ten
A STRANGE LADY IS STANDING at our kitchen sink washing dishes. She’s built like a Mack truck, and to my horror she’s singing “Goodnight, Irene” completely off-key in what I believe is a German accent. I open the refrigerator and grab an apple, wondering if my dad’s classified ad for a housekeeper read: Must like country music and Wiener schnitzel. Former woman wrestler a plus.
I bite into the apple and she spins around. “Oh, hello! You must be Dylan!” Her face is round and pleasant, and it looks like she’s been working hard, because the kitchen is spotless. She grabs a dish towel above the sink, revealing two large armpit stains. Hastily she dries her hands and offers me one. “So nice to meet you. I’m Vanya.”
We shake. Her grip is firm and solid, like a man’s. “Um, hi, Vanya. I guess you’re our new…,” and that’s when I see a jumble of raw multicolored sausage links on the counter—brown, white, and bloodred.
“Yes, yes, your new housekeeper. Your father asked me to come today. And maybe”—she smiles—“if we all get along, I will agree to stay.”
“Oh, okay.” I point to the counter. “What are those?”
“Why, that’s our dinner! Bratwurst, bierwurst, and weiss-wurst. I found them all at the German deli on Third Avenue. For dessert, I’m making strudel. Tonight we’ll have a feast. I’ve even invited your brother’s friends to join us.”
As I stand there gaping, Randy calls me from the top of the stairs. “Hey, Dyl, is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Um, listen, Vanya, I better go. Sounds like Randy needs me.”
“Sure, sure. Run along, dinner is at six.”
Vanya goes back to the sink while I trek up the stairs. Inside Randy’s room I find the whole gang. Randy is sitting atop his desk, Moser and Headbone are sprawled out on the floor, and Nick and Chloe are lounging cozily on the bed. The five of them seem to be having a meeting.
“Dylan?” Randy says. “Did you know the Vagina Head was hiring a housekeeper?”
“Uh, well…” I look around. They’re all staring at me like I’m some kind of traitor. “Yeah, sort of.”
He throws up his hands. “Sort of? So why didn’t you tell me? The guys and I cut out of school early to practice and—”
“Ahem!” Chloe says.
“Sorry, Clo. The band and I cut out of school early to practice, and when we got here, there was this…this lady—”
Headbone chimes in. “And we’re using that term loosely, dude. Did you see the size of her?”
Moser laughs. “Yeah. We already gave her a nickname. Attila the Hun.”
Chloe takes off one of her flip-flops and throws it at Moser, hitting him in the back of the head. “You’d better watch it, Moser, or I’m going to drag your sorry butt into the shower and scrub you down with Betadine.”
“Ouch!” Moser says, rubbing his head. “Jeez, Clo, it was just a joke.”
“Okay, okay,” Randy says. “Anyway, Dyl, this lady, whatever her name is, Vanya, starts going off on us about how she’s planning to call the school and let them know we skipped class. Then she told us there’s not going to be any more monkey business around here—she actually used that term, monkey business—and that we couldn’t play our music until four-thirty, when the school day was technically over.”
“And…you guys listened to her?” I say.
Headbone sits up. “What were we supposed to do? She’s a brute! Did you see those sausages in the kitchen? She probably slaughtered the pig herself! Seriously, what was your dad thinking when he hired her? I mean, what does he really know about her background? She could be a freaking Nazi. A skinhead!”
Nick leans over, slips off Chloe’s other flip-flop, and flings it at Headbone. “Get a grip, Headbone. We all w
ant to get rid of Vanya, but she’s no skinhead.”
“Whatever,” Headbone says.
While the guys brood, I gather up the flip-flops, hand them to Chloe, and take a seat on the bed next to her. Suddenly Moser blurts out, “Hey, I have an idea! How about we all stop showering? Think about it, guys, Vanya wouldn’t be able to take it. She’d have to quit!”
Everyone except Moser groans. “Sorry, Moser,” Nick says, slipping his arm around Chloe, “some of us actually have a reason to smell good.” He nuzzles her neck and she begins to giggle. I raise an eyebrow at Randy. He frowns and looks away.
“Hey, I got a better idea,” Headbone says. “Let’s see if we can bribe her with some weed. I mean, she’s German, right? And Germany is right next to Austria, where pot’s legal. I’m telling you, those Europeans are, like, far out when it comes to drugs. Vanya’s probably been smoking since she was a kid.”
“You know, Headbone,” Randy says, “for a guy who’s supposedly Harvard material, you’ve got the common sense of an orangutan.”
Headbone smiles. “Thanks, dude.”
Moser shakes his head. “Hey, Randy, when’s your mom coming back? I mean, yeah, she used to read us the riot act and kick us out of the house if she smelled reefer, but at least she was your mom. Headbone’s right, who is this lady?”
Suddenly the room goes silent. Headbone gives Moser a shove and whispers, “Foot in mouth!”
“Oh, sorry, Randy,” Moser says. “Really, I didn’t mean anything, I just…”
Randy shakes his head. “No, it’s all right, Moser.” He looks at me. “Hey, Dyl, can I talk to you for a minute? Alone?”
“Yeah, sure.” I hop off the bed, and while the others look on with concerned expressions, the two of us walk into the hall. Randy shuts the door. “Listen,” he says. “Did Dad say anything to you about Mom coming home?”
I look into Randy’s eyes, and I can tell that he misses our mother as much as I do. Maybe more. Our parents have always tried not to play favorites, but the truth is, while my dad has a natural affinity for me, I think my mother has always felt more connected to Randy. Probably because they’re so much alike. “Well…” I hesitate.
“Dylan, just tell me. I need to know.”
“Okay. Yeah, Dad talked to me. He told me she’s not coming home. When she gets back from Paris, she’ll still be living with Philippe in the Village.”
Randy leans against the wall, then slides down until he’s sitting, hunched over, his knees against his chest. He stares straight ahead. I sit next to him and very gently place my hand on his back. I’m expecting him to shrug it off, but he doesn’t. “It sucks,” I say. “The whole thing. It just sucks.”
He nods. “I just…I don’t understand why, you know? I mean, it’s not like Dad’s a bad guy or anything. Yeah, they used to fight a lot, and sure, he was never around much, but he’s got a tough job. Mom knows he loves her. And anyway, what about us?”
I think back to the last huge argument my parents had. It was the night of Philippe’s art show. My mom had a few of her pieces on display, and she was very excited. We waited and waited, but my dad never came. There was no emergency at the hospital; we found out later he was making some last-minute phone calls and lost track of time. After that my mom began spending more time with Philippe and her friends in the Village. When she finally left, she cried a lot, hugged Randy and me, told us how much she loved us and that she needed time to think. Not once did she badmouth my father. But still, for Randy and me it was the ultimate betrayal, and when my mom would call, sounding happy with her new-and-improved life, I spoke to her in monosyllables. Randy wouldn’t even get on the phone. It was our form of revenge.
Slowly I run my hand up and down Randy’s back, and he still doesn’t shrug it off. “Yeah, I know what you mean, Randy. I miss Mom. A lot.”
We sit there for a while in silence. Finally, Randy takes a deep breath and looks at me. His eyes are glassy, and it’s not from smoking weed. “Well, I guess it’s just you and me, huh, Dyl? And the Vagina Head, whenever he decides to show up.”
I smile sadly. “Don’t forget Attila the Hun.”
“Oh, right, thanks for reminding me.”
At the dinner table Vanya asks all six of us to hold hands, and just as she’s about to say grace, Headbone pipes up. “Hey, wait a minute!” We all look at him. He slams a fist on the table. “What are you guys doing? This totally goes against the Dead Musicians Society’s principles! I mean, what happened to our belief that religion is the opium of the masses? I don’t think we should be forced to participate in—” Suddenly Headbone stops his tirade. Across the table, Vanya is glaring at him. “Oh, sorry, Vanya, it’s just—”
“Well, Arthur,” she says, “I think this would be a perfect opportunity for you to say the blessing.”
Moser laughs. “Yeah, great idea, Vanya! Go for it, Headbone!”
The rest of us smile and nod our approval, and as we bow our heads we keep one eye on Headbone. He scowls, fidgets in his chair, and finally gives in. Closing both eyes, he says, “All right, God, if you’re actually, you know, up there, please bless this”—he glances suspiciously at the multicolored sausages—“fine dinner we are about to eat. Amen.”
Vanya opens her eyes and smiles wide. “Wonderful prayer, Arthur! Thank you! Now, let’s dig in!”
Vanya passes around platters of food, making sure we all take at least one of her wienerwursts, but since you never know what’s lurking inside one of those things (e.g., pig intestines, pig blood), when she’s not looking I slip mine to Tripod, who is strategically perched by my foot under the table. Happily, I fill up on side dishes, and after making sure there is no lard or trans fat in the strudel, I have a large piece along with some vanilla ice cream. Afterward, we all thank Vanya for dinner, and while Chloe helps with the dishes, the guys go downstairs to practice. I head to my room.
Before taking out my prized cocobolo rosewood classical guitar, I consider giving Angie a call to tell her that maybe, just maybe, I’ll consider being her guinea pig for her short film. But then I picture Jonathan Reed saying, “Lights, camera, action!” and change my mind. Instead, I open my drawer and pull out the photos of Angie and me, and, since there’s no use hiding them anymore, I stick our favorite one—the two of us with Tony the goldfish—to my bedroom mirror. Then I begin. I play my Carcassi piece a few times, and about halfway through a piece by Fernando Sor, Chloe walks into my room. Immediately I stop plucking, but she motions for me to continue and takes a seat on my bed.
Now, what most people don’t understand about playing classical guitar is that tension is the enemy. For your music to flow, you have to be completely relaxed—a difficult feat when a beautiful girl is sitting just a few feet away from you on your bed. So, after a few unfortunate twangs, I manage to get ahold of myself and finish the piece fairly well. When I’m done, Chloe smiles. “That was beautiful, Dylan. I had no idea you could play like that.”
“Thanks.” I rest the guitar on my lap. “Actually, I can do better. I was a little nervous with you in the room.”
“Oh, well, just pretend I’m not here. In fact, I’ll hide.” Chloe makes an attempt to disappear by lying on her side with her back toward me, but it doesn’t work. She’s wearing a halter top, and her exposed back and shoulders are nice to look at. “Go ahead, Dylan,” she says, talking to the wall, “please, keep playing.”
Since I know the Sor piece by heart, I close my eyes and begin to play, and pretty soon I’m feeling the colors of the notes. I know it sounds a little Zen, but after a while I get lost in them. When I finish, I open my eyes and Chloe is standing beside me. “Awesome,” she says, holding out both hands. “May I?”
“Oh, sure.” I get up, offer Chloe my seat, and hand her the guitar. She holds it like it’s made of glass.
“This is a beautiful instrument, Dylan.” She plucks a few strings, listening carefully to the sound. “Will you show me how? I play a little acoustic.”
“Okay.�
�� I stand behind the chair, lean over Chloe’s bare shoulder, and show her how to hold the neck, where to place her hands, and how to pluck the strings with the tips of her fingernails.
After a brief lesson, she turns around. “Thank you, Dylan.” She hands me back the guitar and takes a seat on the bed. I sit next to her. “So how’d you learn to play?”
“Oh, my friend Jake got me into classical. I take lessons from his instructor now, but Randy’s the one who taught me to play guitar.”
“Really? So I guess you guys used to be close, huh?”
I think back to when Randy first taught me on electric. No matter how bad I sucked, he always told me that I had talent and all I needed to do was practice. It still amazes me how patient he was. “Yeah, we hung out a lot together before he joined the band. Before he started getting high all the time.” I look at Chloe and smile sadly. “Would you believe it? Randy even taught me to play basketball.”
“Not surprising,” she says, running a finger across my bruised cheek. “I had a feeling that was a love-hate game of one-on-one. You know, I’ve been talking to the guys about laying off the weed. I used to smoke a lot too, but I quit when I saw how it affected my music. Pot takes away your motivation. Ruins relationships, too.”
We’re quiet for a while, and soon Chloe sees the photo of Angie and me taped to the mirror. “Wow, that’s great picture,” she says. “So what’s been going on with you and Angie?”
“Oh, nothing much.” I try to sound blasé, but I feel my face getting hot. “I’m supposed to be helping her shoot this film in Washington Square Park, only now she’s decided the movie is about me, so in order to be more objective, she wants to bring along her ex-boyfriend, Jonathan. Who, basically, is an asshole.”
I expect Chloe to laugh, but she doesn’t. “Sounds to me like you have some pretty strong feelings for Angie.”
I blink a few times. “Well, I don’t know, I mean—”
“I can tell,” Chloe says. “I’m not psychic or anything, but it’s a gift. Besides, your face kind of gives it away.”