“I didn’t bring a girl back tonight.”
Killer slaps the sides of his face, like he’s stricken with shock, and makes a show of peering out the window.
I just roll my eyes, but Arrow takes the bait. “What are you looking for, babe?”
“Meteors,” Killer replies.
“What?”
“Jace didn’t bring home a girl after a concert. That means either the world is ending, or he wasn’t in the mood.”
“And the world ending is more probable?” I mutter.
“Naturally.”
I shake my head and refresh my laptop, bringing up a new batch of @ToneDeaf tweets. I see #MarryMe in two of them and disgustedly close the browser. Can’t they at least try to be original?
“I’ve been with girls for longer than one night,” I mutter, although I’m way too late replying, and it sounds downright pathetic.
“Two nights doesn’t count as a relationship, either,” Killer says.
I have no response for that one, so I open up a MS Word document and start absently typing. “Free writing” is what Tony calls it; he says it’s good to let the imagination go and just write whatever comes into my head. But after a minute, all that’s on the page is: “Once upon a time, there was an annoying dude named Killer. He died. The end.”
It’s definitely not going to win me any short story awards, but maybe I can work it into a song . . .
The RV door bangs open, and I cringe as it crashes against the wall. “Jon, for the love of god! How hard is it to open a door without denting my RV?”
Jon saunters into the RV and makes a big show of closing the door softly. It’s actually mildly impressive, considering the muscle the dude packs. Freshman year, our high school’s coach tried to make Jon the star of the junior varsity football team. That lasted about one week, until the coach discovered that Jon couldn’t bash into anyone without spewing a bunch of nervous apologies. But our music teacher figured out he’s much better at bashing drums, and he’s been at it ever since.
Jon raises his eyebrows at me as the door clicks quietly into place. “Better?”
I give a grunt of approval. Jon smirks as he walks over to the other couch right next to my desk, collapsing onto it. Cuddles ditches her spot at Killer’s feet to lie down next to Jon, and he scratches her under the chin.
“So what’d I miss?” he asks. “I heard arguing.”
Killer nudges Arrow in the side, and says, “We’re trying to get Jace to come out.”
Jon groans and covers his face with both hands. “I knew it. I’m the only straight one in the band.”
I roll my eyes. “Jon—”
He points a finger at me and cuts me off. “No, Jace, I’m not dating you, so don’t even ask.”
I grit my teeth, keeping in a yell of frustration, and grind out, “I was going to ask you to kindly shut your obnoxious trap. Got it?”
All the mischief melts from Jon’s expression. “You’re in a worse mood than usual,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I snap.
Arrow makes a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat. “Jace, you just flipped off a completely innocent fan. I really don’t think that counts as ‘fine.’”
Jon’s eyes narrow at me. “You flipped off a fan?”
“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” I mutter, but the lie sounds weak even to me.
“It’s going to be a big deal when Tony murders you. Seriously, what the hell were you thinking?”
“I am having an extremely shitty day,” I growl. “It just happened.”
“Yeah, and you’ll be having an even worse day tomorrow. You know how Tony gets when you pull stunts like this. He’s going to take it out on all of us.”
Killer clears his throat pointedly and says to Jon, “Dude, go easy on him. It’s June fifth.”
Jon’s eyes suddenly go really wide. Then he says, “Oh. Right. June fifth,” in a tone that might be either a question or an apology.
“How about instead of going easy on me, you all just go?” I wave a hand at the door of the RV. “Seriously, get out of here. I don’t want to talk.”
Arrow shakes his head. “Jace, look—”
“You’re talking,” I snap, cutting him off. “Exactly what I just said I don’t want to do.”
Arrow hesitates, but then he throws his hands up in defeat and walks out the door before things can get any more awkward. Jon is quick to follow, but Killer lingers for a moment longer. Just as I’m about to tell him to leave, he crosses his arms and says, “What’s that saying you’re so obsessed about? Your personal motto, or whatever?”
“Serva me, servabo te. What’s that got to do with anything?”
Killer shakes his head. “Do you even know what that saying means, Jace?”
“Of course,” I say. “‘Save me, and I will save you.’ It’s like karma. When someone bothers to give a shit about me, I give a shit about them. Everyone else isn’t worth my time.”
“Exactly, it’s like karma,” Killer says. “It’s supposed to be a two-way street.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re always so mad at the world for not saving your miserable ass, but you never bother trying to save anyone but yourself.”
“I don’t need the world to save me, and I sure as hell don’t expect it to.” I make a sharp gesture to my guitar propped in the corner of the room. “That saved me. That gave me a career and a ticket out of hell, and I pay my respects by treating my music like an actual craft. You and Arrow and Jon helped save me, and I pay you back by treating you like brothers. Tony helped make us famous, and I pay him hundreds of thousands for it. But no one else has ever helped, and I have no reason to bother with them.”
Killer shakes his head. “Jace, our band had a little bit of talent and a shit-ton of luck. And, someday, we’re going to run out of luck. All bands do.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re failing miserably,” I growl.
“I’m not trying to make you feel better, I’m trying to make you do something better. You built our band to escape your past, but it won’t last forever. So maybe you should start caring more about the world, because you’re not always going to have the band to cower behind.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he shoves out his palm, stopping me. “You can yell at me for being an asshole later,” he says as he heads for the door. “For now, just shut up for once and think about what I said.” He doesn’t give me any chance to respond before slipping out the door and leaving me alone with nothing but silence for company.
4
ALI
I CREEP INSIDE my dad’s house and quietly close the front door. Even after living here for almost seven years, I still can’t kick the habit of thinking of it like that: “my dad’s house.” Not my house. My home is far, far away in a NYC apartment that’s tiny and cramped and absolute heaven. Because it’s where my mom is, and where the air is always filled with the sound of my piano and the smell of oatmeal cookies.
Or at least that’s how it used to be. Last I saw my home, it was covered with white sheets and silence. The air had smelled like a hospital, and even though it was totally morbid, I wanted to stay there forever. My mom may have been far underground in a coffin, but all my memories of her were stuck in that apartment.
Of course, I didn’t get my wish. In a matter of days, I was shipped off to my dad’s house in hot, dusty Los Angeles, California. I’d always wondered why my mom never let me see my dad, why she divorced him before I was even born.
Now I know all too well.
As I turn around, I face my dad. Speak of the devil. He’s Chief Patterson to most people, but he insists I call him “Dad.” He likes to desperately cling to the illusion that we’re some sort of normal family, even if we both know it’s a complete lie.
Seeing him in front of me makes my stomach drop. Usually, he avoids me, and I avoid him, and the careful distance we set between each other keeps things quiet.
Until he drinks. Then the alcohol rips away his desire for distance and replaces it with a drive for violence, and all that quietness is shattered.
I force an innocent smile. It hurts my cheek, where the bruise from last week is still healing. “Hey, Dad.”
The slap comes so fast, I barely see it. But I feel it. There’s no way in hell I couldn’t feel it. My dad has perfected his slaps over the years: hard enough to bruise, soft enough not to break the skin. My jaw snaps back, and I hold in a yelp. That’d only make things worse.
“Where were you, Alison?” he demands, his slurred words hard to read. His face is twisted with the anger that overtakes him every time he gets drunk. I have no idea what sort of horrific flashbacks he tries to hide from when he gets that haunted look in his eyes and pulls out a bottle, but I’m not sure I want to find out. He’s never dared to speak about the monstrous memories that ruined his mind, and I’ve never dared to ask.
I’ve heard my dad’s police buddies joke that he’s a “master of disguise,” because underneath all his gruffness is a “heart of gold.” He’s their retired chief, and the entire Los Angeles police department holds him up on a pedestal. Everyone sees him as a hero for creating protocols that reduced gang violence in at least half a dozen neighborhoods. And I guess he technically did do something heroic, but he’s not the Superman everyone thinks he is. People have no idea how quickly a few shots of liquor can make his gold heart turn black.
Pain blossoms through my cheek and down my neck, and panic twists my gut. I feel like I’m about to lose my dinner. Maybe I’ll hit his shoes if I vomit. Go down with a fight.
Yeah. Right.
My dad glowers down at me, and I do my best to read his lips while avoiding his gaze. It’s an art I’ve mastered over the years: when his eyes get watery and red, look at anything but them. His receding hairline, his knobby chin, his graying hair, his strong jaw. Anything but his eyes.
“How many times have I told you? Curfew is at eleven.”
It was actually at twelve last time I checked, but I know better than to even attempt to correct him when he gets like this. Silence is almost always the safest answer. I resist the urge to rub at the stinging skin on my cheek, knowing it’s best not to draw attention to the fresh bruise.
Damn it, I really should have accepted Avery’s offer to sleep over tonight. But she was so worked up about what happened with Jace, and I didn’t want to hear any more on the subject. I just wanted some peace. I’d figured I’d be able to spend the evening quietly holed up in my room; my dad had been in a surprisingly good mood earlier today, and I had expected it to last at least though the evening. Apparently, I was wrong.
I could cry about it, but I’ve lost enough tears over him. Now I need to focus on the good: in four months, I’ll be eighteen. Then I can run away and no one can stop me.
“Well?” my dad says.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough,” he snaps. “You’re always sorry, but you never listen to me.”
I bite my lip just in time to stop myself from saying, “Maybe I’d listen if you bothered to make sense.” It’s true, though. The demands he makes of me are often downright stupid. He wants me to get straight A’s so he can “be proud of me.” I want to get D’s, so that my teachers will realize I really do still need the help of an ASL interpreter, despite my lip-reading allowing me to squeak by with passing grades. He wants me to attend Los Angeles State and “follow in his footsteps.” I want to go to Gallaudet University, where I’ll be part of a community that embraces my deafness instead of pitying it. He wants me to get a job in law enforcement. I want to vomit at the thought.
“Really, Dad,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise.” My cheek is already starting to swell, and it aches as I speak. But I force an appeasing smile to stay on my lips.
He grunts and turns away from me, walking unsteadily toward the kitchen. I let out a long breath. But apparently I’m too loud, because he whirls around. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” I squeak. “I didn’t say anything.”
He glares at me for a long moment, and then shakes his head and strides back to the kitchen, leaving me there alone. I let out another relieved breath, but make sure to keep it quiet. Then I sprint up the staircase to my room in the attic.
Old movies make attic rooms out to be scary—making your kid stay in one is always some sort of punishment. In reality, it’s the exact opposite. Mine is cozy and big and far away from my dad.
I collapse on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. Avery’s room still has the glow-in-the-dark stars we put up there in second grade, and her bedroom is also home to about five dozen pictures of her family, friends, and animals. Her walls are covered in good memories.
Mine are bare. I keep all my favorite pictures carefully bundled in my desk drawer, ready to be scooped up and packed the first chance I get to move out of here. This isn’t home, and it never will be.
I reach up and touch my sore cheek, wincing as my fingers graze the flesh. Tomorrow, Avery will lend me an ice bag, and I can hang out at her house for the day. It’s the one place I always feel welcome.
Over the years, Avery’s parents have tried reporting my dad to Child Protective Services at least twice, but it did nothing to help. My dad simply has too many connections for the reports to be taken seriously. CPS has assured Avery’s parents that my home is safe, and that I’m just a “troubled kid.” I don’t think either of them quite buy it, but they’re both people who are wary of the authorities and too scared to directly argue. I can’t blame them for their fear. They make up for it by letting me spend as much time as I want over at their house.
But I can’t go over there until the morning, so I pull out my phone and open up Google Chrome, figuring I’ll distract myself by reading some forum posts. I’ve been following the DeafClan forum for almost four years now—they have an entire sub-forum dedicated to bands, and it was how I first discovered that being deaf didn’t have to mean ditching music. A lot of classical music has lost its magic—the vibrations are more subtle, and the memories are too painful. But the DeafClan forum introduced me to the idea that feeling the vibrations of rock songs is almost as good as hearing them. Since then, I blast music whenever I get the chance, and it never fails to bring back good memories of dancing around the kitchen with my mom, listening to her sing along to her favorites by the Beatles.
I scroll through the newest forum posts, pausing to read a long message chain about the newly restored Elvis Presley album coming out in a few weeks. The excitement in the messages is contagious, and part of me is dying to join in on the online conversation. Even though I’ve gleaned hundreds of song recommendations off this forum, I’ve never actually posted anything. I tried making an account once, but I deleted it before I even finished registering.
Everyone else on the forum is Deaf—part of the non-hearing community and proud of it. Me? I’ve never even had a Deaf friend, let alone been part of their community. All through middle school, I worked with my school district’s ASL interpreters and speech therapists. Through hundreds of hours of tutoring, they made me fluent in ASL and a champion lip-reader. But I’ve only ever used those skills to make communicating with hearing people easier. I’ve never really had the chance to converse with Deaf individuals.
Sure, I’ve read practically every single forum thread on DeafClan, and spent way too much time daydreaming about attending Gallaudet University, where I could dive headfirst into Deaf culture. But those are just daydreams.
At least for now. As soon as I turn eighteen, I can hightail it out of this house and do whatever the hell I want with my education and my life. I glance at the clock at the top of my screen; it’s 12:37 a.m.
Only four months, two days, and five hours before my birthday.
5
ALI
AVERY RIPS OFF the last Tone Deaf poster from her wall and throws it in the corner of her room. There’s a pile of posters th
ere, all ripped to pieces, with Jace’s face scribbled out on each one of them.
I sit at her desk, below a patch of glow-in-the-dark stars. It’s ten o’clock in the morning, and the stars have faded back to white plastic, but it’s still comforting to see them. The day we put them up there, Avery’s mom had invited me over and made us butter cookies, and we’d eaten them up in Avery’s room. I was still getting used to being deaf, and Avery was still getting used to having a deaf neighbor. We’d struggled to keep up a conversation made up of poor sign language and even poorer lip-reading, and giggled at all our mistranslations.
I had tried to tell her about my mom’s oatmeal cookies, how they were the best in the world, and how I missed them. But that made me burst out sobbing, a language we both understood. Avery had held my hand while I cried, and promised she’d tell her mom to make me oatmeal cookies next time I was over.
“I still cannot believe he did that,” Avery signs frantically, breaking me from my thoughts. She strides to the corner and kicks the pile of paper scraps. Then she stomps on one of the posters of Jace’s head. “What an asshole.”
I absently doodle on a piece of binder paper and try to ignore her outburst. I should have known better than to tell her what happened last night. As soon as I knocked on her door this morning, she’d burst into a fit of anger toward Tone Deaf. Then she noticed my face and burst into another fit. Thirty minutes later, she still can’t decide who she hates more: my dad or Jace Beckett. She seems to be leaning toward Jace at the moment.
I’m trying to draw a puppy—something cute and cuddly and comforting—but I keep focusing too much on the eyes. They turn piercing and light-colored. I crumple up the paper and throw it in the corner with the other scraps of uselessness.
“Let it go, Avery,” I say. “He’s not worth the time.”
She throws her hands up in the air. “You’re right, he’s not worth the time,” she signs. Her signing is slower than mine, but after four years of taking ASL classes, she’s close to fluent. She never got the specialized tutoring in ASL that I received, but she did decide to take ASL as her second-language course in high school. “I can’t believe I’ve spent two years swooning over that guy! He’s just—” She makes a disgusted face and shakes her head, abruptly turning away from me.
Tone Deaf Page 3