“As long as we can still have Fleetwood Fridays.”
“Of course.” I pretended to cross myself. Every Friday-evening practice, Nora and I wore witchy outfits and warmed up with songs from Rumours and Fleetwood Mac’s self-titled album. Considering Toby, our drummer, had been around for only six months, he hadn’t yet opted to participate, although sometimes he wore a vest.
A sudden wave of rumbling laughter hit the door, growing as a big group of buzz cuts walked in, already pretty hammered judging by the level of comfort they had when touching one another.
“Firefighters?” I said to Nora as I filled up a pint glass with amber.
“Soldiers, I think,” she replied.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said in an exaggerated accent, loading more drinks on her tray. Then I lowered my voice and leaned toward her. “I’m gonna make us some money.”
“Go for it.”
“Hi, fellas!” I called, opening my arms. “What can I get y’all?”
The soldiers stood behind the row of barstools in formation, their gazes drifting from me up to the TVs showing SportsCenter.
“Cassie!” I heard a man’s voice call.
I looked around. Wedged between two muscled men, with a buzz cut and cheeks that were losing their roundness, was a face I recognized. He extended his arms across the bar. “I know her!”
I laughed in disbelief as I stared into his big brown eyes.
Frankie Cucciolo, Blue Power Ranger to my Pink. The closest I had to a brother growing up. Mom cleaned his neighbor’s house while we shot water guns at each other and watched Free Willy over and over.
I came around the bar to hug him. He smelled the same way he did when he used to pour sand down my shirt—like potato chips.
“How the hell have you been?” I asked. We were close a long time ago, before I left for college, closer than close, but I hadn’t seen him in a few years.
“Great! I’m on leave right now,” he said.
I took him by the shoulders. “On leave? You’re in the army?”
Frankie, a soldier. I stopped myself from asking him if he was for real. I got back behind the bar.
“Yeah!” he answered. “We’ll be shipping out in two weeks.” At this, Frankie slapped the shoulders of the guys who had inserted themselves into the spots next to him. I counted fifteen or so and braced myself. They lined up at my bar. I made conversation with each one, trying not to sound too much like a friendly robot:
“Fort Hood, huh? Wow, neat.” I have no idea where that is.
“What am I? I’m Puerto Rican.” I’m human. Oh, you mean what ethnicity am I?
“Oh, thank you! So sweet!” Sure, my shirt is nice. Especially since my breasts are inside it.
Toward the end of the line was a shorter, young-looking guy with a barrel chest and high cheekbones. He stuck out his hand. “Soy Armando.”
“Soy Cassandra. What are you drinking?” I said over the noise, glancing at the guy next to him.
“Budweiser’s good,” he answered, but I was already distracted.
Armando was cute, they were all cute, but the guy next to him had broad shoulders and dark hair barely visible on a close-shaved head. Built like a wire. Long-lashed eyes and pouty lips. Sun-browned skin, almost as dark as mine.
When he realized I was looking at him, he took his eyes off the Rangers highlights.
“Hi,” I said, out of flirty phrases. “What can I get you?”
“Oh, um. Not beer.”
I laughed. “What kind of not beer?”
“Uhh . . .” He looked over my shoulder at the posted list, then to my right at the taps. “I actually don’t know. Sorry, it’s been a while since I was the sober one.”
“What do you like?”
“Um.” He stared at the surface of the bar, as if he were contemplating the makeup of dark matter.
“Here.” I pulled three small glasses from a stack, and mixed a few virgin cocktails. I pointed to them in turn. “Soda with lime and bitters, Shirley Temple, and a spicy ginger ale.”
He sipped on each, keeping his eyes on me above the rim of the glass. When he was finished, he waved his hand over all three. “I like this. All of this is good.”
“Oh, you met Luke!” Frankie said, wandering over, his cheeks pink. “Luke, Cassie.”
Nora squeezed between Frankie and Luke and ducked under the bar.
“That’s my bassist, Nora,” I said to Frankie, nodding at her while I scooped three glasses full of ice.
“Hi-lo, Nora,” Frankie said, tipsy sounding.
“Nora, hello, wow,” Armando said. He barely noticed that I had put the Bud in front of him. “I’m Armando.”
“And I’m working,” Nora said with a big, lipsticked smile, squeezing a tallboy in the crook of her elbow. Armando’s eyes followed her as she dropped off the drinks. He moved away from the bar to a group of soldiers swaying to “This Is How We Do It” near the jukebox. Standard fare. They wouldn’t find anything made later than 2005.
Good luck, I mouthed when she caught my eye. She rolled hers.
Luke, I’d noticed with a wave of pleasure, had not moved.
Frankie and I shot the shit while I poured another round for his friends. Luke’s eyes were silver-blue. While I turned my back to make Frankie an old-fashioned, I heard him mutter something.
Then Frankie’s voice, loud. “Cassie? No, she’s like my sister. But soldiers aren’t really Cass’s type. At least that’s how it was in high school.”
I struck a match. My ears pricked. Idiots were my type in high school. “Let’s not get into that.”
“What is your type?” Luke asked.
I turned, holding the flame up to an orange peel. “Mythological creatures.”
“Any of them in here?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, looking around.
“No,” I said, feeling my mouth twitch at the corners, mirroring his.
Nora set her tray on the bar. “Could I get another round for the high top?”
Armando had joined us again, this time accompanied by a ginger guy in an unfortunate striped shirt and glasses. “Soldiers not your type, huh,” the guy slurred, gesturing to me as he slumped on the bar. “We can fight for your ass but we can’t touch it?”
“Davies,” Frankie said. “Dude.”
I took a deep breath. Asshole number 2,375 of my two-year bartending career. I filled a glass. “Have some water, buddy.”
“Not water, come on!” the redhead said, and pushed away the cup with force, spilling it.
I picked up a rag and soaked up the puddle, my face burning. “I think you’re good.”
“Oh, come on,” he called. Then, lower, to Frankie, “Your friend’s being a bitch.”
In a second, my belly was against the bar, my nose two inches from his. “Get out,” I said. A lopsided smile grew on his skinny face. His lips were chapped, his eyes wet and red.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa . . .” He backed up, holding up his hands, still smirking. His eyes were starting to widen. “It was— I was just—you know.”
Every vein in me was pumping. “Get out or our bouncer will get you out,” I told him, my face impassive.
Armando took the redhead by the waist and wove with him toward the door. I picked up another tumbler and began to pretend to wipe it down, waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal. I blew out the dark strand of hair that had found its way into my mouth.
“Was that really necessary?” came a voice from the bar. Luke.
“Excuse me?”
Luke shrugged. “You didn’t have to kick him out. He’s about to ship out—of course he needs to blow off a little steam. He could die.”
“Oh, God,” I muttered. “I didn’t ask him to do that. And for a war I don’t even believe in, so, no, I’m not going to give him a break.”
He stared at me, suddenly serious. “No, you didn’t ask him, because he volunteered to defend our country. Which includes you.”
“It’s not just us who needs the defending.
But, whatever.” I raised my hands in surrender, and glanced around for Nora. The patriot could have this one. I just wanted to go back to making money.
I heard his voice closer, more intense, leaning over the bar. “Do you know what’s going on over there?” I paused, turning back to him. “With the Islamic State?”
Did I know what was happening with the Islamic State? As if I didn’t know how to read. I shouldn’t have kept going, but I couldn’t help it. He was so smug. “ISIS is a fundamentalist response to the U.S. fucking up that entire region of the world out of greed.” His mouth hung open, shocked for a moment. “And you all seem to think it’s a good idea to just keep on coming back and messing with them. That’s what’s going on.”
Luke looked indignant. “We’re not just ‘messing with them,’ Cassie.”
The sound of my name in his mouth made my gut flip. “Oh, yeah? Luke?”
“The army also builds roads and hospitals and schools. We protect civilians. We protect aid workers.”
I threw up my hands. “Well, good for you!”
He stiffened, pulled out a few bills, threw them down on the bar.
“You grew up with Frankie, right?” Luke nodded toward Frankie, who had meandered over to the jukebox.
“Kind of.”
He stood up, draining the last of the water. “Then it makes sense.”
“What makes sense?” I hated that I had to look up at him, hated that despite my rush of anger, I could still feel some part of me being pulled.
Luke waved his hand toward me, dismissing. “Tattoos, bumper stickers, indie rock, blah blah. Probably a Prius your parents pay for.”
“All right. Number one, you don’t know me. Number two, I wasn’t shitting on you, personally. Or your choice to do whatever it is you do in the military. All I was doing was stating my right to not be called a bitch by your friend.”
Luke jumped on the end of my sentence. “You’re right, we don’t know each other, and what we do know is that you didn’t give a scared kid a chance to sober up, apologize, and spend the night with his buddies, because, what? You want world peace?” He tapped the bar. “Correct? Just so we’re clear.”
“I do know how he acted right here, right now, soldier or not.” I was almost yelling, breathing hard again. “And you can vacate as well.”
“No problem,” he told me, stepping back from the bar. “Have a nice life.”
A few minutes later the whole group stumbled out, Frankie offering a sad wave over his shoulder as they went. There went the possibility of any more tips. I felt my apron. Even after I’d served them two rounds, the wad of bills and receipts was thin.
Frankie stuck his head back in the doorway, giving me a sad wave before disappearing again.
Shit.
Nora sidled up, holding a colorful brochure in her hand. She looked at Luke’s payment. “You gonna take that?”
“Yeah. But part of me doesn’t want anything from that asshole.” I wiped down every inch of the bar where he sat. “Can you get me another Gatorade?” I asked Nora.
“Sure. How many is that? Five?”
I shrugged. I was thirsty. I was always thirsty.
“Anyway, I don’t want this, either.” She handed me the brochure. Go Army, it read. Count the Benefits. “It came with a proposal from Armando.”
“A marriage proposal? Seriously?”
“As serious as a drunk warrior on the eve of battle.”
I shoved the brochure in my apron and pulled out the wad of receipts. “How many more rounds until we can buy another amp?”
“A lot.” She sighed, before pouring two shots. “Cheers!”
“Get back to work,” I said, lifting the little glass to clink with Nora’s, laughing but barely feeling it. I chased the shot with a sip of Gatorade, and tried to shake off a feeling of dread. I wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Maybe it was that soldier, or maybe it wasn’t until now that my unemployment was sinking in. I was really cut loose, a flailing kind of freedom. As I finished clearing the bar of receipts and straw wrappers and soaked cardboard coasters, I found myself suddenly shooting my hand out from my waist, trying to catch a piece of paper as it fluttered in the air. My napkin to-do list, crumpled and disguised, had almost landed in the trash.
Luke
I woke up in Frankie’s guest room under a comforter made out of feathers and the usual invisible elephant sitting on my chest. The lady who led our group sessions at St. Joseph’s had said the “elephant sensation” might be anxiety. The idea of having anxiety just made my chest tighter, so I’d ignored her, but, yes, the elephant made things that were easy for most people hard for me. Things like being nice, enjoying substances or food in reasonable doses, believing the plots of movies, sleeping, making decisions. Never been able to get the hang of those things, even when I was a kid, and maybe never will.
Then again, some things that are hard for most people are easy for me, like waking up early, and running.
I found Frankie’s room because the door was posted with FRNKIE on a Texas license plate. I cracked it open. He grunted. I glanced at the photos on his dresser.
Frankie and his mom and dad, squinting at the Grand Canyon.
Frankie as a toddler in a cowboy hat.
Frankie and a little girl closer to his age, maybe a cousin, sitting in a sandbox.
I looked closer. The expression on the little girl’s face looked familiar, those full eyebrows, and the color of her skin, a shade darker than mine or Frankie’s. Cassie, the bartender. Huh. I didn’t realize she knew him that well.
“Running?” Frankie half whispered when I told him, lacing up my gray-green Brooks.
“Yeah, leave your back door open, okay?” I said, backing out of his room. I’d do six or seven, depending on the heat.
West Lake Hills was all downhill, dark, smooth pavement and giant, quiet mansions trickling by.
I was also good at thinking about things that didn’t necessarily mean anything. And thinking about them a lot. The thoughts usually began with a random phrase I’d heard during the week, passing through my head. Nice shot, Private. Nice shot. Nice shot.
Today it was, Well, good for you!
Well, good for me. That bartender had gotten under my skin. For once it was good, for me and for everyone. Frankie and Davies and Armando and I were out here pushing ourselves to the brink, about to face death, and it meant nothing to her. To people like her.
I realized I was running in the middle of the road. I veered back onto the sidewalk.
Why did I care what one of Frankie’s bleeding-heart friends thought of me anyway? Cassies were everywhere, especially in Austin.
The smooth pavement of Frankie’s wealthy neighborhood soon gave way to the cracked concrete of furniture stores, used-book shops, public schools. Three miles.
In sync with the sound of my feet in this thin space, lacking oxygen, my thoughts shifted. The washed-out yellows and browns of Buda rose up behind my eyes and I started hearing the voices of the people who always seemed to run with me.
Dad’s face pulsing with my breath, over and over, you dumbass, you dumbass, you dumbass. I couldn’t help comparing the Cucciolos’ spicy fresh pasta sauce from last night’s dinner to the little balls of meat he used to slap on a sheet pan. But they were hot, and they came at the same time every night. Mess-hall precision at six p.m., not one minute late. Burgers and A.1. between store-brand white bread, or nothing.
Nothing, I had started to tell Dad when I was fourteen, on my way out the door. I’ll just get something from the gas station.
On mile four, when the sun was fully up, I thought of Jake, sitting at the table alone with Dad after I’d left, night after night. I thought of Mrs. June, the history teacher who’d failed me, Coach Porter, the clerk at Mort’s.
I thought of seeing them now, what they would say. Wow, you’ve changed, Morrow. You’ve got your shit together.
Except for Jake. The door shutting in my face. I could show up in a limo as a full
y ordained priest and he wouldn’t believe I’d changed. And until now, he had no reason to.
I looped back toward Frankie’s house, back up the hills, past the sprinklers turning on, past a French bulldog and a retriever and the women in spandex who walked them.
My muscles twinged but they pulled out of the grip of the sticky air. Weeks of carrying fifty extra pounds of gear, hauling my limbs over walls and under spiked wires, pushing off the ground for hours, splitting seconds until I threw up—after that, this was nothing.
Between breaths, I made my case to Jake.
I wasn’t a lazy, doped-up loner who passed out on Johnno’s couch anymore. I knew how to execute. People relied on me. I knew how to take risks and put the good of others above myself. I knew how to push away fear and do whatever it took to get the job done.
Prove it, his voice said back.
Frankie’s Spanish-style house came into view. I tapered my pace and checked my watch, panting. Seven and a half. Cut my fastest time by two seconds. The pleasure was white hot.
I’d go back to Buda as soon as I could.
Cassie
Playing at the Skylark was like playing in the basement of a surreal little house. The whole place was painted dark red. Soft disco lights made patterns on the unfinished floors and pipes snaked across the black ceilings. Nora and I had pooled our tips to get her a used amp that didn’t sound like total shit. We’d played Petey’s, and from Petey’s we got picked up by the manager of Les RAV—one of their openers had dropped out and they needed a last-minute replacement.
We were on our second to last song, our newest song, the first I’d written for the album, and I never wanted it to end. Mom was here. She was sitting in the back, stone-faced, her purse clutched on her lap, but she was here.
My fifth Christmas, Mom bought me a small, plastic Casio keyboard, and I couldn’t stop playing it. After about a year of telling me to shut up, she had a headache, she had converted her sewing room into a music room and left me to it. My big vocal cords must have been from my dad’s side of the family, whatever Euro-clan they came from. All I knew is that he grew up in Iowa, had freckles and brown hair like me, and fell in love with Marisol Salazar in the checkout line at the San Juan Public Library. Beyond that, there’s a wall in Mom that I don’t get to cross. And believe me, I’ve asked, wheedled, interrogated.
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