“I get it,” I say. And I do. T. S. Eliot and all.
“One more thing,” he says, opening the top desk drawer to take out a small, wrapped package. “It was Meg’s idea to get this for you.”
I unwrap my gift. It’s a digital recorder. On cue, Meg leans her head into Harry’s office.
“Like it?” she says.
“Love it,” I say. “Just like you guys.”
“All right, get out of here, D’Angelo. Enjoy what’s left of summer. We’ll see you back here in two weeks. Be prepared to kick some ass.”
“Okay.” I’m about to leave, and then I don’t think—I just act. I run up to Harry and throw my arms around him. It is a softer hug than I expect. He pats my back, and I can feel a summer’s worth of experiences passing between us.
“Sit down, D’Angelo,” he says. “Hands on the desk.”
I do as he says. He takes a rubber stamp and ink pad from his drawer and plops an armadillo on each hand. “Now get out of here, for real.”
I make my rounds and say my good-byes—or see-you-soons, as the case may be—and when I finally leave the building, I’m feeling lighter. The bright sunlight feels right for late summer. The sky is a pure, hazeless blue. I can sense autumn behind the white, puffy clouds. The first day of school is only a few days away, and for once, I don’t mind.
chapter twenty-seven
Living
My mom gets home from work early and finds me staring at a mound of clothes on my bed that I’ve deemed totally unacceptable. It’s everything I own.
“What’s up?” she says, surveying the garment explosion.
“Is it okay if I stay out later tonight? I’m going to see a band.”
“With who?”
“AJ.”
She’s all teeth. “My daughter is dating a drummer.”
“Okay, do not get goofy on me. I need something that makes me look like a pretty rocker chick.”
My mom doesn’t miss a beat. She steps out into the hall and screams down to my father.
“You’re on your own for dinner tonight! Sam and I are going to the mall.” Then she turns to me and says, “Grab your stuff.”
* * *
Three hours later, I’m sitting in AJ’s new vehicle. “Is this a hearse?” I ask as I fasten my seat belt. He never mentioned he was ditching his Jeep.
“A very old one. I thought it was cool. Perfect for hauling gear.”
AJ is looking at me—at every inch of me. I should be enjoying this moment more, but I can’t seem to get past the fact that I’m riding in the front seat of a hearse. Better here than in the back, I guess.
I’m wearing my new low-rise jeans with the blown-out holes in the knees. My mom also talked me into a tank top with a built-in bra that is certainly giving me a boost, as well as black wedge sandals that are doing the same. I’m almost hot. And I can tell by AJ’s sideways glances as we pull away that he thinks so too.
My dad says that the best live music is usually found in the worst parts of town. That thought immediately pops into my head when we double-park in front of the bar to unload AJ’s equipment. It’s on a corner next to an abandoned warehouse and across the street from a bus terminal. A large bouncer sits out front, propping the door open with his stool. AJ shimmies in the front door sideways, lugging the bag containing his kick drum, and says, “Hi, Dave. This is Sam.”
“Hallo, Sam,” he says, and for a split second, I think he’s doing a fake English accent.
“Hi,” I say.
“I need to see some ID. It’s all ages tonight, but you’ve got to get a wristband if you’re old enough to drink.” The accent has not been dropped and I realize he is, in fact, English.
“I’m not.” I hand him my license anyway.
“So I see. You’re barely seventeen.”
“Like the white-winged dove,” deadpans AJ as he scoots past to get the rest of his gear.
“Ah, Stevie Nicks,” Dave says. “You’re too young to know who that is.”
“I love Stevie Nicks. My father—”
“Plays in an eighties cover band,” finishes AJ as he lugs his kick drum into the bar.
I find a seat at the end of the bar, closest to the makeshift stage, which is merely a drum riser built on milk crates and tucked into the corner. The stage lighting is band provided and accomplished by clamping two lights with colored cellophane to each PA speaker pole. There are four other guys in AJ’s band—two guitarists, a bassist, and a lead singer. When they finally start to play, I’m immediately sorry I didn’t bring earplugs. They’re incredibly loud. I recognize a few songs from my iPod playlist, but there’re just as many I haven’t heard. Still, they pull me in. Crunchy guitars, heavy bass, hard-hitting drums—their sound fuses hardcore and melodic rock, like the Warped Tour bands that all the skater kids like.
AJ plays the drums like he feels it—every beat, without even thinking about it. If he’s counting in his head, it doesn’t show. His movements are fluid and intuitive, his drumsticks a mere extension of himself. His style isn’t flashy. I wouldn’t have expected him to be a show-off, anyway.
His face exudes a combination of happiness and intensity I’ve never seen in him before. He is where he needs to be to play his part in this song. And just when the song hits its groove, when the guitar, bass, drum, and voice are all moving like one big whole, he looks up and smiles, first to himself, then at me. Then he does a roll, and it’s back to eyes closed.
My own failed attempts at learning to play an instrument have only heightened my appreciation for what musicians do and the places a band can take me when I’m lost in their sound. I’m in one of those places now, oddly relaxed sitting by myself amid a mostly male crowd that’s here for the music, not Jell-O shots. I’m also diggin the way AJ’s legs look in those jeans, especially where he’s got a big midthigh tear. I’m mesmerized by that spot as he pounds the kick drum with his right foot and keeps time with the left.
Anthony John Bartello, drummer for the Grammy Award–winning band Love Gas, died Thursday. He was eighty-seven. AJ, as he was known by friends and fans, is survived by his wife of fifty years, Samantha (née D’Angelo) Bartello; two children, Alfonsina (“Ally”) and Neil; and three grandchildren.
But the vibe is broken when Rob McGinty walks in with Liza and their crew. Shelby’s guy, Mark, is here too, followed by Quarters dude, Josh. Speaking of Jell-O shots … they all look like they’ve walked into the wrong bar. Perhaps they were looking for the Tiki-style establishment, frequented by MTV reality “stars,” farther down the coast. It’s possible my presence would have gone undetected, but Rob spots me and, for some reason, decides to come up and say hello. Must he always be so nice? Liza and her cronies hang by the door, looking as if they believe they’ll get their summery ensembles dirty if they venture any farther into the club. They’re all less than ten feet from where I’m sitting, but a parallel universe away.
“Hey,” Rob says, taking a few steps toward me and giving me a half wave. “You here for the band?”
Love Gas starts another song, and I have to yell to be heard. “I know the drummer.”
“Nice,” Rob says, looking around uncomfortably. “Mark pumped gas with the guitarist this summer.”
Like a dog who hears his name, Mark appears at Rob’s side along with Josh.
“Look who it is,” Josh snorts, loudly. He sounds drunk. “Shelby’s friend.”
“This is Sam,” Rob says.
“Here with all your friends tonight?” He leans too close to my face, and I have to arch my back against the bar to avoid his beer breath.
“Chill,” Rob says. He attempts to pull Josh away from me, but not before the six-foot-five wall of Dave arrives. Bouncerman. A new kind of superhero.
“These guys bothering you, Sam?” he says, bumping up against their backs. “Is there a problem here?”
“There’s no problem,” Rob says. He and Mark move drunken Josh toward the door. They stay until the end of the song, and then they
leave en masse. I feel kind of bad for Rob, but I guess that’s the price he pays for choosing to hang around with people like that. It would be hard to date Rob knowing his friends are part of the package. Sometimes not getting the guy you wanted since sixth grade can be the best thing that ever happened to you.
* * *
“Thanks for your help tonight,” I say to Dave when the set is over and Love Gas begins packing up.
“Anytime,” he says. “The jocks and frat boys always make my night more interesting. Douche bags, all of them.”
After we finally get into AJ’s hopefully temporary vehicle, he pops out one last time to open the back door. I hear him unzipping a canvas bag, which I hope contains gear and not a body. When he comes back around to the driver’s seat, he has a small, square box in his hand with a bow on top.
“I almost forgot to give this to you,” he says.
“For me?” I ask.
“No, for the other girl I’m driving home tonight. Yeah, you,” he says. “Sorry it’s a little late. Happy birthday, Sam.”
It’s like I’m watching this happen to some other girl.
“But you already gave me a gift. The playlist, the song—”
“Just open it,” he says. “I suck at wrapping, so I skipped that part.”
I flip open the box, carefully part the tissue paper, and pull out delicate silver earrings, which at first glance appear to have two sparkling charms—one on each earring. Then I take a closer look.
“Are these armadillos?”
“I know they’re unusual, right? But, I don’t know, I saw them and thought, ‘Sam.’”
“They’re perfect,” I say, because they are. I touch them lightly with my index finger, then turn and give AJ a slightly awkward hug.
He breaks free and holds my face in his hands. My breath catches in my throat.
“You’re so pretty,” he says.
And then he kisses me softly on the lips, once, before pulling back. Chills run down the back of my neck. I look into his eyes, and I realize he is waiting for me to say something, but I decide the better answer is to just kiss him back. Then I move my lips along his jaw and up to his ear. “I wish we had done this sooner.”
“The band or the kiss?”
“Both.”
“I was waiting for you to get real about Coma Boy.”
“And I was waiting for you to define what Jessica was to you.”
“I told you. She wasn’t my girlfriend. Nor was she ever going to be.”
“Why?”
“Because something happened right after I met her.”
“What?”
“You walked into the newsroom.”
I tilt my forehead against his and look into his eyes.
“So, does this mean I’m not your latest I-don’t-know?”
“You’re my Sam-I-am,” he says.
I look down at the tiny open box in my hand. Armadillos. They can explain everything.
The ride home is quiet, except for the music from AJ’s various playlists, but somehow just being together is comfortable and exciting all at the same time. AJ holds my hand the entire time and doesn’t let go until we pull up in front of my house.
“See you tomorrow?” I say.
He puts his hand behind my head, leans over, and kisses me again.
“It is tomorrow,” he says.
He’s right. I open the door but then quickly slam it shut. In one impressively smooth motion, I slide across the leather bench seat and settle into AJ’s lap. Our lips meet just as his arms wrap around me. Every cell in my body feels alive. I’m exactly where I want to be, and who I want to be.
Acknowledgments
It takes the time and talents of many to turn one writer’s ideas into a book. I am so very grateful to the following people.
My incredible agent, Kerry Sparks, for believing in this novel from the start and sticking with me through every draft. Every writer should have a Kerry in her corner.
My editors, Eve Adler and Christy Ottaviano. Their decision to acquire this novel was life changing, and their editorial guidance and input elevated the manuscript on many levels. I am so thankful to Christy, my kindred spirit in all things pop culture, for pushing me (gently) to discover the story I truly wanted to tell. Thanks to Kathryn Little and everyone at Henry Holt/Macmillan and Christy Ottaviano Books, especially Amy Allen.
My amazing family, who have always given me the love, support, and encouragement to pursue my dreams—even the crazy ones. My parents, Grace and George Salvato, my sister and brother-in-law, Melissa and Anthony Collucci, their children, Anthony James and Cassie, and my other parents, Dolores and John Doktorski. I love you all.
My best friend, rock, and better half, Mike, and our beautiful daughter, Carley. Every day, they inspire me to do everything better.
My talented and generous critique partners, Karen Cleveland, James Gelsey, and Sharon Biggs Waller. Special thanks to Lisa Anne Reiss, who told me before we’d even met she had a feeling this book was going to sell, and Melissa Eisen Azarian, whose eagle eye and attention to detail always make my manuscripts better.
My NHS girls, for getting me through high school and for their continued support.
Former Greenwillow editor and present editorial consultant extraordinaire Sarah Cloots, who was the very first person to request my full manuscript. (I kept the e-mail.) Thank you for seeing something in this novel when it still had a long way to go.
My very early readers and dear friends who suffered through that first draft yet still gave me the encouragement I needed to turn those pages into a novel: Adriana Calderon, Liz Davis, Eddie and Laura Konczal, Michele Russo, and Christa Conklin.
The members of the real Love Gas, Chris Wargo (lead vocalist/guitarist), Eric Kvortek (guitarist), Austin Faxon (drummer), and Mike Doktorski (bassist/husband).
Special thanks to all my friends and colleagues past and present in the news biz, who continue to inspire me and helped make the plot and newsroom scenes more authentic, especially Ted Anthony, Lisa Colangelo, Pasquale DiFulco, Allison Inserro, Bob Sullivan, and my first editor, Walt Herring, who is no longer with us but by most accounts was a newsman’s newsman.
And finally, in memory of Lisa Kamm, my first cousin and friend. You are loved and missed.
About the Author
Jennifer Salvato Doktorski is the author of the young adult novel How My Summer Went Up in Flames. She is also a freelance nonfiction writer and has published articles and essays in national magazines, such as Cosmopolitan. Her first paid writing gig was at the North Jersey Herald & News, where she wrote obituaries and began her lifelong love of news and coffee. She lives in New Jersey with her family.
Text copyright © 2013 by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Doktorski, Jennifer Salvato.
Famous last words / Jennifer Salvato Doktorski. — First edition.
pages cm
“Christy Ottaviano Books.”
Summary: During a summer internship as an obituary writer for her local northern New Jersey newspaper, sixteen-year-old Samantha D’Angelo makes some momentous realizations about politics, ethics, her family, romance, and most important—herself.
ISBN 978-0-8050-9367-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-8050-9840-2 (e-book)
[1. Newspapers—Fiction. 2. Journalism—Fiction. 3. Self-perception—Fiction. 4. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 5. Internship programs—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.D69744Fam 2013 [Fic]—dc23 2012046312
eISBN 9780805098402
First hardcover edition 2013
eBook edition Jul
y 2013
Famous Last Words Page 19