Streetlights Like Fireworks

by Pandolfe, David

  Streetlights Like Fireworks

  David Pandolfe

  PRAISE FOR STREETLIGHTS LIKE FIREWORKS

  “This book was every kind of wonderful… I cannot express to you with my useless WORDS, exactly what Streetlights Like Fireworks will do to you. This book is PURE feeling. It is a bounded SOUL. There is a dangerous NEED for this author to be picked up, and seen, by the big 3 in publishing. I cannot wait for the day that I see David Pandolfe’s books gleaming from every single bookstore shelf possible. His writing ranks with the likes of John Green, or David Levithan, and quite possibly, even exceeds them.”

  -Bound by Words

  “David Pandolfe has done it again; he’s wonderfully crafted a book that can’t be put down and will never leave your heart.” - The Real Bookshelves of Room 918

  “I enjoyed being taken on the adventure with the characters and didn't want to get off their wild ride when it ended! This is a wonderful book and such a great read for anybody and everybody!” - For the Love of Books

  “The ending was perfect and I found myself crying… It certainly is a must read for everyone, and I loved it so much that it earned 5 stars from me.” - Beneath the Jacket Reviews

  "Personally, I just loved it. I can read this over and over and over again. I'm crossing my fingers that there would be a sequel for this one. Streetlights Like Fireworks is a journey towards a lot of things. Funny, bittersweet and just absolutely adorable. What are you waiting for? Read this now." - The Bookish Confections

  "The pacing was great and the plot was definitely engaging, it keeps pulling at you. Every time I put the book down there was this nagging voice in my head wanting to know more." - The Booklicker

  Copyright © 2014 David Pandolfe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

  Cover art and design by Samantha Pandolfe

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  Chapter 1: Ancient Carvings on a Fender Telecaster

  Chapter 2: Energy Transfer

  Chapter 3: Pajama Boy and the Resonant Object

  Chapter 4: Reverse This Curse

  Chapter 5: The Demon and the Compass

  Chapter 6: Bringing Medicine to the Maintenance Engineer

  Chapter 7: Away We Go

  Chapter 8: A New Use for an Old Lighter

  Chapter 9: Imagining the Need for Minty Breath

  Chapter 10: Talking to a Ghost

  Chapter 11: Facebook Friends in Music City

  Chapter 12: Streetlights Like Fireworks

  Chapter 13: A Photograph of John Gavuzzi

  Chapter 14: All Her Pretty Horses

  Chapter 15: The Very Think He Loved Most

  Chapter 16: Looking Back Just Long Enough

  Chapter 17: Driving Lessons

  Chapter 18: Port Gamble

  Chapter 19: The Moth Spectrum

  1

  Ancient Carvings on a Fender Telecaster

  “The whole thing was mind blowing,” Gary says. “The light show was spectacular and the tech guys were amazing. Seriously, we sounded like freaking gods.”

  Gary’s eyes shine every time he tells us about the time his band opened for the Foo Fighters. A big grin parts his goatee this time too. He watches our faces for reactions like we’ve never heard the story before but we understand. This was the peak of his glory days and you have to respect that.

  He takes a moment to look each of us in the eye. “There was a sea of women out there and they were all going crazy. Unbelievable.”

  “Awesome,” Justin says.

  “Wish we could have been there,” Doug says.

  I’m doing my best to pay attention but the back of my neck tingles. It’s been doing that off and on all day. I try to ignore the feeling because I know what it means. Something wants my attention. Something wants me to know what I shouldn’t be able to know. Still, I figured I could buy myself some time by hanging out at Gary’s store. I never know when I’ll get a flash but it’s never happened before in Edmonds Music. This cluttered space full of guitars and amps, drum sets and keyboards. This place that smells like rosewood and brass polish. This place that feels more like home than home.

  “Damn, I wish we could have recorded it,” Gary says.

  Gary’s band broke up years ago but they used to play mostly small clubs in Richmond. One winter, the Foo Fighters were playing at the National and a blizzard up north delayed the opening act. They couldn’t get to the show and the promoters needed someone. Suddenly, Gary’s band found themselves playing in front of thousands of people. Each time I hear the story I have to wonder how, of all the club bands playing at the time, Gary’s got picked. But he has photos hanging on the wall behind his cash register showing him standing next to Dave Grohl. In the photos, they stand next to each other smiling so something must have happened there.

  “That must have been incredible,” I say, just to add something to the conversation. It must show that I’ve been tuning out. But I can’t help it. I feel uneasy. Edgy. Whatever it is that wants my attention keeps nagging at me.

  “Did you guys tour with them after that?” Justin says. “Did you get a record deal?”

  How Justin says it without irony is beyond me but I chalk it up to bass player diplomacy—that inherent skill for building a bridge between competing factions. Still, we’re all standing in Gary’s future. These days, Gary is married and has a baby. Obviously, his life isn’t all that glamorous considering it now boils down to peddling gear to teenage musicians and sometimes changing diapers.

  Gary studies Justin, thin to pushing frail, long brown hair and unblinking brown eyes to match. “Didn’t quite go that way,” he says, possibly thinking about the diaper changing thing too. “But their manager asked for a CD to take back to LA. He thought we were great.”

  “Nice,” Justin says.

  Sunlight pings against my eyes and I squint at the back wall where Gary displays the used guitars. The sun must be at just the right angle since it reflects off only one of them, an old Fender Telecaster I’ve never noticed before. The knobs, pickup plates and tuning machines gleam. Alongside it, the others look dusty and forgotten.

  “And, dude, you made out great,” Doug says. “Now you have this awesome store.”

  Doug is our drummer, squat with curly blonde hair, a solid and steady kind of guy. Obviously, he’s trying to make Gary feel like he didn’t miss the boat. A nice thing to do, definitely.

  I half-listen as Gary starts talking about forming an indie label, maybe recording our band and a few others. I keep glancing at that Telecaster. Even from a distance I see the nicks and scars suggesting it’s taken a long journey.

  “Do you mind if I check out that Fender?” I say, unintentionally cutting Gary off mid-sentence.

  He frowns, then tries to track my gaze across the store. “Which one?”

  A reasonable question since Gary stocks plenty of Fenders.

  I point and he says, “Sure, I guess.”

  Gary turns his attention back to Justin and Doug. The idea of “signing” to Gary’s imagined indie label is bound to hold their attention for a while. Normally, I’d be on board for the whole fantasy too. You never know, right? And it’s n
ot like anyone else is taking us seriously. But right now it’s almost like I have no choice but to get my hands on that guitar—that tingling at the back of my neck telling me there’s something I need to know. As much as I wish I could, I’ve never been able to ignore these feelings.

  I cross the store while Gary, Justin and Doug continue talking but I’m not listening anymore. They sound muted and far away. I reach up and take the Telecaster from its mount. The weight of it surprises me and I have to tighten my grasp to keep from dropping it. I’ve checked out some of the new Fenders but this one feels different, more solid. Definitely, this guitar has a story to tell. I sense that story in the scratches and worn pickguard. How the cream finish has been rubbed off along the top. This guitar has traveled. It’s been around for a long time. Decades maybe.

  I flip it over to discover that someone has carved their initials into the back—J.M.—two old wounds left in the wood. Who would do something like that? Someone who wanted to leave a mark on this guitar, obviously. Someone who wanted to remain part of the story. I snag one of the cables Gary leaves coiled on the floor, plug into an amp and sit on the edge of it. I cradle the Telecaster on my knee. I barely touch the strings but that’s when it happens.

  An image flashes inside my mind—a woman, young, probably in her early twenties. She’s onstage, red hair dripping sweat as she slams at this same guitar. A crowd stares, enraptured. It’s like I watch from the side of the stage, both there and not at the same time. Suddenly, she turns and startlingly green eyes bore into mine. Her lips don’t move but her whisper echoes. Bring it back to me.

  In that moment, I know—I hold part of her soul in my hands.

  I jump up and drop the guitar against the amp. I step away as the whine of feedback builds.

  “Jack, what’s up?” Gary stares from the front counter. Next to him, Justin and Doug block their ears.

  I hear him and see them. But it’s like I’m still inside my flash—in that moment when her eyes found me.

  “Kill the amp!”

  The feedback spikes against my brain. I snap out of it, click off the amp and the sudden silence might as well be a spotlight pointed right at me. I walk toward the door. I know I should put the guitar back but I have to get out of there.

  I get closer to where they are and Gary says, “Hey, are you okay?”

  I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead. “Sorry. Not feeling so good. I should go.”

  I hear Justin say, “What the—”

  “I know,” Doug says. “Looks like he just saw a ghost or something.”

  I feel the three of them watching me but I don’t look back. Soon, I’m outside and walking fast.

  2

  Energy Transfer

  My mother is on the phone when I get home. She’s always on the phone, planning things, staying involved. She’s baring her teeth in a smile that looks forced even though whoever she’s talking to can’t see her.

  “I absolutely agree,” she says, “I’m so glad the committee felt the same way. Tell me, what was historic about that building?” She waits, then laughs. “Exactly, sometimes old is just old.”

  My mother doesn’t work. She doesn’t have to for three reasons: Atkinson, Atkinson and Atkinson. My father’s law firm. His father and grandfather were both attorneys. These days, my father is the only attorney at his firm with the last name Atkinson but the name remains the same despite four other lawyers working there. Family legacy: Egotism cubed.

  I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and snag a bag of chips from the pantry. My mother doesn’t break off her conversation as I leave the room.

  My sister tromps down the stairs as I climb them. She doesn’t remove her earbuds, her eyes meeting mine just briefly.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey,” I say, even though she can’t hear me.

  I close my bedroom door and grab my laptop. I take it to my bed and sit, legs crossed, hunched over the screen. I scroll through some stuff on Tumblr but I can’t stop thinking about that flash. I’ve never had one that strong before. Never that vivid or intense. And somehow I heard her. That’s never happened before either. Who was she?

  My flashes are why my mother and sister have a hard time looking me in the eye. My father too, when we spend time together. Which isn’t often. Bad enough that I’m pale and thin, with long hair. That my grades keep slipping. That I love music more than anything. That I’m nothing like him. There’s no way he’s going to deal with the flashes too. It’s easier to just not deal with me.

  Maybe I had flashes before that—probably, I did—but the first one I remember happened when I was six. I remember it because my parents fought in front of me for the first time. My father yelled at my mother for losing a folder full of legal documents. My mother raised her voice too, insisting she didn’t move it. From there, the conflict escalated and I started crying. I wanted them to stop so I told my father to look on top of the refrigerator. After a moment, he did, probably because he felt guilty for upsetting me. Then I told him I meant the one in the garage. I knew what his folders looked like and, inside my mind, I could see one up there in that place I couldn’t actually see. A few minutes later, he came back from the garage holding the folder. He stared at me for a long time.

  The next flash I remember happened a year later. I told my little sister I was sorry she’d be going to the hospital and she ran to my mother crying. My mother told me how mean that was to scare her that way. The following week, Caitlin fell off a play structure at the park and broke her arm. On the way back from the emergency room, my parents kept whispering.

  That flash was followed by the time my parents were packing for a cruise to the Bahamas and I told them they shouldn’t go. They went anyway, of course, and everyone on the ship got sick from some sort of virus. Twice, I predicted the deaths of family pets. First, our cat, Stripes, one morning before going to school. I kept holding her, tears streaming down my face, saying she wouldn’t be there when I got back. My mother forced me out the door to catch the bus. Stripes got hit by a car that same morning. The second time was for my hamster. I somehow knew he’d be dead in the morning but staying up all night did nothing to change that.

  Over time, I learned to stop telling my family when I get a feeling about something. It doesn’t make any difference and each time something like that happens, they back away from me even more. Obviously, they’re not going to be supportive if I tell them I just had a mental meltdown after picking up an old guitar. There’s no way I’m sharing that experience with Justin or Doug either. This much I know—it’s not normal. People get scared. When I was a kid, I didn’t realize. Now I do. The best thing? Pretend I don’t see what I see, that I don’t get a feeling every so often about something that’s going to happen. Just act normal. I go back to staring at my computer screen but inside my mind I still see her green eyes. I still hear her.

  I don’t want this.

  ~~~

  There’s only one person I can think of who might be able to understand the flash I got off the Telecaster. I can’t say for sure because I’ve never really talked to her. Not that I haven’t wanted to know her better. It’s just that Lauren Turner isn’t very social. As in, not at all. And not in the awkward, you know she really needs some understanding friends sort of way. Just the opposite. By all appearances, Lauren seems completely comfortable remaining a loner.

  I’ve always had this thing about moths. How they fly at night, beautiful spots and patterns not meant for our eyes. Everything about them intended for some other realm we might glimpse but never fully experience. Hidden. Magical. Secret. That’s Lauren to me. Jet black hair streaked with blue, green and sometimes red. Black eyeliner. Purple hoodie, gray jeans, black combat boots. A midnight rainbow. Compared to the popular girls—butterflies competing for admiration—it seems like Lauren just happens to be trapped in the daylight next to us. Something that wasn’t supposed to happen and that she just has to live with for now. With my borderline translucent skin, red
hair and freckles, I’ve wondered many times if maybe I’d be better off flying at night too. But I’ve never once gotten the impression Lauren wants anyone sharing her environment.

  Lauren also has a reputation for being kind of strange. Even now, people talk about how she found that money for her mother. Lauren joined us in elementary school when she and her mother moved into in an old house on the outskirts of town—one of those old Virginia properties that probably once had a farm around it. The place was built in the 1930s or something and it’s changed hands a number of times over the decades. The house was basically falling apart, the roof shot, the paint peeling, shutters missing, all that. One day, Lauren’s mother suddenly had plenty of money. Enough to fix up the house and buy a new car. It turned out she discovered a stash of money within her kitchen wall. No one knew how much but people said she found thousands, maybe even tens of thousands. Possibly someone’s life savings or money from an old bank heist. Rumors flew but it was all just speculation.

  Lauren’s mother told everyone it was because of her daughter. One day, Lauren pointed at the wall and said, “Mom, money! There’s money in there!” And she kept saying it over and over, for days, until her mother got either got mad enough or curious enough to grab a hammer and knock a hole through old plaster. After that, people started looking at Lauren like my own family looked at me.

  There were other stories about Lauren too. In elementary school, she told one of our teachers, Mrs. Murphy, that her father wasn’t really gone—that he was right there in the classroom watching. That he was proud. Mrs. Murphy broke down crying and left the room. None of us knew that her father had passed away over the summer. In middle school, Lauren warned John Hewitt to stay home one Saturday rather than play soccer. Nothing happened on the soccer field but John ran across the street after the game and got hit by a car. He lived but was in intensive care for weeks. Just stories, old history now but that history has lingered. And while I’ve wanted to talk to Lauren for a while, until now I’ve convinced myself that my flashes are fairly trivial. Better off ignored. With this last one, though, it feels like something’s changed.