Road Rash

by Mark Huntley Parsons

  But to me it was Glenn Taylor’s playing that really put them over the top. It seemed like he’d been born with that beat-up black Strat in his hands. And the fat tone he got out of his amp—a Marshall Vintage Modern 2×12 combo—beat the pants off anything Justin could wring from his refrigerator-sized full stack.

  God, what I wouldn’t give to be in a band that had it together like that. But from the way they sounded tonight, I didn’t see them making changes anytime soon.…

  Suddenly Kimber leaned over and said in my ear, “Zach, you can adapt to new situations quickly, right?”

  She sounded nervous, almost a little panicked. And what self-respecting guy’s gonna say no to that one? I nodded. “I like to think so.”

  “I need a favor, and it’s sort of an emergency.” She was looking across the room as she spoke. “I need some serious, visible PDA. Right damn now.”

  I was deciding between asking more questions and making a crack when I realized she really meant it. So I scooted my seat around the table until I was sitting next to her and draped my arm over the back of her chair. “Okay,” I said. “I’m your boyfriend for hire. What’s going on?”

  “I’m trying to avoid … uh, too late. Here he comes.”

  “Who?”

  “Kevin Flanders. He thinks he’s something.”

  Actually, there were three guys walking toward our table, but I had a pretty good idea which one she was referring to. The tall one in the middle had that smug thing going on that reminded me of Toby. Like he’d spent a little too much time trying to look like he hadn’t spent any time.

  “Hey, Kimmie, what’s up?” he said loudly, to be heard over the music.

  I looked at her and mouthed Kimmie? while trying not to laugh. She rolled her eyes.

  “Uh, not much,” she said.

  “You here to listen to the band?” he asked. She nodded, then looked over at me with raised eyebrows.

  So far, he hadn’t even acknowledged my presence. As her rent-a-boyfriend, I was seriously insulted. And she’d ordered a plateful of PDA, not a side of sit-next-to-me. Okay …

  So I pulled Kimber close, then scooped her up and hoisted her onto my lap. I put my nose in her hair, like I was going to nuzzle her. And damn, she smelled good.

  “Don’t say another word to him,” I said quietly into her ear. “Don’t look at him, don’t talk to him, nothing. Okay?” She nodded. “Good. Now smile like you’re having the time of your life, and talk to me. Doesn’t matter what you say, just be cheerful about it. Trust me, he’ll leave.”

  So she giggled like a drunk bimbo and said, “How long are we going to do this?”

  “As long as it takes. But no worries—you’re paying me by the hour.”

  “Oh my God, I think I’d rather go hang with Kevin.”

  “You got it, sister.” I made like I was going to put her back down, and suddenly she clung to me like a kitten in a tall tree. That got me laughing for real.

  “Smart-ass,” she said.

  “Hey, you asked for it …” But I held her even closer.

  Kevin said something, but for a million bucks I couldn’t tell you what it was.

  “You know,” I went on, brushing her hair out of her eyes, “I know this sounds weird, but … your hair smells great.”

  “Really?” Her eyes were shining.

  I nodded. “Not part of the act—it won’t even show up on your bill.”

  Kevin was still making noises, but finally, he spat out, “Whatever!” and left, his little posse in tow.

  Kimber looked at me. “Wow—that worked perfectly. You were great.”

  “Thanks. So were you.”

  And then we just looked at each other without moving for like ten whole seconds. Whoa … major weirdness. I gradually became aware that someone, somewhere, was playing a hyper-kinetic rendition of “Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down Swinging.”

  “C’mon,” I finally said. “They’re playing our song.…”

  6

  “When the Levee Breaks”

  I hated to admit it, but Toby was right. I must have been delusional to think that Bad Habit would really want me. Hell, after hearing how they sounded with Nate, I never even talked to GT at Land of Lights. Which meant that when Monday morning rolled around, I was still el muchacho solo. I spent my time between classes listening to “No One to Depend On.” Funny how that works, huh? People listen to the blues when they’re bummed, which only makes it worse, which sorta makes it better.…

  Kimber was away at the state finals of Destination Imagination. Which was actually kind of a relief—Friday night had been … different.

  Anyway, I was not exactly Mr. Happy that day, which might almost explain what happened at lunch. Not making any excuses, okay? Just looking for some answers.

  The morning was relatively normal. When I walked into my Spanish class, Mr. Arrez said, “Hola, Zachary. ¿Qué onda? ¿Cómo estás?”

  I shook my head and gave him a line from my song of the day. “No tengo a nadie …”

  “That I can depend on …,” he sang, finishing it for me.

  “Something like that,” I admitted.

  “I know how that can be. It’ll get better sooner or later, amigo. But in the meantime …” He held up a paper and spoke loudly to the whole class, like he was the ringleader at a circus. “Ladies and gentlemen! Is everybody ready? For … the great … the amazing … the one and only … conjugation quiz!”

  At least he tried to make his class fun, as opposed to Mr. Langley’s social studies class. I think Langley was secretly doing a psychology experiment, trying to see if it was possible to literally bore someone to death. So far we hadn’t had any outright fatalities, but a few of us had been rendered comatose.

  Math was also a bummer. Ms. Littleton had gone to the DI finals, too, and we had a sub who’d evidently learned how to teach at the Langley School of Death. The first two minutes were actually amusing—until I realized that it wasn’t an act—and then the next forty-eight minutes were torture. I found myself looking for Kimber twice to pull a face.

  I had to get out of there for lunch. I had to move. So I walked down the street to the 7-Eleven. I figured I’d get a sandwich and eat on the way back.

  I never even made it inside the store.

  Kevin Flanders was hanging out front with a couple of his friends, probably the same guys who were with him at Land of Lights the other night. He was leaning against what I guessed was his car—one of those little SUV-wagon-type deals … and brand-new, too. As a drummer I could appreciate the cargo space inside that boxlike thing, but what I really want to know is, where does a high school senior get the bucks for something like that?

  Anyway, other than shooting a glance at his car, I ignored him. But of course, being the kind of guy he apparently is, he couldn’t ignore me.

  “Hey, look—it’s Kimmie’s little cuddle pal,” he said loudly as I approached. What a jerk. I kept on going. “Hey, did you get any?” he said as I passed by him.

  I stopped. “Shut up, dude.”

  “Or what?”

  Good question. What did I care about this asshole? I shook my head in disgust and started back toward the store.

  He took a step forward. “Hey, I’m just checking if it’s worth my time before I hit that shit.”

  Something switched inside. It’s hard to describe, but if it’s ever happened to you, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Everything slows down, and your focus becomes real tight. Almost like tunnel vision.

  I leaned in and spoke quietly. I didn’t want the whole world to hear, because I didn’t want it to look like I was calling him out. Just the opposite—I was warning him off. “Shut the hell up,” I hissed, “or I swear to God I’ll rip your freakin’ head off. Got it?”

  He swallowed and looked around. Maybe I’d been too loud after all, or maybe his buds were a little too close. Or maybe it was just the wonderfulness of his personality. Who knows?

  “Yeah, right,” he said loudly as
he shoved me in the chest. “Heck, if she’d give a lap dance to a loser like you, just think what she’d do for me. She’d probably suck my—”

  I hit him. Hard.

  You know how, on some songs, there’s a big dramatic drum fill building into a climactic part of the tune? And inevitably it resolves with a huge cymbal crash on the downbeat? Where you stomp on the kick drum and you just slam into that crash cymbal for all you’re worth?

  This was like that—it was all about intent. I wasn’t trying to hit his face. My goal was to drive my fist through his head and out the back of his skull.

  And apparently it worked, because one minute he’s standing there in all his immense jerkitude, and then wham, he’s on the ground with his hands to his face and blood everywhere. I looked over at his friends. I guess I must have been seriously mad-dogging it, because man, they didn’t budge.

  So I turned without a word and walked back toward the school. It was probably a good move to leave before a crowd gathered, but I can’t really take credit for it. I was in a daze—I’d never done anything like that before. What the hell had come over me?

  As I made my way back to the campus, I slowly became aware of three things. One: My hand hurt. A lot. Two: I never got my sandwich and I was going to be hungry sooner or later, but right then I couldn’t stand the thought of food. And three: For some strange reason, I had a big-ass grin on my face.

  Q: WHAT DO YOU SAY TO A DRUMMER IN A THREE-PIECE SUIT?

  A: “WILL THE DEFENDANT PLEASE RISE …”

  I spent the rest of the day waiting to be called to the principal’s office, but it never happened. Maybe Kevin just went home … or maybe because it happened off campus, the school couldn’t really do anything about it? Whatever. When I made it to the end of sixth period unscathed, I was just relieved to get the hell out of there. I guess I was also pretty naïve to think that no one else would mention it.

  I ran into Kyle in the hall on my way out. “Hey, man,” he said. “I hear Kevin Flanders was mouthing off and you decked him.”

  “Uh, yeah … pretty much.”

  “Wow. What’d he say that pissed you off so much?”

  Hmm … What I really wanted to say was The jerk was dissing Kimber, so I came down on him like John freakin’ Bonham on “Rock and Roll.” But that would have meant explaining why I had his little sister on my lap, and I didn’t really want to get into it. So with a straight face I said, “He was putting down the Sock Monkeys. I guess he hadn’t gotten the word that I was no longer in the band, but I didn’t really care—it gave me a good excuse to hit his punk-ass face. And you know what? It felt great.” I looked directly at him. “He reminds me of Toby.” As soon as I said it, I realized it was true. And maybe the sincerity of that last line made him buy the whole story. I could see the wheels spinning in his brain, but I wasn’t going to help him out. I turned and walked away.

  After I got home, Kimber texted me. Kyle told me. Are you OK?

  Hmm. What exactly did he tell her? I’m good, I replied. Then I thought about my hand, which still hurt. At least, better than he is. LOL!

  I’m glad about that. GTG. Talk later.

  Later, lil sis.

  Speaking of little sisters, just then Alicia barged into my room. “Jody says you got in a fight today!”

  Jody was one of her middle school friends. “And how would she know?”

  “Well, did you?”

  I got up and closed the door. “Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”

  “Her older brother was at the store and saw it. He says you broke some guy’s nose! Did you?”

  “I don’t know about that. But yeah, I hit him.”

  “Wow! How come?”

  For once, I decided to treat her like an equal instead of a little kid. “Can you keep this just between us? Not tell anyone, even Mom and Dad?”

  She seemed surprised. “Oh sure—I promise!”

  “Okay … Basically, this guy was saying some really bad things—lies—about a friend of mine. I asked him to stop a couple of times, but instead he got worse. So I hit him.”

  “And then?”

  I smiled. “He stopped.”

  “That’s all?” She seemed disappointed.

  “Pretty much, yeah. Since he was on the sidewalk bleeding …”

  That cheered her up. “So who was he saying bad things about?”

  “Doesn’t really matter.”

  She looked at me for a minute, then raised an eyebrow. “It was a girl, wasn’t it?”

  I raised an eyebrow back at her.

  She stared off into space for a second, then her eyes opened wide. “Kimber! It was Kimberly, wasn’t it?”

  Wow.

  She must have read my face. “I was right!” she said. “Hey, if someone had said that about me, would you have hit them?”

  “Naw, I don’t think so.”

  She looked bummed. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” I paused for a minute, to let her stew. Then I wriggled my eyebrows in what I hoped was a sinister fashion. “They’d have to call the coroner.”

  “Wow … awesome!”

  Sometimes she cracks me up, with the things she’s impressed by.

  Then she said, “Wait till I tell Jody …!” and turned to go. I was ready to unload on her about her promise when she turned back and pointed at me.

  “Gotcha!”

  7

  “Summertime Blues”

  I decided to go to the movies. There was only one more week of school, and homework was pretty much just studying for finals. Besides, ever since I’d been kicked from the band, my dad had been on me about getting a “real” job this summer, and I didn’t want to hear about it tonight.

  So I didn’t even look up what was playing, and I didn’t bother borrowing my dad’s truck. I just hopped on my bike and headed down to the Creekside Complex. I figured with ten screens they had to be showing something passable sometime soon, and I didn’t really care about the details.

  Usually I’ll go for an action film, but for some reason there was a romantic comedy that caught my attention. And since it was starting in fifteen minutes, I figured what the heck.

  It actually wasn’t too bad, except for one tiny detail … the plot. It was all about some guy who gets his first “real” job with some big corporation, but he secretly spends his evenings playing guitar in a band, and he really wants that to be his career. And of course it all ends happy-happy—he dumps the nine-to-five, gets the dream rock-star gig, and gets the girl. The End.

  Okay, so I was rooting for the guy to kick the stupid suit-and-tie job and start playing guitar again. But gimme a break. It was so far from reality—at least from my reality. And the few parts that were fairly realistic—mostly the scenes at the early gigs—only bummed me out.

  I didn’t feel like going home after that, so I went next door to Starbucks for a while. I got myself a coffee and managed to snag a tiny little table in the corner. I was lucky to get that—the place was totally crowded, probably with people like me who didn’t really care that it was a weeknight because school was almost over.

  So I sat there and watched the crowd from back in the corner, kinda like watching the audience from behind the drums at a gig. After a while I borrowed a pen and a piece of paper from a girl behind the counter and started working on a song idea I’d had for a while. It was only half formed, but basically it was about loyalty and loneliness and feeling like you didn’t fit in. It wouldn’t take a PhD in psychology to see where this came from, but I worked on it anyway because sometimes good lyrics come from bad places.

  Anyway, I’d been there for half an hour, writing and then scratching out clichéd lines, when someone sat down in the other chair at my little table. I looked up. It was a girl from school that I barely knew. She’d been in one of my classes last year, but I couldn’t quite remember her name.

  “Hi,” she said. “You’re Zach, right? You play the drums?”

  I put down my pen and nodded. “Uh-hu
h. What’s up?” I was wondering if maybe she couldn’t find a seat and was asking if she could share my table. If that was the case, I was going to say, Take it, I was just leaving, because even though it’s sometimes cool to write in a public place, it’s a totally different story with someone sitting two feet in front of you sharing a table the size of a floor tom.

  But that wasn’t it. “My name’s Maria?” she said. I swear, that’s how it sounded, like a question. “We were in the same social studies class last year? Remember?”

  “Sure, I remember. How’s it going?”

  “Fine. I’m here with my friend Shannon? Sitting over there?”

  She pointed toward a girl at a table across the room.

  “Uh, okay …”

  “Well, we’ve been here for a while, watching you write or whatever you’re doing and, well, Shannon said she thinks you’re cute? So I told her I sort of knew you? Which was, like, a big mistake because she’s been, like, bugging me to come talk to you ever since?”

  I glanced over at Shannon. The funny thing was, she looked like the absolute stereotype of a rocker’s girlfriend—jet-black hair, dark eyeliner, red lipstick, black nail polish, the works. She smiled at me. I smiled back and turned to Maria. “Tell her I think she’s hot,” I said, “but I have a girlfriend. Thanks.”

  She got up from her chair. “Well, she can’t say I didn’t try. See ya around.”

  She went back to deliver the news while I sat there, surprised at myself. Again. Things like that did not happen every day. Not to me. And she was hot, in a skanky sort of way. And I’d just told her thanks but no thanks. WTF was up with that?

  I looked at my watch: 10:15. Whoa. I tried to remember if I’d told my parents where I was going, but then I figured if they were worried, they would have just—Oops. I looked down and sure enough, my phone was silent. I’d silenced it when I went into the movies and forgot to turn it back up. There were four missed calls and two messages. Uh-oh.