by Mimi Cross
In this house. Right. If my parents pooled their frequent-flier miles, they could spend a year in the air. But ironic as this may be, my mouth has gone dry.
“I have to go.”
“Do you. And where are you off to tonight?”
“To hear some music.”
“Ah. Some lowlife from that record store, I’ll bet—don’t look so surprised. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”
“Ah—I don’t know.” I try to move on, not wanting to discuss the fact that I’ve been working at Listen Up! all year. “But actually, it’s Cate Reese, she—”
“Cate Reese, our babysitter?”
“Yes.”
“And how old is Miss Reese now?”
“Bye, Dad.” I open the door.
He shoves it closed with his foot. “Don’t you walk out on me!”
“I’m not!”
“You are, in more ways than one, and you know it. Choosing a Podunk college like South, hanging around with a bunch of tattooed losers—”
“That’s enough.” My voice is shaking, but just a little.
“Is it? Is it going to be enough for Cate Reese when you’re sweeping out the back alley of a record shop for the rest of your life?”
“First of all, I don’t sweep anything, I help—”
“Is it going to be enough when all your friends are graduating from colleges people have actually heard of? Is it going to be enough when you’re no one, and your friends are pulling down six figures? What the hell can you possibly learn at South? It’s in the middle of the woods for Christ’s sake. We live forty-five minutes from Manhattan. If you didn’t want to go to a school you could play for, why not the city? Why not finance? Your Cate Reese would spread her legs if—”
I don’t think—just swing.
But this is his game, and he grabs my arm, effectively blocking me.
I don’t want this, ever, but especially not tonight. I need to get to Cate. I don’t need his fist in my face—
I get it anyway.
Staggering back, I bring my hand to my cheek where the punch connected—
But he’s already on me. As though we’re in a slow dance, he’s close, nearly against me. I’m also focused on my partner. On him, on his body. This time I see his fist coming up.
Enough, yes. I dodge the punch.
He throws another—
And this time, I block him—for the first time in my life—and now I do think.
Think how wrong it was, to actually swing at him in the first place.
Time s l o w s . . .
And I vow not to swing again. Even though, at this moment, he’s planning his next shot. But to take a swing at my father is to be my father, and that is what he wants.
It’s like the spring evening air has gotten inside the house now, gotten inside my head. Not only will I not be my father, I will be more than not my father. I will be myself. Yes, I went for that first swing, but that’s all it took. I wish I’d done it years ago, because now I know more than ever who I don’t want to be, and that sets in sharp relief just who I am.
Time recovers from its momentary lapse. My father’s fist catches me beneath the jaw.
I spin sideways.
Then he’s in my face, laughing. “Go ahead. Try again. I’ll give you one free shot. Maybe a few pointers, too, so you can actually—”
“I’ve had enough pointers from you, thanks.” I stumble to the door, swing it wide. He doesn’t try to stop me this time. He just stands there, breathing hard.
“Go then, but please, enlighten me first. What the hell are you going to study down in South Jersey with those rednecks?”
“Teaching. I’m going to be a teacher.”
My father’s eyebrows lift so high it looks as if they’re imploring the heavens, but the odds are good there’ll be no redemption for this man in the $800 disguise. The things he’s done are unforgivable.
“Teaching. My, won’t that be lucrative.”
“It’ll be fine,” I say, my hand on the edge of the door. But I can’t seem to go, not while he’s talking.
“Fine,” he echoes. “The boy says it will be fine.” He starts to nod, and I feel the beginnings of relief, until he says, “You didn’t play for the teams. You dropped student council. It took me all year, but I finally get it. You couldn’t cut it. So you quit. So, ‘yeah,’ as you say, everything will be fine. After all, those who can’t do, teach.”
“South is one of the best teaching colleges in the country,” I counter. “Plus, I’m lucky.” I step outside. “I can do. And I’ve had a lot of good coaches over the years, so I’ll have a jump on teaching all the things I can do. And you know what else? I think I’ll be a pretty good teacher. Because, unlike you? I care about kids.”
CONVERTIBLE
DAVID
I’m about to slam the door but catch myself, and shut it softly instead. Then I walk down the driveway to the old Miata that’s parked near the street. I bought the used car a few days ago, though I won’t be driving off into the sunset anytime soon. That’ll be at the end of summer.
Until then, I’ll live under my father’s roof. But I will not be his whipping boy.
It was like, as long as I played Jack, my father could forget that he was gone. Could forget the hole that he’d left in our family. But whenever I took off the Jack mask, Jack disappeared yet again. Then my father blamed me for his absence, as if he’d forgotten—
Jack took his own life, nine long years ago. He really is gone.
Suicide is a solo act, but my father turned it into a twisted trio. He hated me when I played Jack, because he hated Jack for what he did. He hated me more when I played myself, because then Jack was gone again. But I doubt my father ever hated either of us as much as he hates himself. Each time my Jack mask slipped, Jack vanished anew, and my father blamed me. But I’m not to blame for my brother’s death, just like I’m not to blame for Dan’s.
I’m done bearing the burden of Jack’s death now—or his life, as the case may be. Done carrying the weight of Dan’s death as well. It was an accident, and I’m sorry that Dan’s dead, but he made the choice to come after me. We all deserve the right to make choices. I’m putting it down.
This leaves me free to pick up Cate—in the convertible I bought with money from my job. Which means, possibly, my father is right about some things. I’ll have to figure out which ones.
STAGE
CATE
We can’t make it.
Four words that change everything.
I’m still in the car when I get the text. I’m still in the car, because David’s new old Miata had some trouble, and we had to stop at a gas station, but the gas station was really busy, so we had to wait until someone was free, but that someone wasn’t a mechanic, and oh my god, I can’t believe this.
“David, I can’t do this.”
“What’s the matter?”
But I don’t elaborate—too busy texting like a madwoman.
Wtf do you mean you can’t make it?
Pure panic races through me as I wait for an answer.
Little gray bubbles. Dale’s writing. He’s going to say he was kidding, that he’s inside the club. After all, I’m the one who’s late.
Trevor’s fucked up he’s ok but can’t leave him sorry.
My stomach goes into a spin.
“Cate, what’s wrong? What can I do?”
“Nothing. They’re not coming. I have no band. Trevor is wasted, or—I don’t know. I hope he’s okay. Maybe he just decided my gig wasn’t hip enough,” I say bitterly.
David remains motionless as I rave on, except for his eyes, which look back and forth between my face and my phone. Finally, when my diatribe shows no signs of slowing, he reaches over and gently disentangles my fingers. He looks down at the screen. Scrolls.
Now he lifts the phone, so the screen’s facing me.
Angel break everything. Fly. Xxx
“Hate to say it, but I agree with Southern Man. Come
on.” David gets out of the car. Comes round my side. Helps me out. I’m barely registering all this, though, because my mind is whirling.
Now I whirl on him.
“You don’t get it! I’m not playing.”
“Cate—”
“I’m not ready, not to play these songs on my own! I can’t do this!”
“This,” David says, opening the door to the club—and it’s bigger than I imagined . . . a lot bigger . . . there must be eight hundred people here—“is exactly what you need to do.”
“David, no. They don’t even want me! Look! Look at that girl!” A girl wearing a T-shirt with a fiery dragon fruit emblazoned on the front is busy plastering the place with posters showing Dale Waters and the rest of the band gazing out stonily from a dark background.
David purses his lips. “Guess I shouldn’t even suggest that you fall back on your classical—”
“Lovecats!” Laurel’s waving wildly, like a kid, as she hurtles toward me. Bryn saunters up behind her, blonde hair shining like a beacon. “Holy shit, Cate!” Laurel shouts over the din. “Look at this crowd! You’re famous!”
“They’re not here to see me.”
“They are so—look!” Triumphantly, Laurel unfurls a flyer. “I managed to grab one.”
I immediately recognize Ruby’s artwork. Her graphic designs are . . . unique.
At the center of the flyer there’s a black-and-white photo—me, with the Tak in my hand, head thrown back, laughing. It’s from one of our practices. I’m wearing a black T-shirt Kimmy made for me at art camp last summer. On the front, a white silk-screened tree reaches its bare branches heavenward. Underneath the tree there’s one word: “Naked.” A row of silver coins dangle off the hem. I have the shirt with me, was going to wear it tonight, but now there’s no time to change, no time to even look at the rest of the flyer, which says something about me sharing the bill with Deep Dark Love.
“Sorry to get you guys out for nothing,” I begin.
“No sorries,” Bryn says. “Time to step up. If you can’t do it for yourself or your BFF here, or”—she knocks her shoulder against David’s, “this guy, then do it for your friend.”
I get a rush of feeling—not a change in temperature exactly, but something physical like that—surging up from my belly into my chest, raising goosebumps all over my body.
She’s right. David’s right. That twisted Southern charmer Dale Waters is right.
Leaving David and Laurel and Bryn behind, I head across the club to a knot of people surrounding the soundboard. An insouciant hipster checks his watch as I approach. Another guy squints at the stage. I introduce myself, and a girl with a cell phone glued to her ear shakes her head but then shrugs.
“There’s time,” she says, “but not much. We’ll check you on your first tune.”
“Thanks. Sorry I’m late. Here’s my mic.” Squinty guy takes it, trots toward the stage.
I’m about to head up there myself when the girl says, “Hey, aren’t you supposed to have a full band? Or, at least, one other person?”
A beat goes by. Then I tell her the truth. “No. I’m a solo act.”
Then I’m crossing the room, walking onstage—
And starting my set, with my voice.
HOTEL VAST HORIZON
DAVID
Cate’s guitar case sits somewhere between her lap and her legs. Now she repositions it— slips onto my lap.
I’m still dazzled by her performance tonight, by her voice, her lyrics. By seeing facets of the gem that is her I hadn’t seen before. I push my seat back as far as it will go.
Having Cate on my lap is unexpected, to my mind at least. My body seems unsurprised, though, responding greedily, hands grabbing before I can think to do anything different.
But Cate’s different from any girl I’ve ever known, and I want to be different, too.
Still, when she wriggles a little, I give in to sensation, grasping her hips. She must feel what she’s doing to me.
I imagine dropping the seat back, sliding her pants down, and it’s hard, hard, hard to stop kissing her, but finally, I do, because I don’t want her first time—our first time—to be like this.
She whispers something I don’t catch and slips back into her seat. I’m relieved, but also sorry. She sees this, gives a breathy little laugh. We both want the same thing right now.
Leaning back, I run my hands over my face. Turn to her. Grin.
She grins back. “Um, yeah,” she says.
“Okay,” I say. Then blow out a breath.
Then we’re both laughing, smoothing our clothes. I start driving—driving and thinking about what Cate said a little while ago when she was talking about lyrics, about how there’s something behind every word.
Now I say, “Sometimes, there’s nothing. Words just mean what they mean.”
“Sometimes there’s nothing,” she concedes.
“Kisses are the same. There’s something behind a kiss, or there’s nothing.”
“I think,” she says, “those were something kisses.”
The top is down—an apparently permanent feature the former owners didn’t disclose—and it’s probably a cool night, but I don’t feel it. I’m looking back and forth between Cate and the road. Watching the way her dark hair mingles with the night sky. Like she’s part of everything.
I consider telling her that I think there’s a whole world behind the kisses we just shared. An entire Hotel Vast Horizon.
When I finally do, she says, “I agree. Now tell me. Where’s the backseat in this thing?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you.
To my mother, for teaching me to love words and books.
To my father, for teaching me discipline and how to tell—um . . . stories.
To Danielle Burby and everyone at HSG. Danielle, you’re my Ideal Reader, and so much more! Josh Getzler, thank you for believing in me. (And for Sex Changes at Gunpoint, heh.)
Carrie Hannigan, thank you for helping me get to know Bryn a bit better.
To Miriam Juskowicz, Lisa L. Owens, Carrie Wicks, Karen Upson, and everyone at Skyscape and Amazon for bringing Before Goodbye out into the world. Faith Black Ross, you’ve got eagle eyes. Thank you.
To Kathy Temean, Natalie Zaman, Suzy Ismail, Susan Heyboer O’Keefe, Annie Silvestro, David Harrison, Tara Kelly, and all the other wonderful writers I’ve met through SCBWI and Twitter. You are my tribe. Joëlle Anthony and Charlotte Agell, you’re in there, too, as are the agents and editors who encouraged me along the way, especially Holly McGhee and Steve Meltzer.
To Emma Dryden. Emma, there aren’t enough words to—oh wait, there are too many! Thank you for your guidance and your friendship. Let’s meet again soon for lobster rolls!
To River Road Books and the awesome women who run it, especially Kim Robinson, who knew before I did that Body of Writing was ready, and who always treated me like a rock star.
To Kevin Salem, for “Deep Dark Love.” To Brian Kelly, for the loft.
To Oliver Sacks, I’m a longtime fan. I hope I got it right.
To Emily Winslow Stark and Heather Lennon for being on board from the beginning.
To Rosanne Cash, for the years of friendship and inspiration. You and the Redroomers have been my bridge back for so very long. Jennifer and Barbara, thank you. RBW—we did it. Xoxo, Dust.
To Stacy Dahling Smith, for the calm. To Jason Rich, for Rabbit Daggers.
To my Kickstarter supporters, especially Everet Milner who reminded me that sometimes it’s okay to trust a stranger. P.S. This isn’t the book I promised, but I swear that one’s coming.
To Ally Condie, Cameron McClure, Merrilee Heifetz, Molly O’Neil, Ginger Clark. You may have forgotten the comments you made about my writing, but I never will. Thank you.
To Charles, for inspiration. You’re better than the best, and my favorite person. I love you.
To Dan Whitley, for your generosity. And to Chris Whitley, who is missed.
Chris, I ho
pe to see you one day at the Hotel Vast Horizon. I’m sure you’re hanging with the luminaries and the stars.
Middleburn is a cross between the town I grew up in, a town I live near now, and a town in my imagination; any actual streets, parks, et cetera, have been fictionalized by me; however, the music of Chris Whitley, Leo Brouwer, Frank Martin, the Killers, James Blake, Coldplay, Suzanne Vega, and Kevin Salem is very real, and inspired many of the scenes in this book. The song “The Medicine Down” is available on Kevin Salem’s gorgeous record, Ecstatic. The song “Hotel Vast Horizon” is on Chris Whitley’s record of the same name. Information about the classical guitarist David Russell can be found at www.davidrussellguitar.com.
This book depicts issues surrounding sexual assault, drug use, and domestic violence. If you would like more information or are a victim of sexual violence and need support, the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN) is an excellent resource: www.rainn.org. For information dealing with alcohol or drug addiction: www.na.org. For information about domestic violence: www.ncadv.org.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2015 Danny Sanchez
Mimi Cross was born in Toronto, Canada. She received a master’s degree from New York University and a bachelor’s degree in music from Ithaca College. She has been a performer, a music educator, and a yoga instructor. During the course of her musical career, she’s shared the bill with artists such as Bruce Springsteen, Jon Bon Jovi, and Sting. She resides in New Jersey.