“She probably didn’t want you to know,” Emma said.
I believed her actually—because Sarah had done a random favor like that for me once, too. Freshman year, when I was incapacitated with food poisoning after a bad batch of Indian takeout, she offered to write a three-page paper in my name for Intro to Religion. The topic was the Almohades (pronounced ahl-mo-HAH-deez): a medieval Islamic sect famous for their vicious persecution of Jews. Sarah didn’t bother doing any research. Instead she wrote about how Franklin stank at teaching religion. She argued that anybody could learn about the Almohades just by googling them; the lesson to be drawn from this assignment—and from high school education in general, which Franklin didn’t seem to get—was that historical incidents weren’t isolated. Writing about the Almohades wouldn’t serve any purpose unless I saw their story “in a broad context, both as progenitors of the modern terrorist Islamic fringe and as part of a trend of murderous anti-Semitism dating back to Babylonia and continuing through the Holocaust.” (Her words. Not too shabby, eh?) Only then would I actually learn something. Sarah earned me an A-plus with that crap: my first and only. My teacher said I should join the debate team. And Sarah’d never told anybody about that, either. At least, not that I knew of.
“I guess she is generous,” I said, “but only if she can lie or prove how smart she is or get some kind of twisted pleasure out of breaking the rules while she’s doing it.”
Emma nodded. “You know, you’re right. I’ve always been glad you’re not like that.”
I shrugged. “Me, too.”
“You still love her, though,” she said.
“I’m working on it.”
In a way, the dog run was therapy. Emma was preparing for her newfound life’s work as a social worker, and I was happy to be her guinea pig.
Sometimes we talked about our love lives (the pathetic lack thereof). Sometimes we talked about our parents (the horror, the horror). Sometimes we took bets on how long Sarah would be AWOL this time around. (Emma was somehow convinced she’d be back in time for the gig.) But two days after the “you’re really amazing” conversation, Emma asked me why I suddenly wanted to be a rock star. I couldn’t tell if she was putting me on, but I decided to run with it. It was kind of enjoyable—like introducing myself to her all over again…or flirting, almost. Besides, I could make myself up as I went along.
“Because I want to bring back Satan,” I said, after thinking for a minute. For some reason, Gabriel’s diary had popped into my mind. “There’s nothing supernatural about rock stars anymore. There’s no evil Unseen Hand. So after Dawson’s Freak is done bringing back the nineties, I’m gonna go solo and make it all about the seventies.”
“Great idea. You can grow a mustache.”
“And muttonchop sideburns. You know how many rumors there used to be about rock stars back in the seventies? Satan was all over the place. He was practically a member of Led Zeppelin. He was Ozzy’s best friend. People used to be scared of Ozzy. They thought he bit the head off a bat in concert. Well, he did, but they also believed that he sacrificed a goat.”
“And hung a midget,” Emma said. “Don’t forget that.”
“Right. And then there was the one about how Gene Simmons—”
“Who?”
“The guy from KISS? They thought he worshipped Satan, too. Anyway, the rumor was that he tossed a bucket into the audience and asked everyone to spit in it. Then he drank it. And it was common knowledge that he cut out his own tongue and had a cow’s tongue sewed in its place. But look at him now. He copied Ozzy and has a wholesome family show. What happened to these guys? Where’s the love for Satan?”
“I wish I knew,” Emma said. “Prince of Darkness, where art thou?”
I took a deep breath. “The point is, I want to get the rumor mill churning again. ‘Hey, did you hear what Hen Birnbaum did on tour in Belgium? He shot a puppy onstage and then used his evil powers to bring it back to life—and now it has rabies.’ Everything’s too sugarcoated now. Even Marilyn Manson’s a wuss. He’s a yuppie. He wrote a book.”
“Are you serious?” Emma asked.
“Mm-hmm.”
She shook her head. “That’s so lame,” she said earnestly. “Marilyn Manson should stick to movie cameos. Who’s gonna write a book next? That Wiccan guy from Godsmack? Can he even spell?”
“Who knows? Satan isn’t gonna help him, though.”
“You got that right,” Emma agreed.
“It’s sad, really.” I shook my head, too. When you’d hit rap rock bottom, it was nice to share life’s little disappointments.
“Hen, how come you’ve never, ever tried to make a move on me?”
It was Friday. The noon sun was broiling hot. There was a breeze, but it didn’t do much for the stale dog run smell. We were sitting on the bench eating my mom’s homemade falafel. I rolled my eyes. This was a question Emma usually asked me after watching an especially gooey romantic comedy or sitcom. Thankfully, enough time had passed since my latest dream about making out with her that I could shrug it off.
“Because I like little boys,” I said.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You’ve seen our drummer.”
“No, really,” she insisted, “just tell me again. I’m bored.”
“Emma,” I moaned.
“Come on. Chicks need to hear these things. It’s good for our self-esteem.”
I sighed. “Fine. I know that if we ever fooled around, things would get really weird and tense between us. And I would never want that. Especially now.” Suddenly I felt as if I were reading a cue card for a terribly written soap opera. It was pukeworthy. I could do a lot better. “On second thought, maybe we should just go ahead and hook up. We’re both still virgins. It’s not healthy. My dad says I’m an adult.” I shoved the rest of the falafel in my mouth and grinned. “What do you think?”
“No way,” she said. She looked very pleased with herself. “It would be too weird and tense.”
“Why?” I asked, suddenly interested in the conversation and half wishing Gabriel were here to overhear it. “What would be weird and tense about it, anyway? I mean, everybody says: Fooling around with certain friends is weird. But I think that’s just an old wives’ tale—you know, like how playing with yourself will make you go blind.”
“Have you ever hooked up with a friend before, Hen?”
“Wait. Who said that? I can’t see you!”
She laughed. “Seriously.”
“Does Petra count? Aside from her, I don’t really have that many female friends.”
“Well, trust me. Hooking up with a friend is always bad news.” She paused for a long moment. There was a strange lilt in her voice I’d never heard before. “There’s no such thing as friends with benefits. That’s an old wives’ tale.”
I stared at her. She turned to Bonzo and Ox. She seemed to be waiting for something. Her chest rose and fell in an even rhythm under her T-shirt. All at once, the smelly, stagnant air of the dog run felt charged; atoms were whirling faster, humming with energy. But, no, I was imagining things. She wasn’t suggesting that she wanted me to make a move. Of course she wasn’t. Not now, after an eternity, out of the blue. Not with falafel on my breath, and the sun beating down, and midday traffic honking on the street. We were in public, for God’s sake. Besides, she had to go back to work. She was teasing me, rattling me, trying to throw a wrench in our monotonous little summer routine. So she created a little phony lunchtime innuendo. Like she said, she was bored.
She stood up. “I shouldn’t eat your mom’s falafel in the middle of the day. It’s awesome, but it makes me all logy. I’ll see you later, Hen.”
“Wait. When have you ever hooked up with a friend?”
She smiled at me. “Are you kidding?”
“So you were messing with my head.”
“Of course I was. That’s what we do. We mess with each other’s heads. What are you, on drugs right now?”
“Yes, Emma,” I
said. “Yes, I am. I use them as a cry for help.”
“Well I’m here for you, my friend. Take one day at a time. Remember: When you try to escape from reality, you’re only escaping from yourself.”
She winked at me and strolled out of the dog run. I watched her disappear around the corner, her ratty hair flapping in the breeze. The atoms began to slow down. But then, they’d never sped up in the first place. At least, I was pretty sure they hadn’t.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Beer Tasting
About a week and a half after Sarah disappeared for the second time, she began updating her Facebook news feed in a sudden frenzy.
Sarah Birnbaum thinks it’s a travesty that certain airlines charge for snacks on international flights.
Sarah Birnbaum wishes that sunscreen didn’t come in stinky lotion form.
Sarah Birnbaum hopes to make it back in time to see
Henry play his big gig.
Sarah Birnbaum believes everyone in life deserves a second chance, even former Nazis. Especially if they buy you orchids.
I received all four updates on the same afternoon in the space of an hour. She was sort of brilliant, my sister. I understood the plan now. This was our private line. Since she wasn’t Facebook friends with anyone else, I was the only person who could read her posts. And as far as she was concerned, they told me everything I needed to know: That she was safe, that she’d returned to the Dominican Republic for some reason, and that she wouldn’t be gone for a year this time. They also told me that she was in communication with Gabriel. Who else could have told her about the gig?
And thanks to Gabriel’s manuscript, I also knew a few other things she didn’t know I knew. Like the name of the flower-buying Nazi, for one: Karl Funkhausen. (Unless she knew more than one Nazi? Yikes.) But in a way, the stuff I wasn’t supposed to know only made me more frustrated. Even with the new puzzle pieces, I couldn’t form a clear picture. Sarah was too cautious and clever. So was Gabriel.
Of course, he had the added drawback of being someone I saw in person. Plus, I generally wanted to punch him in the face after spending any time with him.
Jesus. What about me? This wasn’t exactly bringing out the best parts of my personality. The longer it went on, the more I felt like Encyclopedia Freaking Brown. Only dorkier. And not as upstanding. After all, I was a thief, too.
The morning after I received Sarah’s flurry of updates, Gabriel threw a zinger at me. “Hen, your playing is getting better. You know that?”
I was packing up to leave his East Village crash pad after one of our more productive lessons. He and I had managed to play along to all of “Motown Philly” by Boyz II Men without messing up once. Triumph! But still, I hadn’t expected a compliment.
“You think?” I asked him.
Gabriel nodded. “You’re not just playing the notes. You’re listening now. You’re feeling the music.”
“Please don’t say stuff like that,” I grumbled. “It was Boyz II Men.”
He laughed. “I know. I wanted to see if you could groove on a song you hated. I really wish I could come see your gig, man.” He glanced down at his plain white T-shirt and frayed jeans. “It would also give me an excuse to buy some new clothes.”
Aha! I thought. Could this be a way in? “You’re still having legal troubles?” I asked nonchalantly.
“Something like that,” he said.
I zipped up my bass case and leaned against the door. “Hey, can I ask you something? What made you decide to go with the whole nineties nostalgia thing, anyway? I mean, for your band?”
“It wasn’t my idea.” He sat on the edge of the futon. “It was Rich, my guitarist’s. Actually, Madeline came up with the name. They used to be a couple.”
“Really? Was that weird for you?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Uh…just that, you know, you said you used to be in love with Madeline,” I stammered. “Or something like that.”
He sighed. “I guess it was weird. The whole thing was weird. Rich and Madeline and Tony, our drummer, were obsessed with Friends. They used to skip classes to watch it. The three of them. Tony was their third wheel. They didn’t seem to mind, though.” His eyes darted over to his laptop, perched on top of the pile of manuscripts. “Tony’s a big computer geek. He was able to steal all sorts of things off the internet. He got them every single episode of Friends on DVD delivered for free.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought.
“Why are you smiling?” Gabriel asked.
“Uh…just, um, that’s funny,” I said. “Our drummer is a computer geek, too.”
“Yeah.” Gabriel nodded thoughtfully. “It makes sense. Drums and computers are technical. Drums are, like, the math requirement of music.”
“You’re not a math person, huh?”
He shook his head. “It’s sort of pathetic. Columbia has a math requirement, and I nearly flunked out because of it. Sarah, too. We both got straight As in religion and philosophy and our writing seminars…” His voice trailed off. “You know, it was Sarah who came up with our band motto. ‘Friend is not a verb.’ It was hilarious.”
“It was?” I heard myself ask. Whoops. I should have kept my mouth shut. I wanted him to relax and forget himself.
Gabriel flashed a lopsided grin. “You sort of had to be there, I guess. She went off on this whole speech about how the era of good, smart lyrics was over. She said that people didn’t know how to be intimate anymore, because of the internet. All the new popular bands—you know, like the Jonas Brothers and the Cheetah Girls—all their hit songs were about IMs and email and texting. There was nothing face-to-face about them. Nothing real. Friendship had lost its substance. Once she articulated it like that, it sort of cemented our nineties nostalgia thing.”
“Wow,” I said. “Profound.” I cringed. I actually meant it, but the word came out sounding smug and sarcastic.
“Ah…I’m boring you,” Gabriel said. “You should probably get going.”
“No, no—you’re not boring me at all,” I protested.
“Maybe.” Gabriel grinned at me again. “But you know, Hen, you’re still not going to trick me into telling you why Sarah and I ran away.”
Six days before the gig, Emma showed up unannounced at band practice, carrying a grocery sack. Apparently, New Beginnings didn’t need her to volunteer in the afternoons anymore. Mornings only. Bartholomew Savage and Petra were understandably irritated—so was I—until she pulled out a six-pack of beer.
“Musicians need booze,” she declared.
Bartholomew Savage’s face lit up. Both Petra and I passed on the offer. (I needed to become a rock star before I became a raging alcoholic.) Emma cracked open a can for him and one for herself, then sat cross-legged in the corner of the stuffy little room. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “Keep jamming.”
“Did you get a fake ID?” I asked.
“It’s my cousin Nadine’s. I showed you, remember?”
I didn’t, but I didn’t feel like solving another mystery right now. Emma sat quietly for the remainder of the rehearsal, drinking beer after beer. Bartholomew stopped at two. Emma finished the rest. When our time was up, she lumbered to her feet and clapped loudly.
“Awesome!” she slurred. “Is it my imagination, or is it 1993 in here? Give it up, people!”
Bartholomew Savage laughed. Petra forced a smile. I blinked at her, lost.
“You really think we sound good?” Petra asked.
“I’d tell you if I didn’t. My inhibitions are at a Nadine.” She hiccupped. “I mean a nadir.”
The following day, Emma showed up again at Sonic Rehearsal Studios with another six-pack. Nobody protested. Nobody even said hi. Emma simply cracked open a beer for Bartholomew Savage, and one for herself, and sat cross-legged in the corner.
Interesting. For whatever reason, she was part of the routine now. We had a drunken groupie. Good for us. I only hoped she didn’t develop cirrhosis of the liver.
<
br /> Monday night, with two days to go, Petra invited everybody over to my place to strategize about gig promotion. (Both her mom and her dad were throwing separate parties that night, so their apartments were off-limits.) We all crammed into my room. Petra and Bartholomew Savage sat on the edge of my bed; I sat at my desk…and, yes, Emma joined the party, too. She sat on the floor in the corner. Luckily, she only brought one beer this time. She’d hidden it in a brown paper bag, so my parents wouldn’t see. Not that the bag did anything to mask the smell.
“So what do you think of the Facebook fan page I set up for Dawson’s Freak?” Petra asked, all business.
I turned on my computer and linked to it, taking the hint. It was pretty funny. She’d found an old Dawson’s Creek cast photo and photoshopped our faces onto it. She was Katie Holmes’s character. Bartholomew Savage was the handsome blond star, Dawson. And I was the pudgy one. (What was his name? Pacey?)
“I re-friended all my friends from the band page and updated the news feed last night,” she added, as if we needed reminding. “I’ll do it again tonight and tomorrow. So hopefully we’ll get a good crowd.”
“Easy there, Petra,” Emma said. “You’re stalking me again.” She turned to me. “See? What did I tell you?”
Petra didn’t seem to get the joke. I didn’t blame her. But my mind was elsewhere. For the first time, I felt a little flutter of nervous anticipation. The gig was really happening.
“Everything changed the night of the Bimbo Lounge show,” Jim Forbes remarked. “The club was packed with celebrities and representatives from every record company on the East Coast. Eddie Vedder offered to be their manager. A bidding war began on the spot. Fortunately, their lawyer, Mr. Donovan Wood, Esquire, was able to sign the band to a multimillion-dollar deal the very next day…”
“Hey, do you think there’s a chance your dad would come to the show tomorrow night?” I asked Emma.
“About as much chance as you have of hooking up with one of those Fox News Sexperts,” she said.
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