Scar Girl

by Len Vlahos

  I started drinking more and more to keep the image away. The more time I spent out of it, the less time I had to think about everything that’d happened.

  Hold on, that’s not really right. It’s not like I was drinking and doing other stuff because I knew it would make things better. It was more the other way; that being drunk was the only feeling I liked, or maybe not liked, but that I could deal with.

  Thanks to my dad, my house was like a training ground for budding alcoholics. A local liquor store, Mallas Wines and Spirits, delivered a quart of Christian Brothers brandy twice a week. I wonder why they call liquor spirits? Maybe because when you’re drunk all the time you fade away a little, turning into a kind of ghost.

  Anyway, it was easy to sneak shots when my dad fell asleep (by which I mean passed out) on the La-Z-Boy. When the bottles started emptying sooner than they used to, he just figured he was drinking more and ordered his brandy more often. And like I said, my mother had a blind spot when it came to my father’s drinking, so she didn’t say a word when the kid from the liquor store started coming three times a week.

  I spent a lot of that holiday season fucked up, and no one knew. I got really good at hiding it.

  Johnny had called and invited me to Christmas dinner at his house. Even though rehearsals were going well, he still hadn’t apologized for the whole “fuck you” thing, and we still weren’t really talking outside of the band. I think the dinner invitation was him extending an olive branch. While I think I was ready for us to try to get back together, I really didn’t like his parents, and the thought of spending Christmas with them wasn’t my idea of fun. Besides, just like we did every year, the Belle family was going to Rockland County to my aunt Kathy’s house—my dad’s sister—for Christmas dinner. I loved my aunt and really wanted to see her.

  Kathy was three years younger than my dad and was beautiful, glamorous, and really cool. She was on her second marriage and third career. She’d just finished nursing school and had landed a job in the neonatal unit at the Westchester Medical Center, and was in an even more festive mood than usual when we got to her house.

  “Cheyenne!” She wrapped me in a big hug as soon as I walked into the living room. Then she stopped suddenly, held me away at arm’s length, her hands gripping my shoulders like a vise, and stared into my eyes. “We’ll talk later,” she said, and then turned to greet each of my sisters.

  Dinner was good. Kathy’s latest husband, Greg, was some kind of expert cook. He made a glazed ham, glazed carrots, and glazed onions—I guess he liked glaze—and they were all delicious. My mom made the dessert, a chocolate cake.

  “This is wonderful, Susan,” Aunt Kathy said to my mother. It took all my mom’s effort to grunt a thank-you. My mom hated my aunt Kathy. She used to tell us girls not to turn out like our aunt, that she had no moral compass, no love or respect for Jesus and God.

  The truth is, I think my mom was jealous of her sister-in-law. Jealous that she had the nerve to leave an unhappy marriage, jealous that she had the courage to chase her dreams, and jealous that, unlike my mom, Aunt Kathy celebrated, rather than hid, her beauty.

  After dinner, when Agnes, Joan, and I were washing and drying dishes, Aunt Kathy tapped me on the shoulder and told me to come with her. I put down the dish towel and followed her down the hall and into her bedroom.

  She kicked her shoes off, hopped up on the bed, and sat down cross-legged. She patted the spot next to her, so I followed suit.

  “So,” she said, taking my hands and looking straight into my eyes, “how long has this been going on?”

  I played dumb. “How long has what been going on?”

  Aunt Kathy rolled her eyes. “Cheyenne, I’m not a narc, and I’m not a prude, and I won’t tell your parents, but maybe I can help you.”

  All I had to do was let myself go and tell Aunt Kathy everything that had happened, everything that was happening. Part of me knew that if I got it off my chest it would all be okay.

  “Chey?”

  . . .

  I couldn’t do it.

  I couldn’t do it because I was ashamed. Ashamed of what I’d done and ashamed of the lies I’d told. I loved Aunt Kathy and looked up to her. I was sure that, if I told her, she would never love me the same way again. That, by the way, might be the dumbest thought I’ve ever had in my entire life, which has been a life filled with nothing but dumb thoughts.

  And, yeah, I’m not good at asking for help.

  “There’s nothing going on,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  She looked at me like she was weighing her options. In the end, she did what she thought was right.

  “Okay, sweetie,” she said. I loved that she called me and my sisters sweetie and honey and sugarplum. “Just know that I’m here if you need me. I can get to Yonkers in a flash. You have my phone number, right?”

  I nodded, feeling like I was going to cry. “Let me write it down anyway.” She did, and I stuck the piece of paper in my pocket. “Do you want a minute by yourself? You can stay in here if you do.”

  I said I did, so she hugged me and left.

  I sat on her bed for a while, too numb to actually cry, which made it worse. Then I noticed a small flask on the top of my aunt’s dresser. I opened it and took a whiff.

  Yep. Alcohol. You gotta love my family.

  I took three long sips and rejoined the party.

  HARBINGER JONES

  Johnny called me on Christmas Day.

  That by itself wasn’t weird. We’d spent a bunch of holidays together since we first became friends in middle school. Every Halloween and Fourth of July, but also a bunch of Thanksgivings and Christmases, almost always at my house, as his mother seemed to think of me as the village idiot. Or at least she used to.

  When Johnny called, my parents and I were getting ready to leave for my grandmother’s house in Stamford—she had moved there when my grandfather died, to be closer to Uncle Jamie, my mom’s only brother.

  Uncle Jamie never got married and never had any kids, and he had all kinds of mental problems. I guess my grandmother moved there thinking she could take care of him. We had no idea if he would even show up for Christmas dinner, and in some ways, I think my mom was hoping he wouldn’t. In the dictionary next to the entry for black sheep, there’s a picture of my uncle Jamie.

  “Hey,” Johnny said when I picked up the phone. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You, too.”

  I’d been keeping my distance from Johnny and Chey, and even though I had no reason to, from Richie, too. Guilt by association, I guess. I was still sorting out what to do with my future, still writing my now book-length college essay, and just enjoying my time alone.

  That’s actually kind of funny, when I think about it today. All I wanted as a kid was to be with other people. But then, after everything that had happened with the Scar Boys, I found myself craving space.

  “How was the annual haul at Casa de Jones?” he asked. It was a well-known fact that my parents—strike that, it was a well-known fact that my mother liked to spoil me rotten, and Christmas was her Super Bowl. Nineteen eighty-six was no different. Aside from the plethora of guitar gear—strings, patch cords, this reverb pedal I’d had my eye on—she got me a whole bunch of stuff meant for a college dorm room. I’d only told my parents about my plans to apply a couple of weeks before Christmas, but already under the tree were two comforters (why I needed two, I couldn’t figure out) with sheets and pillowcases, a desk blotter, a bulletin board, and, get this, an actual desktop computer.

  I’d used computers in the lab at school and once at Johnny’s house (his dad’s), but we’d never had one at home. I’d already set it up, planning to play with it that night when I got home from my grandmother’s.

  But rather than tell Johnny about all the loot, I just gave a vague answer. “You know, the usual embarrassment of riches. You?”

  “The same,” he said. “So listen.” It was his serious-Johnny voice. “I’m worried.” I expecte
d him to say he was worried about me, about how distant I’d been. “I’m worried about Chey.”

  “Chey? What about Chey?” My brain was trying to catch up.

  He was quiet.

  “John, if this is about that night at the Bitter End, you need to let it go. It was a one-time thing.”

  “It’s more than that. She’s been really distant lately, like she’s pushing me away.” I’d been so busy pushing the two of them away that I hadn’t noticed. Or maybe I had but was deliberately not paying attention. “Has she talked to you?” Johnny’s voice cracked on the last you. “I mean, you and Chey seem pretty close. She seemed to really connect with ‘Pleasant Sounds.’”

  And there we were, to the heart of the matter. Johnny McKenna, the once great and mighty Johnny McKenna, was actually jealous of me, and not just jealous of me, but jealous of me and Chey. I would be a big fat liar to suggest that some small and thoroughly unlikable part of me didn’t smile on the inside.

  “No, Johnny,” I said softly, but as firmly as I could. “I haven’t seen Chey outside of the band since that day I first played ‘Pleasant Sounds’ at your house.” Then I thought for a second and added, “I’ve been taking a breather from everything.”

  He let out a big breath of air. “Okay, Harry, thanks,” he said, ignoring the opening I was giving him to really talk. I think by that point, Johnny was starting to check out of reality.

  “Dude, why don’t you just call her and talk to her?”

  “I tried to invite her for Christmas dinner, but she made up some story about having to go to her aunt’s house.”

  “Did you stop to think that maybe she really did have to go to her aunt’s house?”

  Silence.

  “Call her, John. Remember what happened last time you shut her out?”

  “Yeah,” he said after a minute. “I guess you’re right.”

  “If you would just start with that presumption, the world would be a better place.”

  “Huh?”

  “Start with the presumption that I’m right. That if I’m right, the world would be a better place. It’s a joke.”

  Finally, I heard a chuckle. “Asshole.” That was the old Johnny. “Tell your parents I said Merry Christmas, too,” he said, meaning to end the call. “Wait,” I said.

  Silence.

  There was something stopping me from hanging up. Like a feather tickling my brain, and not in a good way.

  “Listen,” I started, but I didn’t know how to finish. At this point in the conversation Johnny would normally jump in and seize control, but not today. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit, I don’t know, distant. Like you said at rehearsal, maybe I haven’t been all here.”

  “Is everything okay?” He sounded genuinely concerned. Like he really wanted to help me. Like he felt bad for not asking. That’s the kind of friend he was.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve just been taking some time to clear my head. It’s been a crazy year.” There was a pause, and then I realized it had been a much worse year for him. “I mean not as crazy as your year, but still kind of crazy.”

  “It’s okay, Harry. I understand.”

  “Anyway, I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

  There was a sigh on the other end of the phone. I couldn’t read between the lines of that sigh. Was Johnny exasperated with me? Was he as tired of my bullshit as I was of his? Or was he just tired, and sad?

  “Anyway, like I said,” he started again, “tell your folks I say Merry Christmas.”

  “Yeah, man, I know they’d wish you the same.”

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I figured Johnny was pissed at me for blowing him off for Christmas dinner, and I wasn’t even sure we were still going out—we hadn’t had a private moment since the Bitter End gig—so I was surprised he called me the next day.

  I was in my room, enjoying my one and only Christmas present, a Rubik’s Cube from my youngest sister, Katherine. With so many Belle girls to deal with, instead of everyone doling out presents to everyone else, our family held a Christmas grab bag. Each December first, while we were putting up our fake Christmas tree with the garland and decorations already on it (and, of course, our nativity scene, because God knows you can’t have Christmas without a really tacky nativity scene), we would each pull the name of one family member out of a hat. For a while it was just the seven sisters, but since last year, even my parents threw their names in. They still bought presents for the three kids under twelve, but for the rest of us it was the luck of the draw.

  I got Agnes. She’s easy to shop for; just find something sensible. I got her a set of very nice colored pens. They were what the bookstore called sidelines, and I got them at a big discount. She seemed to really like them. As for my Rubik’s Cube, for a present from a seven-year-old, it was pretty good. And, hey, it’s the thought that counts.

  Anyway, I was getting pretty wrapped up in trying to make the damn thing work but could never get more than one side at a time to match colors. I wanted to give it to Harry to see how he would do with it. I also wanted to smash it with a hammer. Anyway, that’s what I was doing when the phone rang. A minute later, my mother was calling up to me.

  “Cheyenne, there’s a boy on the phone!” She underlined the word boy. I hated that she did that. She had to announce to the whole universe that a boy was calling me, like she was trying to shine a light on my future life of sin. If she’d only known.

  Plus, it’s not like she didn’t know Johnny, Harry, and Richie, the only boys who would ever actually call me. I mean, it’d been forever since any other boy had called me. I think the last one must’ve been Greasy Jack.

  That was the name my family gave him. And he didn’t call on the phone; he was dumb enough to show up at the door.

  Jack went to St. Augustine, an all-boys Catholic school that was somehow connected to Our Lady of the Perpetual Adoration. I met him at a birthday party—I didn’t really have friends, so I was there as a pity invite—and he just kept hanging around me. I tried to stand quietly in the corner until it was time for my mom to pick me up, but he wouldn’t leave me alone.

  “Do you like sports?” and “What kind of music do you listen to?” and “What’s your favorite TV show?” and “Are you going to the freshman mixer?”

  That last one caught my attention.

  “What freshman mixer?”

  He told me that twice a year our two schools held a joint mixer. It’s one of those rituals that cheesy movies seem to get right. Boys stand on one side of a badly lit and badly decorated gym, while girls stand on the other. The popular kids spend the night trying to sneak shots of alcohol.

  “At your school, in November,” he said. “Are you going?”

  “I didn’t even know about it.”

  “Well, now you do.”

  The guy was pushy as hell, but he was cute in a goofy kind of way, too. He had a mop of light brown hair that matched his eyes. I liked that he wore a Clash pin on his denim jacket.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jack.”

  “I don’t think I’m really allowed to go on dates, Jack,” I told him. I didn’t know if this was true, because I’d never been asked on a date before. I wasn’t even really sure I was being asked.

  “Well, if we meet at the dance, it’s not really a date, is it?”

  “I guess.”

  So I went to the mixer—my mother approved of any school-sanctioned event—and met up with Jack. We danced and then snuck outside and kissed. He was the first boy I’d ever kissed, which was a big deal for about one minute, but then the novelty wore off. He had braces, and his breath smelled like pepperoni.

  I thought that was that until two days later when he showed up on my front step. I was in the living room, sitting next to my dad, trying to hear a M*A*S*H rerun over his snoring, when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” I called. My mother got there first.

  “Hi, is Cheyenne at home?” Jack was wearing the same denim jacket, this time
with more buttons, including one that said Sex Pistols and one that said I’d Kill Flipper for a Tuna Sandwich. His hair was slicked back with some kind of goop, though in God’s name I couldn’t tell you why. I guess he thought it made him look more presentable. I thought it made him look more like a serial killer. By this time, three of my sisters and I were standing behind my mom.

  “Oh, hey, Chey,” he said, craning his neck around my mom to see me. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

  “No,” my mother said before I could answer, her voice all serious and mean. “Cheyenne does not want to go for a walk with a boy that has a sex button on his jacket. Come back wearing nicer clothes, and perhaps I’ll introduce you to her father so you can ask permission properly.

  “And get a haircut,” she added as she closed the door in Jack’s face.

  My sisters howled with laughter. I wanted to die. “Mom!”

  She didn’t say anything, just walked by me with her head held high, like she’d won some sort of morality contest. I was fourteen, for Christ’s sake.

  Anyway, from that day on, my sisters and mother referred to him as Greasy Jack.

  For the record, he never came back, and I never went looking for him.

  HARBINGER JONES

  Greasy Jack? Yeah, I’ve heard the story of Greasy Jack.

  I actually knew Jack. My mother and his mother were in the same bowling league, and he was forced to have playdates with me when we were younger.

  When he found out I was in a band with Cheyenne Belle, he called and asked me all sorts of questions about her. This was like two years after the two of them’d met. I’d already heard the story from Chey, so I turned the tables and asked him about it. According to Jack, he and Chey did kiss at the mixer, but when he called her house several times over the next several days, she wouldn’t come to the phone. Mrs. Belle, according to Jack, was never anything but pleasant. Jack never showed up at her door.

  But that’s Chey. It’s a better story her way, even if the truth is stretched a little bit.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  When my mom said there was a boy on the phone, I rolled my eyes and picked up the receiver that sat between my bed and Theresa’s. My sister lived her life on that thing, so I hardly ever used it. If some girl from school wasn’t calling her to gossip, then some boy was calling to flirt.