Scar Girl

by Len Vlahos

  I could see a kind of swirling vortex opening up in front of me. It was black and gray, with flashes of lightning. It was filled with pain and misery, and it was where I wanted to be. All I wanted to do right then was follow Johnny and our baby into oblivion.

  Every inch of me hurt, inside and out. From the soles of my feet to the hair on my head, I was a pulsing knot of hurt. I’d never known such pain. This was the miscarriage times a million. Times infinity.

  HARBINGER JONES

  Cheyenne’s scream ripped a hole in me. It ripped a hole in the world.

  I turned away from my mom, went to Chey, and knelt down beside her.

  “Chey,” I said, but I don’t think she heard me.

  “Chey.” A little louder, still nothing. I touched her gently on the shoulder.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I looked up, and Harry was standing next to me. I never saw him cross the room, but somehow his hand was on my shoulder. That black vortex of death was trying to suck me in and pull me away from all of this, and that was what I wanted. I wanted it so bad.

  The alternative, to keep going, to face what had happened, to live knowing that Johnny’s suicide was all my fault, was more terrifying than oblivion. I was more afraid of living than of dying. Way more afraid. If I could just fall into the black hole, everything would be okay.

  But I couldn’t. Harry’s hand was holding me firm to the earth. Firm to the floor of his basement.

  When I looked at him, Harry’s eyes were floating in a sea of saltwater, and they were filled with worry and dread. Whether that was for Johnny, me, or all three of us, I didn’t know. But Harry’s eyes were real, they were something for me to hold on to. I grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  Harry’s mom was on the ground, too. I didn’t see her go down, but there she was, on the floor, crying like the rest of us. After everything that had happened to Harry, Mrs. J. must’ve worried about him doing something like this. Johnny had to be a knife in her fucking heart.

  The whole scene was starting to freak me out big-time. I needed to do something.

  HARBINGER JONES

  Richie got up from behind the drums, walked over, and put a hand on my back. When I looked up, his face was streaked with tears and his cheeks were flush. He mouthed, “Are you okay? Should I go?” I nodded and silently thanked the God I didn’t believe in for a friend like Richie McGill.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I buried my face in Harry’s chest and screamed and cried. He just kept saying he was sorry and that it was going to be okay, over and over and over again. It was a lie, and we both knew it. Nothing was going to be okay, ever again.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  I helped Harry’s mom up off the floor, partly to help her out of the room so Harry and Chey could have some space, and partly to get the fuck out of there myself. I felt like I was gonna puke or explode or something if I stayed in that basement one more minute.

  Mrs. J. walked me to the entryway by the front door and gave me a long hug. She sniffled a few times but was starting to pull her shit together.

  “Do you want to stay? Do you want me to call your father?”

  “No, I’ll be okay.” I started to leave but then turned around. “Wait, do you want me to stay with you for a bit?”

  She paused for a minute and then kind of hung her head and nodded. I swear to God she looked like a little kid.

  I took her arm and led Mrs. J. to the kitchen. She made us both tea, we talked about Johnny, and we waited for Harry and Chey to come upstairs. We waited a long time.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I don’t know how long Harry and I were on the floor, but when I looked up, Richie and Mrs. Jones were gone. I stayed there and cried until I felt like there must’ve been blood pouring out of my eyes. That was the last thing I remembered, thinking that there was blood pouring out of my eyes.

  HARBINGER JONES

  I held Chey until she fell asleep.

  I stroked her hair while I thought about Johnny. I kept remembering the first day he and I met, and how he’d saved me from a bully. He’d swooped in and saved me like he was Superman. But he did more than save me from a bully.

  When I met Johnny, I was a nothing, a nobody. No, wait, strike that. I was something worse. I was a pariah. At least a nobody can fade into the background. I couldn’t do that because people couldn’t help but notice me. Once Johnny and I found each other, all that changed.

  In every way imaginable, Johnny McKenna saved my life.

  But I couldn’t save him.

  I didn’t even try.

  It turns out I’m a nothing after all.

  I cried until I fell asleep, too.

  Chey and I stayed there like that, on the floor, in each other’s arms. We were together, but we were broken, and we were, each of us, utterly and completely alone.

  PART TEN,

  MARCH 1987

  I don’t think Jimi committed suicide in the conventional way. He just decided to exit when he wanted to.

  —Eric Burdon, on Jimi Hendrix

  What do you miss most about Johnny McKenna?

  HARBINGER JONES

  Back when we were in middle school, we used to go running together. When we couldn’t go any farther, we would flop down on some neighbor’s lawn and catch our breath. Then we would just talk and laugh. We laughed a lot.

  That’s what I miss, his friendship.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  I don’t know, I miss a lot of things. Mostly I miss how the guy lit up a room, or at least the way he did before he lost his leg. You can take that however you want, but the dude was a force of nature. You kind of felt proud that he’d picked you as a friend.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  Everything.

  HARBINGER JONES

  Funeral homes are weird places. They’re little factories for honoring the dead. Johnny’s service was held at a place near our old high school; it was a long, low white house that, on the outside, looked inviting. One of the ways death tricks you, I suppose.

  The wake was a scene. I mean, Johnny was insanely popular all throughout school, kind of like Ferris Bueller. When we went on the road and then when he lost his leg, the legend of Johnny McKenna only grew.

  When I first walked into the room and saw the open casket at the far end, my stomach turned. The rest of the room seemed to blur at the edges, the whole thing collapsing into a kind of wormhole that led straight to the coffin. It took me a minute to get my bearings.

  Rows of chairs had been set up like people were coming to see Johnny play one last show. There were pictures of him scattered on end tables next to the few upholstered chairs and couches. His keyboard was set up in a corner, with a pair of his old running shoes underneath. That bothered me a little. Johnny played the keyboard only because he couldn’t wear those running shoes anymore. The symbolism was all screwed up.

  Richie, Chey, and I had come to the wake together. Richie looked sharp in a new suit, while I stood there swimming in an ill-fitting gray two-piece with a skinny tie and pointy black boots. It was the same suit I had worn under my gown at our high school graduation. I was the only kid not smart enough to figure out that it didn’t matter what you wore under your gown. Most everyone had worn shorts, and supposedly one kid, John Emmett, had been naked. Chey looked beautiful at the wake, like she always does, in her skirt and blazer. Though she did remind me of Jo from Facts of Life.

  Like Scarecrow and the Tin Man protecting Dorothy, Richie and I each hooked one of Chey’s arms and took our place in the line of mourners, waiting until it was our turn to approach the casket.

  You always hear people say how dead bodies at wakes look peaceful. Johnny didn’t look peaceful. He looked dead. The color in his cheeks was only there because someone had applied makeup, and his eyes were taped shut. The suit he was wearing didn’t fit any better than the suit I was wearing.

  I just bowed my head and told Johnny how sorry I was and that I hoped he was somewhere where he
could run. As much as he loved music, Johnny’s soul was connected to running the same way my soul was connected to the guitar. I didn’t know what else to say or think.

  Cheyenne started to cry pretty hard when we saw Johnny, and Richie and I tried to pull her away, but she stopped us. She reached into a small purse she had slung over her shoulder and gently dropped something in the casket. It fell to the side of Johnny’s body, so I didn’t see what it was. I never asked.

  I’d love to tell you that it was more dramatic than that. That one of us made a speech or broke down or did something grandiose. We didn’t. We paid our respects like everyone else, and we moved on. The moment demanded more, but there was no more to be done.

  After saying our final good-byes, we followed the other mourners, like a morbid sort of conga line, to see Johnny’s parents. His mother was barely holding it together as she greeted and hugged the people in front of us, an older couple, maybe some aunt and uncle of Johnny’s. The four of them—the couple and Johnny’s parents—talked for a moment that felt like a year, and then it was our turn.

  Mrs. McKenna looked at Chey, Richie, and me with ice in her eyes. I thought for sure she was going to take a swing at me.

  She did just the opposite.

  Johnny’s mother, the woman who had so detested us, literally fell into our arms, all six of our arms, and started wailing. She was saying something but was so upset I couldn’t make it out at first.

  “Thankyoubingsugofrnds” is what I heard. I could only mumble, “I’m so sorry,” as I held her. She sucked in a big breath, and then her words resolved themselves.

  “Thank you for being such good friends,” she was saying over and over again. Mr. McKenna gently put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, and she pulled back.

  I was too choked up to speak, and as soon as I tried, I lost it. So did Chey. And so did Richie. The raw emotion of it was too much to handle. I wanted to tell Mrs. McKenna, I wanted to scream at her that we weren’t the friends she thought we were. That we, along with everyone else, had let her son down. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

  We left Johnny’s parents and went to the back of the room. I tried hard to regain some, any, sense of equilibrium.

  Everyone was there. My parents, Richie’s dad. Most of Chey’s sisters and her parents, so many of the kids from school—the good ones and the sadistic dickheads alike—had all turned out to say good-bye to Johnny McKenna.

  The three of us stayed in the back, sticking close to one another, trying to fend off the endless stream of mourners who wanted to offer us condolences. We had almost as many well-wishers as Johnny’s parents.

  It was then that Richie looked over at me and said, “So what happens now?”

  I had no idea.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  It was a guitar pick. I dropped a guitar pick in Johnny’s casket.

  I had used a Sharpie to write I love you on one side and 4ever on the other. I know. It’s corny. But he used to call me Pick, and I needed to do something. For all I know, someone at the funeral home took it out and pocketed it. I thought about leaving him with the gold pick he’d given me at Christmas, but I couldn’t. I still wear it around my neck.

  Anyway, I had a pretty strong buzz on for the wake, but not strong enough to stop me from feeling every last horrible thing.

  The biggest shock was Mrs. McKenna. We all knew that she hated us and hated that Johnny hung out with us, so I couldn’t figure out why she acted the way she did. Maybe it was grief. Or maybe she blamed herself for Johnny’s death and was, in a kind of way, apologizing. I don’t know.

  When I couldn’t take any more, when I didn’t think I could handle one more idiot from Johnny’s high school coming up to us and telling us how sorry they were, Jeff walked in. He scanned the room, nodded in our direction, and then went forward to pay his respects. I nudged Harry.

  “Please, let’s just go, okay?”

  Harry saw where I was looking and nodded. He and Richie each took one of my arms, and we left.

  When we stepped outside, the night air was cool. It was still March, and spring hadn’t really sprung. It was cloudy, and the air was heavy. Johnny’s brother, Russell, was leaning against a post, a cigarette in one hand and a book in the other.

  Russell had the same curly locks as Johnny, though brown, not blond, and he kept them cut short. He also had the same eyes. They were hard to look at that night.

  “Hey, guys,” he said, his voice soft. Johnny loved Russell and looked up to him, and Russell loved Johnny back. He was six years older and lived in New York City with his girlfriend. He came to a lot of our gigs, and we got to know him a little bit. We all thought he was pretty cool.

  We mumbled hellos and told him how sorry we were, and he told us the same.

  Then he held out the book in his hand. It was the little black book Johnny had been writing in for the past few months. The book none of us were allowed to go near, the book none of us, as far as I knew, had ever seen the inside of.

  “Here,” he said. “My parents gave this to me.”

  “We can’t take this,” Harry said.

  “I’m not giving it to you,” Russell offered with a halfhearted smile, “but I am loaning it to you.”

  “Loaning it to us?” I asked.

  “Don’t you guys know what’s in here?”

  We all shook our heads. Russell fanned the pages so we could see.

  “Lyrics. Lots and lots of lyrics. Sometimes with chords written out and sometimes not.” I was blown away. “I figure this can be Johnny’s final gift to the Scar Boys.”

  Hearing Russell mention the band was like a slap in the face. I figured that the Scar Boys died with Johnny and didn’t give it another thought, you know?

  But here was Johnny’s brother, telling us something different. I mean, the band was the only thing left holding us together. But how could we go on without Johnny? Wouldn’t it be like getting married two days after your husband died?

  Like he could read our minds, Russell said, “I think it’s what Johnny would’ve wanted. When you get to the last song in the book, you’ll see what I mean.”

  He handed the book to Harry, hugged each of us in turn, stubbed out his cigarette, and went back inside.

  “Diner?” Harry asked, holding up the book.

  “Yeah,” Richie said, and we piled into Harry’s car.

  HARBINGER JONES

  We probably shouldn’t have, but because of what Russell said, we skipped straight to the last page of Johnny’s lyrics journal, or at least the last page that had anything written on it. And there it was. The song that would, nine months later, become the Scar Boys’ first single:

  Everybody said he was such a nice boy,

  Always did everything right,

  So no one could understand

  When the police found Johnny hanging in

  the attic that night.

  Suzy picked up the newspaper that day.

  Headline said, “Local Boy Dies.”

  She knew her Johnny was gone.

  So she took a razor blade and slit

  out her own eyes.

  Johnny’s dead,

  Johnny’s dead.

  Did you see what the newspaper said?

  It said, Johnny’s dead.

  Everyone went to his wake,

  Saw him lying there with his guitar.

  They all said he tried too hard

  To be a rock-and-roll star.

  Johnny’s dead,

  Johnny’s dead.

  His mother’s confined to a bed

  Because Johnny’s dead.

  Now all the parents in the neighborhood

  Are acting like they really care,

  Just so their little Johnnies

  Won’t go leaping off the kitchen chair.

  Johnny’s dead,

  Johnny’s dead.

  Did you see what the newspaper said?

  It said, Johnny’s dead.

  Johnny, that crazy, controlling son of a bitch,
had written his own funeral dirge. I read once that Winston Churchill had planned his own funeral—the route the procession was to take through the streets of London, who would speak and who would not, the whole damn thing orchestrated to the last detail from the grave. Johnny’s song reminded me of that.

  The chords he had written over the words were mostly minor chords, and knowing Johnny, I think he intended us to play it slow, plodding. It took us about five seconds to reject that idea and to give it, to give Johnny, the edge and attitude that both he and the song deserved.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  It was a fucked-up time when Johnny died. That was the only time I really thought the band was over. I figured we were just cursed.

  But Johnny saved us. I mean, he saved the band.

  Shit, I don’t know. He saved us, and he saved the band.

  The first thing we did after leaving the diner the night of Johnny’s wake was fire Jeff. Harry did it. He called the guy’s answering machine from a pay phone and said it pure and simple: “Jeff, it’s Harry from the Scar Boys. You’re fired.”

  The dude tried calling us, showing up at Harry’s house, coming to gigs, but we always just chased him away. Turns out he really did have some A & R guys at that Irving Plaza gig, and it led to a record deal. Once we started to get successful, Jeff sued us, the freaking wanker. The case is still going on.

  Truth is, and no disrespect to the dead, I always thought we were a better band without Johnny, even as far back as that first night in Athens. Everyone thought Johnny was the center of the band, but from where I sat, he was the odd man out. Part of me wonders if he thought that, too, and that’s why he, well, you know, did what he did.

  But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Johnny’s book is the proof.

  The record advance was enough that Cheyenne quit her job, and Harry and I got an apartment in New York City. Chey still lives at home, technically, but she doesn’t sleep there a lot. She’s living the rock-and-roll life. Harry still worries about her, though. Even when he doesn’t tell me he’s worried, which is, like, all the fucking time, I can see it. But from where I sit, we gotta let Chey be who she’s gonna be.