Blues for Zoey

by Robert Paul Weston

  “But, yeah, I did. She stayed over last night.”

  Alana was surprised. “Really? That was fast.”

  Calen wanted details, but I wasn’t prepared to give any, especially not in the cheek-to-cheek, factory-farm lineup outside Foo Bar. Or ever. It was something I wanted to keep for myself. It was dawning on me that it was possible to have two first times. First, there was the actual, official (and almost certainly disastrous) first time, and then there was something much better. The first time you actually knew what you were doing. I had a very strong suspicion that years later, it was Zoey I would remember, not Becky Leighton.

  The air inside Foo Bar was clammy with sour beer reek and evaporating sweat. A local band, two guys and a girl with acoustic guitars and a tambourine, played on the stage. Some of Alana’s friends were already there, clustered around a table near the front. Alana joined them while Calen and I went to get beers.

  “So last night,” he said, while we waited at the bar. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

  “It was a good night. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Dude! Awesome.”

  “It kinda was.”

  Calen shuffled his feet, something he didn’t do often. “I know I made fun of you, but hey, I gotta admit, she’s a pretty cool girl. Pretty hot, too.”

  “I know! ” (I might have said it with a bit too much relish.) “I wish she could’ve come tonight.”

  We scored our beers and raised a toast to other people’s driver’s licenses. On the way back to the table, someone tapped me on the shoulder. Zoey, I thought. But when I turned around, it wasn’t her. It was Topher Briggs.

  “Kaz! ” He yelled at me over the music. “How’re you doin’?!” I was ready to defend myself from a fist to the face, but instead he put one hand on my shoulder. “Listen, sorry about what happened at my place. I was suuuper kacked. Obviously.”

  “You still are, looks like.”

  “Yep!” He raised his own pint glass. “But seriously. I’m sorry, okay?”

  “Seriously? ”

  He nodded. “You’re gonna hafta show me around sometime.”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you hear? The whole family’s moving to the neighborhood!”

  “Evandale?” I thought he was making fun of me. “Shut up.”

  “I’m serious! You know my folks, yeah? Their bank took a huge hit. My dad got the axe, and next month, we heard, they’re cutting my mom’s whole division.”

  “Shit,” said Calen. “Is that true?”

  “It’s another ‘global economic crisis.’ Fucking new one every week.” Topher turned to me. “Don’t be surprised when we move in down the block, okay?” He clinked his glass against mine, spilling a dollop of foam on the floor. “Here’s to the new neighborhood!”

  Topher looked dejected. I wanted to say something to cheer him up. “It’s not so bad, actually. They’re shooting a movie down there. Like, right around the corner from me.”

  His face brightened. “Really? What movie?”

  “Actually, it’s just a pilot for TV. But they’re gonna shoot the whole series there.”

  Calen and Topher nodded like they knew what I was talking about. I thought I might have to answer more questions, but Calen turned to Topher instead.

  “I’m sure your folks’ll figure something out.”

  “Maybe,” Toph said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “Anyway, I’m sorry I hit you in front of your girl—who is crazy, by the way.” He came closer and threw an arm over my shoulders. “Also, I’m sorry we didn’t stay friends after, y’know, your dad died.”

  “Whatever. Don’t worry about it.”

  “C’mon,” he said, pulling me toward the back of the bar. “A bunch of us have a table upstairs.”

  I looked to Calen, but he said he had to bring Alana her drink; he would come find us later.

  Upstairs, there was a whole other floor. It was darker, full of shadows, the sort of place from which Zoey might emerge, shimmering like a mirage. (She didn’t.)

  Becky was at a table on the edge of the balcony, overlooking the stage. (“Oh-mi-god, Kaz!” Cue customary wave.) Topher slid in beside her and gave her a sloppy, off-target kiss. Then there was a bunch of people I didn’t know. The only other person I recognized was Christina Muñoz, perched daintily on the end of the curving bench. She was in this pale green, skin-tight dress that was more suited to a dance club, not a hipster dive like Foo Bar. She looked uncomfortable, which was a first.

  “It’s you,” she said.

  “Me?”

  “Kaz, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. Another first: Christina Muñoz knew my name.

  “I heard Topher say it when he saw you, over the balcony.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “But, yeah, I remember you from Toph’s party. Hard to forget when they drag you away with blood all over.” She screwed up her face. “Gross.”

  I pointed at Toph. “Blame him.”

  “Is he gonna punch you again? Because I don’t want blood on my dress.”

  I laughed because I thought it was a joke, but then I realized Christina was serious. “No, it’s okay. I think we just made up.”

  “Cool.”

  She slid sideways to let me in. I noticed (how could I not?) the dress inching up her legs. I joined her on the bench, and I could feel the other guys at the table watching us.

  She examined my face. “We were at the same school when we were kids, right?”

  “Only for a couple years. I moved away in eighth grade. Rosemount Middle School. You remember that?”

  She nodded. “Sort of. You’re kind of Chinese, right?”

  “Kind of Japanese. I’m half. My dad’s from Barbados. Was from Barbados. He died.”

  “Yeah, my next-door neighbor died when I was ten. And I’m kind of mixed up too, by the way. My mom’s from Bogotá, in Colombia. And my dad’s from Peru. Guess we kind of have a lot in common.”

  I wasn’t sure Colombian-slash-Peruvian was quite the same thing, seeing as the two countries were next to each other and the people there both spoke Spanish. I also wasn’t convinced a dead neighbor was the same as a dead dad. But I didn’t mention any of this. Having a regular conversation with Christina Muñoz was too much of a novelty.

  “Have you ever noticed,” she asked me, looking at the backs of her hands, “that it’s always the mixed-up people who’re the best looking?”

  “Huh?”

  “My mom used to breed show dogs, like when I was a kid, but she stopped because they kept dying of all these weird diseases. Basically cuz they’re inbred, right? Then, after she quit the business, you know what kind of dog she bought?”

  Where was this going? “I have no idea,” I said.

  “A mongrel! A total mutt ! Get it?”

  “Not really.”

  “My mom was like, if you want good genes, you gotta mix them up. I think it’s the same with people. Like you and me.”

  “Wait, you really think that?”

  She shrugged. “Only cuz it’s true.”

  “But, um … ” I started squirming, actually fidgeting on the end of the bench. “You don’t think that sounds kinda, I dunno … kinda racist?”

  “What? No! Racist is, like, crazy guys in hoods! It’s, like, burning people, and that other thing. Whaddaya call it? Starts with an L. Hanging people from trees.”

  “Lynching? ”

  “Yeah! Lynching. That’s racist.” She waved her hand between her and me. “This is just a fact. Mixed-up people are the hottest.” She shrugged like this was a perfectly normal thing to say. Then she switched gears again. “Do you smoke?”

  “No.”

  She pushed me off the end of the bench and got out, pulling down the hem of her skirt.

  “Come on. Even if you
don’t, you can’t let me go have a ciggie by myself.”

  She led me toward the stairs, unsteady on her high heels. On the middle landing, there was a painted black door to the back “patio”: an empty sandlot with a fence around it, lit by the glow of a 7-Eleven on the far side. The bouncer guarding the exit was massive; hollow out one of his legs and you could plop me right inside.

  “You should stand up straighter,” Christina said, once we were alone.

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  She lit a cigarette and took me by the shoulders. Smoke coiled around my ear as she pushed and pulled me until my back was straight. “You’re pretty decent-looking, at least when you’re not slouching.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I said, with only a tinge of sarcasm. Meanwhile, I could feel my spine trying to straighten itself.

  “You heard about me and Devon, right?”

  “No.”

  “We broke up.”

  “Really? When?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Like, the same week we got together, he was already cheating on me with some girl from his school. Total slut!” She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “You got a girlfriend?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer, so I said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “You guess so? I hope she doesn’t hear you talk about her like that.”

  “It’s cuz we just met, like a couple weeks ago.”

  “Cool. How’d you meet her?”

  “At Toph’s party.”

  “Wait. The girl who played piano?”

  “She’s pretty good, huh?”

  “Yeah, except that she’s crazy ! You should’ve seen her after Topher knocked you out. I thought she was going to kill him! She’s your girlfriend? Seriously?”

  “We just started, but yeah.”

  Her head fell sideways and she looked at me closely again. “Guess I missed my chance.”

  It was weird hearing Christina—the Christina Muñoz—say that. “Maybe I should have stood up straighter,” I said, laughing a little. “You might’ve noticed me.”

  “Maybe,” she said, coming closer. “You have a nice mouth, anyway. Devon’s got a mouth like yours. People with sort of puffy lips, like you—and me—that’s how you can tell a good kisser.” I wondered if Christina always looked for bits of herself in other people. I was still wondering when she leaned forward and kissed me.

  I was so stunned, I just stood there. I may have even kissed her back. A little.

  Then there was this loud BANG. It was the door beside us flinging open. I pushed Christina away in time to see the giant bouncer throwing someone out the door—like, actually throwing. Through the air.

  It was Zoey.

  54

  F.U.B.A.R.

  “You’re banned,” said the bouncer. “Don’t come back. I remember faces.”

  Zoey lay on the gravel in a pile of crinoline, leather, and dreads. “I hope you know you just broke my fucking arm !” she screamed.

  The bouncer didn’t give a shit. “I’ll believe you when you sue us.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Go ahead. See what happens. We’ll tell ’em the shit you just pulled in here. Now fuck off. ”

  I stepped between them. “You can’t talk to her like that.”

  “Who’re you?”

  “Her boyfriend.”

  He looked past me at Christina. “Then I’d say you’ve got some explaining to do.”

  Zoey sat up, her arm folded against her side, her eyes glossy with tears. “Look what you did! ” She raised her elbow to show off the back of her arm, where a mottled yellow bruise spread all the way up to her shoulder. “See?! ”

  The bouncer laughed. “I didn’t do that.”

  “Who did then?!”

  “How should I know? Maybe your ‘boyfriend’ here. Either way, now’s the time to fuck off. Okay?”

  He vanished inside, slamming the door.

  Christina swayed on her feet. “Did he lock it just now?” she asked no one in particular. “Can we get back in, or do we hafta go around?”

  I pretended Christina wasn’t there.

  “Should I call an ambulance?” I asked Zoey.

  “No,” she said quietly. “I was lying. My arm’s not broken.”

  Christina tried the door. It was still open. The bouncer filled the frame. He waved Christina in but pointed for Zoey to get lost.

  Christina said to me, “I’ll see you inside, yeah?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Definitely,” Zoey corrected me. “You were obviously having a good time.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  Christina scoffed. “You weren’t? You sure kissed like you were.”

  I focused on Zoey. “We were just talking, and then—”

  Zoey clicked her tongue. “Yeah, I saw. You don’t have to lie about it.”

  “Okay,” said Christina, “this just got way too complicated. I’m going back in.”

  I didn’t even look at her. I just heard the door slam.

  “She kissed me,” I told Zoey. “Not the other way around.”

  Zoey didn’t say anything. She was sitting on the ground, hugging her knees to her chest. Just beneath the surface of her skin, her bruise was a pool of yellow.

  “It looks pretty bad. Maybe you should at least see a doctor.”

  She didn’t look at me. “You know what fubar means? Not the stupid name of a bar. Like the actual word.”

  “Is it Chinese or something?”

  Zoey laughed like I was two. “It’s an acronym, and I’d say it fits pretty good right now.”

  “What’s it stand for?”

  “They spelt it wrong here. It’s supposed to be fubar, with a U. F-U-B-A-R. In World War Two, when things got so bad the people fighting knew they were gonna die and there was nothing they could do about it, they’d say, ‘This is fubar.’ My dad used to say it all the time when I was growing up. After Mom left, he ditched the acronym. Now he usually just says the whole thing: ‘Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.’ Fubar. Get it?” She rubbed her hand up and down the bruise. “I think I finally understand what he means by that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “You think you’re my boyfriend?”

  “No,” I sputtered. “Well, I dunno. I just thought the bouncer would listen to me if he thought I wasn’t just some random guy who—”

  “So you were lying when you said that just now?”

  “No! I just said it. It just came out.”

  “Because of last night?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, we’re not.”

  “Okay.”

  “We hung out. It was fun. That’s all,” she said. “Besides, you really want me to believe she kissed you?”

  “She did!”

  “Yeah, I was just thinking, she looks like the sort of girl who has trouble finding guys to make out with in parking lots.”

  “I’m serious. She’s a girl I used to go to school with. That’s all.” I was staring at Zoey’s bruise. “Your arm looks pretty bad.”

  “Don’t touch me.” She pulled away from me and stood up.

  “She kissed me!”

  “Fine. Whatever. That’s not the problem. The problem is things went too fast with you and me. Now it’s all messed up. Maybe even fubar.”

  “We can slow down.”

  “Too late. Anyway, I don’t have ‘boyfriends.’ ”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “Maybe it’s better if you promise me something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Next time you see me, just tell me to screw off, okay?”

  “But why?”

  “Just promise.”

  How could I? All I could think was that it was happening again, just lik
e with Becky. Even when I got it right—at least I thought I got it right—the girl was dropping me after one time.

  “I can’t promise that,” I said.

  “You should.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  Zoey stomped off while I watched. A moment later, she’d vanished around the blinding-white corner of the 7-Eleven.

  55

  My Shain Cope Phase

  That night, when I closed my eyes, the darkness was tinged the same piss-yellow color of the bruise on Zoey’s arm. I woke up in a shitty mood.

  Work didn’t start until three, so most of the morning, I lay around listening to Freudian Slap. The soft melody of the piano; the carnival wheeze of the accordion; the skeleton clink of the drums; the keen of the cellos; and of course the apocalyptic drawl of Shain Cope’s voice—all the perfect soundtrack to how I felt.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  I looked up and there was Mom, standing in my doorway.

  “Sorry. Too loud?”

  “No, I just haven’t heard this in a long time. Shain Cope, right?”

  “You know him?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  I shrugged. “Me.”

  “When I was young, he was almost a household name. He probably would’ve been, eventually.” The scuffed jewel case was lying on my desk. She tapped the cover with two fingers. “It upset a lot of people when he killed himself.”

  “He did? Oh, wait. Somebody told me, I think.” That music geek from Topher’s party. It was only then I remembered him.

  “He shot himself in the head,” Mom told me.

  “Harsh.”

  “It was how I first heard about him. On the news. After that, everyone I knew went through a little Shain Cope phase.”

  “Guess I’m going through mine right now.” I sat up and slid the case off my desk, staring at the creepy cover art. “Are we going to Beauhaven today?”

  “Not yet.” Mom waved her hand in front of her face. “I’m still a little fuzzy.”

  I reached over and turned the sound down on my stereo.

  “Instead of worrying about me, you just keep saving and worry about those grades.” She came around behind me and massaged my shoulders. Her fingers had hardly any grip. It was like a back rub from a marionette. “You’ll get into a good school somewhere, a million miles from here. Everything is going to turn out fine. I promise.”