She must have thought I was depressed about school. “But what if I don’t get in anywhere?”
“You will,” she said, and then drifted out the door, down the hall, and into her room. I reset the CD, playing it again from the beginning.
56
My Mantra
When I went down for my shift, Mr. Rodolfo was talking loudly to an old Asian guy in Terminator shades about how hot it was and how a big summer storm was coming. He was standing near the front window with his arms folded, as if he was waiting for me to show up.
“I pay you enough, right?”
“Sure,” I said, stepping behind the counter. “I’m doing good.”
“You’re saving enough?”
“I’ll be good by the end of summer. Then I’ll talk to my mom. It’ll work out.”
“Good. So you’re happy.”
“Yep.”
“Because if you need some extra cash, I might be able to help out.”
“Um … ”
“Maybe we’ll talk about this later.”
Then he was gone. It was an odd way of saying goodbye. I had never known him to worry about paying me enough. I couldn’t help wondering if it had something to do with what happened to B-Man. Mr. Rodolfo had been acting weird ever since that morning I found the die. Did he suspect what I suspected? Was this his way of offering to pay me off?
In my head, I kept repeating the same things, over and over: Make your goal. Make it to the end of summer. B-Man’s fine. Nothing happened to him. He’s fine.
I kept repeating the words all through my shift, as the DIYers came and went, as the sun set on Steinway. At some point, maybe simply out of mental fatigue, my thoughts shifted. They leapt from B-Man to Zoey. Would I ever see her again? I didn’t think so. When someone says, “Next time you see me, promise you’ll tell me to screw off,” you don’t expect them to show up on your doorstep the next day.
But that night, just before closing, that’s what she did.
57
The Importance of Being Honest
She stopped on the threshold of the laundromat, the rattler slung over her shoulder.
“Is your boss here?” she whispered.
“No.”
I didn’t feel like talking, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her dreads were pulled back in a tight ponytail. It gave the edges of her face an added sharpness.
“I can trust you, right?”
“Of course.”
“I mean, you’re an honest person.”
I nodded. She looked back over her shoulder. The light was fading by the second. The summer storm was coming.
“Seriously,” she said, “you’ve always been honest with me, yeah?”
I threw out this deep, theatrical sigh. “I have no idea why you’re asking me this, but yes.”
“And you’re honest with everyone, right?”
“I just told you—yes. I have always been honest with you. I’m honest with everyone. Okay? ”
“I’m serious, Kaz. It’s important.” She looked back over her shoulder again. “I need someone I can trust right now.”
“Are you in trouble?”
She ran her thumb and forefinger up and down one of the instrument’s strings. It made a noise like a whine, like the whimper of an animal before it died. “I need you to stash this for me.”
“Where am I supposed to put it?”
She pointed at the dry-cleaning booth. “In there. Like before.”
“What if my boss comes back? I would definitely lose my job.”
“Is that all you care about? Your job?”
“That’s not true.”
She came inside, leaning the rattler against the counter. “Just for a couple hours. I don’t have anyone else.”
“Wait, you never answered me. Are you in trouble?”
“They’re gonna take it,” she said.
“Who’s gonna take it?”
She looked out the window again. I noticed another bruise on the side of her neck. She was wearing a white, gauzy, long-sleeved shirt, and I thought I could see the bruise spreading down her back.
“What happened to your neck?”
“It’s from carrying the rattler all the time.” She pulled the elastic out of her hair. Her dreads tumbled down to cover the bruise. “Probably looks worse cuz I had to run with it just now.”
“Run? Why? What’s going on?”
“You’re right. I’m kind of in trouble.”
“With who?”
“If I tell you, will you let me stash it here? Just a couple hours, I promise.”
“Fine. Who are you in trouble with?”
“The police.”
“The cops?” Now I was the one peering anxiously out the window. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” she said. “They said I needed a permit to perform, which is total bullshit. It’s like five hundred bucks for a busker’s license, but the fine’s even worse. So I hoofed it. If they arrest me, they’ll impound the rattler. Who knows when I’ll get it back.”
“Okay, just a couple hours.”
“Great! ” Her face brightened and she leaned across the counter, pecking me on the cheek. It happened so fast, I didn’t have a chance to turn my head and make it a real kiss. Even so, it felt good.
“We close at ten,” I told her. “You gotta be back by then.”
“I will. I promise.”
58
Not All Promises Are Created Equal
The rain started just after eight. First, that humid, earthy, before-the-rain smell wafted through the open door. Then, all at once, the whole sky thundered and flashed and fell down in sheets. Water rushed through the gutters of Steinway, carrying pop cans and candy wrappers like bits of a shipwreck.
Maybe Zoey was caught in the rain somewhere. I pictured her in my head, her dreads sopping down the sides of her face. I texted her:
U ok?
No answer.
For an hour, the rain came and went before finally letting up. The streets were soaked and Zoey’s “couple hours” were up, but there was no sign of her. I sent another text:
Gotta close in 1 hr. Txt me, pls.
No reply.
At ten, I locked up the laundromat and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED. I didn’t switch off the lights. I slumped on the bench by the front window and moped at the drying pavement. Zoey would show up any minute, I figured, appearing like magic, like she always did.
Only she didn’t. I waited for an hour with the lights on.
Where ARE you?
Nothing.
The rattler was tucked away in the same place as before, deep in the back of the dry-cleaning booth. Only the bottom was visible, the base extending down below the clothes. I began to worry. Either she’d been arrested or she’d lied to me. Otherwise, she would be here. Around eleven-thirty, I texted one last rant.
I hope ur ok, but u need to tell me if u cant get back.
I’ll keep the rattler til noon 2mrrow … after that,
I might hafta trash it. OK?
I waited. I kept hearing her promise in my head. Why did she have to promise? I waited and waited for a reply but there was …
Nothing.
59
S.C.
I put a crate of detergent in the dry-cleaning booth. From the counter, you couldn’t see the rattler. I had the morning shift the next day, so it should be all right in there. But I remembered how Mr. Rodolfo and the Brothers had shown up unexpectedly on the morning I found B-Man’s die. If that happened again, I’d be in trouble.
It was hard sleeping again; I was too worried. If Zoey didn’t come in the morning, what would I do with the rattler? Thankfully, the Sit ’n’ Spin was dark and empty when I finally went down the next day. I texted Zoey again:
Still have your instrument. WHERE ARE YOU?
No answer.
I started to wonder if I could truly follow through on my threat to trash the instrument. A part of me wanted to. After all that stuff about being “an honest person,” Zoey had basically lied to me. She promised she’d be back and never showed.
It was a slow morning. The street felt deserted. I folded towels; I stacked the little boxes of detergent; I swept the floor.
Mostly, I stood behind the counter like a zombie, staring out the window, waiting for Zoey to walk in.
Instead of Zoey, a crimson convertible pulled up across the street, the one that belonged to the TV producer, Andrew Myers. He got out, looking even more glamorous than I remembered. As he came across the street, the sun glinted off his car like flashbulbs along a red carpet.
“You got those suits for me?” he asked, breezing in the door.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, like a complete kiss-up. “Totally done!”
In my head, an impossible fantasy went spinning out of control: Andrew Myers telling me he liked my “look”; Andrew Myers casting me in his next big flick; Andrew Myers asking me to direct the sequel. There was even room in there for Zoey. (I would hire her to score the soundtrack.) A whole, sparkling lifetime unfolded behind my eyes, all in the few steps Andrew Myers took from the door to the counter.
“How’s the shoot going?” I asked him, stifling my excitement. “Sorry, it’s Andrew, right?”
“You remembered. Cool.” He smiled and his teeth glittered as brightly as the hood of his car. “It’s going pretty good. Like I said, right now it’s mostly second unit stuff, no biggie.”
Inside the dry-cleaning booth, I had to move the crate of detergent to get to where I’d hung his suits. I plucked them off the bar and they crackled in their plastic sheaths.
“Here you go.”
“Great, how much do I owe you?” His wallet was thick as a brick of butter.
Each suit cost fifteen, but he paid me twenty. “Call it a tip, for getting it done on time—and for remembering my name.”
“Thanks!” I popped open the register, slid in the price of the suits, and pocketed the rest. When I looked up again, Myers was staring into the dry-cleaning booth. I’d left the door open.
“What’s that?” he asked me.
“It’s where we keep the dry cleaning.”
“No.” He came around the counter and pushed the door open all the way. “I mean that, right there.” He was pointing at the rattler, partly exposed by the gap left by Myers’s clothes.
“Just some old junk,” I told him.
He stepped fully inside the booth, shoving the hanging clothes aside. “No way,” he said, speaking quietly, more to himself than me. “It can’t be.”
“Can’t be what?”
“Oh my god. How did it get here?”
“I told you, it’s just some old junk. A friend of mine made it.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“Whoever your friend is, there’s no way he made this.”
“She.”
Myers ignored me. He went inside and crouched down in front of the instrument. He ran the pad of his thumb along one of the strings. It gave off an eerie, faraway whine, a sour version of a sound I recognized.
“She wouldn’t like you touching it,” I told him.
Very gently, Myers lifted his fingers from the string. He stood up and faced me. “Did you see her make it?”
“No, but I’ve seen her play it. She’s really good.”
He bit his lip. “So she’s had it a long time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I guarantee, your friend didn’t make this.”
“How do you know that?”
“I think I can prove it. Help me get it onto the counter.”
I didn’t move. It was the middle of the morning. What if Mr. Rodolfo came in early? I couldn’t have that thing splayed out on the counter.
“I’ll do it myself.” He reached past the clothes and picked up the instrument. “You’re gonna want to see this.”
I just stood there, too stunned to speak. When Myers came out of the booth, a puff of stale air came with him. It smelled of chemicals and plastic. I felt dizzy.
Myers eased the rattler onto the counter. “See? C’mere and look.” He tapped the bottom of the base. “I can’t believe it!”
The center strut of the rattler was made of polished wood, but the bottom was capped with dull gray metal, pocked and pitted from countless thumps against pavement.
“See that?”
Myers had found two scratches that were deeper than the rest. That’s because they weren’t scratches. They had been carved there deliberately. Two letters, underlined with a little flourish:
S.C.
“What’s it mean?”
“It means your friend lied to you.”
“About what? ”
“Did she ever tell you where she got this?”
“She said she made it herself.” I explained as much as I knew, which suddenly seemed like very little: that Zoey had constructed it out of scraps of junk; that it was her own design for a musical instrument; that although she was good at all kinds of instruments, she preferred to play her own. “So it has to be hers—because she can play it. Look at it! Who else could play something like this?”
“Only one person I know.” Myers tapped the letters. “S.C.,” he said. “Shain Cope.”
If I felt dizzy before, now I was close to passing out. I had that same feeling I got whenever I saw blood, like my insides were floating away. I gripped the edge of the counter to stop it from happening.
“I don’t … I don’t get it.”
“It’s simple,” said Myers. “This instrument doesn’t belong to your friend.”
“It doesn’t?”
“She certainly didn’t make it, because Shain Cope did.” He pursed his lips at me. “Kid, this instrument was stolen.”
“No. You’ve never heard her play it. If you had, you’d know.” I pointed out the window. “She stands right over there and she plays it. She kills it. Every time. I’ve seen her. She’s amazing!”
Myers stared into my face. Suddenly, he smiled. “Oh, I get it. She’s cute, isn’t she? She’s not just ‘a friend.’” He leaned a bit closer. “Just cuz she’s cute doesn’t mean she’s honest.”
There was that word again. Honest. If Zoey had been lying to me since the beginning, how could she have grilled me like that, asking all those questions?
“I’ve seen her,” I whispered. “She kills it.”
Andrew Myers shrugged. “Maybe. But so did Shain Cope. And it’s a well-known fact he made his own instruments. It’s what he was famous for. He used to joke in interviews, say that someday he was gonna make the world’s ‘greatest instrument.’ One time, he said that if he ever finished the thing, he’d have nothing left to live for. That was one reason it was such a big deal when he killed himself. Nobody knew what it meant. They all wanted to know: Had he done it? Had he succeeded?”
We both stared at the instrument. It suddenly looked different to me, like something in a morgue. A rotten body on a slab.
“How do you know all this?”
“I was a fan,” he said. “I still am. Also, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a little older than you. For some people of my generation, Shain Cope was a god. Plus, I live in LA. Everybody out there knows the story.” He nodded, remembering. “After he killed himself, after the news got out, some people broke into his house in the Hills. They stole the usual stuff: electronics, jewelry, anything that looked valuable. It was only after a complete inventory that they discovered there were other things missing. Instruments. Homemade instruments. Eventually, nearly all of it was recovered. All except one thing
.” He placed a hand on the rattler. “They said it was the last instrument he made before he died, and there was a rumor about it.”
“What rumor?”
“That it was shaped like a cross.”
My head was swimming again (drowning, more like). “Are you saying my, um, my friend ... She stole this? ”
“I’m saying she’s gonna have to do some serious explaining, maybe to some very serious people.”
I thought about the night before. Was this what Zoey was running from? Was this the real reason the cops were after her?
“So now what? Are you going to call the police?”
He laughed, a few short blasts, almost like he was choking. “That’s the last thing I need.”
“So you’re not going to call them?”
He leaned even closer, his head hovering over the strings. “Listen,” he said, lowering his voice. “Maybe this is your lucky day. Not everyone would recognize what this is. And maybe—yeah—some people would call the cops. But here’s the thing: I’m a collector.”
“So … ?”
He took a deep breath. “I know this thing isn’t yours, but I also know it’s definitely not your friend’s. So what would you say if I asked you to sell it to me?”
“What? ”
“If you’re worried about your friend, you can split the money with her.”
“I don’t know. I’d have to ask her first.”
The gleam in Myers’s eyes had shifted from a movie-star twinkle to something else, something more like the glint of a blade. “What if I wanted to buy it right now? I’m willing to pay a lot of money.”
“It’s not mine.”
He cleared his throat and stood up straight. He could probably tell he was making me nervous. He was.
“Look, I’m only in town a few more days, and I’d really like to take this off your hands. You see what I mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me put it another way, because I don’t think you understand. Whoever your friend is, I’d be doing her a big favor.” He pointed to the instrument. “This is stolen property. Now, I don’t know if she’s the one who stole it, but somehow she got it and she’s been lying about where it came from.” He threw a glance into the dry-cleaning booth. “And it looks to me like you’ve been stashing it for her. So all I’m saying is that you could both be in a lot of trouble.” He turned back to me, a sympathetic expression on his face. “Sell it to me right now and all that goes away.”
Blues for Zoey Page 15