by Nina Malkin
“There always was something special about Sin.” So astute, my Marsh. “But I never would’ve pegged him for a ghost. He seemed so . . . solid.”
I really haven’t got the energy for this. “When you knew him, he wasn’t a ghost. He was something else. And at the end, even I don’t know what he was.” I crick my neck, right to left, left to right. “But the craziness that went down around here last fall? His doing. This swath of revenge against the families of Swoon that condemned him—unjustly—for the murder of his beloved.”
Marsh swallows. Several times. Since what I just served up is a lot to swallow. Finally she says, “Craziness?” and ponders it some more. “Oh. Right. Only it wasn’t all crazy. Con Emerson came out; that was positive. And Crane and I fell in love.” True that. Certainly not intentional, but true.
“So do you think he knew Antonia?”
I snap an automatic no, then allow, “He could have.” Antonia = wealthy, with royal British blood; Sin = the bastard half-breed blacksmith. “They wouldn’t have traveled in the same circles, but . . . he got around.”
This stokes Marsh. “Well, if I thought Duck went nuts when I told him we found evidence of destruction and upheaval, he’s even more frantic now,” she says. “Sin is the Hanged Man from your reading, isn’t he?”
I sigh. “You don’t want to be too literal, too linear, with these things. All I’ll say is, Sin being Sin, he might have known Antonia.” I know what’s coming next, and Marsh is right on cue.
“Oh, Dice, if he knew her, and they had a”—she tempers her enthusiasm to spare my feelings—“relationship, maybe he could talk to her, help us get Crane back. I mean, that is, if there’s any way you could ask him?”
Hope lights her face in the rapidly gaining rays. How can I disappoint her? Yet how can I satisfy her? It’s not like I can call Sin up, text him: Favor? Although I will admit he’s felt much more manifest lately, invading my consciousness outside my dreams, at all hours, in all places. Only no—it’s not that random. Sin’s been stealing up on me when I’m busy with Bruise Blue . . . busy with Tosh.
Tilted forward on her hip bones, braced on one slender arm, Marsh seems to plead with every ounce of her essence. So I squash my inner turbulence into one compact package. “I don’t know,” I tell her. “I have no way to contact him, but there may be a way to draw him out.”
If it weren’t for the music, Tosh might’ve bailed completely, but he’s committed to Bruise Blue. And now that Duck’s home from the city (a washout—shocker) and we can be a proper band again, he reaches out about rehearsal. Right now I’m fried—Marsh and I barely managed to somnambulate from class to class today—but hearing him on the phone does perk me up a bit.
“So Sunday afternoon?” he asks above the din of clattering dishware and harried waiters. “I already talked to Duck—he’s in.”
“Okay,” I say, though I’m not exactly thrilled about returning to Forsythe Manor (I can’t think of the place as anything else now).
“Good. Cool. Okay. Bye.”
Click.
Just like that, click. No “What are you up to this weekend?” or even “Have a nice day.” Huh. Much as I’d like to avoid analyzing the terse conversation—he’s on the clock, he could only grab a minute—I veer there anyway. Could be Tosh quit his crush on me; he’d rather not pursue a girl with a demonic dating history. Could be he never fiended for me at all—his interest begins and ends with Bruise Blue, any flirtation a figment of my imagination. And while I’m obsessing, why put the onus on Tosh? Maybe I’m the one desperate for mooring; I see the band as something to steady me as Swoon starts spinning on its otherworldly axis again. Or maybe I’m fabricating this whole attraction to Tosh in order to get Sin off my brain and conduct myself by the most basic tenets of keeping it real. Of course, if that’s the case, it’s not exactly working out—whenever Tosh and I start vibing, Sin has a way of making it a bizarre love triangle.
Which gives me an idea. A potentially combustible, probably terrible idea. But since no other occurs to me, I convince myself it’s worth the risk.
When Sunday comes, my plan is in place. I also consider it a plus that Marsh won’t be present in the studio; it’ll be a true practice, and if Duck mentions the east wing, I’ll put the kibosh on it, maintain that Marsh ought to be in on any Crane-related endeavor. So just before four, I get on my bike and pedal toward Forsythe Manor.
Tosh is bringing Duck up to speed when I walk in. “. . . I’m talking real old-school.”
“Hey,” I say.
Both guys return my hey, and Tosh’s smile, if small, seems bona fide when he says, “So Duck is down with the blues.”
“Yes, well, what are the Stones and Zeppelin if not blues?” he reasons. “And I think it’s all very well and good, but I do hope we can work on Crane’s songs, too.”
“I’m good with that.” I fluff out my helmet hair. “We can tweak a blues number, give it a slight punk edge, and try doing a Crane song with a blues feel.”
“Right,” Tosh agrees. “Once we establish our signature, our style, we can make any song a Bruise Blue song.” So we get to it, and we keep at it, heads down and diligent, for quite a while. When we break, I make my move. Wandering toward the piano, I pick up the volume of Elton John’s greatest hits. “Tosh?” I arch an eyebrow. “Will you treat us to some cheese, please?”
Appealing to his ego proves spot-on. Tosh takes a big swig of water and saunters over to the baby grand. “Sure,” he says, and sits, making a show of cracking his knuckles and throwing back his ’fro. “What’ll it be?”
I leaf through the anthology as if I haven’t anything specific in mind. “Ha, ‘Crocodile Rock’ . . . ‘Rocket Man,’ that’s a good one . . . ooh, I know.” Hugging the book to my chest, I take my best shot at coquette: “How about a duet?” Tosh gives me a bemused look as I place “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” on the music stand. Then he busts out laughing. “A duet,” he says. “With you.”
I plunk down beside him. “That’s right.”
“The corniest duet ever written.” He shakes his head, incredulous.
“Uh, no, I believe that would be ‘Islands in the Stream,’” I counter. “Look, I’m not suggesting we add it to the set list. I just want to sing a song with you.” Then I add, with emphasis, “This song.”
Duck has ambled over to see what we’re debating. “Ooh!
Dice, will you be channeling your inner Kiki Dee—or your inner RuPaul?”
Tosh rolls his eyes. “Arrgh! You guys are killing me.”
“Stop being such a stiff,” I cajole, swatting his shoulder. “We worked hard; we deserve a little comic relief.” I poke my lip out.
“Do indulge her, Tosh.” Duck picks up the SG to play the guitar part. “It could be worse— I could be the one to channel Kiki Dee!”
“All right! Okay! All right!” Tosh gives in, briefly studies the sheet in front of him, and cracks his knucks again. Then we do it, we duet. And you know what? It’s killer. I’d never heard Tosh sing before, but he’s got a robust tenor that goes well with my contralto, and when we “ooooh-hoooo” in tandem, we soar.
Trouble is, I don’t feel anything—at least not the feeling I thought this experiment might provoke. Maybe I should’ve proposed something heavier, like “Love Hurts,” but I knew Duck owned this anthology and that Elton is a Tosh guilty pleasure. Anyway, now we’re done, and as Duck applauds, I scope Tosh under my lashes. The boy is beaming. So I place my hand lightly over his and suggest, “How’s about giving it the Bruise Blue treatment?” He holds my gaze and nods, and as we take it from allegretto to adagio, a lot more than the tempo changes. Our voices come from a place that’s been broken before, and beg that those same old love crimes won’t be committed again. So intimate, so passionate, so scared and yet so willing. Then, upon reaching that mutual “ooooh-hoooo,” joyful in our peppy first rendition but now with the poignancy of prayer, we—
With the force of a blow from a wrecking ball, Tosh is th
rown from the piano bench. The mic, knocked down by his rocket-fueled trajectory, hits the floor squealing. Duck leaps back, out of the way, and I stand, watching in horror the arc of Tosh’s flight, as he tucks into a self-protective ball, only to roll airborne somersaults. Finally he lands with a thud on the other side of the room, smashing against the drum kit. Cymbals clang furiously and then shiver to a stop.
And it comes out of me. I scream, “SIN!”
XIII
Tosh lies curled on his side like an abused croissant. I rush over and hunker down. Duck does the same. We check for signs of life, get a pulse, call his name. Hazel icons in a corneal slot machine, Tosh’s pupils roll back into place. He blinks.
“Tosh, I am so sorry!” Here and there I touch him, gingerly, guiltily. Then I notice the plush nap of the Persian rug; at least he had a cushioned crash. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know. I guess.” Pressing his palms, he hoists up to seated. “Didn’t know that piano bench had a secret ejector button.”
How dare he be goofy! How dare he be sweet! I don’t think I can bear it. “Oh, Tosh, I’m sorry,” I repeat, and bite my lip so I won’t say it again.
He draws up his knees, soles of his One Stars planted, and rubs the back of his head—I bet he’ll get a bump. “What up with the apologies? You didn’t press the ejector button.” I glance away, and then look back. “Actually, I did. Kind of. Sort of. But I didn’t think he would . . . I thought I would . . .”
“What . . . who are you talking about?”
Poor, sweet, goofy Tosh, still smiling, though smaller now.
“It was Sin,” Duck says soberly.
“Yo, I’m innocent.” Tosh hasn’t figured out it’s a proper noun.
He puts up his hands in jest, but his smile shrinks further. “No, really, what’d I do?”
“Sin,” I expound. “As in Sinclair Youngblood Powers. Born 1751. Died 1769. Reborn . . . in a way . . . last summer.” The smile is gone. Tosh gets to his feet, with difficulty—he’s still shaky. “Your ex,” he says slowly. “You called him Sin.” I stand too and shrug ineffectually. Everyone in Swoon goes by a monosyl moniker—Sin’s simply suits more than anyone else’s.
“And he’s a ghost.”
“Yes. No. Not anymore,” I say. “He was a ghost, and he was possessing Pen. So I tried to exorcise him and, well, oops, made him flesh.
I have to give Tosh credit; he’s really trying to work with me here, wrap his brain around it all. “So then what? He was some kind of zombie?”
No, no, no! Not at all! Zombie? Please! A zombie is an animated cadaver. Cold. Stupid. Eats brains. Lurches around like he’s wearing overly starched long johns. Sin was hot.
Brilliant. Enjoyed mac and cheese, black coffee, had a jones for Gatorade. And he was smooth, so very, very smooth in all his moves. “If you want to get technical, he was a golem,” I say defensively, my voice small.
“You keep speaking in past tense,” Duck points out. “Yet you believe Sin is responsible for Tosh being catapulted across the room. Explain that.”
“I can’t,” I admit, and turn my arms out. “Look, I haven’t seen Sin in six months, but lately, every time we got together to play . . .” I gaze at Tosh now, but somewhere in the vicinity of his left earlobe. “Every time you and me get close, I . . . feel him. And, well, I just wanted (a) to make sure that I wasn’t imagining it and (b) find out if there was some way for me to get in touch—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Tosh springs back as if slapped. “You wanted to duet with me so you could summon him?”
“Tosh, no!” My objection ascends to an octave only dogs can hear. “Not summon, not summon at all,” I sorta-kinda lie.
“Not really. Anyway, I didn’t think he’d use you as a shot put.” Tosh stands there, rubbing the back of his head, a parade of expressions marching across his face. Meanwhile, Duck scolds,
“Whatever you did, Dice, it was most unwise. I didn’t know Sin well, but I do recall he was rather . . . unpredictable.” Thanks, Duck, I think. “Excuse me, but you’re the one who believes a spirit in this house has made off with your brother.
Sin and Antonia were contemporaries. I was hoping to reach him to see if he could shed any light on her.” Duck says, “Oh,” then shuts up.
So I turn to look at Tosh again, full-on this time, ready for whatever he has to say to me.
And he says this: “You’re right, it has been one big cirque du freak since we started Bruise Blue, but I’m not convinced what’s causing it. Maybe it’s all Antonia—after all, this is Forsythe freakin’ Manor and she’s the queen bee-yotch. Maybe it’s some other spook—a house this old, could be lots of people died up in here who want to stir shit up. Or maybe it is your jealous ex having a hissy fit. I don’t know, only I’ll tell you this: I never picked a fight in my life, but I never walked away from one either. I told you the other night, Dice, I like you; I care about you. That hasn’t changed. So if Sinclair Youngblood Powers, whatever he is, wherever he is, has a problem with that, too bad. As far as I’m concerned, he can just bring it.”
XIV
Fire and brimstone? Thunderbolts and lightning? Fauna gone wild? I anticipated Sin doing something once Tosh threw down the gauntlet. Wrong again. Tosh made his speech and no plague was visited upon us. In fact, inertia has set in. Duck’s chilled on the whole east wing thing—maybe Sin’s hissy fit, as Tosh called it, scared him off. As to Marsh, she’s like anyone who suspects her significant other of cheating: Part of her wants to know the truth—every awful dirty detail—but on the flip wishes she could pretend nothing’s amiss, and Crane will materialize any second, velvet jewelry box and all. If only the sheriff’s department or private dick would report encouraging leads, but both investigations, deemed “ongoing,” seem brain-dead.
The last few weeks of high school roll by in a blank blur of term papers and finals. Then Pen flounces into the house and gets in my face with hers.
“Nice labret.” Piercing as rebellion is so late twentieth century, but the preppy province of Swoon has always been behind the curve. Then again, if anyone has the pouty mouth for such adornment, it’s my cousin.
“You should have heard my mom,” Pen says with a satisfied smirk. “A yowl of pain like she was the one taking the needle.” And to think that relationship was once the stuff of Hallmark cards. Learning of her mother’s indiscretion with the family dermatologist really sucker punched Pen. It’s one thing for you to go off the high diving board into sexual high jinks yourself, something else, very else, for your mom to.
Taking a box of Cocoa Puffs from the kitchen cupboard, Pen circles back and sits across from me at the table, where I’d been finishing off a paper. “But you know my mother, she’s soldiering on. Totally gung ho about the party.” Right. The party. Pen couldn’t care less, but her mom is tossing a graduation gala—and knowing my aunt Lainie, she’ll be crushed if it’s not the affair of the summer. It’s set for the official start of the season, June 21—anything that follows will be by definition an also-ran.
“That’s why I’m here,” Pen says.
I assumed the purpose of her pop-in was to eat my cereal.
Not that I’d begrudge her—Lainie won’t allow crap in her home; the woman rolls her own oats for granola.
“To ask if you wanted to play.”
Play . . . at the party? “You mean Bruise Blue?” Pen swallows another palmful. Vaguely I wonder how it feels to eat with a steel rod rammed through your lower lip.
“Mm-hmm. There’ll be a DJ, but you guys can set up on the patio,” she says. “Those Williams boys own enough amplifiers and junk to blow the roof off the Madison Square Garden.” The MSG; Pen tends to slaughter her New York references.
I narrow my eyes at her. “Are you sure?” What I really want to ask is if our performance is meant solely to annoy Lainie. My aunt likes things just so, and Bruise Blue is so not just so. Is Pen using us as the sonic equivalent of a lip stud?
“Of course I’m sure,
” she says. “Everyone likes live music. And everyone will be there.”
What I need to do is forget Pen’s motives, ulterior or not, and consider what’s best for me: Do I wish to strut my musical stuff for the discriminating cochlea of Swoon, Norris, and Washington? It’s not like I bonded with tons of Swonowa students. When I first got here, I made a few friends by association—they deigned to let me share their air because of Pen—but they don’t know what to do with me since my cousin’s mutinous makeover. So am I really inclined to make a fool of myself in front of those girls and their ilk?
But why self-deprecate, assume that I’d—we’d—be bad?
Bruise Blue are still pretty green, we’re raw as sushi, but we do rock. Courtesy of Tosh, for the most part, but Duck doesn’t suck and neither do I. Anyway, we’re a group; I can’t be making this decision for them.
“Golly gee, Dice.” Pen gets petulant, slams the cereal box with a rattle. “Don’t get too excited.”
“No, Pen, sorry, it’s a great opportunity,” I assure her. “Let me talk to the guys. I’ll let you know soonest.” Of course I could predict Tosh’s reaction. “Hell, yeah!” To him, playing the party is like a showcase and an investment in future gigs—might not some of the affluent attendees book us to rock their casbahs this summer?
Duck is all for it too. Having a gig gives him a focus. So we agree to practice our asses off for the two weeks before the party. That means Tosh finagling a few more afternoons off and me staying conscious for some post-midnight rehearsals.
The first thing Tosh does when we meet up in the studio is grab my hands and swing my arms like I’m a rag doll. All the while he’s smiling a suspension bridge from western Connecticut to Beijing. “You got us a gig!” he singsongs. “Uh, any money in it? No, no, no—kidding! We’re playing out. Bruise Blue is playing out.”