Swoon 02 - Swear

by Nina Malkin

  That enthusiasm’s infectious. A lot of “whooing” and

  “hooing” from the three of us, and only once do I see Duck’s eyes turn wetly wistful over his brother’s absence.

  “Okay, let’s get serious,” Tosh calls our band meeting to order. “I think we should keep it short and sweet. Pick a handful of tunes, get them tight as a finger trap.” I laugh, pointing out, “Easy enough—it’s not like we’ve got this enormous repertoire.”

  “What about that Stones song?” Duck says. “We do that pretty well.”

  Agreed.

  “And Crane’s stuff?” Tosh throws out. “The fast one?” All in favor. I know we’re all hoping against hope that he’ll be back by then, back and able to join us.

  “Let’s keep in mind our audience,” I remind.

  Right, so that uber-mega-gonzo hit on everybody’s iPod is in.

  “One more ought to do it . . . ,” Tosh muses.

  I suggest one of the blues classics we’d been kicking around.

  “‘Spoonful,’” Tosh says, his eyes tipping toward golden.

  “Genius.” Then he hugs me very hard and completely incomprehensibly for about half a second.

  Looks like we’ve got our set list.

  XV

  Commencement week does bring a certain level of frenzy. This I blame on my parents, typically overstressed, self-obsessed, neurotic New Yorkers that they are. Marsh and I bunk up in the smaller bedroom, ceding them the bigger one. Sure, they could roost at the Leonard place, sprawling on the other side of Daisy Lane in all its posh spaciousness, but Momster and Daddy must believe they can cram months of neglect into a week of high-impact doting. Daddy videotapes every moment—ostensibly for my Nana Lena, who’d be with us except she hasn’t ventured beyond the six-block radius surrounding her apartment since they put a Loehmann’s on the Upper West Side.

  The saving grace? Presents! An antique bracelet with tiny pearls that is completely my taste. A journal too pretty to write in. Clothes, of course. Momster’s privy to NYC’s finest sample sales, and she went wild. There’s stuff for Marsh as well, which is so sweet and was no sweat, since unlike me, heir to the Moskow tush, Marsh has a model’s body, and often the best stuff at those fashionista affairs is size negative zero.

  “So where would you girls like to go for dinner?” Daddy hopes we’ll clamor for the Kendall Wynn Inn. When in Connecticut, he revels in preppy parody—seersucker, badminton, highballs, and stuck-up, old-school restaurants.

  “Actually, there’s a new place in Norris called Pinch Me Round that’s supposed to be fabulous,” I say. “It got a five-star review in the Sentinel-Courier.”

  “Ooh. The Sentinel-Courier.” Momster gets her journalistic snob on like In Star is going to win her the Pulitzer, but “fabulous” and “new” snag her nonetheless. It’s not till we’re in the car that she opines Pinch Me Round is a funny name for a restaurant.

  “Not a Jamaican restaurant,” I say, explaining that a pinch-me-round is some kind of Caribbean cookie.

  Daddy chuckles, saying I’ll endanger his quota of white bread and mayonnaise.

  I hinted to Tosh that we might come, and the second we’re seated, a platter of assorted appetizers appears. My puzzled parents have no clue why, but after we dig into entrées, Tosh comes out of the kitchen in his toque to say hello. Momster and Daddy are all over him, raving about the food, fully impressed that I know the chef. Daddy makes his white bread and mayo joke again, as I cringe, mortified.

  “Don’t mind my father,” I tell Tosh. “He’s basically allergic to anything green, so when he comes to the country, we dope him up on so many antihistamines he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  “No worries, Mr. Moskow, I understand,” Tosh says. “Ever since moving here, I get cravings for mayo and butter on the same sandwich.”

  Momster, all impish grin, must sense the vibe between Tosh and me; she quit the “not nosy, just curious” inquiries about Sin a while ago. On the way home, I preempt any prying by saying Tosh and I are in a band together, which naturally gets Daddy reminiscing about his high school power-pop quartet, the Schmooze.

  Yawn indeed. Very much the Nyquil effect. Yet rather than fall into stony slumber, I’m restless in bed next to Marsh, deep in muse mode when she rolls over with a murmured good night. Soon enough I hear her breathing go long and even.

  Except the very next second, she’s giggling like mad.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  She shoves me in the dark. “Boy, Dice, that must’ve been some dream!”

  Dream? I haven’t even been asleep. Oh, but . . . oh, my. . . and then it rushes back to me in a wanton wave. His remarks, his commands, his mouth, his hands. Me begging, laughing, moaning, seriously losing it . . .

  “I thought that only happened to guys,” Marsh says, still hiccuping hilarity, “when they’re like twelve years old.” I hop out of bed, trip over the heap that my mysteriously stripped-off T-shirt and underpants make on the floor, and stumble out.

  “Cold shower?” my bestie teases, her giggles following me down the hall.

  I don’t even turn on the bathroom light. I know what I would see. Skin glowing, nether regions sodden, hair a shambles of snarls, and blue bruise pulsing, raised, alive, and completely unrepentant.

  The chorale recital goes well, and afterward there’s a tea-and-cookies thingie on the Swonowa quad. Pen attends, which surprises me, until I realize she’s there for the shock value—and Mrs. Welch’s decadent lemon bars. My parents haven’t seen Pen since my birthday in January, when her transformation was just beginning.

  “Penny!” bleats my mother. Surely Lainie had bemoaned a report, but only seeing is believing. “How are you, honey?” She goes in for a hug.

  “I live, I breathe.” Pen, hands to hips, parries the hug.

  “Well,” Daddy says. “Well, well.”

  By the time both families convene at the Leonards’ for dinner, my parents have adapted to their niece’s appearance, though Momster and Lainie do huddle now and then, while Daddy and Pen’s father try to find a topic of conversation they can agree to disagree on. Pen and I sit beside each other at the massive oval dining table, she sullenly packing away her mother’s gourmet comfort food.

  “Everything’s delicious, Lainie, as usual,” Daddy says.

  “Mmm,” Momster agrees, but can’t resist adding, “I’ll have to go on a juice fast after this week. Oh, did I tell you we ate at Pinch Me Round, that new place in Norris, last night? What a feast! Candy’s friend is the chef there. A baby like that, a chef!”

  “Right, Josh is a real prodigy,” Daddy concurs. “Although it was embarrassing having a kid comp us.”

  “It’s Tosh, Daddy,” I remind. “And he’s almost twenty-one. And he prefers ‘cook’ to ‘chef,’ the way a painter prefers ‘painter’ to ‘artist.’ And besides, his aspirations ultimately lie elsewhere—I told you he’s a musician.”

  “A real Renaissance man,” Pen grumbles to her meat loaf, though the accusatorial tone is meant for me. “What other Tosh talents will you regale us with next?” I’m tempted to go on—but I resist. If Pen already suspects that Tosh is into me, I don’t want to give her any ammunition—she’ll only trash him, and I’m confused enough when it comes to that boy. “Most creative people are multifaceted,” I say quietly, keeping it general. “They tend to express themselves in various ways.”

  “Like you?” Her volume matches mine—our parents can tell we’re talking, but not what we’re saying. “You sing, you’re acing honors English, and you can make dead boys come to life . . .”

  Whoa, where’d that come from? And the pinched smirk?

  The vicious way she’s spelunking the cliff of scalloped potatoes à la Lainie on her plate? I shake my head at her, very slowly, only once. “Let’s not get into Sin right now.”

  “Why not?” is her low-level retort. “Isn’t that the plan, yours and Marsh’s? You think Sin can bring Crane back, so you’re going to bring him
back. Then you and him and Crane and Marsh can enjoy games of doubles tennis and lazy days by the lake.” With one finger she taps her cheek. “Oh, but what’s Tosh, then? Your side dish?”

  So that’s it. After pushing me and the world away, orchestrating her own alienation, she’s afraid of having a crappy summer. Pen, who’d bounce along so blithely in her bikinis, boys slavering in her wake, has erased the girl she used to be—only that’s not enough; she wants to bring me along for the miserable ride. I’d be more pissed if she weren’t so blatantly pitiful.

  Equally pitiful, the fact that Pen thinks I have such power.

  Maybe she wouldn’t be so cruel if she knew how Sin has been manipulating me lately, and how helpless I’ve been at every slap and tickle. Sin’s the one with the hand full of aces, and the more I muse on it, the clearer it becomes that if he wanted to be with me—really be with me—he would’ve wielded that magic already. Pen of all people should understand that if it were up to me, I would’ve brought him back, or gone to him, no matter what or where, a long time ago.

  Now’s the moment Jordan, the littlest Leonard, chooses to get up from his chair and wangle his way between us. Fascinated by big sister’s labret, he pulls her chin to inspect it. Lenient, benevolent, Pen allows this, then sticks out her tongue and snags him onto her lap. Seeing her so loving makes me wistful for Pen to be Pen again.

  Only that won’t happen—at least not in regard to me. So I push away my comfort food; it’s no comfort to me. “I wouldn’t worry,” I say at last to respond to her scenario. “If Sin can help us rescue Crane, he’ll be doing it from very far away.”

  XVI

  Graduation is on Friday, two days from now, but the summer solstice kicks off at exactly 7:23 p.m. By Lainie logic, the ideal onset for the grand grad gala. After her dermatological transgression and near-fatal plunge off the Davender Bridge, she’d spent some time exploring the meaning of life. There was a meditation seminar, a chakra tune-up, and a tract on the spiritual ramifications of the seasons. The solstice has new significance, but Lainie being Lainie, it all revolves around her, her family, and now, specifically, her only daughter. The invitations read 7:23 as the soiree’s start time.

  Besides, “Wednesday is the new Saturday!” Momster delivers a spot-on imitation of her sis. “Oh, Candice, you look adorable! Peter, get the camera!”

  Hey, I try—aiming, actually, for retro-chic, with these kitten-heeled pumps from Goodwill, a flared skirt from my mother’s recent haul, and a plain tight tank. For coiffure, I watched a beehive how-to video online, and modified it to use only half a can of hairspray and a mere seven hundred bobby pins.

  “So tell us more about this band of yours,” Daddy says as I mug for the lens.

  “You’ll dig us,” I assure him. “We do a Howlin’ Wolf song.”

  “No kidding!” He is so proud. “Hey, come on, Marsh, get in the act!”

  In pointy flats, a pencil skirt, and a sleeveless blouse that zips up the back—a shell, per Momster—Marsh is pure sylph. She let me pile on the eye makeup, but drew the line at overstated updo; fortunately her ponytail works. What a trooper. It’s hard, pushing into party mode when she can’t be feeling it, but it must be done—forward motion is mandatory.

  “I feel kind of silly,” she says, lashes heightened by copious coats of mascara.

  “Yeah, well, you look kind of gorgeous, so shut up,” I say.

  “Besides, you’re in Bruise Blue.” She is, for real, on tambourine.

  We had to hash it out, Tosh and me, but I was adamant. The last thing my girl needs is time on her hands. “You’ve got to look the part.”

  She smiles shyly as we pose for Daddy, and then, at precisely 7:22, we cross the road to number 9.

  For attire, Lainie requested “grad glad rags!” but word must’ve gotten out that there’d be a vintage vibe, since most of the girls and a few guys take a stab at the late-fifties/early-sixties thing. None pull it off as well as Duck, resplendent in aquamarine sharkskin, and my mind wanders to what Tosh will wear. It’s a little sad the way Pen’s out of place at her own party, in a soot-colored baby-doll dress and twelve-rivet combat boots. She stomps around for an hour, deigning to speak to classmates, who deign to speak back, but doesn’t seem at ease till her boy Kurt shows. They take off—to smoke up, I surmise.

  Stage fright hits the instant I see Tosh—unless those butterflies swoop in for some other reason. All I know is he looks awesome. One-button black suit with tapered pants, striped tie, his ubiquitous One Stars, plus the added element of dark glasses in horn-rim frames. Very much in bluesman mode, his usually buoyant step tempered to a stroll. “Dice, Marsh,” he says. “Nice. Very nice.”

  “What about me?” Duck strikes a pose.

  Tosh strokes his chin discerningly. “You? You’ll do.” Then he cracks a smile.

  As a unit, we cruise by the performing space—Duck and Tosh had come over earlier to set up—then mingle and mesh.

  Caroline Chadwick and her whole crew compliment Marsh and me on our ensembles, and I suppose it’s genuine. Wick and Marsh used to be a lot closer, but that went south after Marsh did in Daddy Demento. The DJ is decent, and people are dancing—including my parents, who, I must admit, know how to throw down and don’t look too ridiculous.

  I wish we could play already, but Tosh insisted the ambiance would be all wrong if it wasn’t at least partway dark. This being the longest day of the year, that could take a while. I find myself scoping the sky until the aubergine of twilight settles in around us. I give him a nudge and he nods decisively. “Let’s do this.” But first, a word from our sponsor.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” the DJ calls. “The parents of tonight’s honored grad-to-be have something to say!” Aunt Lainie and Uncle Gordon tipsily toddle up to the booth while flutes of bubbly are pressed on all celebrants. “I hope I won’t get in trouble serving one itsy-bitsy toast to minors.” Itsy-bitsy, that’s pure Lainie parlance. “But I look at you young people, and you’re so grown-up and poised and beautifull. . .” Plenty of heartfelt hoo-ha about life journeys ensues, but I can’t really concentrate with Tosh so very right behind me, his breath a caress against my neck.

  “That spoon, that spoon, that spoonfull. . .” Him hushing the chorus makes me jumpy, and no way can I chalk it up to preshow jitters.

  “Shhh!” I turn to him—my cheek against his lips—and quickly turn back.

  Gordon and Lainie must announce their daughter, since there’s a smatter of claps, and then a pause—no Pen in sight.

  The sound starts up again as eventually my red-eyed, snickering cousin clomps up. Oozing sarcasm, she lifts her flute and with a deadpan “Go, Lancers,” downs its contents in a few deep swallows.

  Awkward reigns till the DJ regains control. “Everybody, please give a Swonowa welcome to Bruise Blue.” The response seems thunderous—collective relief, no doubt. Following Tosh’s measured gait, we assume the area of patio sectioned off with flickering votives. It’s not dark-dark, but dark enough. The scent of fancy finger food mates with heady honeysuckle. Then I hear the sticks clack behind me: one-two-three-four.

  Our short and sweet set list is strategic. We kick it off with our mega-hit cover, and once the crowd realizes we’re doing it—Bruise Blue–style—we have them eating out of our palms.

  Next up, “Tumbling Dice” (what else?) off the Stones’ Exile on Main Street, which garners extreme approval, particularly among the parents, who sing along to every line.

  “Thank you very much,” I say, and giggle out the last of my tension. “Guess everyone knows those two. And lets give it up for Duck, okay; he just learned that guitar lick like yesterday.” The boy raises both fists, then flops in a flamboyant bow. “Usually, Duck plays bass in Bruise Blue, but as some of you may know, his brother, Crane Williams, is . . . well, we don’t know where. Nobody does. And for the Williamses, and Crane’s girlfriend Marsh, these last few weeks have been incredibly difficult. Because Crane is so great—he’s kind and smart and sensitiv
e and beautiful.” My voice cracks, and I need a second. I spot Paul and Lillian among the guests, and they’re actually holding hands, their eyes wet. “So we all hope that if we put our prayers together, however we define the notion of prayer, Crane will come back to us very soon.” Loud encouragement swells, lofting those prayers into the night air. Even though Crane didn’t go to school with us, he was known, and liked, and the idea of him being gone without a trace is having its emotional effect on every person here. “Anyway,” I say, “now we’d like to play one of Crane’s songs. He wrote it for Marsh. It’s called ‘Swear.’”

  I will do it, I will dare

  I will show you, I will share

  I will call you ’cause I care

  I will love you, ooh, I swear

  A power-chord promise of devotion, it would’ve been a puff piece under ordinary circumstances; now I don’t know how I manage to pull those lyrics off, or how Marsh avoids a full-on faint. The tune clocks in at less than three minutes, then we dive next into “Spoonful,” our finale. Duck thumps the bass line on the SG. Marsh shimmies the beat against her slim hip. And Tosh, stepping from the kit and taking up his Strat, can’t resist a bit of showboating.

  First he channels Hendrix, twiddling about a thousand and one notes, then turns his back on the party to snag my eyes, playing the intro exclusively for me, all tied up sweet and tight like the ribbon on a present. Yeah, well, we never did this in rehearsal. I can’t tell if he’s trying to transmit some meaningful message or just crowd teasing, but I like it. A lot. So much, I smile with my lips sealed, indicating he ought to do it again.

  Ultimately, when I do start singing, the tune takes on a sultrier swagger, a touch more heat. “Just a little spoon of your precious love satisfies my soul.”

  So no we’re good and done. And they, all of them—the top tier of Swonowa High School seniors, several select parents, even the grumpy grad of honor—drench us in raucous applause.