It’s not vandalism if it’s ugly and abandoned in the first place. At least, that’s what Sam says.
I stand just on the other side of the wall, my ear pressed to the thin cracks where cement was poorly slathered on. The longer I listen, the more certain I am that this isn’t a young child crying. It’s either Jesse or his mom, and my gut oddly tells me that it’s a guy’s stifled cry I hear.
My hand repeatedly runs over Bessy’s fur-ball head, trying to keep her distracted and calm, and after a full minute of just listening, I realize I’m frowning.
I’m feeling for whomever this is.
“Jess, come on! Seriously…it’s time to go!”
The call from a woman’s voice confirms my suspicions, and I hear enough of Jesse’s frustrated breath to seal it.
“Jess, what are you doing out here?” A screen door slides open.
“I’m just waiting.” His answer is typical teen, but it’s also more than that. Where would he be going? He isn’t in band. I’ve prayed and looked every day, and every day he’s not transferred into my first period.
“Well, while you’re waiting…we’re late.” Her words are clipped, and a bit sarcastic. I get the sense his mom works nights. She wasn’t anywhere to be found when his band was practicing, and the van usually rolls in when I leave for school.
The screen slams to a close over the wall, and the sharp sound sends Bessy out of my arms with a yipe that cuts through the slight wind picking up.
Fuck.
My wide eyes watch my little dog bolt in the opposite direction, back around the way I came, but my feet can’t seem to move. There’s no way he didn’t notice that. I breathe out my energy and let the red take over its favorite spots on my skin just before I take off into a sprint after my dog. I don’t catch up with Bessy until I reach my house again, which probably means I could have just let her go on her own. Figures.
My dad is already waiting in the car, the motor rocking all one-hundred-forty-thousand miles of it as condensations spills from the pipe in the back. My mom lets Bessy in and I pick up my school bag that I left just outside the garage. I round the car to the passenger door, and just before I get in, I meet Jesse’s stare as his mom drives by our home slowly in her van. She’s searching for something through her purse in her lap while she coasts down our street, which gives Jesse plenty of time to lower his lashes and stare at me with those foggy eyes. I feel instant guilt again for what I overheard, not that it was much to hear at all.
I look away before he does, not wanting to know how long his scornful expression lasts or if he turns in his seat to keep it on me. I wouldn’t be surprised either way.
“You’re gonna need gloves soon. Getting nippy in the mornings.” My dad is a morning man. He opens and Mom closes, which makes their marriage and business partnership work perfectly.
“It’s seventy-eight today.” My voice is flat. I’ll wish I had somewhere to toss my jacket by lunch time.
“Well sure, but right now it’s,” he leans forward and runs his glove-covered palm over the dash glass that always fogs—winter, summer…spring and fall. “Look at that, it’s fifty-nine.”
“Brrrrr,” I deadpan.
My dad’s body lifts with a laugh and his smile grows. I can’t get to him, even with my grouchiest self, so I give in and smile too. It’s a better way to start my day rather than mortified and choking on empathy. It’s a better way for everyone in our family to be—blissful and seeing the bright side of everything. It somehow comes easier to my parents, though. I often wonder if they’re really this okay with their life—our life.
I step from my dad’s car just in time to catch the last few bandmembers rushing from the parking lot to the room to grab their gear. If you’re late to practice, you run a lap—with your instrument. It’s not so bad to be a tardy flute player, but tubas have it rough, and snare players like me hit our quads on the bolts.
I make up time with a smooth drop of my bag and fit into my harness, and I’m on the field with two minutes to spare. Every bit of fire that was on my skin clears out the moment I take my sticks and roll my wrists, eyes steady on the black and silver circle that marks my sweet spot. There are six of us on snare—I’m lead. I’ve been lead since freshman year, which means I get to set the cadence we play when we march. I love our squad, and our taste is epic. I go with something special this morning to get everyone’s steps in for marching practice—the beat I think long-haired Chris should have played to that beautiful song Jesse was playing. I feel it in an instant, and everyone else picks it up after the first and second pass. The tones of the bass drums work up and down, like a wave that carries our collective breath. I wish we weren’t marching right now so I could see the way our sticks line up, flying up and down in precision. This one’s a keeper.
We have a few weeks left before the state competition. Block lines help our director correct our feet, but it doesn’t mean we have to march to a metronome. People are meant to move to rhythm. We spend most of the morning fixing a few things we messed up during our last competition, and we only get to run through our actual set once. I don’t care, though—I would be content doing nothing but drum features and solos.
“You have a fan,” says Josh, a junior who will take over for me on lead next year.
He taps his sticks on my drum a few times and glances to my left as we walk up the path back to the band room. I follow his gaze to Jesse, who’s leaning against a metal column on the side of the bleachers. My heart starts a drumroll that I know won’t stop for several minutes, so I focus on my breath and try to not act like a fool as I step closer to him.
“Enjoy the show?” I’m bubbly, like the morning version of my dad. I give myself an internal eyeroll and remind myself that I’m confident, snarky Arizona with this boy. I’m new me. Not shy and blushing me, even though I’m certain there is a blotchy patch of red on my chest right now. Body chemistry is really weird.
“What was that thing you were doing before…when it was just you—just drums?”
My heart stops roaring. It just stops, period. I bite my tongue behind my lips and pull my mouth in at the corner on the outside to make it look like I’m thinking.
“This?” I let it flow from beginning to end, sixteen bars that I repeated a hundred or more times on the field. I had that beat memorized the moment I replaced Chris’s with it in my head while Jesse sang.
Of course it’s this.
“Yeah. I like that.” His eyes narrow and focus on my sticks, which suddenly feel like an extension of my hands. I grip them and swallow.
“Cool,” I say, shrugging a little. I’m not sure what else to say, and any words I add will be in morning-dad voice. They won’t be authentic.
Jesse pulses with a short laugh, his eyes still on my drum, a little lost in that place he goes while he sings. He’s imagining the sound—remembering it. His mouth starts to curl, and I indulge in watching the pattern form on his cheeks until he flits his eyes to mine and I’m caught. I glance to the side quickly when I am, nothing I’m able to do about the pink cheeks I have now. I hate that I get so rosy. It’s always been my curse.
“You didn’t say you played.”
I laugh quietly and smile to my side, still not quite able to look him in the eyes.
“Yeah, well…I didn’t want show Chris up.” My boldness surprises me, and I blink a few times and force myself to meet his waiting stare. His head is cocked to one side, making him look at me a little sideways, and the way his mouth barely shows a smile is unnerving and yet also delicious.
This encounter will be the death of me.
His eyes flit to my hands, and he nods for my sticks. I raise them and our hands brush in the exchange, my cold knuckles warming instantly. He flips the sticks in his palms, finding the perfect hold, and I love the comfortable way he grips them. They’re white, because we like to be able to show off our precision on the line. They glow against his warm skin. My own hands feel instantly awkward, with nothing to hold and noth
ing to do but stand here and hold the drum as he hovers over the head.
He nods a few times, like he’s counting silently, and his hands tentatively begin to work lightly above the drumhead, merely buzzing it for practice until he fully settles in. I can tell this style isn’t natural for him, but I can also tell he plays. He’s better than Chris, and he has such unbelievable flow. His smile broadens as he relaxes more, stepping up on the lip of the curb to get a better position so he can really pound. The more he gets into it, the more I realize we’ve drawn a small crowd. Josh has come back and joined in, playing on the off-beats, and a few of my bandmates are jamming with the rhythm.
Jesse stops in the perfect place, leaving in the middle of a bar, which makes everyone want more but still feel satisfied and right. He grips the sticks in his hand with a squeeze then flattens them on my drum for me.
“Wooo whooo! Damn!” He shouts with his chin lifted and his eyes shut.
His joy makes me giggle.
I take my sticks back, one in each hand, and I feel better already—less self-conscious. My natural state, I guess.
With the ring of the bell out in the distance, our small crowd has already started to disappear, but Jesse’s still balanced on the lip of the curb with no sense of urgency in his body. I feel compelled to wait with him, which twists my insides because I also don’t like to be late for things.
His hands move to the front pockets of his black jeans and he looks down at our feet. I can’t see below my drum, so I shift my gaze around from side to side, occasionally meeting his eyes in the middle. When I look at him again, I catch him hunched over slightly with a smirk on his face.
“Your shoes are covered in grass.” His eyebrows lift as if having wet grass on your feet is truly shocking.
“The look goes with my ice cream shirt normally, but I thought I’d try them out as separates.”
My joke garners a genuine laugh from him this time, the sound echoing his singing voice, or perhaps I imagine it that way. His eyes crinkle and his mouth remains open, curved and happy. This is different from the scowl I met this morning. This is a different guy, entirely.
“You should come play tonight. Just me and Rag.”
The wave drowns my chest again, thunder that doesn’t stop against my ribs.
“Oh, I…” I bite my bottom lip, frozen and unable to answer. I have nothing to do. I just…I guess I’d rather just watch them.
Jesse tilts his head again, smiling on one side.
“You played the shit out of that thing. Don’t get all modest.”
“No…no. I’m not. Actually, I know I’m really fucking good, it’s just…”
I stop while he laughs at my arrogance. I’m glad, because I only said that because my nerves made the words come out. Not that it isn’t true. I have, like, two skills in life. Parallel parking and drums.
“I’m not great at set is all,” I say, turtling into my shoulders slowly.
“You’ll be fine,” he says with a nod. He cages me with a stare that I know isn’t going to let go until I agree, so I finally nod and give in.
The final warning bell sounds, and my stomach literally eats itself with stress, so I start to walk back toward the rooms.
“I’ll see ya tonight,” I say, waving with a small lift of my sticks as I back pedal.
“Come around seven,” he says, moving the other way.
I keep my eyes on him for a few more steps, wondering where he’s off to. It’s clearly not class, which means he’s probably not going to hack it at this school thing for long. I don’t want him to drop out, though. How will I luck into little run-ins like this.
“Class is this way, ya know.”
His grin shows his teeth, lopsided and flirtatious.
“Yeah, I’ll get there. I got…things.” He pulls his wallet out and removes a joint. I nod, wondering how the hell I became so attracted to a ditching stoner. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s also human, and has the ability to cry when he thinks he’s completely alone. He hasn’t brought it up—this morning. I won’t. I sure as hell won’t now, when things are progressing so…nicely.
“Hey, what do you call that thing you played anyway?” he asks, shouting across the growing distance between us.
It’s my turn to leave him with a little mystery now.
“Oh, you would know.”
I shrug, and his brow pulls in, puzzled.
“What do you call that song you were working on when I showed up Friday? The slow and sweet one that they all kept fucking up?”
“Bury Me Holy.”
He says the title fast, and I wonder if it’s the first thing he ever wrote. It’s clearly his favorite.
I nod once.
“That’s it then. Bury Me Holy.”
His eyes narrow to slits, his faint smile lingering until I have to turn to face the other way. I lift my sticks in the air as I pass, as if I’m Bender at the end of The Breakfast Club, and I walk the rest of the way to the band room with a little bit of swagger.
Swagger, and grass all over my damn feet.
It’s only Jesse in the garage when I walk up. I’m not early. I’m not late, either. I’m precisely on time. I worked it out that way because I’m neurotic about some things, and new me and old me are the same about some of my little ticks. New me doesn’t apologize for it, though. Although…I regret not being able to be late right now because Rag might make things a little more comfortable.
“So let me get a look at this set Chris doesn’t know how to play, huh?” I glance at Jesse as I step into the garage. He’s doing that casual lean-sitting thing guys can pull off. He’s on the side of a motorcycle that doesn’t look like it runs, but I’m okay with the vision of him resting against it. I don’t care if it ever goes anywhere.
I pull my denim jacket off and toss it to the side on top of the shrinking pile of boxes.
“You guys are getting moved in slowly, huh?”
He rolls his eyes and runs his hands through his perfect hair, a little oily and curled at the ends.
“The last place we lived, we had boxes for the first ten months. If I don’t do it, it doesn’t get done. My mom is busy at work and tired when she gets home, and my sister is so self-involved and weak-ass.”
“Hey!” I say, picking up the sticks and pointing them at him as I nestle behind the drums. “Don’t shit on your sister. Girl power.”
I stare him down and he doesn’t flinch, just sneering at me as if I have no idea.
“Whatever. She’s eleven, and a prima donna.”
“I love Madonna,” I say back quickly, ignoring his reaction for a few seconds. When he starts to correct me and explain the definition of the term, I let him off the hook and shake my head at him.
“I know what you said,” I nod. I hold his gaze for a few seconds, both of our lips caught in this strange, hesitant smile. We both like being here. We both like being alone. We’re both nervous, and we’re both fronting. If he’s not, then he’s a better actor than I am, because I can read it in his expression and stilted stance.
“My mom likes to decorate for Christmas, so that stack gets cracked open tonight. It’s the one thing I can get my baby brother and sister to help with.” His focus lingers on the stack of boxes for a long couple of seconds, a fondness coloring his cheeks and curling his mouth.
“It’s my favorite holiday,” I add, regretting it when his smile drops back into that serious, straight line.
“It’s a’right,” he shrugs.
I clear my throat and look down at the drums and reach to my left then right, tapping each head and familiarizing myself with my surroundings. I give them all a few passes, speeding up until I feel like at least I won’t be embarrassed by whatever we do here.
“Already better than Chris,” he says through a smile.
“I feel bad. Chris seems like a nice guy.” I shrug, then tap at the drums and cymbal with a bada-bum-chang.
“He’s a hippie. He’ll be fine.”
I lower my
eyes in question—he’ll be fine. Before I can pry out a meaning in that statement, though, Rag pulls into the driveway in a Camaro. It was his I saw the other day. Jesse walks over to his cousin and they give each other a half-hug.
“Sorry I’m late. My class doesn’t get out until six-thirty on Mondays.” Rag reaches for my hand then pulls me up from my seat into an awkward bro-hug before letting go. That’s my first one of those. I hope I did it right.
“What class?” I’ve figured out that he probably goes to college nearby, because that’s the only way he’s not at Vista High but also close enough to drop in for jam sessions. He’s too together to be a drop-out.
“Anthropology,” he grins.
“Dumbass wants to be a professor,” Jesse says through a breath of a laugh. He moves to his guitar case, flipping it open and pulling it out to tune.
“If I were a dumbass I wouldn’t have a shot in hell at doing this, or getting my tuition for free, so I’m pretty sure it’s gonna happen.”
He stares his cousin down until Jesse looks up.
“Oh, huh? Were you still talking to me?”
Rag grimaces and flips Jesse off before walking back to his car and opening the trunk. He gets his guitar case and rests it on the stack of boxes near my jacket, stopping before he pulls his guitar out completely to point at the pin on my jacket pocket.
“That’s Mott the Hoople.”
My lip quirks. It’s rare that someone else knows who that is.
“All the Young Dudes,” I say.
“Shiiiiit.” Rag drags the word out, pulling his strap over his neck and holding his pick between his lips as his eyes pass mine then move to Jesse.
“She’s cool, yeah?” Jesse’s eyes flash wide for just a second.
Rag pulls the pick from his lips and strums a few times.
“Yeah…she’s cooler than you.” Rag points at Jesse and flips him off again.
Christmas with a Rockstar Page 21