“Everyone’s cooler than me, I thought,” Jesse says, winking at me, and in the process making my arms go completely numb.
I’m cool.
He winked at me.
They both like me here.
I’m playing…with a band.
Oh fuck…Chris will be fine.
This is an audition.
I bite onto the inside of my right cheek and glance from Rag to Jesse, neither of them paying attention to me while they tune. My lips part to announce my discovery, but I decide that it’s better this way—better pretending I’m in the dark. I’m just not sure if I should blow this or kill it. I’m not sure what I want. Do I want to be in a band?
Yeah. I’ve always wanted to be in a band.
But do I want to be in a band with Jesse? That’s the catch here. And it’s just a catch for me. I’m the silly girl with a crush.
“Ready?” Jesse’s eyes get soft as they land on me.
I take a deep breath and blow so my cheeks puff out and lips get wider.
“Sure,” I say with a shake of my head. My hair is pulled up into a pile on top of my head and my legs are free in my leggings, a strategic move so I could feel the beat and keep time. I’m not a headbanger like Chris, but I like to get into it. I get into it the right way.
“One…two…” Jesse starts, the parenthesis back around his lips, his freckles diving into the crease. His lips mouth the rest. “One, two, three…”
I kick in, and his eyes close. Rag picks up as if we were always playing together, and I study my hands with too much intensity. I hope they don’t hear it, but I know I’m not relaxed. This beat—it needs jelly in my bones. I remember to breathe, and make eye contact with Rag, who nods with my bass, sneering in that good way that means he likes it.
Jesse doesn’t look, thank the fucking lord! I loosen up as he starts to play, and I adjust my position to give my feet room to really feel the pedal. The bass is what sells this. The rest is subtle. Just like Jesse’s voice.
The second his lips part with a breath and his head turns enough to give me a clear shot of his periphery, I decide. I’m going to kill it. Chris doesn’t deserve to give rhythm to a song like this and play behind a guy like that. He’s nowhere in the same league. Plus, I am drunk on Jesse. If I had any ability to draw at all, and I would make a comic book boy just like him, and his lip would curl…just…like…that.
I exhale, like a lover. He begins to sing, and I let my eyes close. I feel it. I think of how he cried, just a little this morning, and how he cries harder with his voice now. It’s so powerful, and I’m not sure if those words would mean as much from anyone else’s lips, in any other timber.
I haven’t heard this song go on this far before. With Chris, they never made it much past the bridge. I do my best to hang on, but eventually, Jesse has to cut it. I clench my jaw, bracing myself, instantly upset that I disappointed him.
“Sorry…” I start, but he takes my sticks from my hands as I’m mid-verse.
“Don’t be,” he interjects, waving them. “You don’t know this.”
I nod, nervously, and glance up to meet Rag’s grin. He gives me a thumbs up, so I give one back and then turn my attention back to Jesse, who’s already working out something on the snare.
“This isn’t perfect, but it’s what we had Chris doing. Just…if you can kinda get how this goes with my voice…”
My breath hitches, and I feel my red skin creeping in. I should have worn longer sleeves, but I’m glad the neck of my T-shirt is high, almost a choker. My lips are quivering with nerves and anticipation. He’s so close that I could lick his neck if I wanted to. I mean…I want to. It would just be weird. He smells like honey, and shampoo, which means he probably showered for me. Not for me, but before I came.
His voice begins, and my thought-racing halts.
“You made me, then you left this, with this, with that, with all of it. You left me, you left this, you took this, took that, took all of it. Selfish bastard, lunatic. Just a little crazy. Just like you, that’s how I knew. Nobody knows, but everyone. Let’s just pretend and get to the end.”
My chest caves in at the chorus. Knowing what I know now, about Jesse and his father—who is, without any better definition, famous for being a one-hit-wonder and a loser. Alton Berringer had a killer song about twenty years ago, and then he washed up barely alive on the Miami shore after a cocaine bender on a yacht. That was his first trip to rehab. Three more strikes, because rock stars always get four, and he went to prison. He’s supposedly sober now. For now. He’s also irrelevant.
And apparently, he’s a really shitty father.
“You got that?” Jesse’s eyes flit up to mine, and I lick my dry lips. His eyes move to my mouth.
“I think so,” I say, barely above a whisper. I take the sticks from him and feel the same touch as earlier, his fingers brushing against mine and sending a jolt through my veins, my hands suddenly gripped with energy. I shake them out, one at a time, knowing I can’t play when I’m all tense. I favor smooth.
Jesse begins again, a few bars back, and Rag and I pick up, easing into this new part through the refrain. This time, Jesse looks at me, as if seeing him say the words will somehow lead me through. My hands work independently of the rest of my body. My foot somehow managing the pedal, my chest flowing with the emotion, my hands working it out until it feels just right. The sound…it’s not snare at all. This has to be the high-hat, and the bass. It has to build…to something. My neck swivels and Jesse closes his eyes, settling in. I feel it coming, the sneer that paints his lips and scrunches his eyes tightly as his mouth opens wider until he’s nearly shouting. This song is not just therapy. It’s his anthem. It’s his fuck you, and so help me I’m going to make it just right—just how he needs it.
I ratchet the sound up, I pick up the beat, I hammer the bass and the cymbals and I let it all get messy for just a hiccup before it stops. I clutch the cymbals in my palms, squelching their massive vibration while Jesse breathes. That’s it. That’s where it ends.
He starts to laugh, leaning back on his heels a little topsy-turvy as his free hand clutches at his hair and his other one swings his guitar to his back.
“Hell yeah!” He hoots a few times, like he did earlier, then looks to his cousin, who nods with this pompous and satisfactory smile. My body pulses. It throbs. It takes a while for a drummer to lose the beat. This one, it’s going to stay with me for a long while.
I’ve learned that his mother’s last name is Quaker. Amanda Quaker. I didn’t ask him questions or learn anything through normal methods. That would require us to sit down and talk and get to know each other, and it’s becoming clearer and clearer that whatever this evolution is between Jesse Berringer and me, it’s strange and unquantifiable.
I found out by breaking into her mail.
I know. It’s a shitty thing to do. But mailboxes here come in clusters, and they’re always being broken into. Someone left the front contraption that covers all of our boxes open the other day, so I went nosing around. Sam told me to look for Christmas cards with money inside, but I’m not a thief. I’m just a spy.
Correction…stalker.
My best guess is that Jesse’s brother and sister, who I now know are named Collin, six, and AmberLynn, not a prima donna, are from a failed marriage sometime after Jesse came into the picture. I guess they could be two separate marriages, but they look a lot alike, so my gut says one. They look nothing like Jesse.
Jesse looks a lot like Alton.
Alton Berringer, who showed up in Jesse’s driveway about twenty minutes ago, right before I left my house for what will be my third official rehearsal with the band since they booted Chris to make room for me. Our first gig is in a week—a Christmas party at a burger joint one suburb closer to LA. I don’t even feel remotely prepared, but Jesse told me two days ago that I’m already a thousand times better than Chris. I just feel like I’m winging it all the time. Maybe that’s how this band works. This band that
still needs a name.
Rag stopped me on my way, rolling down the window of his Camaro that was parked a house down from mine. I got inside, and we’ve been sitting in here, with the lights knocked out but the motor humming to keep the radio on, ever since.
“He’s been dreading this.” It’s the first words Rag has said, other than “Alton’s here…get in.”
“He knew he was coming?” I only have bits and pieces of the story, things I found on Google and assumptions I drew from Jesse’s lyrics. But I was pretty sure that Jesse and his dad never talked. There was also that little bit about him trying to kill his father. I Googled that the second I got home the night he said it. Even though I couldn’t find an article about it, I still have a strange feeling Jesse wasn’t bluffing.
“He called last week. Said he wanted to see him—repenting and shit…you know, in the spirit of the holidays.”
Last week…probably in the morning. The morning I was hiding so poorly behind his fence and overheard him cry.
I nod slowly, wishing I knew more about their relationship.
It starts to rain, and Rag and I both roll up our windows, sad that we can’t hear what’s going on in the house now, not that there was anything to hear.
“Where are his brother and sister?” I ask.
“Probably upstairs pretending to be asleep. They don’t really know who Alton is or why a man is visiting. He and his mom keep it very separate from them. They’ve got enough to deal with now that their dad is remarried.”
“His sister has to know a little.” I twist my lips with doubt and look at Rag.
He shrugs.
“Probably, but she goes on pretending she doesn’t,” he says.
I look back at the quiet house, such a quaint portrait it makes with the rain pattering around it and the porchlight welcoming guests. It looks like any other home, maybe even more homey than most of the others around here now that the grass and weeds have been cut down. Christmas lights blink in sections along the roof, a few of the strands dead and needing to be replaced. Jesse just wanted them up. I don’t know that he’s really come out to look at them once. His brother and sister do, though—every night for the last week.
“I wonder what they’re saying in there?” I sigh, but I’m unable to lose the tension gripping at my neck and shoulders.
“I don’t know, but I guarantee you that Jesse’s not going to feel like playing much tonight. And I bet he’s also going to get high the second that fancy king-cab truck with new temporary plates pulls out of the driveway.”
Rag pulls a pack of gum from his center console and offers me a piece. I take one, figuring chewing is better than gnashing. He takes one, too, and starts to pop and snap the gum nervously against the roof of his mouth.
“Jesse…gets high a lot?” I push the gum against the back of my teeth, nervous about the answer. I don’t want him to be high all the time, but I also oddly don’t care if he is. I’m still so very interested in him.
“It goes in waves. It’s a stress thing, really. Self-medicating, ya know.” He winks at me, and I give him a fake smile in return. Self-medicating isn’t something I do or have ever done. Real medication, however, is well practiced in the Wakefield house.
“He said something weird to me the other night,” I spill out. I’ve been dying to ask, and it feels like just as good of a time as any.
“Yeah?” Rag’s tone is curious.
“He said he tried to kill Alton once. He was probably just being figurative, or whatever, but…”
“Oh no, he had him dead to rights,” Rag cuts in.
I swallow, not expecting the truth to come so easily.
“How?”
Rag blows out a heavy breath and wraps his right hand around the steering wheel, stretching his arm until it’s straight and stiff as he pushes into his seat. He sucks in his top lip for a few seconds and pulls in his brow.
“He was young…the age I’m not so sure on, but young,” he begins. I hug myself, checking my nerves. They’re on high alert. “It was a surprise visit, kinda like this one, on Christmas of all days. Alton was on a major bender. He only came around when he wanted money, which is so jacked because at one point, he was literally drowning in dough, ya know?”
He looks at me with a lifted brow. I nod. I’d heard he lost everything, but the new truck in the driveway looks like he’s maybe gotten back on his feet.
“Alton showed up, and Jesse’s mom was married to her ex. That guy’s a douchebag too, but that’s another story. Anyhow, she was pregnant with AmberLynn, and Alton wasn’t expecting to look her up and come rolling in to find some starter family decorating a damn tree, so he tried to take Jesse back.”
“Take him back? Back where?” My stomach instantly gets sour imagining him as a small boy being forcefully stolen from his home.
“I don’t know where, I meant take him back like property. He was taking back this kid he refused to admit was his because he didn’t want to give up any of his precious money. It got to the point that they almost went to court to test for paternity until Amanda decided her son was better off not knowing his real dad. Now here he was violently taking what he saw as rightfully his.”
“How violent?” I swallow at the thought.
“The bruises on his arm were pretty deep, and he took a swing or two at Jesse’s mom, her head got cut open and shit. And then there Jesse was with a Colt Special he knew his stepdad kept under the bed. He released the safety and cupped it steady in his hands, the barrel only a few feet away from Alton’s guts, and he screamed for his dad to get the fuck out of his house. He was pretty manic for a few days after that, and Amanda had to admit him to the psych ward because she was afraid he was going to hurt himself.”
I’m dizzy taking everything in.
“That had to be a lot on him. I can’t imagine anyone comes out of something like that okay.”
Unless you’re good at pretending, and smiling in the mornings. Carrying on. I shake my head of the thoughts as Rag shrugs then pulls the wrapper he saved from his pocket and spits out his gum. I swallow mine, which my mom hates when I do, but clearly there are worse things in the world. I know that for certain.
After nearly forty minutes of calm, an explosion of noise happens at the house we’ve been staring at. The front door flies open, and while the rain has picked up enough that we can’t hear the words, we can tell Jesse is shouting. Alton’s arms are flailing wildly, and I can’t tell if he’s acting angry or defensive. With every step Jesse takes forward, Alton takes one back.
Rag flicks on his headlights and shifts his car, pulling forward on instinct. I don’t know what kind of backup I could offer other than bearing witness, but my blood is pumping so hard and hot with adrenaline that I’m not even scared.
We pull in the other side of the driveway just as Alton is climbing into his truck, and the rain is pelting Jesse, heavy drops coming down in a near pour now. Rag pushes the gear into park and flings his door open, slamming it behind him and giving me a few seconds of sound from outside.
“You’re a motherfucker, and that’s all you are!” Jesse shouts more before and after my glimpse, but I think it’s probably all the same words, or really close synonyms.
Alton’s face looks ghost white, thinning hair plastered to his head from the downpour and gaunt cheeks caving in with his frown. This isn’t a man who can threaten anyone anymore, but he said or did something to stir the hornet’s nest.
My eyes catch his, and they practically beg for help as they pass my gaze and continue on to look over his shoulder as he backs out of the driveway. Before his front tires clear the curb, Jesse picks up a fist-sized rock and heaves it at the driver’s side headlight, cracking it good. He picks up a second one, but Rag manages to halt his arm mid throw.
It’s like I’m watching a silent movie. Jesse pivots back and forth, his face red with heat and his eyes wild with anger. His hands are woven together atop his head, and Rag keeps reaching for him, trying to get him to bre
ak free from the rage. Jesse swats away his hands a few times before stalking through the glow of Rag’s headlights to my door. He pulls it open just as Rag opens his side.
“Get out,” he says to me, curling his fingers urgently.
“Fuck you, it’s pouring outside!” I don’t know how I muster so much audacity, but there it is. I’m not wrong. It’s torrential.
Jesse huffs and rolls his eyes, bending down and grabbing my elbow to pull me from my seat. I fight back, but quit struggling when his hands wrap around my waist. We shift positions in some sort of scrappy, sloppy dance, and as Jesse falls into the passenger seat, I come down with him, landing on his lap.
“Get your feet inside,” he orders.
I do, but my body is a mix of fire and needles as I struggle to understand what just occurred.
Jesse reaches to the side and grabs the handle, pulling the door closed, then wraps his arms around my stomach, holding me like a child would his favorite bear. I swallow at the intimate…everything. I’d feel excited, maybe flattered, if this seemed like anything other than making do of a situation to Jesse.
“Where you wanna go, man?” Rag’s voice sounds frustrated, and maybe a little defeated.
“I don’t know. Somewhere. The Yards, maybe.”
“Yards it is,” Rag says, shifting into reverse and peeling out of the driveway in a rush.
“Aren’t your brother and sister inside?” I turn my head to ask, and our chins touch when I do. I feel his breath against my face, and it sends a second breath down my spine. He smells like rain and sugar, and something else that I think is just distinctly him.
“They’ll be fine. AmberLynn’s old enough to know what to do if the house catches on fire.”
He’s irritable, and I can feel his heart pounding against my back. I bet if I held my fingertips to his neck, I’d find his pulse. He’s roaring like the train…like his songs.
“You didn’t even lock the door?” I swallow when I feel his hands squeeze me just a little.
“Jesus Christ, Arizona. They’re fine.” His chest deflates with his heavy exhale, and my face falls with worry. He’s right; they are fine. But I’m not so sure we are.
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