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.
“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.
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.