Scar Girl Page 12

  It was Johnny.

  “Hey, Chey,” he said, in response to my weak “Hello?”

  “Hey.”

  “How was Christmas at your aunt’s house?”

  “It was good.” That was a lie, and Johnny probably knew it. “How was dinner at your house? Sorry again I couldn’t make it.” That was a lie, too.

  “It was nice. Just me and my parents.” He sounded, I don’t know, sad, and there was a brief pause in the conversation.

  “Did you get any good presents?” I asked. He had just the one brother, Russell, who didn’t live at home, so Johnny was pretty spoiled, though I don’t really think he acted spoiled. Since this was the first Christmas after losing his leg, the haul of presents was even bigger than normal.

  He rattled off this incredible amount of loot he’d found under the Christmas tree while I listened. It’s amazing how two people can talk about so much while talking about absolutely nothing. It was like everything between us was so damaged that neither one of us could talk about it. It was early in the day, and I was feeling jittery. That’s not quite right. I was feeling . . . period. I didn’t want to feel anything. I wanted to cut the call short.

  Johnny finished itemizing his list of Christmas presents, which trailed off into another long pause. He didn’t ask what I got because he knew it would just be embarrassing for both of us.

  “Chey,” he started, “we need to talk.” Chey, we need to talk. That’s never, ever a good thing. It’s pretty much the exact phrase every boy uses before he breaks up with you.

  “What about?” I asked. My whole body now felt like a sore tooth that needed Anbesol.

  “I don’t know, all kinds of stuff. Can we get together before rehearsal tomorrow?”

  “Isn’t Richie picking us both up?”

  “Yeah, well, maybe we could meet somewhere first. Can you come over here?”

  I don’t know why that pissed me off. It shouldn’t have pissed me off. I mean, the guy was walking around on a fake leg, right? But it was always me going to his house. Never him coming to my house, or even my neighborhood. When I think about it now, I was probably mad because of that day I’d walked all the way to his house when I was pregnant and feeling like shit, the day before I lost the baby. And even though I know it’s not true, some part of me feels like the long walk up and down that hill caused my miscarriage.

  “Can’t we just talk at rehearsal?” I asked.

  “I want us to be alone.”

  “So we’ll go outside and talk.”

  Johnny was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah, okay.” He sounded for all the world like he’d just lost something important. He regrouped and started again, this time somehow managing to sound more serious.

  “Cheyenne, listen—”

  “Give it back!” My sister Patricia, nine years old, ran into the room ahead of my sister Joan, ten years old. Their birthdays are ten and a half months apart, what some people called Catholic twins. Patricia was holding Joan’s diary, her Christmas grab-bag present from Agnes (also bought with my store discount), in the air, high over her head.

  Even though Joan was older, she let Patricia push her buttons every time. (Patricia was actually kind of a bully.)

  “Chey, make her give it back!”

  “John,” I said, using his more serious name, “I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And I hung up.

  Saved by the Belle. That’s a joke we use a lot in our house, and this time it felt real.

  I separated my sisters, then hung out in the living room, waiting for my father to fall asleep so I could sneak some of his brandy.

  HARBINGER JONES

  Our first rehearsal after Christmas was just awkward.

  Richie had borrowed his dad’s car and picked up Johnny and Chey. I was in my parents’ basement, sitting on my amp, messing around on the guitar, when they came in.

  Johnny and Chey were both tight-lipped. That’s really the only word to describe how they looked; their mouths were straight lines pulled taut across their faces. Richie, who trailed them into the room, looked at me and rolled his eyes.

  I mumbled hello, not wanting to get caught in the crosshairs of whatever was going on, and turned my attention to Richie.

  “How was Christmas?”

  “You’re never going to believe it,” he said. “The old geezer got me a bike.” Old geezer sounds like Richie hated his dad, but really it’s a term of affection, though not one his father was at all aware existed.

  “A bike?”

  “Yeah, dude, a bike! It’s used, but it kicks ass. It’s a 1973 Honda 450cc road bike, and it runs great. My dad and I spent yesterday taking apart the engine and putting it back together. It was awesome. ”

  “Did you ride it here?” I was excited. I’d never been on a motorcycle before. “Is it outside?”

  “Dude, it’s winter. And, dude”—Richie was in his dude phase then—“I had to pick up these mopes,” he said, pointing at Johnny and Cheyenne.

  Neither one was paying any attention to our conversation. Chey had her head down, tuning her bass to an electric tuner, and Johnny was sitting behind the keyboard, playing something with the volume low.

  “Right,” I said to Richie. “But when the weather warms up, I want a ride.”

  “Definitely,” he answered.

  Sensing a lull in the conversation, Cheyenne, without warning, launched into one of the few songs in our set that starts with the bass guitar. It was “Girl in the Band.” It’s an unwritten rule that when one of us starts playing, everyone else jumps on board. So we did. We tore through that song at what felt like twice the normal speed and then just kept playing songs, one after the other—it was kind of like chain-smoking—until an hour had gone by and we were all exhausted. It was pretty incredible.

  The mood in the room had softened in the warm glow of good music. That feeling was, unfortunately, short-lived.

  “Chey, can I talk to you outside for a minute?”

  All three of us looked at Johnny; then Richie and I looked at Chey.

  She nodded. They left.

  “Did they have a fight or something on the ride over?” I asked Richie after they walked out. I don’t know why I asked; I felt so done with the whole thing. I guess I was like a junkie who couldn’t live without his fix.

  “No, dude. Neither one of them said a word. It was like Superman’s secret fortress. Fro-zen.”

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  It was cold in Harry’s backyard. Witch’s tit cold. I didn’t have a jacket on, so I hugged my arms around my chest.

  “Chey,” Johnny started. “I—” And he stopped. “I—” he started again, but didn’t get any further the second time.

  For all the world, Johnny looked like he was going to cry again.

  I had snifted some of my dad’s brandy before I left the house—snifting is how you drink brandy, did you know that?—and I had a nice little buzz going. I wasn’t drunk, but I wasn’t 100 percent in the moment, you know? I was also a little paranoid. I thought Johnny was going to come after me again for drinking, and I wondered if he could smell it on me. I was chewing gum all the time then, and I’d started wearing perfume to cover the smell, but I was freaked out just the same.

  “Chey,” he started again.

  “C’mon, Johnny, it’s freezing out here. What is it?” My tone of voice was pure bitch. I sounded like Theresa.

  “It’s just that—” He stopped again, and now I was getting mad.

  “Jesus Christ, will you just spit it out already?” And then it all came spewing out of me. It was like throwing up on Harry, but so much worse. That was only puke. Disgusting, but harmless. This was daggers, arrows, and bullets. “What is it? Are you going to yell at me for drinking again? Are you going to prove once and for all how uptight you really are? Am I playing the bass wrong again? Am I just not good enough for you? Will I ever be good enough for you? What. The fuck. Is it?!”

  I’m sure Johnny thought I was still mad about our blowup at the Bitt
er End. But I knew the truth. This was about the pregnancy.

  I know, I know. It doesn’t make any sense. Johnny didn’t know I had carried and lost his baby, our baby. He was in the dark, and that wasn’t his fault. I can’t defend or explain the way I acted. It’s just the way it was, you know?

  I was letting myself fall deeper and deeper into this big fat hole I’d been digging, and pretty soon there wasn’t going to be any way to climb back out. Worst of all, I was pushing Johnny further away.

  Anyway, he let out a heavy sigh, something he’d been doing more of lately, looked at the ground, and said, “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Whatever,” I mumbled, and started to head back inside.

  “Wait.” This time, Johnny’s voice was decisive. “Here.” He thrust a small wrapped gift in my hands. He said, “Merry Christmas,” and went back into Harry’s basement.

  HARBINGER JONES

  I don’t know what they talked about outside, but Johnny came back in first and said he wasn’t feeling well and wanted to clear his head. “I’m going to walk home,” he told us. It was only about a ten-minute walk, but with Johnny’s leg and all, I was surprised.

  “You sure you don’t want a ride?” Richie asked.

  “No, I really need the fresh air.” He was already walking up the stairs before I could say anything.

  Part of me thought the guy really did need to clear his head. But another part wondered if I should go after him, ask him what had happened with Chey, and I almost did.

  I could feel the words start to form in my mouth: Johnny, wait. But there was no breath to push them out. I just didn’t have any more air in my lungs for this. It was a sin of omission, and it was an act of either exhaustion or cowardice. I plead guilty to both.

  When Chey came back inside a minute later, she was pale like the December sky. I thought she might throw up on me again. Instead, she asked Richie to take her home, and he did.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I waited ’til I was alone in the bathroom at my house before opening the present Johnny had given me. It was a small, gold, engraved pick. It said in tiny type, For Cheyenne, my rhythm and melody, Merry Christmas, Johnny.

  I wanted to die.

  PART SEVEN,

  JANUARY 1987

  No one wants to be the one to say the party’s over.

  —John Lennon

  What do you miss most about home when you’re on the road?

  HARBINGER JONES

  Really, I don’t miss a lot. I mean, I love my parents and all, but I almost never feel like I want to be back there. I want to be here, playing music. Period.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I miss my sisters.

  When I’m gone for a long time and then go back home, it’s like everyone and everything has changed. I mean, I’ll leave and Katherine will be into dolls and cartoons, and I’ll come back and she’s into pop music and makeup. (Bad pop music and too much makeup. I need to get Theresa the hell away from her.) It’s kind of mind-blowing.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  My dad. He’s all alone since my mom died. I wish I was there for him more. But he’s proud of me, and that means everything.

  HARBINGER JONES

  For the first time ever, the Scar Boys had a gig on New Year’s Eve.

  It turns out that New Year’s Eve gigs are hard to come by. They pay like three times what a normal gig pays, and every band, every accordion player, every novelty act featuring pigeons and balloons and scarves, wants one.

  Our gig was thanks to our new manager, Jeff. We’d been clients for maybe three weeks, and already it was paying dividends.

  A club in Tribeca, a part of the city we’d never really explored, had a last-minute opening. The guitar player for one of four bands on the bill, Here’s the Beef, had been arrested. The poor guy was going to be welcoming in 1987 from a jail cell. “Possession,” Jeff said. “Let that be a lesson to you.” Jeff loved to say stuff like that: “Let that be a lesson to you.” “I hope you learned something here.” “Give a man a fish and he eats dinner; teach a man to fish and he eats for a lifetime.” Truth is, after a while that crap wore on my nerves. I think all four of us looked at Jeff as a kind of kung fu master. He was wise. We were idiots. Only half of that turned out to be true.

  We were scheduled to go on at 1:00 a.m., which for a New York City New Year’s Eve party is actually pretty good. The only better slot is to be the band onstage at midnight. But it also meant we had a lot of time to sit around and wait.

  Johnny and Chey were camped out at the bar, talking quietly, while Richie and I watched the other bands. I decided to take a cigarette break at 11:55, making sure I was outside when midnight came. Johnny and Cheyenne had seemed to reach some kind of truce, and I didn’t really want to watch them ring in the new year with a kiss.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  Every time a person thinks she hits bottom, she finds a new flight of stairs leading down. The stairs that New Year’s Eve were especially long.

  It’s funny, because the night actually started out pretty good. We got there early, unloaded our gear, and checked out the club. It was called the One More Chance Saloon—the name was a joke on something called the Last Chance Saloon. Or at least that’s what Harry said.

  Anyway, it was a smallish, square-shaped room with a tiny stage up front. There was a bar on the left-hand side and a balcony on three sides looking down on a dance floor. There were already a bunch of people there, and the vibe, like it always is before midnight on New Year’s Eve, was good.

  The first band on the bill was just getting started.

  “Hey.” Johnny was standing next to me but had his eyes on the stage when he spoke.

  “Hey,” I answered. He and I hadn’t talked since my freak-out in Harry’s backyard, and I felt pretty bad about it. “Look, Johnny,” I began. I wanted to apologize and wanted to thank him for the guitar pick, but he held up his palm and turned to face me.

  “Hi,” he said, extending his other hand. “I’m Johnny McKenna.” He smiled. It was the old Johnny smile. The smile I fell in love with. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  And just like that, a month of feeling bad about us was wiped away. Well, not wiped away, but watered down.

  “I would love a drink,” I said, shaking his hand. I led him to the bar.

  The club was pretty lax about carding. Whether that was because we were in one of the bands or because it was New Year’s Eve, I don’t know. Either way, they barely glanced at our fake IDs and served us each a beer.

  Johnny and I made small talk. We talked about the club and how we both felt at home in places like that. We talked about Richie’s new motorcycle and what we thought that might mean for his skateboard. We talked about Jeff.

  “Has Harry seemed distant lately?” Johnny asked when there was a lull in the conversation.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. It’s like his heart hasn’t really been in the band lately.”

  I couldn’t tell if Johnny was upset, worried, or just curious about Harry, but I didn’t really care. Talk of Harry was going to ruin the mood, so I steered the conversation in a different direction.

  “Thanks for the pick.” I was wearing the pick he’d given me for Christmas on a silver chain around my neck, and I showed him. Johnny leaned over and gave me a slow and gentle kiss on the cheek, letting his lips linger for just an extra second. He pulled back and smiled. It was a beautiful smile.

  I don’t know how long we were sitting there, but I saw that my glass was empty, while Johnny’s was mostly full. I flagged the bartender, and she poured me another.

  We kept talking, the beer and Johnny both giving me a warm feeling inside. We talked about how well he had done with his physical therapy. We talked about my new job at the bookstore and how much I liked it.

  “You know, you never told me why you decided to get a job,” he said.

  I couldn’t tell him the real reason, so I just said, “I was bored.” I guess the answer was
good enough, because he nodded.

  Johnny was about a third done with his beer when my glass was empty again. Now I was feeling great. I waved my hand, and another pint appeared in front of me. The buzz in the room was starting to build as the clock crept toward midnight.

  We talked some more, except now I think I was doing most of the talking. I honestly don’t remember what I said, but when I looked up again, Johnny still had some beer in his glass and I was on my fourth. Or was it my fifth?

  “Chey?” Johnny asked. And now the room was starting to spin a bit. “I think maybe you’ve had enough.”

  That was classic Johnny. Not don’t you think maybe you’ve had enough? No. I think you’ve had enough.

  I just waved my hand like I was literally brushing him off. “Lighten up, Johnny. I’m fine.”

  He let it drop until the bartender was putting yet another beer in front of me. This time, Johnny talked to her.

  “Don’t you think she’s had enough?” The bartender, a skinny white girl barely able to keep up with all the people ordering drinks, stopped and looked at me.

  “You okay, sugar?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said, though I wasn’t sure that either of those words came out as something another human being could understand. I think they might’ve sounded more like whale song.

  The bartender shrugged her shoulders and turned to the next customer. I wasn’t her sister or her daughter or her girlfriend, so I wasn’t her problem.

  I stuck my tongue out at Johnny, trying, I thought, to be playful.

  He looked at me, shook his head, and mumbled, “Happy New Year, Cheyenne Belle.” Then he walked away.

  HARBINGER JONES

  I was leaning against the outside wall of the club, smoking, when I heard the New Year’s countdown begin. I’m big on symbolism, and I felt like the whole world was counting down to the beginning of my new life. It reminded me of the day of the thunderstorm. That day, I was counting Mississippis after each flash of lightning, trying to figure out how far away the storm was. A part of me thought that this new countdown would finally wipe that one away. Stupid, I know, but I thought it just the same.