***
We spent around two hours playing every song we all knew. It turned out to be quite the challenge to find any, since Joey was more of a hard rock fan than either Charlie or I. But Charlie was right; we did sound good together. After practice, as I hopped down the steps leading to the sidewalk, all I could think about were the songs I wanted to write. We’d need some music of our own, and maybe I could help with that.
The sun was high in the sky, and the only clouds in sight were those fluffy white ones that almost never end with rain. I had the route back home basically memorized: a left at the sidewalk, straight for four blocks, right, go to the traffic light, turn left again, walk to the next traffic light, take a right, and then I’d be at the apartment my mom and I called home. My sneakers scraped against the concrete sidewalk, creating a rhythm for me to hum to.
An occasional car drove by with a swishing sound, but I paid them little mind. No doubt the occupants were judging me as they passed, like everyone did—the girl with heavy eyeliner, dressed like a skater. I liked my eyeliner heavy. That was how I’d worn it since I first got into makeup in seventh grade. Heavy eyeliner concealed the look in my eyes, that terrible hopeless look that I always saw in the mirror. As for my clothes… I preferred comfort over fashion.
I paused at a stop sign where someone had spray-painted over the ‘t’—why ‘sop’ was funny, I couldn’t guess—and turned right. The only sound was a slight breeze rustling the leaves of a linden tree across the way. They chose me, I thought as I crossed, already reminiscing about the time I’d spent singing with Charlie and Joey. There was someone else who auditioned, but they chose me. The words felt warm and comforting. I imagined bragging to my mother, playing up it up so that she’d understand how cool it was.
Then my thoughts took a wild turn. As my scuffing footsteps carried me toward the first traffic light, I imagined telling a radio DJ the story. He’d be interested because of how successful our band was, of course, and I’d try to guide the discussion away from the band. There was a charity I was trying to promote. I wanted to use my fame as a platform to help starving children.
The pride from how generous I would be with my fame lasted until I was almost home. My mind kept returning to what I’d say to that DJ, the exact way I’d deflect his questions to talk about my charity. When I saw my apartment building, it was like I’d been caught up in a daydream and the sight was all I’d needed to wake up.
With a laugh, I realized how stupid that was. No doubt our band would fail, like every other garage band. So my pride, my generous charity plug, wasn’t anything to feel good about. It was nothing, unless I could actually make it happen.
That part of the pride left, but I still had something. A spring to my step that didn’t leave. My band had chosen me, and we’d had fun playing together.
My apartment building was one of those long ones, with so many apartments that the floor numbers were counted in thousands instead of hundreds. From the outside, it looked absolutely utilitarian: mostly gray stucco, with a few small windows looking out on the parking lot on one side and the highway on the other. There were winding staircases at both ends, as well as a few straight staircases in between. I glanced at the cracked parking lot ahead of me as I made my way toward the stairs closest to our apartment; most of the cracks weren’t bad, but one or two were wide enough that I’d tripped on them before.
The stairs were made of metal that rang with every step, and although I normally tried to keep quiet, I let myself fall into the same rhythm I’d had when I initially set out from Charlie’s house. One-two, one-two-three. One-two, one-two-three. The rhythm turned it into a sort of game, and I found myself jogging past landings so that I wouldn’t miss the next beat. I passed the first floor, then the second, and finally reached the top floor.
My mom liked to call it a penthouse floor, even though it was anything but. Penthouses were for the rich and famous, and they had elevators to take them all the way up. We weren’t rich or famous, and we had to take the stairs. I remembered my DJ daydream with a smile; perhaps someday I wouldn’t have to take the stairs.
I let my hand drag on the wall as I walked in the direction of our apartment. 3032, 3034, 3036… 3036 was one of my favorites, because they always had interesting messages for solicitors. This month’s edition read: Please, no preaching. I’ve already met God, and we just didn’t hit it off. No offense to the guy, I’m sure he’s great.
3040 was my home. I stopped in front of the brown metal door and fished around for the key in my pocket. I was already getting excited about telling my mom about what had happened. I wiggled my key into the lock and turned it, listening for the second click. The first click never did it; the handle would twist most of the way, but the door wouldn’t open until I turned the key enough for that second click.
Once I got the lock turned all the way, I pushed the door open and stepped into our apartment. The main living space consisted of our kitchen and living room; off to the right was a small bedroom and a bathroom for us to share. Clutter in the form of cardboard boxes, discarded napkins, and graded papers from my classes always seemed to collect in the living room, but my mom kept the kitchen clean. And whenever a guest was due we’d have to clear out the visible trash.
“Hey Mom!” I called, closing the door behind me before heading over to our faded blue couch and plopping down on the middle cushion. “Are you home?” Despite the fact that it was sunny outside, the curtains kept most of it out, leaving the apartment relatively dark.
Her yawn came from our bedroom, followed by the sound of steps in the short hall connecting it to the living room. “Hi honey. Did you have fun with your friends?”
My mom, Nina Stupple—she hadn’t gone by Nimzovitch since she divorced my dad before I was even old enough to talk—had a refined quality to her face that mine was missing. She had the same light blue eyes and dimpled chin, but her jaw was thin and angled. Her nose wasn’t off-kilter like mine, but it had the same thinness to it. Almost as if she was the before and I was the after of having it broken. The one thing I had on her was the lack of bags under my eyes. Hers had circles, purple and heavy, so deep that she never managed to entirely hide them. Despite those circles, my mom didn’t have any trouble finding men. Sorting out the good ones, though, seemed like an impossible task for her.
I scooted over on the couch to open up a space for her. “Yeah, I did. I really did! Mom, I’m in a band!”
“Oh, that’s great, honey.” She leaned against the off-white wall. “I think you’ll really enjoy that. It’ll be a good outlet for you.”
“Yeah, I think so too.” I started to launch into a speech about how it had felt, but my mom held up a hand to stop me before I could get the first word out.
She frowned, looking at me with the heavy-lidded expression she always used before mentioning bad news. “I have to go to work, honey. We lost a bartender last week, and if I pick up the graveyard shift tonight my boss said I might be able to take his spot. It would mean a lot more tips. Maybe enough to buy you some cool stuff for your band.”
“Oh, I don’t need cool stuff,” I said, meaning to say something to the effect of ‘I’d rather have you here and live in poverty.’ “But okay. Um, have fun. I hope you get a lot of tips.”
My mom smiled, pushing off from the wall. “Thanks, honey. I promise, we’ll talk all about it tomorrow.” She turned and headed for the door, leaving the faintly floral smell of her perfume hanging in the air. If I ever write a memoir, I thought, That’s what I’ll call it. Faintly Floral Perfume and my Mother Leaving for Work.
Auburn: Outcasts and Underdogs Page 2
