Better Than This

by Tia Souders

  When the bell rang, I made my way to the cafeteria. The possibility Doug made good on his threat to tell Derek about my cozy encounter with Laird remained at the forefront of my thoughts. The last thing I wanted was the third degree about it, especially when I had no idea myself what Laird and I were doing.

  I entered the cafeteria. The cacophony of chatter buzzed in the background like a colony of insects combined with the random clinking of plates and silverware. Like most schools, unofficial assigned seating reigned in the cafeteria. Decided within the first week of each school year, sit in the wrong spot and you were castigated.

  I made my way to the back corner where my friends already sat. Ron and Derek ate from orange colored trays filled with baskets of fries and hot dogs, while Lauren sipped nothing more than a diet cola, and Faith nibbled from a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I took the seat next to Faith, mostly to avoid sitting next to Lauren.

  “Hey, we’re talkin’ about going to Ron’s for practice. We’re thinking of ditching last period. You game?” Derek glanced up at me as he spoke between bites of fries.

  “I can’t. I have to go to June’s and help her out.”

  “Weren’t you there last night?” He stopped chewing and watched me. His dark eyes bore into the side of my face, making me squirm. Something in them told me he knew I hadn’t been with June.

  I forced a poker face and shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m supposed to help her three days a week. It’s part of my punishment for at least another month.”

  Lauren leaned forward, flipping the blond wave of hair tumbling over her shoulder behind her. “Between the old lady and your missing finger, you’ll never play with us again.”

  You wish, I wanted to say. Instead, I sighed and acted like what she said affected me. Little did they know the band’s future was of no concern to me.

  “I know. No one’s more frustrated than I am.” And wasn’t that the truth? “I just need a couple more weeks for my hand to heal up again, and I can get back to learning to adjust and practice. About the same time, my punishment should be over.”

  Derek’s eyes sparkled, but the muscles in his jaw clenched. “You sure those two things are all that’s holding you back?”

  Wasn’t that enough?

  “Yep. That’s it,” I mumbled, then rummaged through my backpack and grabbed an apple. Taking a bite, I continued to avoid eye contact. I wasn’t stupid. Of course, I knew what Derek wanted. He wanted an opening to throw the evening with Laird in my face, but if I continued to act ignorant, so would he. Confrontation with the band sometimes bordered on nasty. Why face an unpleasant conversation when I couldn’t even say what was going on with Laird? Besides, I hated it when people so often made something out of nothing. My parents, particularly my father, turned minor things into problems all the time. So why not just wait until the nothing was actually something?

  13

  Curls of smoke rose, permeating the air. It had been a while since I’d visited our usual hangout in Ron’s basement, but in my absence, nothing had changed. Ron’s guitar, a set of drums, and microphones sat off to the far corner of the room—a mock stage of sorts. The far wall held handmade shelves with hundreds of CDs and a massive stereo. What little seating was available in the basement consisted of a putrid gold sofa and two chairs.

  Derek sat next to me on the couch with his arm over my shoulder. Ron and Lauren had retreated to get pizza and Faith had yet to show, so Derek and I were alone.

  He nudged my shoulder and offered the joint to me. I raised my hand, passing, as irritation crept up my spine. Did they ever do anything other than drink and smoke weed?

  I scowled as I tried to ignore the haze of smoke as I surveyed the room. Just because I had a change of heart and no longer wanted to numb away the effects of whatever encounter I had with my parents earlier in the day or week, didn’t mean they had.

  I shivered against the chill in the room and crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Cold? I’ll warm you up,” Derek murmured and tipped my chin toward him so my eyes met his, then leaned in for a kiss.

  It took everything in me not to push him away. His mouth crushed over mine. There was nothing romantic about the way he kissed me—just hungry lips and probing tongue. His hand slid up my shirt to cup my breast, giving me the sudden urge to vomit.

  My thoughts shifted to Laird and my stomach twisted. “Stop,” I said, pulling away, but it was as if he hadn’t heard me because his mouth moved to my neck despite my demand.

  This time, I pushed against his chest. “I said, stop!”

  Leaning back, his gaze met mine and he blinked in the silence, his eyes darkening with the passing seconds. “Any reason I need to stop, Sam? I mean, you are my girlfriend, aren’t you?”

  I started to speak, but he cut me off before I could get a word out.

  “Never mind. Don’t answer that. Doug told me he saw you cozying up to some guy at The Clover. Said you almost kissed until he interrupted.”

  “It was nothing.”

  He stared at me before he spoke, possibly assessing the legitimacy of my answer. “Better have been. He didn’t seem to think so though. He said it was Carl’s buddy. The college punk.”

  He made it sound as if Laird were younger than him. I repressed the urge to school him, not only on Laird’s age—although I wasn’t exactly sure how old he was—but also on how he was light years away from being a punk.

  “We talked. He’s not my type,” I said.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  What in the world did that mean?

  Before I could ask, the sound of Lauren and Ron bounding down the stairs interrupted us. Probably for the better. If I spent any more time talking about Laird, I would just sound defensive, then Derek might think there was something going on with him he should know about.

  “You guys owe me four bucks each,” Ron proclaimed with the pizza in hand. He grabbed a slice before resting the box on Lauren’s lap. He shoved half of it in his mouth, chewing loudly.

  “I’m not giving you anything if you’re gonna hoover it all,” Derek said, punching him in the arm.

  “What were you and Derek up to just now?” Lauren asked. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows rose above her catlike eyes. Her face brightened and her lips twisted into a subtle smirk.

  Maybe I was being paranoid, but something about the way she looked at me left me wondering whether she knew how much my skin crawled just moments before when Derek put his hands on me.

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest and sank back into the couch.

  “We were talking about how Sam went to The Clover the other night without us, and I was just about to tell her how she could make it up to me.” Derek turned to me and smiled.

  Without waiting for my response, he continued. “You know how we were going to put on a sort of a comeback show for you, right? Your big release? Well, I wanted to talk to you about the show and make some plans.” Derek leaned over and grabbed a slice of pizza from the box on Lauren’s lap.

  “It isn’t going to happen. You guys know I infected my hand. Not only do the doctors not want me playing for a while, but my father’s ticked off and took my guitar. Even if I ignore the doctor’s orders—” which I had every intention of doing but wasn’t about to tell them. “—there’s no way I’ll be at my best by the time I told you, not without my guitar.”

  Derek cursed around a mouthful of pepperoni. “I already told some people about it,” he said, scowling as if I singlehandedly ruined every plan he’d ever had.

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  He shook his head and then snapped his fingers. “Wait, I got it. It’s actually a much better idea than the original plan of you playing. We’ll use our dubbed CD. Had you actually played, we wouldn’t be able to perform for at least another few months, but with a CD…”

  “We can do it sooner,” Ron said.

  Derek pointed a finger at Ron. “Exactly. We’ll play the CD, and Sam can just pretend she’
s playing the guitar. That would work right?” He turned to Sam. “We can place Ron in the right spot so people can’t see your fretting hand. You’ll just need to move your finger enough over the strings to make it look authentic, but you won’t have any of the strain of actually playing the strings.” He smiled like he was Einstein himself.

  Icy fingers gripped my stomach as dread washed over me. “No. There’s no way.” The thought of pretending to play not only made me sick because Derek wanted to trick people, but it scared me. Just the thought of pretending to play gave me the creeping sensation I’d never play again. Because wasn’t that the underlying message? That I couldn’t?

  Lauren snorted. “Of course you wouldn’t do anything for us. Samantha Becker, Miss Perfect. You always have to be the best.”

  “No. I’m just not going to stand on a stage and pretend I’m playing when I’m not. I’m not a fake. Besides, who are you going to have run the track? Carl?”

  Derek’s face bloomed red. “Moving the comeback date up would give us a serious edge. I like the idea. I’ll give you another six weeks. If you can’t get your playing up to par by the agreed upon time, you have no choice. As a part of this band, you have to contribute, so you’ll be pretending to play. It’s no different than lip syncing, which singers do all the time live. If you don’t do this, you’ll make me look like a fool and a liar.”

  I stood, no longer able to stomach the conversation. “So I have no say in this? You don’t even care about what I want? What I think?”

  Derek cocked his head as if considering my opinion, but I wasn’t fooled. The finality of his expression said it all. “I’m afraid we have to do what’s best for the band. We have a reputation to uphold. You, of all people, I thought would understand how important keeping up with appearances are. So, yes, this is how it’s going to be. You pretend to play if you’re not physically capable, or you’re out.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll take that as a sign you’re no longer invested.”

  I stood there, staring at him, wishing with everything in me I could tell him to shove it. That I could tell him I never had any intentions of following the band to New York anyhow. I wanted to tell them I was the only real talent and they needed me, not the other way around. But I didn’t. For reasons that escaped me, I stood, staring into the silence until the sound of my voice broke through the atmosphere, startling us all. Maybe myself the most.

  “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll play.”

  * * *

  All morning, I mulled over the conversation I had with my friends the day before. I had no idea why I agreed to Derek’s scheme. Just the thought of pretending to play along to a recorded track made me sick.

  It was wrong. Worse yet, a charade like they wanted took away everything I loved about the guitar—about playing, about music. Yet in the end, I still folded. Why?

  The thought of having to participate in such a hoax, combined with the passing of time, left me feeling more desperate than ever to make some progress with my guitar. Since I returned to Mr. Neely for help, I had been mentally playing the different audition pieces along with my favorites in contemporary music at every opportunity—in the shower, the car, classes, lunch, dinner, before bed, every spare minute. To say I was obsessed would’ve been an understatement.

  The toy Laird bought me helped lighten my mood and ease the intensity of practice. Though there was a delay in the notes, it proved a good accompaniment to playing in my head. At the very least, it helped me get used to improvising with my pinky and middle finger. Still, I needed my guitar. My limbs ached to hold it, as if they knew on a cellular level I wouldn’t be playing anytime soon, which is exactly why I confronted June earlier that morning.

  Dressed in a pink nightgown, the oversized garment all but swallowed her body whole. June answered the door, rumpled hair and all. Impossibly frail legs peeked from beneath the hem. By now, she was well aware of my passion for music and desire to go to Juilliard. I figured it was worth a shot coming to her for help. After all, she had a history with my father and technically we were still indebted to her for destruction of property. If anyone could get my guitar back, it was her.

  I looked her in the eye and said, “I promise to be careful. I was foolish last time and angry. I’ll keep my wound clean and change the bandages regularly. I’ll start out slow, and if it’s too much, I’ll stop. But I have to get my guitar back.”

  “What makes you think your father will give it to me?”

  “I don’t know. Make something up. Tell him I had been talking about searching for it and you think I’m going to find it. Offer to hold it for safekeeping. Something. Anything. If you can’t get it then at least try to find out where he’s keeping it.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  I knew it was wrong, cruel even. June being old and quite obviously not in the best of health, part of me felt wrong for coercing her into helping me. But I was desperate, so I pulled out the only ammunition I had.

  “Look. At one time, you were like a grandmother to me, and I needed you after the accident. You were there for me in the beginning, but then you just bailed. You left me when I needed you the most, when my life had crumbled. I know you had your own things to deal with. A sick son and a two-year-old grandson, but I needed you too. If you ever cared about me, if you still do, please do this for me. I need this from you.”

  When tears pooled in June’s eyes, a pang of guilt gnawed at my insides. Nothing like working a little guilt on the elderly.

  Still, guilt or not, truth was truth.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she murmured.

  “Thanks.” I smiled and turned away, rushing into my house, taking the stairs two at a time until I reached my room. The thought of having my guitar back in my arms surged through me and propelled me forward.

  I yanked open the doors to my closet, assessing my wardrobe and wishing for something nicer to wear. Resigned to the usual, I plucked a pair of jeans and a cream-colored sweater from their hangers. The sweater was one of the only pieces of clothing I owned—other than jeans—that was not black, gray, or something equally dark and loathing. At the time I bought it, the saleslady had been relentless, saying my black hair was striking against the cream. I finally bought the garment to get rid of her, though I had little intentions of wearing it. For tonight, though, it felt right.

  I took my clothes to the bathroom and got dressed. Standing in front of the vanity lights, I applied minimal makeup and pinned the sides of my hair back, though my preparation did little to ease the flutter in my stomach at the anticipation of seeing Laird.

  Once dressed, I bounded down the stairs without the worry of running into my father. He left an hour earlier, saying something about having left his briefcase at the office. His transgressions were so transparent I hardly blinked when he lied anymore. I had known for a long time about his affair. The pretense annoyed me most. Why not just say where he was really going? It’s not as if my mother and I didn’t know already.

  I strode past the kitchen, doing a quick scan on my way to the living room and out the door. No sign of my mother anymore, which meant she was either hiding away in her room drinking or sleeping off whatever she had consumed earlier in the day.

  When I pulled up to The Clover fifteen minutes later, much to my dismay, Laird was already waiting for me. I had hoped for a few minutes to ready myself, but it looked like I was out of luck.

  He leaned against his Jeep, his arms and legs crossed in front of him, looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world. The gold sweater he wore brought out the sandy flecks in his hair, and when a lazy smile played across his face, it was all I could do to keep breathing. My hesitation gave him the opportunity to walk over to my truck and greet me. He opened my door and offered his hand.

  “Hey.” I tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear and gave him my hand. He helped me down, holding on to me longer than needed. When I turned to retrieve the toy guitar he sent me, I felt the weight of his
gaze on my back. The cool air nipped at my cheeks as I stretched to retrieve it. When I turned back his eyes shifted from me to the guitar.

  He chuckled. “Have you played with it yet?”

  I couldn’t stop my grin. “Of course. It’s not the same as the real thing, but I seriously think it’s helping me. At the very least, it’s getting me used to having to stretch and move my fingers without my ring finger.” I glanced to the ground out of habit, then forced myself to look back at him. While my heart told me Laird didn’t care about my hand, convincing my head was more difficult. Regardless, if I couldn’t even discuss my injury without cringing, I would never move past it.

  “Good. Only the best equipment for you.”

  When Laird opened the Jeep door, I slid inside. He got in beside me, turned the ignition, and shifted the stick to peel out of the parking lot. Soft music played in the background, and I found myself straining to decipher who it was, wanting to know what he listened to when no one was around. A person’s taste in music said a lot about them.

  After a couple minutes, I squirmed in my seat, my body too aware of his being only a foot away. I tried not to notice how the muscles in his tanned forearm flexed and moved as he drove, but the more I tried to ignore the warmth of his body next to mine or how good his cologne smelled, the more I thought about them.

  Get a grip, Sam.

  “So where are we going?” I asked, needing a distraction.

  “There’s this little place I like to go. It’s a little café of sorts just off the coast of Virginia Beach.”

  “We’re going to Virginia Beach?”

  He laughed. “You say that like it’s a five-hour drive. I don’t think the thirty minutes will kill us.”

  I laughed at myself. “You’re right. I was just surprised. I haven’t been down there in forever.”