Beige

by Cecil Castellucci

  “And what do you get out of it?” I ask. And then it hits me. “Are you getting paid to hang out with me?”

  “Bribed, not paid. It’s kind of like a summer job, only not. Besides, everyone I know is . . . at camp . . . and you’re here for how much longer?”

  “Twelve days,” I say.

  “Exactly my point.”

  “Why aren’t you at camp?” I ask.

  I’d rather be at camp. In Rimouski. On a lake that looks like a mirror. In a place where I can see the stars at night. Where there is no smog. A place where if I’m lucky, like I was two years ago, I can lie on a rock near the lake at night and watch the green curtains of light the aurora borealis make as they chase each other across the sky.

  “I have better things to do than archery and water sports,” she says. “Repeat this to yourself ten times, Beige. Camp is for losers.”

  The word comes right into my head. A word I don’t normally use. BITCH. I want to tell her she’s a bitch.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask instead.

  “Shop, for me,” she says. “My bribe from your dad was a gift certificate to Guitar Center.”

  We’re sitting on the Number Two bus heading west, and I watch the palm trees go by. They are so tall that they bend like Q-tips, leaning gracefully in the windless Los Angeles day.

  “Does this bus go all the way to the ocean?” I ask.

  “Yeah, this is the Two. The Four goes all the way, also,” Lake says.

  “All the way to the Pacific?”

  “No, to the Indian Ocean,” Lake says, rolling her eyes. Maybe they will get stuck in the back of her head like that, she does it so often. “Yeah, to the Pacific. The last stop is like one block away.”

  Let’s go to the ocean, I think. Forget about Guitar Center. Let’s go dip our feet in the western water, the same water that touches the coast my mother is on. Let’s squish our feet in the sand. I haven’t even been there yet. Maybe I want to go there. Maybe I want to go because The Rat says he never has time to go to the ocean. Isn’t that what’s supposed to be alluring about Los Angeles? That it’s near the ocean? Maybe seaweed will wrap around our calves. Maybe we’ll see dolphins. Maybe I’ll get freckles. Cute ones. Or sun-kissed blond highlights in my hair. Then I could e-mail Leticia pictures of me all tanned and California cute. That would be something to write home and not be embarrassed about. Let’s go to the beach and look at boys who surf. Normal, hot, sporty-looking boys with blond hair and sand stuck on their backs. Boys like Leo. I’m sick of The Rat’s neighborhood, being told it’s so hipster. Hip is not my aesthetic.

  Lake pulls out her iPod and pops her earbuds in so she can freeze me out. Her head bounces up and down. She plays air guitar discreetly in her lap. I stare out the window at the endless strip malls. Los Angeles is the ugliest city I’ve ever seen.

  “Here’s our stop,” she says, pulling out an earbud and grabbing my hand to pull me off the bus — like I won’t be fast enough, like she has to help me keep up or I will be left in the dust.

  The bus leaves, tearing off westward. Secretly, I’m still on it. I’m still on my way to the ocean.

  When we walk through the sliding-glass doors of Guitar Center, everyone inside is talking in hushed tones, like it’s a museum. There are guitars on all the walls behind glass displays. Lake kisses her fingers and then touches the glass in front of one. I hang back a bit and read the name. I don’t recognize it. I don’t recognize most of the names, and I don’t say anything about the few I do because I notice that those are the displays Lake breezes by without so much as a second glance.

  We push through to the main room of the store. It’s enormous. There are amps on the floor and guitars of every color hanging from every available space on the ceiling. Guitars, guitars, guitars. Green, gold, purple, red, star-shaped, V-shaped, flower-shaped, butterfly-shaped. Crazy. I’m like a kid in the wrong kind of candy store. Instead of being excited, I immediately feel claustrophobic.

  “Come on,” Lake urges. “We’re not stopping here.”

  She doesn’t seem to understand that I don’t know where we are going. I’m not a mind reader.

  We head out of that room and go up the stairs, to an atrium with a glass display case filled with tons of little gadgets. I can’t figure out what the things in the case have to do with guitars. Lake stands there, waiting for a salesman to help us.

  I look back over my shoulder, still overwhelmed by the display downstairs. I need to focus on something, so I watch the salesmen with long ponytails, or feathered hair, or dreadlocks, helping people eagerly pick out guitars. How can something be so exciting to so many people yet leave me cold? I mean, I get having music on as, like, background noise, but I could never imagine getting to the point where I’d want to actually perform it, where I’d need all of this equipment and gear. It kind of freaks me out.

  I turn and look at Lake. She is trying to catch the eye of a salesperson. I don’t get how they don’t see her. She’s standing right there, leaning against the glass case, practically jumping over it, trying to flag someone down. She’s a pretty noticeable person, but amazingly, she seems invisible to them.

  A few minutes later, a sales guy happens to look over at me. It’s only after he notices me that he sees Lake waving her arms at one of his co-workers who walks right by us. It seems to suddenly dawn on him that maybe we’ve been trying to get someone’s attention. He quickly makes his way over.

  “Have you been helped?” he asks me, not Lake. He’s young, clean-cut, in a cowboy shirt. My type.

  “No. I haven’t,” Lake says, forcing the attention onto her. “And I have been here for like fifteen minutes.”

  She’s not even exaggerating.

  “I’m ignored all the time in music stores because I am a girl, and I think that sucks,” she informs him.

  “I’m sorry,” the sales guy says. “We all know that there are women who can rock.”

  “Oh yeah?” Lake says. “Name your favorite.”

  He takes a few long seconds to think.

  “Well, why don’t I tell you who rocks,” Lake says, “so you can be schooled. Off the top of my head, I’m thinking Joan Jett, Patti Smith, Liz Phair, Courtney Love, PJ Harvey, Sheryl Crow, Sinéad O’Connor, Aimee Mann, Squid, Gina Volpe, Ani DiFranco, Donita Sparks, Jane Wiedlin, Lita Ford, Chan Marshall, Chrissie Hynde, Nancy Wilson from Heart — you have her guitar out in the front room, FYI.” Lake sticks her arm out and points toward the front room, then continues.

  “Joni Mitchell, Kim Gordon, Melissa Auf der Maur, Kim Deal, Brody Dalle, Mary Timony. . . . Should I go on?”

  The guy smiles.

  “No, you’ve made your point. I’ve been girl-rock schooled,” he says. “I’ve got one you might like. How about Neko Case?”

  “Yeah. Good one,” Lake says. “I rock, too.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” the guy says.

  “Now, let’s get down to business. I need a bigger sound, so I could use some help with buying a new pedal. I have the Big Muff, but I’m looking for something crunchier.”

  Now that the sales guy gets that Lake knows her stuff, he is taking her very seriously. They get into a deep conversation about pedals. They are speaking each other’s language. He can tell she is no dabbler. He keeps looking over at me and nodding when he says something technical, including me in the conversation as though I understand what he means. I don’t. But I nod back at him and smile.

  Now that Lake is being taken seriously, she stands taller. She throws her head around and cops an attitude. More attitude, as if that’s even possible. She’s in her element, kind of like when Mom talks with her colleagues about the domestic rituals of Incan women.

  “You really like Suck, or did you get that T-shirt at a mall?” the sales guy asks.

  Lake starts singing some song. I think it’s a Suck song called “One, Two, Fuck You.” I think they played it the other day. I didn’t like that song when I heard it live, and I don’t like it acappella here in
the store. Those words are frightening. They are so hopeless.

  The sales guy joins in and they finish the phrase together.

  “It’s my dad’s shirt. It’s original,” Lake says.

  But she doesn’t say and my dad is Sam Suck. It seems as though she’d wear that like a neon sign on her forehead. But she keeps quiet about him. She told the guy the truth. It’s her dad’s shirt. She is standing there throwing respect to her dad, but not using him to get any special treatment.

  I wonder. Would I have used The Rat’s name if it would help me to get special treatment? Leticia would. I kind of admire that Lake doesn’t use Sam’s name. She earned the 15 percent discount on her purchases from the sales guy all on her own, just for being herself.

  “Next time, Lake, you come straight to me,” the sales guy says. “I’ll make sure you don’t wait.”

  Lake flicks her hair and shoots him a thumbs-up as we head over to the cashier to make our purchase.

  “You just have to show them what’s what, Beige,” Lake says. “I’ll never have a problem with that guy again.”

  Lake’s only coming up to my place ’cause she wants to pee.

  “Oh, look,” she says. “It’s the merman.”

  She pushes open the gate to the pool and stands on the edge as Leo comes swimming up and hangs on to it.

  “What’s up, Leo? Get gills yet, fish boy?”

  “That’s so ha ha funny, Lake,” he says. “Still sucking on helium, I hear?”

  “I’d rather suck on helium than anything you might have to offer,” Lake says, and then splashes Leo with her foot. He pushes himself back into the water and moves away from us. I wish he would stay on this side of the pool.

  “Come on, Beige, let’s leave Needle Dick to his laps,” she says.

  I cringe. I hope Leo hasn’t heard Lake’s stupid nickname for me.

  “You know him?” I say.

  “Yeah, he goes to Marshall High with me. He’s on the swim team, on the tennis team, in the Humanities Magnet. Mr. Perfect. I’ve been in school with him since kindergarten.”

  I want to tell her that I don’t think he has a needle dick because his swimsuit doesn’t leave much to the imagination, but I never figured myself to be a total pervert so I close my mouth. It stays sewn shut.

  I look back over my shoulder at him. He’s paused for a minute from doing his laps and he’s looking at us. His eyes catch mine. Is that what a knowing glance looks like? I feel tingly inside.

  Maybe I should write Mom and tell her that since coming to Los Angeles, I’ve become a perv.

  It must be The Rat’s fault.

  Letthesunshine: KD! I miss you sooooooooooooo much! How’s LALA land?

  Sweetcake: Terrific!

  Lame. I’m a liar. I blame Los Angeles for making me one.

  Letthesunshine: Sweet! Guess what?!

  Sweetcake: Quoi?

  Please don’t let it be anything fun.

  Letthesunshine: Nicolas hooked up with Holly!

  Sweetcake: No way!

  Blech. Nicolas is gross.

  Letthesunshine: Yeah, but he told me that Francois told Gaeten that he really liked you.

  Sweetcake: Really! Francois likes me!?

  François likes me! I’m going home now! I’m going over to Outremont and I’m going to Leticia’s basement and I’m going to make out with François.

  Letthesunshine: Francois said absence makes the heart grow fonder.

  Sweetcake: Tabernac! I’m coming over to your house! Now!

  Letthesunshine: Run away! Hostie!

  Sweetcake: LOL. Gotta jet. I am having too much fun! I’ll be home tres bientot!

  Letthesunshine: I’m soooooooo jealous of you! A tout a l’heure!

  I know one thing. I’m missing out on everything.

  A message from my mom:

  E-mail access at last!! I love getting your text messages. Keep them coming! Your embellished stories are tres drole! I told you Los Angeles was colorful. I can’t believe Lake is 16!

  I will try to call with the satellite phone as soon as I can. Mountains are beautiful and I’m happy! Our excavation leader is from Italy. The site looks really interesting. I’m so busy. Too much to tell! I’m in absolute paradise! I miss you Katy-bon.

  Je t’aime, Maman

  The thin mountain air she’s breathing must be making Mom light-headed and fuzzy-minded. I can’t believe that she’s not more anguished about my ten thousand desperate pleas to join her. Shouldn’t she be worried that I’m being dramatic? I’m never dramatic.

  But maybe I was too dramatic. Maybe I exaggerated a little too much. I thought that way she’d pay attention and take me seriously.

  Instead she thinks I’m being funny.

  Or having fun.

  The Rat and I are sitting outside at Millie’s eating breakfast. We don’t say much, The Rat and me; we just eat in silence and drink coffee. I am growing to like the tradition, but I don’t tell The Rat that. I like that going out for breakfast gets you out into the world. It is easier than cooking at home in the morning.

  “That’s a nice shirt,” The Rat says to the waiter, breaking the silence.

  The waiter shakes hands with The Rat.

  “Goodwill.”

  “Good deal,” The Rat says. “I like the color and the snap buttons.”

  The waiter goes off to get us more coffee.

  “He’s in a great band. They are like insane,” The Rat says. “Love their sound.”

  “His shirt has holes in it.”

  “So? It still looks good.”

  If you’re homeless, I think.

  “Do you want to go thrifting?” The Rat asks. “That could be a fun thing for us to do together.”

  “No,” I say.

  “Don’t you and your mom go thrifting?”

  “Mom and I never shop at Village des Valeurs,” I say. “We donate there.”

  “Ah. Your mom was a good thrifter, back in the day.”

  It’s hard to imagine Mom wearing used clothing. It’s so not her style.

  Then I remind myself, it’s not her style anymore.

  A bunch of skater kids whiz by, and my eyes follow them. One of the boys is wearing black kneepads, the baggiest black shorts I have ever seen, black elbow pads, a black T-shirt, and a black helmet. In white letters on the back of his helmet it says GARTH SKATER.

  The boys pop their boards into their hands, and when the light turns green, they drop them back down and skate across the street in the little square that has a fountain in it.

  I watch them as they do their hanging out thing.

  The Garth Skater kid takes a wicked bad fall. The other boys laugh, and Garth gets on his feet and does the trick again. I think that the boys from back home are probably better skaters than these guys. That reminds me that I still haven’t heard more from Leticia about François. I’ll e-mail her when I get back home. Maybe she’ll be online and we can IM. We always seem to be just missing each other because of the time difference. Who knew three hours could create such a big divide between us? I hope she’s suffering without me. I know I’m suffering without her. Thank goodness I’m going back to Montréal soon. Nine days and counting . . .

  One of the kids skates up to us. He’s kind of hovering by our table. It’s the kid with the helmet. I stare at him. He nods at me. I don’t nod back.

  He leans over and taps The Rat on the shoulder.

  “Are you The Rat from Suck?” Garth Skater asks.

  “Yeah.” The Rat lights up.

  “Wow, man. You’re like, my hero. I mean, like my drumming hero.”

  “Well, thanks, man,” The Rat says.

  “I thought it was you. I’ve seen you at Millie’s before, but I was too scared to talk to you. I mean, you know. I wasn’t sure.”

  “Well, it’s me,” The Rat says.

  “I have every single bootleg of Suck. I also have every single version of every song that any band has ever covered of Suck. I mean, you guys are like the Los
Angeles band.”

  “Well, thanks,” The Rat says.

  “I mean, I’m just so honored to be breathing the same air as The Rat.”

  “Well, don’t hyperventilate. I’m just a guy like you.”

  “I’m a drummer, too, you know.” Garth Skater air drums intensely and bobs his head up and down and bites on his lower lip. I think it’s supposed to show his passion, but it just looks kind of dorky.

  He finishes with a fake flourish and bows. The Rat actually applauds.

  “Wow, The Rat!” Garth dorkily punches his fists together. Then his skateboard slips from between his knees and rolls away from him.

  “Well, see you,” The Rat says after Garth as he goes and chases his runaway board. “Oh, and Suck is playing at Sunset Junction. You know. If you’re around.”

  Garth catches his board with one hand and clutches his heart with the other hand and kind of staggers around like he’s having a heart attack.

  “Are you shitting me?” he asks.

  “No, it’s true. We’re going to start playing out again.”

  “Oh my God. I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Garth says. “I’ve got to go post this on my blog.”

  Then he flicks us the thumbs-up, jumps on his board, and skates away.

  “What’s Sunset Junction?” I ask.

  “It’s a street fair.”

  “I like street fairs,” I say. “I want to go to a street fair.”

  “It’s at the end of August,” The Rat says.

  “Oh. I’ll be back in Montréal.”

  “I know, it’s too bad. It’s a good time,” The Rat says. “Hey, how about we walk over to the Vista and go see a movie? We can get a break from this heat. Sit in some air-conditioning.”

  “What’s playing?” I ask.

  “Does it matter?” The Rat asks. “Most movies are crap. Hollywood crap. Made to the lowest common denominator. Made so that people don’t have to think.”

  “So you don’t care what’s playing?”

  “I just care that it’s gonna be cold,” he says. “And that I’m gonna be with my best girl.”