I shake my head. “No. My band. We have a gig tonight.”
“I remember that!” She snaps her fingers. “I remember that you liked music.”
She does. SHE DOES?
“Yeah.” I straighten up my posture a little. “And you’re into art.”
A smile quirks at the corners of her mouth, and she hugs her sketchbook to her chest.
“Why?” I ask.
Paloma’s brows pull together.
“I mean, what do you love about it?” I qualify.
Paloma pulls her bottom lip in and bites down for a minute before answering.
“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “I guess it just makes me feel less foggy.”
I smile because I get it. “Music can do that for me too. But I think…” I pause, and motion to the sketchbook she holds clutched to her heart. “I think it’s different for you, though.”
She pushes out a soft breath. “Everything is different for me.”
She murmurs so quietly, I’m not sure she even realizes the words came out.
I open my mouth to ask ‘why,’ but I clamp it shut again. I do this three more times, unable to work up the nerve to ask this girl the secrets that I’ve wondered about for so long.
“I’ve got to go,” Paloma says. She stands abruptly, grabs her bag from the bench, and leaves without saying another word.
That was our moment.
And I let it go.
3.
“Hey guys,” I say as I slam the door of the van shut. I glance into the third row, smile, and add, “And Clara.”
I shake my head and let the droplets of water act like a sprinkler to everyone in the van.
“Took you guys long enough,” I say. “I thought I saw you before my shift ended. Where’d you take off to?”
But I’m really not upset. If they didn’t disappear, I wouldn’t have seen Paloma again. I try to clear her from my brain. I try to forget what a stooge I was when we’d talked. At least for tonight while we play.
“Food run! You’re welcome! Have a burrito.” Ryan leans over the front passenger seat and tosses a parchment-wrapped mass the size of a football to me in the backseat. “And here’s a shirt. Don’t ever say I don’t do anything for you.”
He throws one of my T-shirts to me to replace the polo I wore to work.
“If you’re trying to apologize for showing up at my job and making an ass of yourself, it’s working. I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” I say. I unwrap the paper and take a bite of the bean, rice ,and cheese burrito from our favorite dive. “But you’re still a dickweed.”
“You’re welcome,” Ryan laughs. “And thanks for coming, bro.”
“Like I had a choice.”
Ryan shrugs and props a worn-out sneaker onto the cracked dashboard.
Our band, Skankin Xenophobe, is Ryan’s brainchild. He’d started it up about two years ago with Drew, who is his next door neighbor. Ryan does vocals and guitar, I play bass, Drew is on drums. Clara, who goes to synagogue with Drew, is on keyboard and handles vocals sometimes. That girl does wicked covers of “Come on Eileen” and “Just a Girl.” Topher is on trombone and backing vocals, and Nick is on sax. I’d met Ryan at school, and both Topher and Nick know Ryan from the skate park.
We all came together because of Ryan, so I guess that’s why he feels like he’s the one in charge most of the time. Why he thinks he can show up at the museum acting like a lunatic and rope me into doing shit like tonight’s gig.
“Where is this place?” I ask Drew. He’s always the driver because he’s the only one with access to a van. He borrows the white piece of crap we’ve affectionately dubbed Chester from his dad whenever we have a gig. I have a car, but Ryan has a thing about us all showing up together to help unload gear, so I’ll have to swing by and pick it up from the museum after we play.
“Not far. It’s just off Magnolia. I dropped off my drums on the way to pick you assholes up,” Drew says.
“No trouble getting my gear? Was my mom home?”
As far as parents go, I could have wound up with worse. They ride my ass about grades and my future, but they also let me practice late, and they’re cool with situations like tonight, when they’d expected me home after work, but instead, got the band on their doorstep to pick up my bass and amp.
“Heck yes,” Drew says from the driver’s seat. “She even fed all of us. Shrimp dumpling soup, amazing woman that she is.”
“Ah,” I say, crumpling the now empty wrapper from my burrito and tossing it at his head. “Now I see why you guys brought me the food offering.”
“Your mom’s the best,” Clara says from the row behind me.
She’s a gorgeous girl, but, right now, she’s all red nose and snot. “You feeling better, Clara?” The last couple weeks she’s had a case of walking pneumonia that she can’t kick.
“Sort of,” she says with a shrug.
Even in the dark I see her glance in Ryan’s direction.
“So’d you strong arm everyone into playing this party tonight?” I pull on the clean shirt.
He turns to defend himself when Clara says, “It’s fine. I’m so bored sitting at home. Really, I’m okay.” She dabs at her red nose with a tissue and looks like she needs a nap with every passing second. Which is great, since we haven’t even played the set yet.
Drew pulls up in front of a two-story home. Spanish style. Beige stucco. Same as ninety-nine-point-nine-percent of every other home in Southern California.
Nick leans over the way back seat and asks, “Hey, before we get down, did we all okay the set list?”
I pause with my hand on the door handle and ask, “What’s up with the set list?”
I look directly at Ryan when I ask, because, even though no one has said it, I know that if there’s any weird changes to the set we normally play, it’s because Ryan says so.
“It’s nothing major,” Ryan says. He gets out of the van and shuts the door.
I knew this was a crap plan.
“What’s up?” I turn to Nick and ask.
“It’s just that Ryan says we shouldn’t do any covers tonight. Says we should only play original stuff—”
“That’s bullshit,” I say. When I hop out of the van, it’s already cooler outside than it was when I left work, and Ryan is standing on the sidewalk, jumping up and down to warm himself.
“Cold out tonight,” he says. “Let’s unload the van before I freeze my nuts off.”
Nick, Drew, and Topher are already in action, pulling amps and cords from the back.
“Clara, head inside, you don’t need to be out in the wind,” I say.
“Thanks, Ollie.” She heads up the driveway without a fight.
I turn back to Ryan and ask again, “What’s up with the set list?”
“It’s nothing, man,” he says. He shifts his weight, and I can’t tell for sure in the dark, but I think he rolls his eyes at me. “Don’t get all bent, I just made a few changes.”
“Here you go, bud.” Drew appears next to me with my bass under his arm.
“Thanks.” I take it from him and ask, “Set list?”
“Ryan decid—we all decided,” Drew clarifies. “We should play all of our original stuff tonight. Especially the two new songs you wrote.”
“They aren’t ready to go live yet. Why don’t we stick to our cover list? It’s a party. That set always goes over well.”
I turn to Ryan. He knows I’m not ready to play those songs live. I don’t normally sing, but those two are mine. I don’t want to debut them tonight—not at some crap party.
“I think that’s a shit idea,” I say. I pluck at a couple of chords on my bass while we stand there. “These guys won’t even appreciate them.”
Ryan shakes his head. “Relax bro, it’ll be fine.”
“We should stick to the covers. Maybe throw in a couple Bosstones songs; they’ll like that. Maybe they’ll even recognize some of them.”
“We all think that’s why it’s the perfect tim
e. If we don’t nail them, no big deal. No one here will know or care.”
I pinch the space between my eyes. Ryan is my best friend, the one I’m closest to in the band, but he has a way of taking charge and pissing everyone off.
“If he’s not into it, we shouldn’t force him,” Topher says from the back of the van. He pulls his beanie further down to block some of the wind. “But we could just get the rest of this crap unloaded.”
This time I’m sure Ryan rolls his eyes.
“Hey,” I say, flicking his arm. “Don’t be a prick.”
But, as usual, Ryan isn’t giving an inch. He can hold a grudge like no one else I know, so I decide to meet him halfway and get the hell out of this cold wind.
“I’ll try one song. “Stranger Innuendos” or “Doki Doki” are cool, but I’d like to keep working on the other before we play it live.”
“Go team!” Topher says. His face is tight, but he’s trying to ease the tension.
“We good?” I ask. Ryan gives a quick nod.
He’s still pissed he didn’t get his way, but if we play a solid set, he’ll forget about it. It’s all about the music for us. Tonight, that’s the only thing that matters.
We drag the equipment up the sloped driveway and to the far side of the house. Ryan’s sister stands around with one hand on her bony hip, the other nursing a beer in a plastic cup, making sure we don’t knock over any lamps or anything while we set up. Like we’ve never done this before. The house is filling up pretty quickly, so we hurry around, getting everything tuned and ready to go while Clara curls up on one of the leather sofas. Someone rigged up some lights on the floor that point up on us. They’re a little too bright for the small space, and a pain in the ass to move the equipment around, but I guess it’s better than nothing.
After a rewrite of the set list—with Ryan glaring over my shoulder, and a quick sound check, we’re playing, and it feels rad. We’re used to playing at events where there are designated areas to dance, but this is just us, doing our thing, with people coming in and out of the room and talking to each other and hanging out. Maybe I should feel offended or something that no one stops to stare at us while they listen, but I’m not. I dig that we’re just playing a part in everyone having a good time tonight.
The lights make it hard to see anything but black specks.
The bass lines for the first few songs are so basic, I could play them in my sleep. I love the music, but after the thousandth time playing them, my mind starts to wander.
There are actually decent acoustics in this house, probably because of the old popcorn ceilings. My mom would hate them. Two summers ago, she’d paid Ryan and me to scrape ours down. It had been part of the massive remodel the house underwent, thanks to the hours of HGTV she’d watched while she was in her blue period.
That’s how Dad and I refer to the time after my younger brother Kevin was born, and before Mom got treatment for postpartum depression. That’s when I got the job at the museum and joined Skankin Xenophobe.
Anything to get me out of the house.
I’d needed someplace I could be anonymous while she’d worked through everything. I’d craved calm. Order. What could be calmer and more orderly than a museum? The whole point of a museum is preserving things, keeping them the same. It’s a huge deal to change a single sculpture. I’d dug that order.
My fingers switch rhythms as we hit the chorus again.
Paloma.
My mind flashes to her while I’m playing, because I think I get it.
Why she’s always at the museum. No other people our age spend that kind of time in the museum. Escape. I bet that’s what it’s all about. I want to know why. What she’s running from. What that place does for her.
“Ol,” Topher leans over and says. “We’re gonna play your song after this next one.”
“Cool,” I say.
I blink a few times, trying to clear the black spots from my vision.
And she’s standing right in front of me.
4.
Most of the time when we play, I pick a spot in the crowd and focus my attention there for the entire set. It just makes it easier for me. Tonight, it was especially easy.
I watched Paloma the entire time I played, and with every word I sang. All I saw was her.
Chatting with a cute girl.
Talking with a guy who touched her face in a way that made me miss a note or two.
But then she bolted away from him and now…
“I didn’t know you played parties,” she says.
I look up from the tape I’m peeling off of the wood floor and try not to let the cheesy-ass grin I feel spreading get too full blown.
Paloma’s fingertips trace the hem of her dress, and I know she just asked me a question, but now I can’t remember what it was, so I ask, “What are you doing here?”
“I...” she says with a smile. Paloma peers around the room like she’s looking for someone. “I came with a friend. She heard there was a fantastic band playing.”
I almost reach over and touch her arm, but I don’t want to come off like a creep.
“I don’t believe you,” I say with a laugh.
“No, it’s true. Alexa, she’s my best friend. She’s here somewhere.” Paloma starts looking around again.
“No, I mean about the band. We were just a last minute stand in,” I say. “But thanks for listening.”
“Oh.” She purses her lips like she’s embarrassed, so I try to change the subject.
“Do you know the girl who lives here?”
Paloma shakes her head. “No, I think maybe Alexa knows her. Or her older sister or something. Does anyone ever know anyone at these things?” She links her fingers together and wrings them nervously.
“I guess not,” I say. I wouldn’t really know. I’ve only been to a handful of parties in high school.
Whoever’s in charge of this party must have their shit together, because it hasn’t even been five minutes since our last song, and, suddenly, music so loud it vibrates the floorboards flips on. The song is shit, but the noise does make things a little less awkward.
This could be my chance. The time I can ask Paloma all the questions that boggle my mind about her daily.
“Did you write those songs?” she asks. “I mean, like your band? Are they yours?”
I step off of the platform they threw together for us to play on and stand close to her. Like when we were in the gift shop earlier. I’m suddenly grateful for the unintelligible rap song playing, because I have to step in so close to hear her.
“Some of them.” I kick my own ass a little that I didn’t let Ryan talk me into playing all originals so I’d have something to impress her with. “The one I sang. It’s one I wrote.”
There’s a brightness behind Paloma’s dark eyes now. “Really? That’s amazing. That was my favorite one. What’s it called?”
“Yeah?” I don’t know if I believe her, but I’m taking the damn compliment. “It’s a new one. It’s called ‘Doki Doki.’”
A wide smile stretches across her face. “I love that.”
The rest of the band, other than Clara, come over to grab the cords that I’m supposed to be getting together so we can bail.
“What’s it about?” she asks. “The song, I mean.”
“So, the reason it’s called ‘Doki Doki’—I mean, by definition it—” This answer is more complicated. At least if I’m going to try to explain it to Paloma.
“All set, Ollie?” Ryan interrupts. “Oh, hey—” he pauses and looks at Paloma, then back to me. “It’s Paloma, right?”
Paloma looks confused. Like she doesn’t remember him from eighth grade, because of course she fucking doesn’t. And maybe like she thinks I’ve told Ryan about her, which, of course I have.
Fuck.
“Yeah,” she says. Paloma tucks her hair behind her ear, smiles, and extends her hand.
Ryan shakes her hand slowly. “Ryan,” he says, pressing his free hand to his chest. “
You probably don’t remember me. Mrs. Guzman’s pre-algebra?”
Paloma laughs and pulls Ryan in for a hug, and it’s the second time tonight I want to kick my best friend’s ass.
When she pulls away, she’s still gripping his biceps. Which are, and will likely always be, much bigger than mine. Even though Colm likes to joke that I’m Jackie Chan’s sidekick, Ryan’s the one who took up martial arts when we were kids and has stayed in shape. I think the last physical activity I did outside of required P.E. was last summer when my family and I had gone to Cape Cod and Mom had insisted we all rollerblade. My guess is that my blading skills won’t impress Paloma.
“Of course I remember you,” she says. “How could I forget career day in eighth grade? You were ... you were my hero.”
She drops his arms, and I breathe a little easier until Ryan laughs and says, “That was nothing. I can’t believe you even remember that.”
“What was nothing?” I ask.
“Your friend here defended me,” Paloma says. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her smile so widely.
Ryan looks from me to Paloma, and, while he can be a total tool, he definitely catches on to the look of semi-hate I’m sending his way right now.
I toss the rolled up cord to Topher who is packing everything away. I don’t want to say goodbye to Paloma yet, but if the alternative is to sit and listen to her talk about Ryan, her savior, well, that sucks, too.
“It was Career Day, and some assholes were ragging on me, saying I didn’t need to bother going to the booths because my career was already chosen.” Paloma links her hands together and stares down at them before going on, “That I’d be selling fruit on the 91 off-ramp.”
“It was nothing,” Ryan says again. “Nothing anyone decent wouldn’t have done. Especially my man, Oliver. He’s the best dude out there.”
Ryan claps his hand on my back, and it feels like a pity-gesture, but at least he’s trying.
“Topher, we got everything?” Ryan asks.
“Just gotta get paid,” Topher says. “You want to handle that part?”
“Yeah, sure,” Ryan says. “It was cool seeing you again, Paloma. We’re gonna go take care of the business end of things, then take off.”
A Postcard Would Be Nice Page 3
