Strange Girl

by Christopher Pike

I shook my head. “On the surface I’d agree—she seemed to like me. The last thing she said is she wanted to talk again. But the way she sat so silent—it was like a part of her was far away, in her own little world.”

  “That could be good. It could mean she has depth.”

  “Depth can be a two-edged sword. Fall for a girl with too much depth and you can end up falling forever.”

  “How poetic.” Janet patted me on the back. “I’ve got a good feeling about Aja. She could be the one, you know, who makes you feel so much you finally write a love song that sells. And if that doesn’t happen, you’ll at least get sex out of the deal.”

  “I hope you got that in writing.”

  Janet laughed. “Wake up! She’s from Brazil! Land of thong bikinis. Plus you’re cute. You always forget that. Of course she’ll have sex with you.”

  I did not think I was cute. All I saw when I looked into the mirror was a standard guy: brown eyes, brown hair—which was beginning to curl now that I was letting it grow longer. Was there anything that made me unique?

  Well, I suppose I did have nice hands. They were large, my fingers were long; they made it easier for me to play the guitar. And Nicole—and Janet, who seldom handed out compliments—said I looked thoughtful. I took that to mean I didn’t look stupid, but they acted like it was a rare quality. Still, no one ever raved about my smile, probably because I didn’t smile often. Frankly, except when I was playing guitar, my parents said I looked depressed. They were always asking me if I wanted to see someone.

  Yeah, I thought. I wanted to see a pretty girl who wanted to love me, tell me I was going to be a rock star, and especially who wanted to have sex with me. It seemed too much to hope that that girl might be Aja.

  Back inside the garage we had a mini–business meeting. Janet held court. First she went over the gigs we had coming up. Friday, we were playing at a high school in Stoker, which was an hour away. The pay was four hundred, not bad considering all we had to do was play our usual list of covers and break down our equipment by midnight.

  Saturday night’s gig was at the Roadhouse; it was located a mile outside Ellsworth Air Force Base, ten miles east of Rapid City—the largest city in the state—and a two-hundred-mile drive from Elder. We all groaned when Janet made the announcement. We’d played for the boys at the base before and we still had the scars to prove it; none worse than Mike, who’d been lucky to escape with four cracked ribs. Me, I’d needed three stitches above my right eye.

  “How come we never heard of this gig until now?” Mike demanded.

  “Because you’d have canceled if I’d told you about it ahead of time,” Janet replied.

  “To hell with the Roadhouse,” Mike said. “You can’t pay me enough to go back to that pigsty.”

  “Fifteen hundred bucks,” Janet said.

  “Huh?” the room gasped.

  “Burrito Bill, the owner, said he’d give us fifteen hundred in cash if we play from nine in the evening until two in the morning. He promised we’d have security this time—a half-dozen MPs from the base.”

  “Janet,” Dale groaned. “Last time it was the MPs who beat us up. When they’re off duty, they’re worse than the mechanics and the pilots. They never go anywhere without their guns.” He shook his head. “The money’s tempting but I don’t think we should go.”

  “And we’d have to spring for a motel room,” Mike said. “No way I’m driving back at three in the morning.”

  “I’ve already reserved a room,” Janet said.

  “For how much?” Mike snapped.

  “Cheap,” Janet said.

  “Why are they paying us so much?” Shelly asked.

  Janet continued. “Most of the soldiers are heading off to the Middle East next week and this is their last big night to party. And Burrito Bill said they loved us the last time we played there.”

  “So that’s why they tried to kill us,” I muttered.

  Janet nodded. “They’re trained to kill. It’s what makes them happy. The bottom line is we need the cash. Fred’s two months late on his guitar and amp payments and we promised Shelly new equipment. Besides, we knock them dead and we’ll get written up in Rapid City’s newspaper. I already put in a call to them and they promised to send someone to the show. Think about it. Now that summer’s over we don’t have that many gigs scheduled. We need the money.”

  Mike shrugged. “This means we’re going to have to spend the whole week practicing Led Zeppelin and Rolling Stones covers.”

  “Like I can mimic Jimmy Page,” I said sarcastically.

  “That’s not what Burrito Bill wants at all,” Janet said. “Last time, he said it was Fred’s original material that blew the crowd away—especially his love songs. He told me the soldiers and their dates came in weeks after talking about Fred.”

  “Nice try,” I said. “You just made that up.”

  “It’s true,” Dale said. “During our break, when you guys ran off to the kitchen, I hung around and felt out the crowd. Except for the animals who beat the shit out of us, most of the audience loved Fred’s singing. And not just when he did covers.”

  “Burrito Bill told me we have to play ‘Rose’ at least twice,” Janet added, mentioning one of my better creations.

  “That’s great,” I said. “He wants us onstage five hours and I’ve got twenty minutes of original material.” I paused. “Mike’s right, we need to spend the rest of this week rehearsing classic rock.”

  “And locating body armor,” Mike added.

  Janet left to go do homework and we started to play a few Rolling Stones classics: “Satisfaction,” “Gimme Shelter,” “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” Because the Stones always performed with two guitars, Shelly grabbed my old Fender and played rhythm to my lead. She was a decent guitarist but never moved an inch onstage. For that reason Dale and I kept her hidden in the back beside Mike when we played live.

  Dale and I could at least act like we were enjoying ourselves onstage. Indeed, despite his “Corpse” nickname, Dale was a natural performer; he could dance for hours without repeating the same moves. Plus his voice was the only one that remotely harmonized with mine.

  We jammed for an hour before we took our first break. It was then Dale got on my case about playing a new song I’d written called “Human Boy.” It was a typical power ballad; it started slow, got loud, returned to a whisper, then went wild again. Dale had heard me play it at my house and thought it had potential. As usual I couldn’t tell if it was inspired or if it sucked. I had no internal barometer. I only knew “Rose” worked because of the reaction I got when I played it.

  I shook my head when Dale brought up the song. “ ‘Human Boy’ is way too raw to use this weekend. Let’s just call it a night,” I said.

  “At least give us a taste,” Shelly said.

  “Yeah. We’ll tell you if it’s shit,” Mike promised.

  I frowned at Dale. “You swore you’d keep your mouth shut.”

  “If I did that we’d have nothing original to play,” Dale said.

  I strummed a few minor chords: E, A, D, G—I used the four of them a lot. Safe chords, I thought, easy on the ears. I usually came up with the melody first, before I got the lyrics. That’s why I preferred to play my guitar for a few minutes before I opened my mouth. The truth was, I hadn’t really figured out the beginning. . . .

  Human Boy

  The world sits on your weary shoulders

  Every day is darker, colder

  You cry out for your savior

  Praying there’s something there

  It’s just your human nature

  Human boy

  Try not to weep

  You and the other boys

  Can have your toys

  Until the day you’re buried

  Six foot deep

  Human boy

  There are no answers to life’s questions

  No God to hear your confessions

  No grace the sky can send

  No need to weep


  Even when you’re buried deep

  That’s just the way life ends

  I let my voice trail off and repeated, “That’s just the way life ends.” I’d made up the last line on the spot.

  The room was silent a long time. Mike spoke first. “Hey, that’s some pretty great shit. I like it.”

  Shelly nodded. “It needs editing but it’s hot.”

  Dale spoke last. “I agree with Shelly. It’s great, in spots. But . . .”

  “You can tell me. I can take it,” I said.

  “There’s a lot of darkness in that song,” Dale said.

  “Dark is good,” Mike said. “Gives it energy.”

  Dale was watching me. “We’ll work on it.”

  Dale wasn’t talking about the song. I knew him too well, or else he knew me even better. He was talking about me. That I needed to work on my head.

  • • •

  Dale’s remark stayed with me as I rode my bike home. Here I was, seventeen and couldn’t afford four wheels. The few times I’d gone out with Nicole, Janet had loaned me her car. What little money I’d saved, from gigs and what I earned at the store, I’d put into equipment. It embarrassed me the band was still paying for my brand-new Gibson guitar. But the others were cool about it. They said it was an investment in our future.

  That phrase, “our future,” freaked me out because it was so loaded with lies—or worse, childish dreams—that the band as a whole never really talked about. The truth was, I was the only one who had enough talent to have even a remote chance of succeeding in the marketplace. That sounded arrogant, I know, but it was a fact. Janet and Dale knew it without having to be told. And Mike—he didn’t dwell much on the future; it was enough he enjoyed hitting his drums.

  It was Shelly who was most troubling. Clearly she wanted to succeed to please her father, as well as to impress me. Just as bad, she’d grown up watching American Idol and X Factor and The Voice reruns and had it ingrained in her psyche that she had to be a celebrity to be someone. I often wondered if it was her need to succeed that blocked her creative juices. The girl never relaxed when she played; she was exhausted after every show.

  Still, the bottom line was that everyone in the band was working toward a goal I was pretty sure they all secretly knew was only a possibility for me.

  It was no wonder I felt depressed as I rode my bike home.

  It was late, after one, and my parents were asleep. But my mom, bless her, had left lemon-and-pepper chicken and saffron rice in the oven. I was starved. I hadn’t eaten since that afternoon with Aja and obviously that meal hadn’t counted because I’d been completely unaware of my food.

  I took my dinner and a bottle of apple juice up to my room and flipped on my computer. At home I often ate while logged on, although I wasn’t addicted to surfing the Internet. I felt the anonymity of the Net gave the public too much freedom to be rude to people. Whenever I spent over an hour online, I inevitably got a headache.

  The first thing I did on my computer was look up what Aja had been trying to say with her cryptic Portuguese remark—Ninguém do nada. I spelled it wrong a dozen times before Google’s translators finally told me what it meant: “No one from nowhere.” I wondered why Aja had said such a thing. She had acted happy enough.

  Next I checked my e-mail and was surprised to see a note from Janet. Normally she’d text me. She’d sent it an hour ago and reading it caused my heart to skip a beat.

  Dear Fred,

  Forgot to mention. I didn’t get Aja’s number but . . .

  I gave her yours.

  Try sleeping on that one.

  Love, Jumpin’ Jack Jan

  “Damn you,” I said. What was I supposed to do now? If I wanted to appear cool I’d have to wait for Aja to call me. The only problem was she might not call. Indeed, the chances were a hundred to one she wouldn’t. Janet, who was my best friend, and who was probably thinking she’d just done me a favor, had snatched my free will right out of my hands.

  I slept that night with my phone beside my pillow.

  It never rang.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE NEXT DAY I looked forward to Mrs. Billard’s class and another chance to see Aja. I arrived early but Aja didn’t come in until a few seconds before the bell, sitting in the same chair as the previous day, on the far side of the room. She had on a simple red dress and looked fantastic. Only she didn’t look at me. Oh well . . .

  Billard started fast, handing out a quiz on yesterday’s discussion, the thirteen colonies’ difficulties with the king of England, chapter three in our textbook. Billard was known for her pop quizzes, but from the groans that surrounded me, I could tell the majority of the class hadn’t read the chapter. I was lucky, I’d awakened early and studied it thoroughly. I knew I’d ace the quiz. I never considered myself particularly smart but I had a knack for taking tests.

  As Billard had promised, she gave Aja her own special quiz. “This is on the first two chapters, all forty-eight pages. You did read them, didn’t you?” she asked as she handed Aja three sheets of paper.

  “Yes,” Aja said.

  “Good,” Billard said. “If you have time, you can take today’s quiz as well.”

  “Thank you,” Aja said.

  “Don’t thank me,” Billard replied. “All my tests are closed book. Put your textbook under your seat and leave it there. If I catch you cheating I’ll flunk you before you begin. Understand?”

  Aja nodded but said nothing. I wondered at Billard’s harshness. Aja had just arrived in town; there was no reason for Billard to snap at her. To even be in an AP class, Aja must have scored high on the placement tests that were given to all foreign students. For all Billard knew, Aja might have been Ivy League material.

  Yet I wondered if Aja had Billard flustered. The teacher was used to intimidating students and it was as if Aja’s calm demeanor, her penetrating gaze, made Billard feel like she was somehow no longer in control . . .

  It was just a thought.

  The quiz turned out to be harder than I’d anticipated. First off it was not all multiple choice; there were essay questions. Billard not only wanted to know who had started the Boston Tea Party, she wanted to know why they had started it. I was lucky I’d read a biography on Benjamin Franklin over the summer—a tome my mother had insisted I digest—and was up on my Revolutionary history. While taking the test, I was able to expand upon what was in the textbook, which I had a feeling would please Billard.

  I finished the test early but didn’t immediately hand it in. The last thing I wanted to do was show up my classmates. Yet, a half hour into the period, I was surprised to see Aja stand and hand in the test sheets Billard had given her. Billard, who was engrossed in a book about the Civil War, looked up in surprise.

  “What’s the problem?” she demanded.

  “No problem,” Aja said, giving her the tests. She returned to her seat, leaving Billard with a frown on her face. Ordinarily Billard graded her quizzes after class but today she quickly scanned Aja’s work. I don’t know why that disturbed me but it did; and it didn’t take long before her frown changed into an expression of outright anger. Clenching Aja’s quizzes in her hand, Billard stood from behind her desk.

  “Class, put down your tests and listen for a moment,” she said. “I want to read something that I think you’ll find enlightening. As a few of you might remember from two weeks ago, on the fourth question of your first quiz, I asked how the town of Raleigh and subsequent colony of Carolina was founded. Now Aja Smith answered this question by writing, and I quote, ‘During the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, Walter Raleigh, a pirate well known for raiding Spanish ships crossing the Atlantic to and from the New World, came to the attention of the queen when he introduced the English court to tobacco, which he had discovered while exploring what was later to be known as Virginia. It was this discovery, along with his handsome face and flirtatious nature, which made him a favorite of the queen and inspired her to grant him a royal patent to further explore Virginia
and pave the way for future English settlements. Unfortunately for Raleigh, in 1591, before he could return to the New World, he fell in love with and married Elizabeth Throckmorton, one of the Queen’s ladies in waiting, without the queen’s permission, for which he and his wife were imprisoned in the Tower of London. Yet he was released during the attack of the Spanish Armada and distinguished himself in the main battle off the coast of Dover, which led to him being knighted by Queen Elizabeth . . .’ ” Billard stopped and spoke in a sarcastic tone. “Need I go on?”

  No one responded, least of all Aja, who sat as motionless as a statue. Billard scanned the rest of us before shaking her head in disgust. “This is not an answer to the question I asked. This is the answer. It is word for word exactly what is written in your textbooks, for any of you bright enough to recall.” She turned her blazing eyes on Aja. “Which can only mean that you copied the answer directly out of your book, or else from cheat sheets you slipped up your sleeves. Tell me, Aja Smith, which was it?”

  Aja sat calmly. “Neither.”

  Billard ripped Aja’s test papers in half and threw them in the air. “Don’t act innocent with me! I want to know how you cheated!”

  “I read the chapters you told me to read. I remembered what the book said about Walter Raleigh and wrote down what it said on the papers you gave me. Bart told me that was the best way to answer test questions in high school.”

  Billard looked as confused as she did angry. “Who the hell is Bart?”

  “Bart is Bart. He works for my aunt Clara.”

  Aja’s reply was virtually identical to the answer she had given me. At the same time I thought it was a pretty straightforward answer but if I was hoping it would calm Billard down I was mistaken.

  “You still haven’t explained how you cheated,” Billard said. “Did you peek at your book or do you have cheat sheets hiding up the sleeves of that pretty red dress of yours?”

  Aja didn’t respond but Ted Weldon, the football jock who’d given Aja her textbook yesterday, spoke. “Mrs. Billard, I think I can help here. I was watching Aja the whole time and I swear she never looked at her book or copped a cheat sheet from any part of her mighty fine body.”