Another Little Piece of My Heart

by Tracey Martin

  Hannah lays her hand on Jared’s arm, kind of protectively. “Shouldn’t you get musician privileges or something, and move to the front of the line so we don’t have to wait?”

  “It’s not like being in some secret club.”

  “Whatever. Yes, it is. All you had to do was make some phone call and you got special tickets and invitations. That’s so cool.”

  Jared shifts from foot to foot but doesn’t say anything.

  “That’s just the fame,” I say, unable to resist. “It’s got nothing to do with being a musician. Probably a bunch of the people here are musicians of some sort.”

  You know, cuz, like me.

  “But how many have won Grammys?” Hannah asks.

  Jared cringes. A nearby couple turns around, and he stares at his shoes, letting his hair fall in front of his face. I suppose some people might see his reaction as false modesty, but Jared never could take compliments well. He always undervalued his skill.

  And I suppose, too, this means my initial impression that he was blinded by his success wasn’t entirely accurate or fair. That’s good; he shouldn’t be. Yet it makes it harder to be annoyed with him if he hasn’t become completely arrogant.

  About twenty other people mill about the stage, most in something resembling a line. The DJs, or their lackeys, wear T-shirts with their station’s call letters on them, and they’re herding people around. Three of the five band members are there, too, chatting and signing stuff. On stage, the roadies have already broken down much of the equipment.

  We gather at the edge of the crowd. Zach keeps yawning, and he’s clearly more interested in whatever the radio people are doing than in our conversation. To be fair, that’s probably because we’re not talking about anything interesting.

  Jared seems intent on hanging back, probably trying to avoid the notice of the radio people. It has to be difficult for someone as private as he is to deal with all the public attention. Not for the first time I feel slightly bad, and part of me wants to crack a joke or do something silly to distract him.

  Then I remember how we were supposed to write songs together. Supposed to perform together. I’m not sure I’d want to deal with the fame issues, but we should have dealt together and reaped the benefits together. But there’s no together now. No Steele-Winslow. Jared gets it all, the good and the bad, and he gets it, in part, because of me. In the worst possible way.

  My hands clench at my sides, and I force them to relax.

  “Hey!” A strange voice jerks me out of my thoughts. A skinny guy, dressed in roadie’s black, weaves through the chairs, looking panicked. “Oh man, I’m so sorry. No one told me you were down here already.”

  The comment’s clearly aimed at Jared. He smiles, and his fingers twitch toward his thumb ring as other VIPs glance his way. “No worries. We’re good.”

  But whoever this guy is, he doesn’t agree. God forbid the famous Jared Steele is standing around waiting. The skinny guy’s talking to someone on his headset, and a second later Jared is marched through the radio crowd toward the stage. Because I was standing next to him, the guy with the headset motions frantically for me to tag along. Hannah and Zach, who have wandered away to talk to some of the radio people, are left behind.

  Wanda Gibbons, the band’s lead singer, and one of the guitarists are finishing up a conversation, but they wave to Jared.

  Jared’s shoulders relax once the skinny guy leaves. “Since when do you buy CDs?” he asks me, as I pull mine from my bag.

  I grit my teeth. So far I’ve managed to not speak directly to Jared since our fight. “I can’t ask them to sign an MP3 file, can I?”

  “Oh, so you get it now.” Jared smirks.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Why I want to own more than just a download of the music I like.”

  “No, I don’t get it.” I’m whispering and shouting all at once. “Why does any sane person need the same album on CD and download and vinyl if they can get it? Talk about overkill.”

  “Christ, Claire. The things you don’t get—”

  Jared falls silent because Wanda Gibbons has finished her conversation and jumps up. She’s much taller in person, almost Jared’s height, and her makeup is a lot more garish. “It’s so lovely to meet you,” she says in that rich voice of hers. She gives Jared a brief hug as though they’ve known each other all their lives.

  Up close, I also see that she and the guitarist are older than I expected. Wanda has crow’s feet around her eyes, and the guitarist has gray roots peeking through his red-dyed hair. He shakes Jared’s hand.

  “Now, I interrupted your spat,” Wanda says. “Please, go on. You’re very entertaining.”

  I’m pretty sure I turn pink.

  “Just an old argument,” Jared says. “Don’t mind us.”

  Except it’s not an old argument. I used to tease him about his music collection, that’s all. We never argued about it. It was funny. But I guess it’s not anymore. Neither are a lot of things.

  “Yeah, it’s nothing,” I say. “We get along better if we don’t talk to each other.”

  The guitarist laughs and motions for us to sit. “Sounds like me and my wife.”

  “It’s true,” says Wanda. “You bicker like an old married couple, but you’re far too young for that.”

  I open my mouth to object, but being told Jared and I sound like an old married couple is too much. Jared looks as horror-struck as I feel.

  “Don’t take that the wrong way,” Wanda says, seeing our expressions. “It’s cute. A good sign.”

  A sign of what—the apocalypse?

  “We’re not anything like that,” I say. My mouth is weirdly dry, and I eye Wanda’s water bottle with envy.

  Jared shakes his head forcefully. “Nothing like that.”

  “We’re not even friends. More like mortal enemies.”

  Silence follows. I was expecting confirmation, but Jared scuffs his sneaker along the floor and offers none.

  “Ah.” Wanda is clearly not convinced. “If you say so. What’s your name?”

  Hannah and Zach figure out where we are and approach cautiously, as if the band members are wild animals and only those of us who’ve been sniffed for acceptability can talk to them unharmed.

  Mostly, they and Jared talk music. It’s a conversation that seems to fill the theater, not in volume because they’re not shouting, but in something less quantifiable. With a guitar in his hand, Jared comes alive. Even talking about having one in-hand does the same when he’s with others who get it. It’s like his aura swells until it fills the available space, and Wanda and her guitarist are the same way. They’re not loud, but they’re not unobtrusive, either.

  This is the club Hannah joked about without understanding it. It’s a completely intangible, unnamable one for the chosen talented and obsessive few.

  As such, Hannah and Zach have nothing to add to the conversation, and I keep my mouth shut out of fear of what horribly embarrassing thing I’ll be told next. It’s not until their drummer joins us that I dare offer an opinion. He’s got to be close to ten years younger than the others. Tattoos cover most of his forearms—not quite sleeves, but getting there—and he flirts with me until he realizes I’m here with one of the guys.

  Which is too bad, because he’s way hotter than Zach.

  When Hannah starts checking the time I remember how long it’s been since I’ve eaten anything. The band is supposed to be meeting someone’s friend at a bar, and we’re invited to come along. At least until the guitarist figures out we’re all underage.

  I don’t think that would have stopped anyone, but Hannah and I have a curfew. It’s kind of humiliating.

  Before we go, I ask the band to sign my CD and Kristen’s. Wanda takes her time with mine, and I’m curious what she’s writing but I can
’t read it upside down. Once we’re out in the lobby, I wander into a better lit area to check out her note: “Don’t be so sure about that anything. Blessings, Wanda”

  I slam the case shut, and stuff the CD into my brocade bag. Whatever. Being a good singer and songwriter obviously doesn’t make you a clairvoyant.

  * * *

  We’re all starving by the time we leave, me especially since I didn’t get much to eat for dinner. Zach claims to know a good diner not far away.

  By eleven, we’re piled into a booth and the waitress has called us “hun” three times. I used to consider that a good omen. Jared and I often went to this diner not far from his house, and we’d count the number of “huns” the waitress would say over the course of our time there. Our record was twelve within ninety minutes, an impressive feat accomplished by a plump, gray-haired woman who had a tattoo of Minnie Mouse on her left arm. She must not have lasted too long because we never saw her again, but she holds the “hun” crown to this day.

  I think our waitress tonight might be a good competitor, but where’s the fun in keeping track if I’m doing it by myself?

  The food arrives quickly, and I dig into my cheeseburger and fries before my stomach makes any more growling noises.

  Hannah picks at her salad. She’s talking more than eating, and I wonder if it’s out of nerves, the post-concert high or because of all the caffeine she’s been downing. “That was so cool getting to meet them. And I just realized I get to check ‘concert’ off my list of things to do this summer.”

  “You keep a summer to-do list?” Zach gapes at her.

  “Yeah. Just of fun things. You know, like go to a concert, go water-skiing, go to a baseball game, that sort of thing. Concerts and camping were the last things left on it. So now I all is need to get the camping trip in.”

  The fries are bland so I douse them in ketchup. “Do you even have a tent here?”

  “Oh, yeah. We usually go once a summer when we’re up here. Not for long though. I like electricity and private showers.” Hannah giggles. “My parents went for the weekend before you got here, but Lisa and I wanted the house to ourselves so we stayed behind.”

  “That’d be fun,” Jared says. “I haven’t been camping in a couple years. Remember when—” He stuffs a fry in his mouth.

  Remember when we went at the end of my junior year? That’s what he started to say. I can feel it. Me, Jared, Kristen and her then-boyfriend, and several others went camping in one of the state parks. My parents thought I was going with Kristen and her family. And Kristen’s parents thought she and I were going with another friend’s family. And well, you get the idea. I don’t know how we worked it out, but my parents never discovered the truth.

  I stare at my burger, unsure whether the hollowness inside is hunger or something else.

  “We should go,” Hannah says. “You guys in?”

  She’s asking me and Zach, and he says “sure,” which makes it harder for me to refuse. I just smile and take another bite of my burger, not tasting it. The last thing I need is to spend more time around Jared, but the universe—and my family—keeps screwing with me.

  “Oh, by the way, Claire.” Hannah hasn’t touched her salad for several minutes, but she keeps waving her fork around. She’s switched into full frontal peppy cheerleader mode, and it’s starting to grate on me. “I finally got your comment about there being other musicians at the concert. I can be so dense. Duh. Jared, did you know Claire plays guitar?”

  Aw, crap. She’s remembered at last. In the future, I must remember to separate Hannah from caffeine. I slouch in my seat.

  “Really?” Jared has a calculating look about him. Either he’s thinking of ways to mock me, or struggling to act like normal people would under these circumstances. However that is since I assume normal people don’t get themselves into these circumstances.

  “Yup. Actually, the same loser who introduced me to Vamp Dust taught me.”

  Jared stares at me, still calculating. Any moment I expect steam will rise from his ears. “Sorry he was such a loser. Was he a good teacher at least?”

  “Very. Unfortunately, he turned out to be giant asshole in the end.”

  “Aw. What did he do? Dump you?” Jared raises an eyebrow.

  I almost swallow a French fry whole and when I cough it up, I have to fight down my laughter. This is not right. Jared got the last dig in, but it strikes me how ridiculous this conversation is. Correction: these conversations are. Because there’s the conversation that Hannah and Zach think we’re having, and there’s the one that Jared and I know we’re having.

  To make things worse, Jared’s lip quirks. I’m certain the same thoughts are occurring to him, and that he’s having just as hard a time holding it together. I drop my gaze to my half-eaten burger, fighting this insanity inside me. I have to get out of here, but Hannah sits on the outside of the booth. I’m trapped.

  We used to do this a lot back when. Jared and I had all these stupid private jokes. We’d hear a certain song on the radio and laugh for no good reason. Or someone would say something that accidentally rhymes, and we’d follow it up with “Anybody want a peanut?” from The Princess Bride. Stupid things like that.

  That’s what happening now, and even though I know better, I can’t stop it. The laughter is a bad habit, ingrained so deeply that although I thought I broke it, it rears its head in times of stress.

  The waitress checks on our table at that moment and refills the coffee. Zach ordered a Coke, and she points to his empty cup. “Can I get you another one, hun?”

  The “hun” undoes me. I slide down in my seat, shaking with silent giggles. Across the table, Jared’s attempting to hide his laughing in coughs, but I hear him whisper “seven.”

  He catches my eye and that only makes me laugh harder. My stomach hurts. So does my brain. I really, really don’t want to be laughing.

  I’m going to have to explain this. I need to stop now while there’s still a chance, so I take a couple deep breaths, cough, and pound on my chest. “Sorry.”

  “You okay?” Zach asks.

  I nod and gulp some water. “Think I swallowed something wrong.”

  Hannah glances between me and Jared, but it’s Zach who asks: “What did I miss?”

  “Nothing,” I say, probably a little too quickly.

  Jared coughs dramatically. “Some of these fries have a lot of pepper on them. Don’t you guys ever count the number of ‘huns’?”

  I have to admire how he asks the question, as if counting “huns” is the most common diner game in the world and Hannah and Zach are woefully out of touch for not knowing it.

  “So camping?” Jared says once he’s explained the “hun” game. He steers the conversation away from guitars and music, which has to be incredibly difficult for him since they’re his favorite subjects, and I’m content to let the other three hash out the details.

  As the minutes pass, a dark cloud sweeps through me and hangs over my thoughts. I realize agreeing to come here was a bad idea. I agree too much. I agreed to Hannah’s pleas for this date, and I agreed to camping, and that’s bad. I should have held firm, like I did with my decision to get a job. Like maybe I should have done when I broke under my parents’ pressure and dumped Jared.

  My dad said I’m of the age where I’m supposed to be trusted to make my own decisions, but I don’t trust myself. I don’t know why I do what I do.

  For the rest of the night, I avoid eye contact with Jared. He does the same, I assume. We don’t speak anymore, and I’m glad.

  Glad.

  I’m also furious. Being reminded of the past sucks. I read a quote once, something about how the past will always be present if you carry it with you. Well, I don’t want Jared with me. I want to purge him from my life. It’s been hard enough when walking into a store means I risk hearing his m
usic on the speakers, or going online means being forced to see people talking about him. But tonight made that even more difficult.

  Thanks to Wanda Gibbons’s overactive imagination, I can’t even purge Jared from my music collection.

  Zach drops Hannah and me off at five of one. Once more, I’m relieved we all drove down together because it makes saying good-night less awkward. I supposed I’d have kissed Zach if he tried it, but I’m not craving that sort of interaction. It’s more than his dubious taste in music. I should feel something inside, some flame that sets my nerves on fire when he’s near. But I don’t, and that’s not a good sign.

  As I crawl into bed, I can’t help but replay the conversation with Wanda Gibbons over and over in my head. Can’t help but ruminate on those stupid words she scrawled on my CD case. And worse—I can’t help but wonder if she said anything to Jared after I wandered away. Something similar to what she wrote to me.

  Chapter Eleven

  If I need more proof that the alien gods are out to get me, it’s this: the stars are aligned just right to make this camping trip from hell work.

  It shouldn’t have happened. It’s late in the season so the campsites should all be booked. I have to work, and Zach has classes. Not to mention, my aunt and uncle, who weren’t thrilled about Hannah even going to a concert with Jared, should have objected.

  Except what happens is that Zach’s classes ended last week, and I have two days off in a row. Weekdays aren’t as popular as weekends for camping, and the first place Hannah calls for reservations happens to have an opening that falls perfectly within my work schedule. And because Lisa and Mike say they want to come too, my aunt and uncle grudgingly agree. My father simply tells me to “have fun.”

  “That’s it?” I ask him.

  “We already had this conversation.” We’re at the dinner table, and he casts a glance toward Hannah and Lisa. “I’m fine with it unless you want to talk about it again?”

  I shut my mouth. I don’t think what we had counts as a conversation, but his point is made. We will not be revisiting that argument in front of my cousins.