by Paula Stokes
Trinity’s face falls slightly. “Okay.”
And that’s two girls I have disappointed tonight.
“Come on, Trin,” I say. “You know that’s not Dad anymore. That’s just bones in a box.”
Trinity sucks in a sharp breath. “Micah! Dad is not just—”
I cut her off. “I know. But Dad’s here in this house way more than he’s buried under a rock. Mom might have sold all his stuff, but she can’t get rid of him completely.”
Trin’s eyes widen at the thought. She looks around my room, slowly, as if maybe she’s expecting to see my dad crawl out from under the bed.
“Hang on.” I bend and paw through my bottom dresser drawer, emerging with a jeweled CD case in my hand. “This.” I hold up the CD. “This is Dad.”
“Crow Black Dream,” Trinity says, her voice breathy with reverence. “I’ve got the songs on my computer, but I didn’t know anyone still had the CD.”
Hangman’s Joke played a lot of covers and original material, but they recorded only one CD, at their lead singer’s house, on a four-track he bought online. They sold a few hundred copies on the internet, but they were never picked up by a label. Amber and her band are already more famous than my dad’s band, and their oldest member is nineteen.
It’s funny how the world works sometimes. You can bust your ass your whole life trying to make your dreams come true and never even get close. And then someone else gets your dreams handed to them, almost without even trying. I like to think my dad’s dream was just to be able to play shows with his buddies, that he didn’t care about fame.
“Best CD ever made,” I say. “Good thing I had it in my car when Mom went on her rampage last year or she would have gotten rid of it with the rest of his stuff.”
“Let’s listen in my room,” Trinity says.
I follow her back to her room, where she pulls her old laptop off her dresser. I slide the disc in and we both take seats on the floor. We lean back against the wall. The first song is called “Sea of Rain.” Dad was really into old-school punk music but his band was inspired by the ’90s alternative bands too, so a lot of their songs sound dark and sad.
Trinity’s eyelids flutter shut as the chorus of “Sea of Rain” blares through the speakers. I imagine my dad’s fingers on his guitar, his fingertips flying over the frets. Too soon, the music fades away.
The second song is called “Aberdeen.” “You know what I regret the most?” Trinity says, her voice just above a whisper.
I don’t answer. All I can think about is how crappy it is that my fourteen-year-old sister already has regrets.
“That I never got to see him play live.”
Trinity was only eight when our dad died. Mom used to leave her at home with a babysitter and take me to the shows. “But you’ve seen video clips, right? There’s a few on YouTube,” I say.
“It’s not the same as seeing someone in person.”
It’s true. Nothing is the same as watching a band you love perform live—especially in a decent venue. I love the feel of the bass lines buzzing through the air. It’s like the sound originates within you, like each beat of your heart pulses thick, heavy notes through your blood. Then the music reverberates off the walls and the crowd and the floor, taking over until there is nothing left in the world except you and the song that’s being played.
It’s tragic Trinity never got to experience that with Dad’s band, and I can’t recreate it.
But I can try.
“Lie down,” I tell her. “Keep your eyes closed.”
She stretches out on the floor next to me without even asking why. I tweak the mixer on the computer and max out the volume, but it’s nowhere near good enough.
“Hang on.” I slip out of my sister’s room and into my mom’s bedroom. I grab her old stereo and carry it back to where Trinity is still sprawled out on the floor. I pull the CD out of her laptop and pop it into the stereo, maxing out the bass and turning the volume up as loud as I dare. The floor rumbles slightly below us as the music courses through the speakers. Trinity smiles.
Then I press PAUSE. “Imagine the most crowded place you’ve ever been. People in front of you, next to you, behind you. So close they’re touching you on all sides. So close you can hear everything they’re saying—a hundred overlapping conversations. It’s dark. It’s hot. It smells like smoke and beer and perfume. The floor beneath your feet is sticky, but you don’t care because there’s no space to walk anyway.”
Trinity wrinkles her nose. Her brow furrows slightly as she struggles to put herself in the moment.
I snap my fingers. “With a sharp click, the lights above the stage burn to life. And just like that the conversations start to melt away. Everyone turns toward the stage. And they all begin to chant, ‘Hang-man’s-Joke. Hang-man’s-Joke . . .’”
Trinity’s lips twitch. “Hangman’s Joke,” she mumbles, tentatively, and then louder.
“Here they come,” I say, flicking my cell phone light on and off. “Somehow, you’ve made it all the way to the front row. You’re pressed against the stage. There’s a stack of amplifiers off to your side but no one in front to block your view.” I pause, bringing back the memory so I can share it. “Alec comes out first. He’s wearing those shiny basketball shorts he always wore to practice.”
Her lips twitch. She remembers. Alec was the band’s drummer. He used to wear the same Carolina blue shorts and sleeveless shirt to every Saturday practice, whether it was January or July.
“And here comes Jake. He looks ridiculous, as always.” I smile as I envision Dad’s lead singer. “Green leather pants. Black shirt.” I pause for emphasis. “With ruffles.”
Trinity giggles. “Who’s next?” she demands. “Is it Dad?”
“Nope. Dad always went onstage last. Next is Stacee, the most rockingest bassist ever.”
“I miss Stacee,” Trinity says mournfully. “She would always ask to braid my hair when Dad and Jake started arguing about music stuff. One day I made her tell me the story behind each of her tattoos. Do you know she has something like twenty-five of them?”
“Probably more now. I think she’s the only person in the world with more ink than Mom,” I say. “I’m sure you could find her online.” Jake, Stacee, and Alec disbanded Hangman’s Joke after Dad died, but they reformed as Dead Love Story. I’ve heard they still do some of their old songs live, but I’ve never gone to see them play. “Tonight she looks totally ready to rock out.”
“Does she have her pink streak?” Trinity toys with her own strip of colored hair.
“Absolutely.” I had almost forgotten about Stacee’s streak until Trinity mentioned it. I wonder whether that’s where my sister’s fondness for colored hair extensions came from. “Alec is behind the drum kit now and Jake’s looking out at the crowd.” I pause again. A lump forms in my throat. I swallow hard, pull in a deep breath before continuing. “And here comes Dad.” My voice wavers. “In his ripped jeans and Social Distortion T-shirt.”
A tear leaks out of the corner of one of Trinity’s eyes. “The one with the dancing skeleton?”
“Yep,” I say hoarsely. “It’s got a hole in one sleeve and the hem is fraying, but Dad’s totally owning it.”
“I bet Mom is shaking her head somewhere. Muttering about how he doesn’t need to be dressing like a bum.”
“You know she is.” I stole that shirt out of her closet before she could throw it out, along with a few of Dad’s other T-shirts. I clear my throat as I scramble to my feet. “Jake starts talking to the crowd. Standard bull crap about how glad he is to be playing in St. Louis. And then . . .”
I start the music again. The third song is called “Waiting Beyond.” Drumbeats explode from the speaker. The guitar and bass join in, their melodies twining together. Another tear squeezes out of one of Trinity’s closed eyes. I don’t say anything until the first verse is over. Then I return to where I was sitting and lean my back against the wall.
“Dad’s doing this thing where he a
nd Stacee walk in circles while playing,” I say. “I never figured out how they didn’t get their cords all tangled.”
“I’ve seen that before,” Trinity says. “In pictures and stuff.” She smiles. “This is my favorite song, you know? It makes me feel like anything can happen, like whatever I want is just waiting for me to find it.”
“Really? I’ve always found it to be a downer, like you’ll spend your whole life chasing things and die before you get them. Besides, the chords are all so haunting. It doesn’t sound like a hopeful song to me.”
“Well, it is,” Trinity says. “What’s Dad doing now?”
“Hang on.” I lie down on the floor next to her, closing my own eyes. “He’s leaning forward. His hair is half in his face, but it doesn’t matter. He could play that guitar blind. Strands of hair are sticking to his forehead.”
“Which guitar is he playing?”
“The Gibson,” I say. And then I add, “The red one.”
Trinity exhales deeply. “He loved that guitar.”
“Yeah. So did I.” I haven’t completely forgiven my mom for selling it. I know we needed money and she’s right—I was never going to play it—but still, it was impossible for me to see it and not think of a thousand happy memories. The same kind of memories his music brings back.
I quit narrating, letting the songs speak for themselves. I watch the expressions flit across Trinity’s face—pain, joy, peace. I pause the CD when there are two songs left. Leaning down by her ear, I whisper, “Dad’s walking up to the front. He tosses his guitar pick in your direction. Oh no, the girl next to you hip-checks you out of the way and steals it.” I give her a firm nudge with my elbow and she giggles. “They’ve left the stage. There’s talking again. Then clapping. Then chanting. You’d better chant too so they know you enjoyed the show.”
When Trinity starts to chant Hangman’s Joke again, I let the last two songs play like an encore. “This time they’re leaving for real,” I say softly, as the music fades away. I flip the light on in her room. “Show’s over, unfortunately. But it’ll stay with you for a while, the feel of the music in your blood.”
Trinity opens her eyes and blinks slowly. Then she looks up at me. “I saw him, Micah,” she says. “I saw him through your words. Thank you.” Her eyes start to get misty.
“Good night, sis.” I turn and head for the hallway before she can see that my own eyes are misty too.
Chapter 4
I dream that I’m riding the MetroLink with my dad, my sister, Amber, and her band. Each time the train enters a station one of them gets up and leaves. I keep trying to leave too, but I’m stuck to my seat. There’s a bee sitting next to me that keeps buzzing. I swat at it, but it doesn’t go anywhere. It just buzzes and buzzes and buzzes.
And then I realize it’s my phone. Groaning, I slowly lift myself to a sitting position. My eyes feel like they’re full of sand. I yawn as I reach down to grab my phone.
And then I see what time it is: seven forty. Shit. I have to be at work by eight.
Sliding out of bed, I unearth a pair of jeans from a pile of clothes on the floor and hold them up. They look clean . . . enough. I grab a T-shirt from my closet and quickly get dressed. I slip my favorite barbed-wire bracelet onto my wrist and then spike up my hair with a little gel. I’m normally a fan of showers, but I’m also a fan of not getting fired. I spend thirty seconds brushing my teeth and then nearly slam into Trinity on my way down the hall.
“Sorry. Late for work,” I say, pushing past her.
She lifts one finger to her lips and gestures at my mom’s closed bedroom door. Mom still wasn’t home last night when I finally fell asleep. She must have gone out after her shift at the diner. She talks a good game sometimes, but I’m thinking she can’t handle April 5th any better than I do.
I slip into the kitchen and grab a package of Pop-Tarts. “See you later,” I whisper to Trinity. Then I’m out the door and down the stairs, heading for my car parked out front. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I fire up the engine, pull away from the curb, and head toward Denali, the coffee shop where I work as a prep cook.
I swerve across two lanes of traffic and run a yellow—okay, yellowish-red—light in a pointless attempt to make it on time. I’m out of breath by the time I pull into the lot and park in my usual corner spot. You’d think I’d run here instead of driven.
My manager, Ebony, is working the counter when I try to slide into the shop unnoticed and fail miserably thanks to the loud-ass coconut wind chimes hanging above the door. The fluorescent overhead lights are shining off her shaved head and she looks even crankier than usual. Two women in exercise clothes stand in front of her, slowly deciding which vegetables are healthy enough to put in their egg-white omelets. Ebony stops right in the middle of taking their order to give me a look. She arches her pierced eyebrow. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, wiping Pop-Tart dust from my face. I fly around the counter and jog back through the kitchen to the time clock.
The door to the manager’s office is closed. That means the owner, Mr. Mitchell, hasn’t arrived yet. At least he won’t see me slink in late. I punch my number into the red time clock at 8:04. LATE IN, it tells me. Got it, thanks.
“You finished?”
I spin around at the sound of the voice. It’s Lainey, Mr. Mitchell’s daughter. She’s the only one who wears the official Denali uniform shirt—a teal blue tee with the store logo. She picks at a piece of lint on her shoulder as she waits for me to move. She looks way less concerned about clocking in late. Must be nice to do whatever you want with no danger of being fired.
I slide out of the way so she can enter her number. She rolls her eyes when the computer informs her that she’s late and then she saunters off toward the front. I can’t help but stare at the mile of toned, muscular legs emerging from the end of her miniskirt. She’s wearing some kind of sparkly lotion and her skin glitters when the sun catches it.
“See something you like?” C-4, one of the full-time cooks, looks up from the stove, where he’s busy preparing the omelets for the ladies out front. His real name is Cal but everyone calls him C-4 because of his obsession with things that go boom. He claims to have once made a bomb out of nothing but foil, water, and some Drano. Someone (probably him) started a rumor that he’s got a copy of The Anarchist Cookbook in his locker. If you ask me, he just likes attention.
“Just wondering why her dad lets her walk around here half naked.” Lainey is hot in a prom-queen kind of way, and we used to be friends back in grade school, but that was two lifetimes ago. Now she’s a varsity soccer player and card-carrying popular girl who hangs out with the kind of mean girls and douchebags who get killed first in horror movies.
“I consider that one of the official perks of the job.” C-4 runs a hand through his beard. “I would love to take her back in the back and—”
“Good luck with that.” I cringe inwardly as I cut him off. C-4 is like twenty-seven or something, way too old to be checking out high school chicks, but that’s never stopped him.
“Right. Like you’ve never thought about it.”
I shrug. “She’s not really my speed.”
Ebony slides through the doorway into the back in time to catch the tail end of the conversation. “Who’s not your speed? Isn’t Amber back in town?”
“She is. She just came back last night in fact.”
Ebony cackles. “That explains why you look like you got ten minutes of sleep. I hope she can still walk.”
I start to explain that it wasn’t like that, but then stop. Why wasn’t it like that? I spent the entire three weeks Amber was away going crazy missing her, and then when she came home I basically pushed her away. Suddenly I realize I never checked to see who called me and woke me up this morning. I pull my phone out of my pocket. I have two missed calls from Amber and a text message:
Call me as soon as you get this. Love, A.
It figures. “When is Mr. Mitchell coming in?” I as
k Ebony. “I need to make a quick phone call.”
“Sometime between nine and ten, I think,” she says. “Do what you gotta do. But then get to work.”
“Thanks.” I step into the manager’s office for a little privacy and call Amber.
“Guess what!” she squeals.
“Uh, what?” I ask, secretly relieved she’s not mad it took me an hour to return her call.
“I got you a ticket for the show in Chicago! Dark Days will even pay to fly you up there.”
“Amber, you know I can’t. I told you I have to work next Saturday.”
“Oh, come on, Micah,” she begs. “Since when do you care so much about work? Call in sick or find someone to cover for you.” When I don’t answer, she continues. “Pretty please? I really, really want you there. And Janne wants to meet you.”
“I thought he was managing you guys from California.”
“He is, but he said he was going to be passing through for some other business.”
“Lucky us,” I say. “Look, I’ll see what I can do, but no promises, okay?”
“Okay,” she says. Then she bursts out laughing.
“Everything all right?” I ask.
“Yeah, we’re just getting ready to start practicing and Nate’s being a dumbass.” She shrieks, and all I can imagine is him tickling her or something. “Stop it, asshole,” she says, without much conviction.
I hear Nate’s voice in the background. Both he and Amber are laughing now. I’m starting to wish I’d never called her back.
“I have to run. Talk to you later.” She makes a kissing sound into her phone.
“Cool.” My stomach feels like I swallowed a handful of nails. “I need to get back to work anyway.”
“I hope you can come to Chicago. Byeee!” Amber collapses into another fit of giggles.
I hang up and slip my phone back into my pocket. I stare at the rack of canned goods for a moment, as if maybe an economy-sized container of chickpeas can explain why I’m suddenly upset. Amber was in the band with Eli and Damien since before we started dating and it never bothered me. Then again, she never went on extended out-of-town trips with them. Plus, Eli’s mom won’t let him date and Damien is obsessed with comics and actually believes he’s a superhero, so it’s an understatement to say that neither of them is quite as down with the ladies as Nate.
