August and Everything After

by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski

  Has she always been this loud? I link arms with her and usher her toward the kitchen, but she breaks away from me and moves toward the steps.

  “Just a second. I want to pull the sheets off the bed in the guest room. Your sister and her friend are coming next weekend and—”

  I jump in front of her. “I can do that. Go have your coffee.” I walk backward up the steps, my hands clutching the railings on either side of me, so she can’t get by. “It’s no trouble. I-I got this,” I stammer.

  She tries to duck under my arm, so I sit on the steps and full-on body block her.

  She narrows her eyes and puts her hands on her hips.

  “Why are you sweating?”

  “It’s hot?” It is. But it’s no use. She knows me too well. My shoulders slump in resignation. “There’s a naked boy in my bed and before you say anything, I did not have sex with him.”

  I hope she finds my bluntness funny, but I can see she’s not amused.

  “Kitchen. Now.”

  Crap. Here we go again.

  EIGHT

  Auntsie sets her coffee down and crosses her arms over her chest. Her expression says, This ought to be good.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Oh good, because I was thinking there’s a naked boy in your bed.”

  “Okay, yeah. There’s that. But it sounds worse than it is. I met him on the boardwalk and he was drunk, and I didn’t want him to drive home.”

  “Oh, okay. My bad. You’re right. Picking up drunken strangers on the boardwalk isn’t so bad. I think they give Girl Scouts badges for that.”

  My heart races. I’m saying this all wrong.

  “He wasn’t a stranger! I met him for the first time at Keegan’s. Malcolm Trent. I told you about his songs, remember? I brought him back here to sober up. After he showered, he fell asleep in my bed. I’m sorry. I should have told you he was here. I wanted to. But then I fell asleep too.”

  Auntsie sucks in her breath. “Quinn. You’re going to get us both in trouble. Your mother trusted me. Me. The immature aunt who can’t even keep a cactus alive.”

  Mom always says her sister doesn’t “do” adult.

  “I’m not in trouble. You’re not in trouble. There is no trouble.” I can’t stand the thought of my aunt looking at me the way Mom did after the incident with my student teacher made the local news. “It’s not like that. Nothing happened. I swear.”

  Auntsie raises a dubious eyebrow.

  “Okay, I shouldn’t have let him crash here. I realize that now. It’s not going to happen again.”

  “You got that right. It can never happen again. Not in this house. Not on my watch. Not if you want to keep living here. You’re here because your heart needs fixing. The last thing you need is some washed-up rocker messing with your head.”

  Her cheeks flush and her voice approaches a yell. She never yells.

  “He’s not washed up or messing with my head. And Mr. G did not break my heart.”

  Auntsie gives me a pointed stare. “I never said he was the one who did.”

  She sighs. “Aww, Quinn baby, for the record, there’s nothing wrong with having sex with the right guy. But you have a knack for picking losers. You deserve better. You deserve someone who will love you all the way.”

  “Are you quoting Barry Manilow? Because you sound like Barry Manilow. Or worse, Evie and Mom.”

  Her face softens.

  “Funny, everyone always says I sound like you.”

  It’s true. People compare us all the time. Tell us we look alike and how I could have been Auntsie’s daughter. I don’t mind the comparison, but at times it makes both Mom and Auntsie feel bad, for different reasons.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry too.”

  What does she mean by that? Is she sorry she let me live here? Sorry she believed in me? I thought she and I were moving past this awful moment, that she’d come back to my side, but I thought wrong. She takes her keys off the hook and grabs her handbag in a huff.

  “I’m going to the shelter. I want that boy gone by the time I get back.”

  Mom was wrong. She does do adult.

  “I’ll wake him right now. I’ll go with you like we planned.”

  She puts a hand on my shoulder. “I think we both need some time to ourselves.”

  She says it softly, nicely, but it still stings like a slap. First Mom, now my aunt.

  “Oh, okay, well…give Reggie an extra treat from me.”

  Reggie is this Chihuahua-Papillon mix. He’s blind in one eye and missing a bunch of teeth, so his tongue perpetually hangs out one side of his mouth. I brush him every week and keep hoping someone will appreciate his awesome ugliness.

  “I will,” Auntsie says.

  I watch Auntsie leave through the back door then turn toward the living room. When I round the corner, Malcolm is sitting on the bottom step.

  “Hey. So I’m gonna head out now.”

  I panic. “You heard?”

  He nods. “Thanks for having my back, by the way.”

  My mind does a rapid rewind. I try to piece together what was said.

  “Who’s Mr. G?” Malcolm asks.

  “Nobody.”

  “Sounds more like a weatherman than a nobody.”

  Malcolm slaps his knees and stands. “Look, about yesterday. I’m sorry if I… I don’t usually drink like that. Your aunt’s right about me. I shouldn’t have—”

  He closes his eyes and exhales, like he’s pained by what he’s about to say. I know this moment. I live in this moment. Most recently with Mr. G after we were rescued from our date by the fire department. I have to think about my career, my reputation. Blah. Blah. He should have thought of that before he handed a Blue Moon to an underage drinker. Whatever. I know when I’m about to hear that spending time with me was a mistake, so I don’t give Malcolm a chance. I don’t know if we’ll ever be more, or even friends, but right now, I can’t be his mistake.

  “Look, don’t worry about my aunt. She doesn’t know you. She was angry with me. You hungry? I’m hungry. There’s a bagel place around the corner. You’ve gotta eat, right? I’ll drive you back to your car afterward. Promise. I’ll tell you all about Mr. G. and we can talk about your songs. We never got the chance to talk about them. I have all these ideas, especially for the one you played at Keegan’s. I’m totally hearing keys and gospel backing vocals on that one. After that, you can leave and we’ll pretend last night never happened…”

  I take a deep breath, prepared to go on sounding desperate and stupid and hating myself for trying to claw my way from awkward to normal, but then Malcolm takes my face in his hands and kisses me on the lips. Softly, gently.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  I manage to regain enough breath to ask, “For kissing you?”

  “For saving me. Last night. From myself.”

  I wave my hand. “It was nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing. Seriously, I owe you.”

  “Buy me a bagel and we’ll call it even.”

  He motions toward the door. “Lead the way.”

  NINE

  We sit under the gazebo by the bay, eating everything bagels with extra veggie cream cheese and drinking coffee. I tell him about the crush that nearly killed me. How my student teacher wooed me with his cheesy note and how our one and only date consisted of Blue Moons in his car in the park.

  “I don’t even like beer.”

  “At least it wasn’t piss water,” Malcolm offers.

  “Yeah, well, too bad for me we parked under a giant oak. Out of nowhere there was this crazy thunderstorm with wind and hail. A huge branch broke off and crashed onto his car’s roof. Glass shattered. Rainwater seeped in. Good thing we were in the back seat and he was trying to convince me to have sex with him at t
he time. If not, we would have been crushed to death.” I raise my arms half-heartedly and do a mock jeer. “Silver lining, yay! We even made News 12. Guess I wasted my fifteen minutes of fame on Mr. G.”

  I tear off a piece of bagel and pop it into my mouth, chewing slowly as I stare off into the distance at two WaveRunners speeding by. The sad part is I thought I saw a kindred spirit in Mr. G—a socially awkward band geek who felt music as deeply as I did.

  “You know that guy was an asshole, right? What kind of prick tries to date a student?” Malcolm’s anger surprises me. “He was a teacher. And you’re a minor.”

  I take a slow sip of my caramel latte, thankful the transition lenses in my awesomely ugly glasses are hiding my eyes.

  “He was a student teacher and I’m eighteen. Closer to nineteen.”

  “Yeah, but still. A guy like that. He shouldn’t be allowed around kids. I’m twenty and consider any girl in high school completely off-limits.”

  “I could have kept my clothes on. Maybe then he would have called afterward.”

  Malcolm touches my chin. At first I think he’s wiping off some stray cream cheese, but then I realize he’s being nice.

  “Quinn, look at me. You have nothing to be ashamed of, and anyone who has anything to say about that can fuck off.”

  He’s right, isn’t he? For the first time since the whole shitty incident, someone sees that a shitty thing happened to me, not because of me.

  “Thank you.”

  He sips his black coffee. “For what?”

  “Being on my side.”

  “There’s no other side to be on here. You did nothing wrong.”

  I shrug. “Easy for you to say. You should have seen the look on my mother’s face.” I shake my head. “Let’s not talk about me anymore. Let’s talk about your songs.”

  He smiles. “You said you loooved them.”

  I nudge his arm. “Don’t mock me.”

  “They’re the first songs I’ve written in two years. Rehab can be a real time suck.”

  He throws the information out there casually, and I try not to overreact.

  “You mentioned group therapy last night.”

  He waves one hand at me.

  “Got addicted to prescription painkillers after I broke my hand. From there I tried heroin. Snorted it. No needles. I never thought—”

  A Nerf football rolls into the gazebo and hits Malcolm in the foot. I’m thankful for the interruption because I don’t know how to respond when someone reveals something this mind-blowingly huge.

  Malcolm picks up the ball and tosses it back to the kids playing catch on the bay beach. Families with young children are setting up for the day; every swing is filled.

  “Yesterday, you were drinking. Is that—”

  He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m only sixth months clean. But I was hanging with some old high school friends, guys I was friends with before…everything. They snuck a huge thermos of rum and Coke onto the beach. I didn’t want to be a guy with dead friends and a failed music career.”

  Is he still six months clean? How does alcohol affect his pill addiction and sobriety? It’s almost like he sees the questions in my eyes and doesn’t want to answer. Without looking at me, he crumples his paper bag and bagel wrapper and gets up to throw them out with his empty cup.

  “You didn’t fail. Something terrible happened to you,” I say when he sits down beside me again, hunched over with his elbows on his knees.

  “Something terrible happened to my friends. Me? I’m twenty years old working part-time at a gas station when I’m not making coffee at NA meetings, sponging off my parents, and basically blowing my second chance.”

  “You’re not blowing anything. You’ve got five incredible songs that you need to do something with.”

  He looks at me and smiles. “Like hire a gospel choir and pianist?”

  I blush. “That was stupid. I shouldn’t have said that. There are people out there who can give you a better opinion. I just know I love your songs.”

  “The gospel choir isn’t a terrible idea.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “Maybe.”

  He gives me a side squeeze, then lets his arm drop and stands up.

  “Time to go?” I ask.

  “Got to call my sponsor. Plus, your aunt was crystal clear about wanting me gone. If she hates me, she’ll never let you be part of my plan.”

  “What plan?”

  He raises a finger to his lips. “Shh. It’s got to stay a secret.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until I work out the details. Don’t worry. When I do, you’ll be one of the first to know.”

  We walk back to my aunt’s to get my car, and from there I drive him to his. A black pickup. It looks new.

  “Nice ride,” I say when I pull up alongside it.

  “Insurance money.” He imitates my earlier mock cheer. “Silver lining, yay.”

  I give him a half grin, unsure what to say as the silence lasts a beat too long. Then Malcolm rests one hand on my shoulder, gives it a nearly imperceptible squeeze, and opens the car door.

  “Later, Cat’s Eye. I’ll be in touch.”

  TEN

  “Q!”

  When I walk into Keegan’s almost a week later, Liam rushes toward me with a deranged smile on his face. To be fair, it probably only seems deranged because Liam never smiles. He’s a smirker and not prone to outward displays of emotion. That’s why it’s even more shocking when he scoops me into a gravity-defying hug and spins me around. He’s stronger than he looks for a short-ish guy.

  “What the hell, Liam? Did you have dental work done this morning?” Nitrous oxide is the only explanation for why he’s laughing like a fool. I slap his back. “Put me down!”

  Liam stops short and releases me with a thunk. “If I was sure Kiki wouldn’t kill me, I’d kiss you.”

  I take two steps back. “Don’t worry about Kiki, worry about me. I don’t want your lips anywhere near me.”

  Liam laughs again, and I’m beginning to wonder if he needs medical attention. He puts me in a friendly headlock, if there is such a thing, and plants a kiss on top of my head with a “mwah” sound.

  I push him away. “Enough! You. Are. Freaking. Me. Out. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know what you said to Malcolm, but thank you!”

  “For what?”

  “He called and asked if I wanted to try out for his band. I met him at a rehearsal studio earlier today to jam.”

  Ahh. That explains it. After not hearing from Malcolm since Sunday, he texted me yesterday asking if I knew anyone who played guitar.

  “I just mentioned your name and gave him your number,” I say.

  “Well, I’m in! He wants me to record his new songs with him at this totally pro studio. I have to learn all the guitar parts for the originals plus two covers, ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’ and ‘Seven Nation Army.’ Both are pretty basic.”

  I slouch against the bar. Is this Malcolm’s secret plan? What happened to me being one of the first to know? I guess technically I am “one of” the first to know, but I’m disappointed because I thought I ranked ahead of Liam. More importantly, I assumed I was somehow involved.

  “Rehearsals start next week. He booked studio time in late August,” Liam continues. It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him. I guess that’s what happens when you have something to look forward to.

  “August, huh? That’s great.”

  Is it great? What’s so great about Malcolm’s secret plan to record his songs with a random guitarist I recommended?

  “You’ve got to learn the drum parts for those songs too,” Liam says.

  Wait. What?

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sorry, I figured you knew. M
alcolm said you already tried out.”

  “I’m in his band?”

  “Looks like it. He mentioned he wants you to learn the drum parts for the U2 and White Stripes songs too.”

  Hmph. Would have been nice to be asked.

  “I can’t be in his band.” I reach for the bulk-sized box of trail mix and start filling bowls. “Even if I could learn all those drum parts, I won’t be good anytime soon. I can’t do it.”

  Liam walks away from me and ducks behind the bar. “You can and you will. That’s what YouTube is for,” he calls out while bending down to retrieve something. When he pops back up he hands me a large manila envelope. “Malcolm gave me this to give to you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Not sure. My X-ray vision’s a bit wonky lately, but if I had to guess, it feels like a book.”

  I resist the urge to remind Liam he’s a dick and open the package in front of him.

  “Superman’s got nothing on you,” I say when I spill the contents.

  Inside the envelope is a copy of Patti Smith’s memoir Just Kids and a note that begins: Something artsier for your feminist collection. The note also says he’s scheduled a rehearsal studio for next week, Thursday night, and concludes with, Want to be in my band?

  Guess he did ask. I text him immediately.

  It can’t work.

  Y?

  My aunt.

  I’ll talk to her.

  Drums?

  Got ’em.

  I’ve never played a real kit

  You’ll learn. I’ll teach you.

  Record the drum parts yourself then

  Don’t want to. And I can’t play both drums and bass live.

  Live?

  I’ll explain when I see you.

  I turn to Liam. “What did Malcolm say about playing live?”

  “That’s the best part! He wants us to do a gig here on Labor Day. He’s talking to Caleb about it. Andrew should be back from camp by then. I gotta text him. You’ll finally get to meet him!”

  After Liam mentions the gig, all I hear is Andrew, blah, blah, blah. Because, I have to play live?! I guess technically I’ve done that lots of times. But I was unrecognizable in my huge plumed hat amid 150 marching band members. I have to admit though—having an audience for my occasional drum solo did give me a rush. And mastering a full kit could be fun. It’s what I wanted before I even met Malcolm. This will give me a reason to do it. Maybe I can even save up to buy my own. I would love the green sparkle kind. I bite my lower lip and picture it. The drums. A band. All of it. But if I’m going to get my aunt and mom on board, there will have to be parameters. I want Malcolm and Liam to take me seriously.