by Mia Garcia
Miles reaches over, playing with the necklace but being delicate at the same time. Does he notice my breathing becomes a bit shallower when his fingers graze my collarbone? “Cross is only as good as your faith, every vampire hunter knows that.”
“Well then,” I say. “I guess you’re toast.”
I try to make my tone light, but it doesn’t come out that way. Still, Miles smiles and releases the cross, careful not to touch me. “We’ll have to be cautious then.”
“Yeah.”
“So does this mean you speak Spanglish?”
“Claro que sí.” I beam. “One hundred percent fluent.”
“I know a little bit of French, mostly food, and about ten words in Arabic that I learned to impress girls.”
I laugh. “Did it work?”
“You tell me, Lila. Anta tahbisu anfasi.” He reaches for his hat, remembers it’s gone, and tips an imaginary one toward me. “Are you impressed?”
“Erm.” I pinch my thumb and index finger together. “Un poquito, but very little. I think you still owe me a vampire story?”
“Forgive me. Now—my details are a bit fuzzy from hearing it told by different people, with completely different versions.”
“Which means you can’t remember how it goes,” I interject, teasing.
Miles arches a brow, picking up on my tone. “I remember the important bits.”
“Mmm.” A pair of cops walk by us, and a group of neon goldfish run past, tossing a pair of beads at them with a wink. One of the cops shakes his head, as he and his partner continue on.
“Our story starts in the sixteenth or seventeenth century in France.”
“France?”
“Oui.”
Miles flips his banjo around and strums it, adding a tune to the story.
“So this man, everyone loved him, ladies wanted him, men wanted him, etc., etc. You get the drift.” As he tells his tale, Miles switches up the tune to match the words. He never looks down as he plays, confident that his fingers know what they are doing. “But like in any good story there was something off about our guy, a few things that stood out if you were paying attention—which some people were, obviously, or this story would not exist.”
He changes the beat to something more soft and mysterious. “One: in the time that he was in France, around twenty years, I think, he never aged. Not even a little bit. People explained it away—I think he had some obsession with cosmetics, I don’t know, but people found an excuse for his seeming fountain of youth. Like if he was around today people would say it was all due to the vegan lifestyle and avoiding sugars, right?”
“He’d be totally shooting the wheatgrass.”
Miles and I sync up, our steps falling in line with each other, echoing on the cobblestones.
“Exactly. So that’s one, then two: no one ever saw him eat, not one bite, not ever. They only ever saw him drink.”
I kicked a pebble across the street. “Liquid diet, dead giveaway.”
“You’d think, but like I said, people loved him, so it all amounted to a couple of odd things, nothing major, and you could attribute all of this to rich white man eccentricities, right?”
“Right.”
“But then . . .” Miles strums a few ominous chords, which would probably be scarier if not played on a banjo. “Dude dies, everyone mourns, yada, yada, yada, life goes on. Skip to New Orleans around the 1920s to another man with similar behavior. Same build, life of the party, wealthy, liquid diet.”
“So?”
“So one night this dude gets a bit . . . bitey.” He lunges at my neck for effect. I jump back, almost colliding with another person. I apologize before slapping Miles on the shoulder. “She escapes and gets the police—but by the time they get there he’s long gone. They search his entire apartment and only find bottles and bottles of what looks like wine. What a waste, why not have a drink to . . .”
“They drank it?”
“Of course they drank it! It’s Orleans, it’s the 1920s Prohibition, thousands of people making homebrews, probably a horrible day at the office, moving on. When they drink the wine . . .” Miles pauses, waiting for me to interrupt. I should be annoyed, but there’s a playful nature to his pause. I motion for him to continue. “They quickly spit it out. Because it wasn’t just wine, of course, all the bottles were mixed with blood. And from there it’s just a hop and a skip to vampire lore and so on.”
“Did he ever show up again?”
“Nah. Probably made his way somewhere else if he’s smart, like Jersey or New York . . .”
“Excellent story, dear bard. But I don’t think that makes him a Louisiana vampire if he was born in France, right?”
“Like the French and Leo da Vinci, we like to appropriate people.”
We stroll around the square, walking around the dozens of tarot readers.
“How do you know all this history?”
He shrugs. “It’s a story all the tour guides tell around the city. Sometimes you’ll be walking down the street and hear one story told, cross the street and hear it finished by someone else.” To prove his point he gestures to a group of people two blocks away, traveling in one large mass before stopping across from the cathedral. One of them breaks away and addresses the rest. She must be the guide. “Must be a dozen or more tours happening around here at once. Not hard to wander into a tale or two.”
We smile at each other for a second before we sit there by the entrance to the cathedral, watching the people move around us. Those heading to or from Oak, tourists being pulled into doorways to have their fortunes told . . . so many tall, dark strangers to encounter that I consider for a moment getting mine read.
“When I was thirteen I had my fortune told in one of those little shops that pop up by restaurants, the kind that start off with a neon sign, then carpeted stairs with giant dark stains all around.” He leans in close as I talk, and I shift toward him. “I paid twenty dollars to be told that I would marry twice but only fall in love once.”
“Tough news for the other guy,” Miles says. “Care to try it again?”
“I’m not handing my cash to some dude who couldn’t bother to change out of his stained Bermuda shorts this morning.”
Miles follows my line of sight to the older gentleman sitting in a beach chair. “Bet he gives more accurate readings than all the others though. Like, maybe that’s his curse, he knows the future but no one will take him seriously because of his pants.”
“Why wouldn’t he just change his pants?”
“He can’t. Those shorts are who he is, and he must be true to himself above all.”
“Maybe he’s like Cassandra from the Greek myths.” I take a good look at the schlubby fortune-teller, a deck of tarot cards spread out on a small foldable table in front of him. Unlike his fellow fortune-tellers, he has no sign declaring his ability. Accompanying the shorts is a palm-tree-patterned shirt worn over a sleeveless tee and sandals with socks. “He knows the truth, but no one will believe him.”
“Socks and sandals can never be taken seriously.”
Miles hops up. “Let’s do it.”
“Let’s do what?”
He reaches out his hand for mine. I place my hand in his before I know what’s happening. “Let’s do what?”
“Let’s get our fortunes told from socks and sandals. Why not?” He pulls me to my feet; I tumble into him. “We already know there’s a tall, handsome stranger in your future. So maybe I can get some juicy secrets from those cards.”
He keeps his tone light, but Miles’s smile quickly fades into something deeper—is he remembering my reticence back in the cathedral? My heart hammers in my chest, the rise of panic. My hand is still in his, and his other is around my waist. I’ve made no move to push myself off, and we stand like that, entwined under the shine of the streetlamps. I slow my pulse—there will be no secrets spilled yet. Miles dips his head down, my own reaching up before I whisper, “Who says you’re handsome?”
I push him away,
massive grin on my face. I walk away from him, knowing he will follow.
After a moment I hear, “But I am tall, right?”
I’m with the Band. I Am the Band.
WE LEAVE JACKSON SQUARE WITH A SPIN AND A NEW DIRECTION. As quiet seeps into the rest of our walk, I become restless and just a bit worried—the memories are beginning to creep in like water when it’s quiet and I know it’s so easy to drown. I’ve kept my body from tensing, but I know all my emotions are visible on my face if only for moments at a time. Miles watches me, too kind to press, or maybe he’s just waiting for me to open up more. I need a distraction. When a group of three women stumble out of a bar, giggling down the street, the cadence of the music reaches out into the night, tangling around me.
The night has been amazing so far, but I need another jolt—I need my heart to beat out of my chest—I need to feel alive if only for shorts bursts of time. I walk into the bar, not caring if Miles is behind me. It’s dark and I feel the band—the thump of the bass—before I see them in the back. They’re playing folk mixed with jazz, and the song keeps luring me forward. It starts: I hardly know my name.
There’s a small dance floor—or just a bit of floor where people have moved the tables and started to sway. Under the music I can hear the chatter of the people around me talking about heading out, but nothing can drown out the beat. I grievin’ myself away. Haven’t had a bite to eat since the day before yesterday.
I’ve never heard this song before, but something tells me it was written long ago—there’s a sense of place and time even though the tempo feels new and energetic. My feet are ready to hop in once again when there’s a hand on my shoulder, twisting me around. I turn to face a giant of a man with a hat far too small for his head. “You got ID?”
Shit.
Technically I do, but that’s not going to help me out at all since it’s not fake. I sputter and grasp for something to say when Miles circles around the guy and maneuvers his banjo to the front of his body, tipping his imaginary hat. “We’re the next act.”
“Next act?” The giant is narrowing his eyes, looking at Miles, then at the banjo, trying to figure out if this kid is for real.
“Yeah.” The lies come smooth and fast. Miles strums the banjo for effect, no care in the world. “Got a call from Mike that you could slot us in. We’re really excited to perform.” Miles turns to me. “It’s our what . . . third show?”
I nod far too eagerly but I am so far from good at this. Which is odd because with all the lying I’ve been doing to myself the past few days you’d think I’d be a pro by now. Instead I stumble on the words and inch closer to Miles. “Third, yes, third.”
Miles lets his charming smile shine and charges on. “Third show since we became an official band. The Midsummer Boys—‘Boys’ being more of a general term, like when you say ‘hey guys’ but there are also girls in the room, you know?”
The giant looks us over, probably taking in the blue hair, red wings, lack of any other band members, and only one instrument. If he doesn’t see what bad liars we are then he is probably drunk or too tired to care. Fingers crossed for either.
Finally he says, “Who the fuck is Mike?”
Welp.
“We just played Mid-Summer,” I blurt out.
“Who ain’t,” he says, and we are screwed, I know we are. “There is no second act today. We got open mic on Tuesdays.”
Miles has this earnest bewildered look to him now and it is golden. Give the kid an award, people. “I swear we got a call to perform.”
“I heard. From Mike. Who doesn’t exist. And you two don’t look old enough to be in here, let alone the vicinity.”
“We came all this way.” Miles is pushing it. I want to tug on his sleeve and leave before this gets any worse, but I’m frozen behind him, the giant’s face half in shadow, half illuminated by large swatches of blue light. “Is there any way we can go up and play?”
Uh, please no. I have no musical ability whatsoever.
“Not tonight.”
I let out a breath—no one here wants to hear me sing. I don’t want to hear me sing. Cats in heat would be worried for me if I started to sing.
“All right, I get it.” Miles drops his shoulder, letting out a sigh. “Bummed, but we get it. Can we stick around and check out our competition?”
Giant looks to me, then back to Miles, clearly asking himself if it is even worth it to continue this conversation. He should have thrown us out long ago, and he knows it. I’m hoping for the desperation of a man who is too tired to care and longs for the comfort of a good bed. Come on, Tired.
“No drinks,” he says finally. “I catch either one of you near the bar—”
Miles nods. “You got it.”
“Just music.”
“All we need.”
The giant leaves us and we both exhale, my body sags with relief.
“I knew you were trouble,” Miles says with a wink. We move closer to the band, picking out an empty table, and Miles leaves his banjo, reaching for my hand.
“Come on.” He motions me toward him. “You owe me for almost getting me clobbered.”
It’s true, Miles totally saved my butt. I go to stand up, but my wings get caught on the chair and tug me back down.
“It’s time to take these off.” I reach around the back and end up almost unhooking my own bra, my face flashing crimson. “Dang, she really tacked these on good.”
I scrunch up my nose and turn away from Miles, pointing at the wings. “Uh, can you?”
After a pause, I feel Miles close the gap between us. “What do—what do I do?” It’s the first time he’s sounded so unsure and nervous the whole night. It is strangely satisfying to fluster him.
“There’s a safety pin in the middle, just unhook it.”
I don’t add “without unhooking my bra,” but I have a feeling from the pauses in his reply that I don’t have to say that out loud. I can barely feel Miles’s hands as he works, his fingers like a whisper above my skin. If I lean back just a bit his mouth would be inches from my neck; I feel my body sway, getting closer without my permission, he’s right there, my head reaching just past his shoulder, and force myself to straighten. After another minute I feel the release of the wings and the removal of a weight I didn’t remember I was carrying.
“I’ve probably smacked so many people in the face with these,” I say as he hands them over my shoulder, steadying before I turn.
“All part of Mid-Summer.”
I drop the wings by the banjo and join Miles on the edges of the dance floor, just as the band starts playing a cover of “Come and Get Your Love” by Redbone. I feel far too conscious of where my body is positioned in comparison to Miles’s until more people join us, swaying around us. Then it feels like we’re all dancing together, one big mass of revelry, like it once was, and it’s okay to let go.
Heyyyy, heeeyyyyy, the song says, and I reply with my hips. Miles laughs and shakes his head. Soon I lose track of him, and I’m dancing with a stranger, a woman with long dark-brown hair and a red dress that reminds me of the twirling dresses of Broadway musicals; she’s wearing bright-green tights with thorns painted up her legs, accented with glitter. When she spins, she blooms, a blazing rose in the night. She’s switching partners left and right; she doesn’t care who she dances with as long as she dances—so we gravitate toward each other, tuned into the song and the call of the lead singer. Heyyyy, heeeyyyyy. I smile the kind of smile that will hurt in a minute, big and wide, pulling at my skin and tugging my muscles apart.
She and I are partners for this song and the next; people swell around us, but no matter how many twists and turns, the flash of red anchors me. I am safe with her, with this stranger, and I believe she feels safe with me. The costumes around me are coated in gallons of sequins and glitter and after each song I am coated anew with the shine of others.
I’ve never danced so much in my life, and it feels like in this one day I’ve used my body more than it’
s ever been used, more than it’s ever lived. I sway and I move and if I look the fool, so be it. I can sense Miles near me, his energy, ever present but not controlling, finding his own way to let go. The song goes on and on, and I close my eyes and let go because everyone on the dance floor is in it together, not caring if we bump into each other or step on toes.
Snippets of conversation travel above the music, broken pieces forming a whole.
“You gonna ride it out?”
“Yeah, you?”
“Darn straight—ain’t no safer place.”
“Few of us gonna kick it here until it passes over. Plenty of liquor to drink. We’ll be just fine.”
Song turns into song, and I feel arms wrapping around my waist and drawing me near. I know they belong to Miles without opening my eyes. I let him pull me near and move with me; he holds me by the waist as I lean back, testing his strength. The music slows, and I rest my head on his shoulder. From the corner of my eye I see the woman in red with her own partner; she catches me watching and smiles before she disappears. Miles wraps one arm tighter around my waist, the other across my back, sliding it up my arm to hold on to my hand. I feel my back tingling as we stay that way for more than one song; fast or slow, it doesn’t matter, we are constant in each other.
Miles’s breath is on my shoulder, his hand firm at my back. I am flush up against him, and it feels like the heat of the Louisiana sun courses through us. But as close as we are, we could get closer, I want to get closer. We need to get closer, and it scares me. Terrifies me. Enough to stop me from pushing this further, but not enough to pull me back, away, from him.
How can you want so much in so little time?
I shut my eyes again and let the thoughts just roam: Miles kissing me. Miles running his hands down my body, settling on my lower back just above my bare skin—I tense. As if he sees what I’m thinking, Miles dips his head down to my neck and lays a soft kiss along my skin. Then another.
He rests his hand on my cheek. “Too much?”
“No,” I lie. It is too much, and yet not enough. Miles tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and waits, his hand now just a gentle presence on my back. I tilt my head toward him, an invitation. He closes his eyes, leaning toward me, our lips almost brushing when we are jostled away from each other.
