No More Confessions

by Louise Rozett

  “Hey. You need a ride somewhere?” I ask, hoping to postpone the inevitable.

  “Donnelly is taking a bunch of us into the city to see the play The School for Scandal at the Public. He wants us to see a period piece before Amadeus goes up next week. Tracy said I could ride with you guys to the station.”

  Robert is a talented actor—he’s gotten big parts in school plays since we met in the 6th grade. But this year, he won his biggest role yet—he’s playing Salieri in Amadeus in the fall show, a play about the greatest composer the world has ever known, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I always assumed that Mozart was the best part in the play, but Robert says the best part is actually Antonio Salieri, the composer who spends his whole life in torment over the fact that he’s not Mozart.

  It’s sort of a perfect part for Robert right now.

  “I’m here!” Tracy calls as she speeds toward us in open-toed boots high enough to break her ankles, her brown curls bouncing. “If we go right now, we can make the 3:30.”

  Robert and I get caught up in her frantic energy and jump in the car, even as I’m saying, “You usually take the 3:50 so we can get a slice.” Fashion magazines crunch under my feet and my butt. I used to make her move them to the trunk, but there’s no room in there anymore. Her car is basically a mobile fashion library.

  Tracy is backing out of her parking spot before we even have our seatbelts on. “Trace? Should I drive? You’re a little jacked up.”

  “Can you post the Sharp List for me this weekend, if I send you the copy?” Tracy races toward a yellow light and takes the turn out of the parking lot hard enough to throw me against the side door and bury Robert under a Vogue avalanche.

  “Slow down, Nascar!” he calls from the back, trying to extract himself.

  “The earlier train makes fewer stops and gets me into the city faster, which means I can…I can…” She trails off as if she can’t remember what’s important about getting there early. Her phone rings inside her bag and she starts digging for it.

  “Hands-free, Trace,” I remind her.

  “Right,” she says, hitting the “answer” button on her steering wheel. The display on her dash says “Peter.”

  Here we go.

  “Hey, babe!” she says. “I’m in the car with Rose and Robert.”

  “Rose, did you get my text?” Peter sounds annoyed.

  “Hellooooo?” Tracy says pointedly.

  “Sorry, Trace. Hi.”

  “I forgot to charge my phone last night,” I lie. “Did you talk to Mom?”

  “Yeah. Did you watch it?”

  “Watch what?” Tracy says.

  “Rosie.” Peter ignores Tracy’s question. Tracy looks confused and irritated that her boyfriend is ignoring her.

  “Not yet,” I tell him.

  “Don’t,” he insists. I can hear in his voice that he’s speaking from experience and suddenly I feel bad about ignoring his text last night. My brother is a recovering addict—he missed half of last year after being asked to leave school and go to rehab. His sobriety is “tenuous,” as he would say. The least I could have done was text him back.

  “What are you guys talking about?” Tracy demands.

  “Rose didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” Tracy’s voice goes up a full octave.

  “There’s video of the explosion. Some asshole in Texas put it online,” Peter says.

  “Stop!” Robert yells from the backseat.

  Tracy slams on the brakes, narrowly missing the guy in front of us who stopped at the yellow light she was planning on blasting through. The Vogues crash into the back of our seats as she lays into her horn, despite the fact that almost hitting him was her fault.

  “You guys okay?” Peter asks. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I tell him, covering for Tracy. “We’re fine.”

  Tracy turns to me, slow and deadly. “Fine?” she hisses. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “I was about to. I just didn’t feel like getting into it in school. You better be mad at Peter, too,” I say like I’m 10. “He didn’t tell you either.”

  “The light’s green,” Robert says. “Pull over, Tracy. I’m driving.”

  Tracy guns the car. “I am mad at both of you! How am I supposed to be there for you—”

  “Don’t make this about you,” I snap. A heavy silence fills the car. Even Peter is quiet as we take the turn into the station and pull up at the drop-off area.

  “Tracy, call me when you’re on the train. Rose, charge your damn phone when you get home,” Peter demands before he hangs up.

  Tracy leaves the car running and hops out without looking back. No “goodbye,” no “thank you.” She’s on her phone before she’s through the station door—I’m sure she’s already talking to Peter. Robert reaches over the front seat and squeezes my shoulder.

  I’m used to their relationship now but I have to admit there are still times when it sucks that my best friend and my brother are a couple. There isn’t always room for me in there, even when I need it. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last two years, it’s that life goes on regardless—it doesn’t care if you’re on board or not.

  “A video? That’s crazy, Rose,” Robert says as I climb from the passenger seat into the driver’s seat. “I don’t have to go tonight, you know.”

  Robert was a great friend to me when my dad died. He came to the funeral, and sat behind me handing me fresh tissues every few minutes. We’ve had our ups and downs since, but that’s something I’ll never forget.

  “Thanks. That’s nice of you. But I’m fine.”

  When it’s clear that I’ve said all I’m going to say on the matter, he gets out of the car. “Let’s hang out this weekend.”

  I know he genuinely means it, but I also know he wants to be in close proximity to someone who’s in close proximity to Holly. He’s hungry for every single detail I’m willing to provide about Holly and Cal because he’s planning to get her back if it’s the last thing he does. He wants my help, but I can’t help without betraying Holly, and I’m not willing to do that.

  Robert liked me for four years—sixth grade through ninth—and I liked the attention. We went to homecoming together freshman year, but I ended up kissing Jamie for the first time that night. Not the classiest thing I’ve ever done. Then last year, Robert met Holly, and that was that—he fell for her hard.

  As I watch Robert head into the station, I feel bad for him. Even if Cal and Holly do break up, the chances of Holly giving Robert another shot are slim. But the heart wants what the heart wants, whether it’s good for you or not.

  Not that I’d know anything about that.

  “Sour Cherry,” Midnight Boom, The Kills

  _______________________

  Chapter 5

  “Stop! Stop, stop, stop.”

  Angelo’s amplified voice bounces off the walls of the garage. He waves his arms like what I’m playing is causing him physical pain and I have to stop immediately.

  “Sweater, what the hell! Ya still can’t play an F chord?” He takes his guitar off and leans it against the amp. “Ya didn’t practice, and now ya gotta get spanked. Get over here.”

  “Angelo!” Stephanie says, pretending to be shocked that her boyfriend is flirting with me. She knows Angelo is incapable of talking to a woman without flirting. She also knows his heart belongs entirely to her.

  “How’s she gonna play rhythm if she don’t practice, Steph? Your guitar is out of tune, Rose. Give it here. What the hell wouldja do without me, huh?”

  I hand off Angelo’s old guitar to him. He demands total silence so he can tune by ear—he claims digital tuners are bullshit. It cracks me up when Angelo gets super serious about music. I think it’s the only thing he’s serious about besides Steph. And of course, me getting up to speed on guitar. Which, for some reason, I keep not doing.

  We’re in the practice space at the back of Angelo’s father’s garage. Angelo works here as a mechanic
when he’s not “on tour.” There was a minute there, after Angelo graduated at the end of my freshman year, when he booked a six-month van tour for his band and it looked like they were going to get signed. But the label that was interested signed the lead singer and told everyone else to get lost.

  Angelo was pissed for a while, and then he just started a bunch of other bands—no one was going to tell him he couldn’t be a musician. After he heard me in the school musical and realized that I couldn’t blend with the other singers if my life depended on it, he convinced me to audition for him. It turns out that an inability—actually, an unwillingness—to sound like other people was exactly the quality Angelo was looking for in a lead singer. Then he pulled Stephanie in to play percussion—which it turns out she’s really good at—and sing backup. And our band was born.

  The truth is, singing has saved me over the last year or so. Tracy had fashion, Robert had acting—I’d been trying to find something that could give me refuge from the shit-storm of my life. I didn’t discover singing until the end of my freshman year, but once I got going, it changed everything. It was mine, it wasn’t about my dad’s death or my family or my friends or a guy. It was just mine.

  “Rosie, I think we sound good on those chorus harmonies,” Steph says.

  “Baby, don’t distract her right now. She’s gotta concentrate. We’re gonna play our first gig by the end of the year no matter what, and that ain’t so far away. Sweater, get over here.”

  It used to be that Angelo used his nickname for me with affection—he started calling me Sweater after we met in study hall and I was wearing my new back-to-school sweater even though it was 90 degrees out—but now he only uses it when he’s annoyed.

  I roll my eyes at Steph and head over to the gross futon couch in the corner. I have to push an old takeout container onto the floor before I can sit down, and whatever was in there—now congealed to a solid block—clunks when it hits the floor. He hands me back my guitar, and then twists my fingers into the unpleasant position required for the torture chord, as I like to call it.

  “Well, I know how this goes,” Steph says. “I’m going around the corner to pick up the pizza. Y’all want anything else?”

  “Hurry, Steph, I’m starvin’.”

  “No, babe, people in countries without food are starving. You’re just hungry. Semantics are important.” Steph leans over and gives Angelo a kiss on top of his head. Her beautiful red hair slides down the side of his face. He gently grabs hold of it, leaning back to give her a real kiss, and I feel a pang. They’re lucky.

  “Don’t hurt Rosie,” she warns him when he lets go.

  “Please don’t be gone too long,” I half-joke, fearing for the safety of my hand.

  Steph sashays out of the garage in her super-skinny jeans and high-heeled boots, and Angelo watches her go like he’s never seen her ass before.

  “You still check out your girlfriend’s butt.”

  Angelo grins. “Wouldn’t you if you were me? Now shut up and play the intro, Sweater. You’re gonna play that freakin’ F until Steph gets back. Not like that. Like this.”

  Pain shoots through my hand from the outside of my wrist into the middle of my palm as he wrenches my fingers around the neck too hard. I howl, yanking my hand off the fret board.

  “Oh, shit, Rosie! You okay?” Angelo asks, grabbing my hand and squeezing it in both of his, trying to keep me from feeling the pain.

  “No, you big jerk!” I wail. “I’m not okay! Give me my hand back!”

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Refusing to let go, he presses his thumbs into my palm and massages. “Here, this’ll make ya feel better. Ya gotta get right in there—”

  Angelo and I look up at the same time, equally surprised to see Jamie standing there.

  I immediately feel like I’m doing something wrong, which is crazy given what I witnessed last night with Cargo Pants. Also, Angelo is Jamie’s best friend, and he’s also been one of my best friends since I joined his band last spring. Jamie knows Angelo is madly in love with Stephanie. He also knows that I think Angelo is the metal-head equivalent of a giant puppy. In short, there is nothing romantic between us.

  N-O-T-H-I-N-G.

  Of course, that statement could also apply to my relationship with Jamie right now. But I have to confess I’m enjoying the look on Jamie’s face. He is Jealous-with-a-capital-J.

  This is Jamie’s version of the Cargo Pants Incident. Fun.

  “Forta!” Angelo says. “Whatup, man? I didn’t know you were comin’ by.” He jumps up and crosses to Jamie, and then grabs his hand and shakes it like they’re business colleagues or something.

  Jamie looks from Angelo to me and back. Then he finally says, “I gotta talk to Rose. But it can wait.”

  “No, that’s cool, that’s cool. I’m goin’ out to Cavallo’s to, uh, help Steph pick up a pizza. You want pizza? Steph’s—”

  “You guys finish whatever you were doing.” Jamie looks at me again, then turns and walks out, the door slamming behind him, leaving us in the cool silence of the garage.

  “Shit,” Angelo says. “Was that weird? That mighta been kinda weird.”

  Steph comes in with the pizza. “What’s with Mr. Thundercloud? I asked if he wanted a slice and he didn’t even say hi. That boy was raised by wolves, I swear.”

  Angelo confesses instantly. “He just walked in on me holdin’ Rose’s hand.”

  Stephanie gasps, her big blue eyes wide. Then she starts laughing uncontrollably.

  “You weren’t holding my hand, Angelo, you were trying to make up for nearly breaking it,” I scoff.

  Stephanie is doubled over, her hands on her knees. “You made him jealous!”

  “Nah, there’s no way. I’ve known that guy my whole life. He ain’t like that.” Even as Angelo says the words, I can tell he’s not 100-percent sure that he’s right.

  “Well, babe, maybe he is like that now,” Steph says. “I mean, Rosie and Jamie—they’re a thing whether they’re on or off, you know? And you just…you just…” Stephanie doubles over again.

  Angelo can’t help but smile at Steph laughing so hard. But his smile vanishes when he looks at me. “It’s cool, right?”

  Is it cool? Does it matter if it’s not cool? “How should I know?” I shrug. “Does anyone ever know what’s going on in his head?”

  There’s a pause before Angelo says, “Shit.” He grabs his keys off his amp. “I’m gonna go talk to him.”

  He’s almost out the door when Steph catches his arm. “No, sugar, you’re not,” she says, wiping tears from her eyes. “It’s not you he wants to talk to.”

  *

  I push open the heavy metal door and Jamie is leaning against his car, his arms crossed, the fall sun setting behind him in a haze of gold, making him glow. Gold is definitely his color, and the pose is quintessential Jamie—I’ve seen it many, many times. I hate to admit that it still makes my stomach drop out. It probably always will.

  We’ve been here before. I know there are a bunch of different ways I could play this, including using Jamie’s favorite tactic, which is to say nothing, keeping all the power in the situation. I’m going to give that a whirl—it always works beautifully for him.

  “Hey,” is about as substantial as I’m willing to get.

  It’s a little windy, and my hair is blowing around my face. I shove it out of the way, and Jamie makes a surprise play, catching my left hand and inspecting it carefully. A familiar warmth tingles up my arm and I’ve already lost the battle. I always do.

  “Angelo was trying to make up for practically breaking my hand,” I say, fighting to keep my voice normal. “He doesn’t like the way I play an F chord.”

  Jamie nods and starts to run his thumb back and forth over my hand, massaging it. “Better?” he asks, his voice low.

  I don’t bother to answer. He already knows how it is. I’m sure it’s written all over my face. When he finally stops, I have no idea how much time has passed. I expect him to let go but he i
ntertwines his fingers with mine instead.

  I try to clear my head. “You wanted to talk?”

  He suddenly looks so desperately sad that I worry he’s about to tell me something horrible happened. “I was an ass last night.”

  I wait to see if there’s more, but apparently that’s the horrible thing that happened. I could make a joke to make him feel better, but I know how small these windows of opportunity are to talk to Jamie about something real and difficult. I choose my words carefully. “I’ve never seen you like that before.”

  “Yeah, well, I try not to let it get that bad,” he says, raising a bunch of questions I don’t ask. His grip on my hand loosens but I don’t let go.

  “Jamie. You can’t drive like that again.” He nods but doesn’t offer any assurances. “You could hurt yourself or someone else, or…” I drift off, wishing I didn’t sound so much like a health-class teacher. I think of Camber talking about Jamie in prison, which of course was exactly Camber’s intention when he burned that image into my brain. “I feel bad that you didn’t graduate. If you hadn’t been so pissed at me—”

  He extracts his hand from mine, holding it up in protest. “Not your fault, Rose.”

  I decide we can argue about that another time. “The thing is, Camber asked me to talk to you about the GED—”

  Jamie shakes his head. “He’s got you after me now?”

  “According to him, if you don’t take his class, you’ll spend your life drunk and brawling in parking lots.” I say it like I’m joking, but Jamie looks unnerved, as if maybe he’s already thought about this possibility.

  “What’s in it for you?” he says with a teasing half-smile that almost masks the worry in his eyes.

  “Everything,” I say, dead serious.

  He looks touched, and then troubled. So I hug him.