I shake Anders off of me, pushing myself up to kneel beside her. “Shit. Are you okay?”
“What about me?” Anders is lying on the floor next to me, his eyes closed, laughing hysterically. He smells like beer and sweat—which he’s drenched in. Drumming is a full-body, cardio event for Anders.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Vee’s voice is shrill.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t—” I just look at Anders and shake my head.
She pushes herself onto her knees. “Steve, get your stuff. I’m taking you home.”
“No way are you driving my car again.” Steve shakes his head maniacally, his eyes half closed. Also drunk. “My transmission can’t handle it, Vee.”
“Should have thought of that before you got trashed here … again,” Vee says.
“I’ll drive it.” I basically just assaulted a girl I barely know, with my elbow. A girl I’ve sort-of, kind-of, but-not-really, been stalking. I have to do something to redeem myself. “I can drive a stick. Vee can follow me and bring me back to get my car?” I look to her for confirmation.
“Or I can just drive your car, and you can pick me up for school in the morning?” She’s asking me, but she’s glaring at Logan. I don’t mind the sound of that.
“No way are you driving his car,” Logan says.
Vee is on her feet, one arm still wrapped around her ribs. “Why the hell not?”
I agree. Who made Logan in charge of anything? This idea is brilliant.
“I don’t let you drive my car, and it’s a total piece of junk compared to his.”
“It’s cool, she can drive. I’ll drop off Steve, then I’ll drop her off at home.” I turn to Vee. “You good with that?”
She nods and without a word she’s headed toward the steps.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Logan is next to me. “Seriously, your car’s sweet. You’ll have to let me take it out sometime.” Logan smacks my back, like we’re friends. Maybe we are. “Parents?”
I freeze, glancing to where Vee just escaped. “Drug money.” Another nervous answer. I’m Cam, a Cheesehead drug dealer. Nice to meet you.
“Ha. Nice, man.” Does he know I’m joking? I’m joking, Logan. “Glad you’re here.”
When I get outside, Vee is standing next to my car. Both of them are almost invisible in the unlit darkness of the driveway. Steve gets into the passenger side of his car.
I cross the driveway and hold the keys out in front of Vee. “Here.”
“I can’t drive this.”
I shake the keys at her again. “You’ll be fine, it’s an automatic.”
Vee still looks skeptical, her eyes glancing down toward the gleaming chrome of the handle.
“It’s just a car.” It’s actually a BMW 4 Series Coupe with leather racing interior, custom rims, Italian tires, and a bunch of touch-screen controls I still haven’t learned how to use in the last two months. I could have bought a small house in Riverton for what it cost, but I didn’t care about that. I got it, because I could. And it didn’t cross my mind that it would stand out like a sore thumb in this town. I want to tell her not to stress—that most of the time I fucking loathe the thing. This is what having dead parents looks like: a fancy car, a poorly decorated apartment, and an autographed guitar that I’m too guilty to play. And of course, the stupid surfboard. Grand total: $74,752.
I’ve barely made a dent in the blood money. My dad was an engineer for an alternative energy startup, and my mom was VP of a telecom. We didn’t live what I would have considered flashy lives, because my parents didn’t grow up like that. But we could have. And I could have moved to somewhere tropical off my portion of their insurance and stock portfolio. Instead, I’m standing in the middle of Cornfield, USA, arguing about letting a cute girl drive my stupid car. Is this all to get out of riding to school with me in the morning? I push the keys into her palm, and walk back to Steve’s boxy red Buick.
“I won’t even tell if you bump it over the speed limit once or twice.” I wink at her and duck into the driver’s side of Steve’s car before she has a chance to argue.
In the rearview mirror, I watch as she hesitantly gets into my car, carefully adjusting all three mirrors. Steve is slumped against the window and I’m reaching over to pull the seat belt across him when a tap against the glass echoes through the silent car. Vee’s face is just an inch away and I roll it down, ready for the fight over my car to continue. “What’s wrong?”
She holds out her phone. “In case we get separated. I don’t want you driving aimlessly through the country with Drunkie McDrunkerson over there.” She nods toward Steve, who is motionless against the window, his breath creating moist circles on the glass.
I type in my number, press send, and a second later my own phone is vibrating in my hand. “Cam’s Taxi Service. Providing rides to underage drinkers and middle-aged alcoholics since 2016.”
* * *
By the time I dump Steve at his front door, Vee has moved to the passenger seat of my car. I make my way around to the driver’s side, sliding behind the wheel.
She fidgets in her seat when I sit down, like she’s trying to put space between us. Her voice is quiet. “My house is in town, by the school.” She tips her head back and closes her eyes. All I can hear is her breathing and mine. It reminds me of the nursing home, and listening to her through the curtain, sure she’d find me eavesdropping.
“Start playlist four.” I say each word slowly, hoping the system picks it up and I don’t have to repeat it four times, like an idiot.
She doesn’t open her eyes but smiles in the darkness as the music begins. “Show-off.”
We drive for miles in silence before she says anything. “Sometimes it’s nice just to be quiet.”
I want to agree with her, but then I’d be talking. If I don’t say anything, will she think I’m ignoring her? Or that I didn’t hear her? Deep breath, Cam. Get a grip.
“You know, like sometimes—with certain people—if you don’t talk, it just feels uncomfortable?” Her eyes are still closed, her head tipped back against the headrest. “Like your whole relationship is based on the things you say to each other.” She looks over at me and I take it as permission.
“Talking can be exhausting. People think it’s a contest. Like how much they talk to you—or how much they know about you—has some sort of correlation to how much they actually care about you.”
“And you don’t think it does?” She turns to look at me, her cheek pressed against the headrest. “You don’t think that’s basically the definition of caring about someone? I mean, if your best friend isn’t the person who knows the most about you, how else would you define it?”
If she had heard all the people who talked to me nonstop for the last ten months, their words piling up meaninglessly like their frozen meals—words for the sake of words—she would never ask me this. “I don’t think you have to know someone’s life story to care about them.” Even with the music, I swear I can hear my own breathing, acutely aware of how loud it is. Why does she make me so goddamn nervous? Maybe I’ve become completely socially inept over the last few months. “What you don’t say means more, sometimes.”
Vee sits with her head back until we pass the school, but her eyes are open now. Something feels different. The air around us feels full, heavier, like the last moments before a rainstorm. “It’s just a few more blocks. Sycamore. Fifth house on the right.”
Her house is small, just off the main street that runs through downtown. It’s yellow, with navy blue shutters, and the lights are all off. Putting the car in park, I turn the music down. Is she out past curfew? It’s already after midnight, but she doesn’t seem to be in a rush.
“Why don’t you play in front of anyone?” As soon as the words come out, I regret them. I’m asking questions. Why am I talking?
“I’m just terrified.” She’s twisting a silver ring around her little finger. “I don’t even know what of.” There’s a long stretch of silence. I don’
t know if she’s going to speak again, and I don’t want to break it. She finally does. “Terrified they’ll hate me, maybe.” She sighs.
My stomach is twisting under my ribs like the first time I went out onstage with my guitar, wondering if the crowd would like me.
She’s taken her ring off completely, fingering it in her palm. “I started playing when I was eight. I was always writing these poems and making up little songs. So Nonni”—she turns to look at me—“that’s my grandma. She bought me this pink kids’ guitar for my birthday, and I taught myself to play watching online videos. Then Logan and I became friends, and a few years later he talked me into playing at the school talent show. We practiced this stupid song for weeks and I loved it. But onstage, I just froze.” She shrugs. “And I know this sounds completely cliché and stupid, and not a good reason at all.” She looks at me and rolls her eyes. “But I just sat there. Logan played that entire song by himself and he was amazing. People were floored by him.”
“And he was a jerk about it, or what?”
“Not at all. He felt horrible. And that made me feel horrible.” She pushes the ring back onto her finger. “I didn’t want him to feel bad about something he was so good at. That’s messed up.” She’s picking at her fingernails, scraping at the purple polish. “So I acted like it wasn’t a big deal. Said I didn’t even want to play anymore. And as far as most people know, I don’t. It’s still this annoying ‘remember that time’ story for a lot of people. Like that’s the one stupid thing people can remember about me. ‘Remember when you were ten and totally froze onstage?’ It’s hard to break out of that, to feel like you’re not that person.”
“That’s crazy.” I stare at her, wondering how she could be so confident about every detail concerning the band, and so completely unsure of herself.
“It is what it is.” Her voice is rough and quiet. And resigned.
I want to tell her that she’s crazy, and she has played for someone else. And he thinks she’s amazing. But I can’t say any of that. I have zero clue what to say right now. I should probably just let it go, but I can’t. I know all about reinventing yourself, and that’s exactly what she needs. “But what if it’s not ‘what it is’? What if I could fix you?” I regret the words the second they fall out of my mouth.
“Fix me?” Vee’s giving me the same look Logan got for saying she shouldn’t drive my car.
“Not—I just mean—sorry. I just—I think I know how to get you over it. If you want to try. I promise no talent shows will be involved.” I paint an “X” over my heart with my finger. “And no one else has to know if you don’t want them to.”
She doesn’t say anything, but finally she nods.
“What you need is an alter ego.” Her head swings toward me and I have her attention. “You need a completely different persona. Someone who isn’t afraid. No baggage with playing.” I give her my most serious face. “It won’t be easy. But it will definitely be fun.”
She finally smiles and the tension starts to dissipate. We sit in the dark, both of us silent as we stare out at her navy blue garage door. The paint is peeling. I’m counting the squares when she finally speaks again.
“This is good timing.” She’s nodding like she wants to convince herself of something. “It’s time to change things up, right? Say yes to new things.”
I know exactly what you mean. “It’s a great time to say yes,” I say, holding back a smile and keeping my voice even. “Say yes to everything.” I can’t help myself. It feels like I’m standing backward on the edge of a cliff, just waiting to be pushed off. Her eyes meet mine. And I swear to myself I’ve sat behind that curtain for the last time, because my heart is about to explode as I wonder if she’s about to call me out.
“Right.” Her eyes seem wild and on fire. A smile slowly pulls at the corners of her mouth. “Could you actually drop me somewhere else?”
I can still feel my heart pounding in my chest. “Sure. Where to?”
“The beach? It’s right down the street.” She looks away from me, her eyes fixed on the window. “But you already know that.”
I can’t help but smile. “I do.”
“I worked at the beach this summer and I saw you there. A lot. Hard not to notice someone on a stupid surfboard for that long every day.” She’s saying it like an apology, but I think I love that she remembers me.
“Hey, surfboards aren’t stupid. Lucy will be devastated by your lack of respect.”
“My apologies to Lucy. It’s not her, it’s just that trying to surf on a lake is stupid.”
I laugh. I figured out how stupid lake surfing was a long time ago. “What’s going on at the beach?” It’s already after midnight. She doesn’t seem like the type to light up in the dunes with the stoners. On really still nights, the sounds of their guitars and bongos float into the open windows of my apartment.
“I actually go there most nights. I guess it’s turned into a bad habit; I can’t fall asleep anymore without sitting there for a few hours, listening to the waves.”
“I totally get that.”
15 minutes later …
Cam:
How’s the beach?
Vee:
The usual. Sand. Water. Someone rocking the bongo.
And crazy waves
You’d probably like that
Cam:
I’ve been thinking about what you said
Vee:
About? I was sort of ranty tonight
Sorry about that
Is rant-y even a word?
Cam:
Gig clothes
Mine=horrible. You won’t approve.
Vee:
Uh oh
Cam:
Road trip tomorrow?
Vee:
Seriously?
Where to?
We have school
Cam:
After school. I’m not a delinquent
Wait. Are you?
Vee:
You’re a funny guy, Cam
Cam:
Finally someone notices
Vee:
No one can notice if you don’t talk
Really tho, where?
Cam:
I was thinking the mall
Vee:
Supposed to help Anders with his history paper
Cam:
You could be my personal shopper
Vee:
You know exactly what a girl wants to hear
Cam:
You can drive my car
Vee:
Tempting …
Cam:
Full music control. Final offer.
Can you really say no?
I thought we were saying yes these days
Vee:
Ok fine. YES
See you in the morning
And after school
CHAPTER SEVEN
NOW
VIRGINIA
Back when I thought I was coming on this tour as an intern—not as a pseudo-girlfriend slash band cheerleader—I decided it didn’t make sense to lug my guitar onto a cramped bus. I would be too busy to play much, anyway. Instead, I have no real job to speak of, aside from taking photos, writing band bios, and posting articles about life on the road. In the mornings most of the guys are still dead to the world, busy sleeping off their hangovers from the night before. It’s the perfect time to work on my own music. At least until I can figure out how to win Jenn over and get more involved with promoting the band.
Logan’s acoustic guitar has become an almost permanent fixture on my lap, and the small leather banquette in the kitchen area has an imprint of my butt. On a bus full of guys, it turns out the kitchen is the easiest place to hide. Stereotypical, but true. There’s only seating for two, and it makes a great hiding spot. Not to mention, the female fans who sometimes accumulate on the bus aren’t exactly Susie Homemakers, looking to bake their one-night guy a batch of brownies. If they were smart, they would. Last week, I figured out how to make Rice Krispies treat
s in the microwave, and received several marriage proposals. These guys are all about food that doesn’t come in a foil wrapper or paper bag.
The only person who ever infringes on my hiding spot in the kitchen is Tad. He and his camera have become something of my shadow. It doesn’t matter what mundane thing I’m doing—burning a bag of popcorn and filling the bus with smoke, working on the band’s website, unsuccessfully writing new songs, watching TV with the guys—he’s always filming it. Why? I have no idea. Of all of the things happening on this bus, I am far from the most interesting.
For the most part, though, we’ve all gotten used to the cameras. It actually reminds me of being at the nursing home with Nonni. There are always other residents around—playing games, reading books, lounging in the community spaces—but to Nonni, everyone seems to fade into the background. Everyone has an unspoken understanding that they exist in their own bubble. And the cameras have become the same; I hardly even notice them anymore. I don’t usually sing on the bus, but I’m up unusually early, and everyone is still asleep, so I just finished playing one of my favorites. It’s a song I wrote a few years ago called “Catastrophic Love.”
Tad pulls back the curtain to the kitchen and points his camera at me.
I set my guitar on my lap. “You’ve got an awful lot of footage of me.” I’m hoping Tad will catch on to my unspoken plea for privacy. “I hope you’re not making a Best-of-Vee Blooper Reel. I know where you sleep.”
Tad sets his video camera—which really just looks like a fancy digital camera—down on the counter. He gives me a lazy smile, running a hand through the wavy hair that frames his round face. “I’m getting bored filming the guys lying around in bed.” He’s leaning against the wall across from me. His legs are long and thin, but his arms and chest are wide and bulky. His dark skin is paled by his almost-black hair, which brushes his shoulders in waves. “And you seem much more interesting.” His eyes sweep up and down me.
“I promise you, I’m not.” I close my notebook and turn toward him. I’ve spent a lot of time looking at Tad. He’s like a really interesting collage of mismatched pieces you wouldn’t think go together, but work somehow. If I closed my eyes I’d guess that his were brown, because everything about him feels warm, but they’re a strange green. Tad’s become my go-to distraction, when I’m trying to avoid eye contact with Cam.
Love Songs & Other Lies Page 7
