by Kyra Davis
I suck in a sharp breath and put a little more pressure on the gas pedal, causing my twenty-year-old Volvo to sputter and shake as I force it past the speed limit. Perhaps I could chalk it up as just one more humiliation in the string of humiliations that has been my life, but the thing is that isn’t my life anymore! I’ve had my reincarnation, and the life that Ash was a part of is a life that he ended. It’s like when people insist they used to be Cleopatra in a past life. Those people really believe they used to rule Egypt and fuck Julius Caesar. Some of them “know” it. But it doesn’t really matter if it’s true or not, because in this life no one is driving them around in a chariot.
So yeah, I used to be Melody, but that’s over and nothing about her life applies to me. Nothing. I don’t associate with Melody’s friends, I don’t have her addictions—and I refuse to have her pain!
The only problem is someone forgot to tell that to Julius Caesar.
I roll down the windows with the archaic handle and let the wind lift my hair and pound against my skin. For just a moment there I had believed Ash when he told me that our meeting was fate. For a minute, an hour, a night, I had believed that the connection that Ash and I shared was stronger than loss. Stronger than death.
Suppressing tears I veer onto the Wendy Street exit, slamming down on the squeaky brakes in time to stop for the light. My greatest friend and my worst enemy has always been Hope. I suppose that’s one truth that really is stronger than death.
I don’t pull into Traci’s driveway until about twenty minutes after we were supposed to start, which experience tells me will be fifteen minutes before Tonio will arrive. There are two other cars in the driveway, parked tandem style, and several run-down clunkers parked on the street right in front. I can never figure out how many roommates Traci has. Sometimes it seems like four, other times I’m sure it’s ten.
I shiver a little as I step outside and don’t bother to knock on the door as I enter. I’m immediately greeted with grunts and waves by four guys, all in various states of recline. On the TV is the most recent Austin Powers movie, bright colors flashing against a scuffed gray screen. The place isn’t dirty—Traci always makes sure of that—but it’s cluttered and it reeks of weed. “They’re in the kitchen,” one of the guys on the couch, who looks disturbingly like Shaggy, informs me. I give a curt nod as I walk past them, although it’s doubtful he notices the gesture since his eyes never leave the TV.
The kitchen is a brighter, happier scene. Traci painted the walls a brilliant white and furnished it with the hippest things she could find at garage sales. And sitting at the triangle-shaped dining table is Brad, in a blue cotton button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, sipping coffee, his leather messenger bag in the chair next to him. Across from him with a blue floral teacup and saucer is Traci, a vision in a pink and turquoise tie-dyed Lycra dress and high pigtails that look like drooping alien antennas. Suddenly my black fitted T-shirt with the white hearts and skull pattern running up and down the long sleeves feels conservative. But one glance at Brad reminds me it’s not.
“You showed!” Traci says, jumping to her feet and giving me a hug.
Brad gives her a funny look. “Of course she showed. She wouldn’t simply not show up for a rehearsal.”
I don’t say anything and take a seat by Brad’s side. The truth is, I have ditched rehearsal a few times. Those were the rare days when I hid under the covers, unable to find the motivation or courage to get out of bed and face the world. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens.
“Is traffic bad?” Brad asks as Traci pours me a cup of black tea, using the service she recently found at the flea market. I stiffen slightly, irritated by his passive-aggressive way of reminding me that I’m late, but when I meet his gaze I see nothing but curiosity.
“Um, no . . . I mean not by LA standards. Took me about forty-five minutes.”
Brad processes this and checks his watch. “Should we call Tonio? See what’s holding him up?”
“Big boy here’s eager to start so he doesn’t have to listen to me whine about Benji,” Traci says with a light laugh as she reclaims her seat. “I caught him chatting up another girl last night. Totally messed with my head. I’ve been crying on Brad’s shoulder for the last twenty minutes,” she says, kicking Brad lightly with her blue platforms.
“It’s not that,” Brad insists. “But it’s important that I’m back in LA by seven thirty, and with rush hour . . .” He shrugs, checks his watch again. “I just want to be sure we get in some good—”
“What is this? High tea? Aren’t we missing the queen and her corgis?”
I swivel in my chair at the sound of Tonio’s voice. He’s smiling from the doorway, a thin layer of perspiration covering his forehead and his hand firmly on his hip. “Sorry I’m late. I had a little sleepover with a gorgeous blondie, but getting her to leave was almost impossible! Girlfriend just did not want to go!”
Traci and I exchange glances as Brad studies his coffee. Tonio has not come out of the closet yet, which makes for an uncomfortable situation for everybody, seeing that his closet has a glass door and is lit up with a strobe light. A few weeks back, Traci, Tonio, and I had watched some old Saturday Night Live episodes after rehearsal, and when Dana Carvey came on as Lyle, the effeminate heterosexual, the whole room fell into an incredibly awkward silence.
“Right,” Traci finally says, slapping both hands on the table. “We’re all here now. Let’s do this!”
Five minutes later we’re in the garage, pounding out harmonies that make the very ground beneath us vibrate. I try a few variations on our tried-and-true songs, going high where I used to go low. We allow Tonio a few more guitar solos, and it all works, but without the crowd, the stage, the lights, it always feels a little flat to me. Screaming out angry lyrics at nothing but air and half-empty paint cans, it’s almost depressing.
It’s not until Brad stops us about an hour in that things get interesting. “I was hoping we could try something,” he says as he reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a manila folder. Carefully he extracts several photocopies of sheet music.
“What the fuck is this?” Tonio asks as Brad hands one to him.
“Just something I wrote.” Brad gives me my sheet and then hands one to Traci.
I stare at the notes covering the page—all handwritten in pencil. “Um, we usually just jam it out,” I explain. “Traci will play around on the keyboard until she finds a good tune, or Tonio will just pluck one out, and then I’ll, you know, make up some words.”
Brad leans back on his heels, totally relaxed and unfazed. “If you don’t like the words, feel free to switch them up. After all, you’re the one who has to sing them.”
I stare at him blankly for a moment, holding the music to my chest. The guy has been in this band for less than two weeks. Where does he find the confidence?
Traci tentatively plays a few notes. They’re discordant, but not in a bad way. Just . . . different. Hesitantly, I hold the music out in front of me and look at the lyrics.
Who are you
To tell me not to fear
To tell me that
The night’s all safe and clear
You don’t know
The demons I see
You’ve never met
The monster in me
Tonio’s guitar whines to life as he joins in with Traci, who has now picked up the tempo. It’s a steady, haunting melody . . . even chilling.
Don’t say you know me
Every smile can lie
Don’t say you know me
Every monster can cry
Don’t say you know me
Don’t say you know me
My heart speeds up as I hear Brad join in with the drums. The beat gives the whole thing a rock ’n’ roll feel . . . but this isn’t an in-your-face song. Instead it has a . . . a stealthy quality to it. More Nine Inch Nails than Alanis Morissette, but maybe more melodic than either.
If I’m scared it’s because
>
I’m something to fear
If I’m angry it’s because
Of the one in the mirror
Don’t say you know me
The music is building; there’s an urgency now, an unmistakable warning built into this new rhythm. It’s ominous and important and exciting and just straight-up amazing.
Look, Luv, every heart
Is bloody and dark
When you learn that
The truth becomes stark
Don’t say you know me
I’m the monster who cries
Don’t say you know me
Don’t say you know me
The instruments fall silent. In fact, it seems that the world has fallen silent. I can see actual goose bumps on my arms. That’s never happened to me during a rehearsal before. Not once.
I pivot, staring at the man behind the drum set. His brown hair is cut short, his clothes neat, his smile bright . . .
Every smile can lie.
Who is this guy?
CHAPTER 9
WALKING OUT INTO the rapidly diminishing light I can’t help but feel a little disoriented. That last hour of rehearsal had been . . . different. Despite the angsty nature of our songs, our group’s unofficial motto has always been Don’t take anything too seriously. Sometimes we get decent-paying gigs, sometimes we don’t. We all find other ways to scrape by. As long as we’re having fun¸ everything’s groovy.
And today was fun, but it was also . . . work. We had never started with sheet music before. That would require one of us sitting at home, alone, working out a melody and then writing it down so we could teach it to the others. I had done that occasionally, but I had always been too embarrassed to bring those sheets of music to rehearsal. It felt like it would somehow screw up the dynamic of the band. Instead I had pretended to think up the songs and melodies during jam sessions, allowing the group to change what they wanted so it fit our vaguely socialist sensibilities. But Brad has woven in a thread of discipline. We went over and over that song, allowing this newbie to correct us and guide us. Tonio’s jaw was clenched tight by the time we were done, Traci looked a little bored. But I had sort of . . . loved it.
And here’s the kicker: at some point in the rehearsal I stopped thinking about Ash.
I get into my car, leaving the door open a moment to air it out as I warm up the engine. Brad walks out, the strap of his leather messenger bag crossing his chest diagonally. The look should be wimpy, but all it does is further emphasize his broad chest and muscular build.
“Your left headlight’s out,” he says, pointing to the dead light.
“Yeah, I know. It’s an electrical issue. Sometimes if I just . . .” I switch the headlights on and off a few times to see if it’ll kick in.
Brad is now standing right in front of the car, his head tilted slightly to the side, a vague expression of amusement on his face. “Now both of them are out.”
“Fuck.” I slam the base of my palm against the wheel before getting up and walking to Brad’s side so I can see the problem. “I guess I’ll just have to choose well-lit streets on the way home.”
Brad gives me a sharp look. “You can’t drive forty-plus miles on the 101 at night without headlights.”
“I’m in North Hollywood, so it’s more like thirty-eight, thirty-nine miles.” I look up at the layers of gray clouds that cover the sky. Rain is a distinct possibility. “I better get going.”
“I’m taking you back to LA.”
“Really,” I say dryly. “And are you driving me back here to Calabasas tomorrow so I can get my car?”
“There’s got to be a bus or something,” he muses.
“How long have you lived in LA, Brad? Public transportation isn’t really our thing.”
Sighing, he shuts his eyes and puts his finger to the bridge of his nose as if trying to work out a difficult equation. “Okay,” he says, his eyes still closed. “I’ll find a way to get you back here tomorrow, assuming you can’t get back yourself. We’ll make it work.”
I study him, taking in his appearance and his obstinacy. There’s something soothing about hearing him say the things that someone who looks like him is supposed to say. Men who wear button-down shirts and messenger bags are supposed to offer damsels in distress rides when they need them. What they’re not supposed to be are drummers in rock bands. I glance back at my car with its useless headlights. “I have an idea, wait here a sec.” Without waiting for him to answer, I rush back inside the house. Two minutes later I’m back to find Brad standing right where I left him, looking mildly bewildered and moderately annoyed. “Traci works at a clinic in NoHo on Thursday mornings, so I’ll just hitch a ride with her when she drives back here.”
“She works at a medical clinic?” Brad asks, surprised.
“Mm-hmm, she’s a part-time office manager of a medical marijuana clinic. Great pay, better perks. You ready to go or what?”
TEN MINUTES INTO the ride we’ve still barely said a word. I fidget nervously with my car keys, occasionally glancing back at the crumbs in the backseat or the Wall Street Journal and New York Times that lie by my feet. “This is a nice ride,” I finally say, desperate for some way into a conversation. “It’s a Saab turbo?”
“I just got it last October from a private dealership,” he says with a nod. “Seven years old.”
“And in good shape.” I stare pointedly at the radio. “That’s one of those stereo systems you can take with you, right?” I ask. “You can remove it from the car so no one steals it?”
“Yep.”
“It works?”
“It does.”
“You wanna turn it on?” I ask, frustrated that I have to spell this out for him.
“Not really in the mood for background music right now.”
“Okay, really?” I rest my head against my window. “You are one weird cat.”
He laughs at that, and I’m surprised at what an appealing sound it is. Deep, rich . . . It’s weird, but his laugh is actually sexy. I shift slightly in my seat, adjusting the strap of my seat belt. “Can I ask you something?”
“You want to know about that song I wrote.”
I smile, charmed by his intuitiveness. “What inspired it?”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes on the road as he changes lanes in an attempt to get around a truck. “Can I answer your question with a question?”
“I really wish you wouldn’t.”
Again he laughs, but he proceeds anyway. “What was your first impression of me when I walked in for the audition?”
“Um, yeah, let’s not go down that road.”
“Come on, I won’t be offended.”
“Well . . .” I gather my thoughts as the cars in front of us force us to slow. “You know that movie Weird Science? Where they turn that Barbie doll into a living woman? I thought you were kind of like a tame, male version of that.”
Brad’s forehead creases as he takes that in. “I’m not sure I’m following.”
“You know, you sort of seemed like a walking, talking Ken doll.”
“A Ken doll.”
“But with darker hair,” I say quickly. “And obviously I assume you’re anatomically correct and everything—”
“Are you serious?” He glances over at me, checking for signs of jest.
“Hey, a lot of little girls love Ken,” I point out, rushing to reassure him. “I mean, I didn’t, but there’s got to be a reason why Mattel has kept him around all these years.”
“Jesus.”
I throw my hands up in the air. “You asked the question.”
Brad is now scowling at the road as our speed continues to drop. “I have to admit I haven’t heard that one before. But I do know that people see me as a straight arrow, Ivy League type. A nice boy.” He says the last words with such contempt that I turn to him now with genuine curiosity. “People take one look at me and they think they know what I’m about.”
“But they don’t,” I say quietly.
“And the monster?” Outside someone is yelling curses through their open window, while someone else has just started blasting their music loud enough to vibrate half the highway with their bass. And beside me, brooding quietly, sits this beautiful anomaly. “The person who is afraid because he’s something to fear?” I press. “Is that you?”
“Music is interpretive.” He gives me a sidelong glance as little raindrops begin to pelt the windshield. “It could be me. It could also be you.”
My lips part, but no words come out. There’s something happening here, a bizarre and disturbing bit of magic. For a few minutes we don’t talk, just drive with no sound other than the increasingly rapid pounding of the rain.
“Damn,” he mutters, breaking the silence. “You know, I don’t think I’m going to be able to take you home.”
“But . . . you insisted on taking me home!” I sputter.
“I realize that,” he mutters. “But traffic’s a mess and I have dinner plans that I absolutely cannot be late for.” He narrows his eyes as he considers the situation, then gives me a curt nod. “You’ll have to join us.”
“Wait—”
“You’ll join us for dinner and then I’ll take you home,” he says definitively.
“But . . . you . . . you . . .” I have to struggle to get the words past the indignation clogging my throat. “I don’t know what your dinner plans are, but what if I don’t want to be your little tagalong? Or am I supposed to just go along with this because you say so? I suppose you think I should be happy to pony up pizza money just for the privilege of—”
“First of all,” he interrupts, “we’re not having pizza. Secondly, you don’t have to pony up anything. I have dinner taken care of.”
“Wait, now you’re paying for my dinner?”
