by Rae, Nikki
“I don’t think my heart is in need of feeling better,” I say, shrugging off my coat, but leaving my glasses on. “Or pancakes. I’m just sick, that’s all.”
Manny looks at me sideways. “No. That face needs pancakes.”
He didn't even ask if I wanted to come here. He simply helped me up, lead me down a few blocks to the Denny’s, and we sat down at a booth without any fight from me. My stomach lurches at the thought of eating, but when the waitress comes I order a stack anyway.
We don’t say much until we get our food, and then it’s still quiet until Manny is halfway done with his waffles.
“I’m gonna tell you a story,” he announces suddenly.
I take a sip of the flat coke I’ve neglected since the waitress set it down.
“When I was seventeen, I fell in love with a girl I went to high school with. We spent every waking moment possible together. We got jobs at the same record store together. We were inseparable.” Manny reaches across the table to grab some sugar packets.
“We were dating for two years when she got pregnant. She was a senior then, and I had dropped out my senior year to work as a mechanic at my dad’s shop. She didn’t want the baby, but I did.”
He lines up four sugar packets in his hand and rips the tops off of them.
“We knew everything about each other. Everything. We never kept secrets.” Manny slowly stirs in his sugar before moving onto the cream. “When she broke up with me, she never returned my calls. When I showed up at her house time after time, her father threatened to call the police. Then she moved away. Called me a few years later saying she had taken care of our baby situation. I didn’t know what to do. It was like part of me was gouged out, torn from the roots.”
Manny pauses, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “You aren’t eating your pancakes?” He asks.
I take my knife and fork in my hands, but I can’t bring myself to eat just yet. Instead, I dig my utensils into the stack in front of me, breaking them up into smaller pieces.
“Then a few years ago,” Manny continues. “She came to one of our shows wanting to talk. It was then I got to understand.”
He takes a small sip of his coffee, makes a slight face, then grabs two more sugar packets.
“She explained to me that she wasn’t ready for it. That she couldn’t do it. That most importantly, she was afraid that when I saw that she couldn’t do it, I’d hate her for lying to me about what a caring and selfless person she was.”
I stare down at my plate, deciding to put the silverware down before all that’s left is pancake dust.
“So. What does this have to do with me?” I ask.
“I’m just telling you a story. It may be relevant, it may not.” His tone hints that he might know more than he’s letting on.
Honestly, when someone is always around someone they call their boyfriend, and then one day you find them crying and sick with said boyfriend missing, it’s not hard to figure out what’s wrong. But I appreciate the fact that he’s not mentioning any of it.
“The point is,” Manny continues. “When you love someone and they break a part of you, your soul has a tendency to fill up the cracks they leave behind. No matter how many pieces are missing.”
Manny smiles for the first time since he received his waffles, then it fades away.
“It’s not that I’ve forgiven her. It’s not that I even love her anymore. Lies are like poison. If you get a little bit in your system, it spreads until it destroys whatever relationship you had. But I can understand. I can see what her thought process was. Not that it was right. Not that it was fair. Not that it was entirely up to her.”
“Your soul, huh?” I say. “I don’t know, it sounds like she screwed you over.”
He takes a gulp of coffee before going on. “Yeah. She did. And I still hate her for it.”
“So you’re saying that hate helped you?”
“No. I’m saying that a few months after all this happened, Peebs asked me to front a band he was getting together. A month after that, we were playing at Midnight, then touring all over the U.S.” He pauses, looks me in the eye, and for a moment I can see the sadness that he’s hidden so well. The loss that he keeps concealed.
“From then on, I found a way to feel better. Singing about monsters and gorillas…that’s all just fun. It’s the fact that when I go up on that stage, people love us, they care. There isn’t anything like that.”
The waitress comes by to refill his coffee and he grabs more sugar packets once she’s left.
“Every time we play a show,” he says. “One small part of me gets set back into place. It’s never completely right. It never feels the same as it did, but it’s better than walking around the way I was before—a shattered man.”
I give him a sympathetic smile as a response.
“So. Does my story help at all?” he finally asks.
Though I’m grateful that he’s shared this really personal story with me, it still doesn’t change the fact that Myles lied, which only makes me wonder about what else he’s lied about. But I nod anyway, because I can’t imagine not nodding.
“Thanks, Manny.”
“No problem.” He gives me a smile and we both stand. Manny lays a ten dollar bill on the table, making it look like I’m thanking him for the pancakes instead of the heart to heart.
“Let’s get some practicing in before tomorrow, huh?”
“Sounds good to me.”
Because I have some cracks that need repairing, and there’s only one way I know how to do that.
Avoidance
Chapter 9
“You’re an angel with an amber halo, black hair, and the Devil’s pitchfork.”—Modest Mouse
To say waking up on Thursday morning is hard would be an understatement; to say that the option of sleeping in on Thursday morning would be easier is a lie. So I compromise and drag myself out of bed at noon.
I already have two missed calls from Jade, saying that he and Stevie are on their way and maybe we could hang out before I have to meet Honus at the club. Tonight’s the night I play with them. I should be excited, but I only find myself tired.
I ignore the little red phone symbol that appears next to Myles’ name as I’m scrolling through my contacts. It’s been three days, and we haven’t seen each other, but he calls once a day, I guess to see if I’m ready to talk. I’m not, but my chest aches whenever I see his name pop up.
Well, I succeeded in not thinking about him for half a minute today.
I send Jade a text to say sure, then turn off my phone so I can take a shower and not have to worry about anyone else calling.
When I turn my phone back on after I’m dressed, there are no missed calls or messages aside from the new one from Myles. I’m thankful he doesn’t leave voicemails. I can say that I wouldn’t listen to them, but I’d be kidding myself.
The rest of my day is spent tinkering around my apartment and trying to ignore the fact that despite how lonely I am, I don’t want to be around anyone. I spend hours on washing already clean dishes, doing laundry, not looking at the painting above my couch, and not glancing down at the Band-Aid at my collar that I haven’t had the nerve to take off.
At five, I go downstairs to the practice space and lock myself in. I have two hours of piano time all to myself, and I intend to use them without interruptions and without worrying that uninvited guests will drop by. Of course this will probably be the first place Myles would look for me, and of course he could break the lock. But I risk it. If he knows what’s good for him, he won’t show up.
I plug my headphones in and listen to the first song we’re supposed to play tonight. Manny’s raspy voice fills my ears before any of the other instruments kick in, and then the piano starts in the chaotic way he plays it. After about thirty seconds, I think I have the rhythm down, so I start playing the song the way I remember it—fast and pounding on the lower scale and slightly higher, with more complicated patterns on the higher one.
It
goes well for about an hour. I manage to not think about anything other than notes, cords, positioning my hands in the right way, and the order in which to do all of these things. But then I have to pause because my phone is vibrating in my pocket with a call from Boo, who tells me he, Trei, and my family will meet me at his apartment. After that, my brain is done.
I can’t concentrate on anything else but Myles, why he lied to me, and how I have no idea what I’m going to do.
I don’t cry. Thank God I don’t cry.
I slam into the piano for the rest of the time I have, not practicing the songs for tonight, not playing anything recognizable other than confusion and anger and sadness.
When I’m through, I text Boo back that I’m running late and won’t be able to see them before the show. I don’t want them to see me.
I head directly into the dressing room when I arrive at Midnight. I’m early, but I don’t know what else to do with myself. They told me to wear a plain white tank and jeans so I would match the rest of the band.
There’s a girl’s suit jacket hanging on the back of the door with a note in Manny’s chicken scratch that says, “For Pinky”. I technically don’t have to wear it for sound check, but I throw it on. It covers the bandage on my chest so no one will question it and I don’t have to think about it.
It’s around seven when Manny meets me behind the curtain.
“Hey,” he addresses me, as well as the rest of the band when they hop up on stage. Everyone else is already wearing jackets identical to mine.
“You look good, Pinky,” Manny says.
I try to crack a smile, but I just stare down at my clothes when that fails. “Thanks.”
The rest of Honus is busy with their own conversations, so I guess Manny sees it as an opportunity to chat with me. I was worried he’d be asking me how my heart was, but instead he asks, “Did you get a kazoo?”
I reach in my back pocket and produce the yellow plastic I found inside the suit.
“Good,” he says.
“When do we use these?” I’m not exactly worried, but it would still be nice to know when the theatrics are going on so I don’t mess everything up.
“Oh don’t worry.” Manny smiles. “You’ll know.” Then he switches topics. “You don’t have any face paint on yet.”
I glance around at the other band members. “No one else has any on.”
“Well, yeah. We should do that.”
So after tuning the instruments on stage, telling the sound guys up, down, louder, or softer, Peebs produces a black plastic bag which he dumps the contents of between us.
There are about ten metal tins of various colors: black, white, green, yellow, and blue.
“Clown paint?” I ask, genuinely in awe of how someone can find it in June.
All of them kneel down and start picking up the hues they want. I do the same and get my hands on a black tin.
“Psh,” the sound comes from Peebs, who’s opening the yellow.
Ewok rolls his eyes before smearing blue paint into the tips of his long, scraggly beard.
“Stage paint,” Manny corrects, though I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s called it clown makeup more than on one occasion and been corrected the same way.
“How did you get it?” I observe them all dipping their fingers into the thick goo and spreading it over their faces in different patterns. They don’t use mirrors; they’ve probably done this lots of times before.
Manny joins them, drawing red lines on his cheeks.
“We pick it up in bulk after Halloween, then we ration it until we get our next chance.”
He opens the white tin next, spreading the paint in two lines under his eyes like a football player.
“So why are we wearing paint if we’re covering it up with masks?” I ask.
“Psh,” from Peebs again.
“We only wear the masks during our entrance,” Manny explains.
“Yeah,” Peebs butts in. “It took us one show to realize that we couldn’t play through the whole thing with the masks on.”
“That’s ‘cause you pussied out,” Bear says, adjusting his white sweatband in his thick curls so he can spread more paint on his forehead..
“More like passed out,” from Skinny.
“You need help?” Manny asks, turning to me.
The rest of the band glances at me and I realize that I’m the only one without face paint on.
“I guess.” I shrug. “I’ve never done this before.”
That, and I’ve become slightly aware of a twinge in my chest again and it’s making it hard for me to concentrate. It isn’t painful, not quite. Just there. I take a deep breath and try to forget it. The only reason I can think of as to why I’m feeling it now is because Myles is probably somewhere in the building. I must dwell on this for no longer than five seconds, but God, is it a long five seconds.
I’m not sure to be thankful or uncomfortable when Manny begins to spread the paint on my face himself.
I hadn’t noticed that I closed my eyes to ignore the sensation in my chest, but when they shoot open, ready to ask Manny what he thinks he’s doing, he’s smiling innocently and concentrating on drawing a line of cool black paint on my left cheek.
“I think you look like a warrior type,” Manny comments, taking the paint across my nose and other cheek. I think he’s done, but he takes more paint and draws a line right on top of the scar from the breathing tube, which is peeking out from my jacket. It’s strange, having him touch me there with only this small layer of makeup between our skin, but it’s not as personal as if he were to touch a different scar.
“You need a warrior story,” Manny says, switching to white now. “This,” he says, “is where your power comes from.” He dots three blobs of white paint above the scar on my throat.
I allow a small smile, closing my eyes again as he dots freckles onto my cheeks.
I want him to go on with the story. To tell me that I am a warrior and cannot be defeated, as long as I have my voice, but he stops touching me and says, “All done.”
The hour between composing ourselves and eight o’clock is short, and before long, we’re on stage again. This time, there’s an audience cheering through the velvet curtain.
“Here,” Manny says as he hands me a furry gorilla mask. “Pancakes after?”
Once the elastic is wrapped around the back of my head, I nod. “Sure.” My voice is muffled by the mask.
Jamie is already on stage introducing us. I assumed that I was asked to play with Honus because Manny wanted to run around stage rather than be tethered to the piano for one night, but Jamie makes it clear that they wanted everyone to know who was joining them.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” I hear his disembodied voice say. The microphone coated sound bounces off of the stone walls in between people’s conversations and excited cheers. “Honus, with special guest, Sophie Jean of An Anachronism!”
They cheer at the normal freak out level when they hear the band’s name, but it raises a whole octave when Jamie announces mine. For the first time, I realize the fans are excited that I’m playing tonight too.
Instead of being nervous, this notion makes me incredibly excited, letting me slip out of my problems with Myles as I step out from behind the curtain and follow the rest of Honus. The mask over my newly painted face smells like a combination of rubber and plastic when I sit down at the piano strung with red Christmas lights.
The drums roll on when Skinny takes his seat, egging the crowd into louder applause. It’s already hot on stage, and I can’t wait to get even sweatier when we start. Hopefully by the end I’ll be just a puddle on the bench, nothing more.
I follow the band’s cue, ripping off my mask with the rest of them.
I look around at the audience as I wait for Manny’s signal to begin playing. I see Boo and Trei’s faces peeking out between strangers and I smile at them. Then a few feet to the left, up even closer to the stage, are Stevie, Laura, and my brother. They wav
e when they see me notice them, and I wave back.
What I don’t want to do is pay attention to the tingling in my chest, but it’s pretty hard to ignore. It’s like my lungs and heart are being pulled in a certain direction. I know where my body wants my eyes to look, and before I can stop it, they’re on him.
Myles is standing over the balcony, his white hands gripping onto the shiny, gold railing. His eyes are directly on mine, but his mouth doesn’t move. His expression isn’t happy. I’m glad to see that at least we’re both somewhat miserable.
Then a final rush of screams and applause floods the stone room as the lights go dim again.
We start with the first song as I make it my mission to ignore Myles for the rest of the night. It’s my goal to get through the entire show without acknowledging the ache in my chest or my sadness. I’m going to have fun, or at least look a hell of a lot like it.
We go through the entire set list. The alien songs, the werewolf ballad—all of the things we practiced for weeks coupled with cues of when to bust out the kazoos or confetti or back up on vocals. A lot of things are improvised on the spot, but it goes smoothly.
And then we’re done.
It’s only when I’m walking off stage that I see Myles still standing in the same spot, his hands clamped around the railing, his expression tense.
The curtain closes and I follow Honus back to the dressing room successfully without thinking about the emotion I saw there.
Peebs throws a white towel at me and I sponge the sweat off of my face and chest. White and black paint is stuck to the fabric when I pull it away.
I grab a water bottle. A package of them appeared on the counter while we were playing.
Boo and Trei enter next, almost as sweaty as I am in their black Honus T-shirts and shorts.
“You guys were awesome!” Boo says, closing in for a hug.
I don’t want to exchange sweat with him, but I throw an arm over his shoulder anyway.
“Thanks, guys.” My voice is hoarse and my chest aches more than it had before, though I don’t know if it’s because of Myles being so close or singing and screaming during our set.
