Ballads of Suburbia

by Stephanie Kuehnert

  Adrian yanked me past his dad as soon as I slipped into my sneakers.

  “They kicked me out a week ago,” he said dismissively as he started his car. “If I go home, I have to go back to school, go to therapy, all this bullshit.”

  I nodded numbly. “That sucks.” All I could think about was that he still hadn’t returned my “I love you.”

  He sped down a side street, staring straight ahead as he spoke. “I’m going to get Quentin from Scoville. I’ll drop you off at home first.”

  Great, I’d said “I love you,” and now he didn’t want to hang out anymore.

  “If we go to Shelly’s tonight, I’ll call you, but I don’t think we’re going since we’ll be there tomorrow.” He broke the distance between us, reaching, I thought, for my hand, but instead his fingers found the volume knob on the stereo. He turned the music up and leaned away from me again, not speaking the rest of the way to my house.

  I looked out my window and thought of an article I’d just adapted for our screenplay. In Omaha, Nebraska, a teenage couple had been poised to have sex when the guy’s dad walked in, but they’d been more startled than Adrian and I and they were doing some kinky knife-play thing, so the guy ended up accidentally slitting the girl’s throat. It seemed a lot worse than my situation, but when Adrian dropped me off, kissing me lightning fast and leaving without a word, I actually wished our near-coital experience had ended in my death, too.

  6.

  ADRIAN HADN’T JUST REJECTED ME, HE’D left me without something to do on a Friday night for the first time since April. I entered my house in a daze, wandering toward the kitchen. Other than grabbing a banana when I woke up or chips to satisfy a late-night stoned craving, I hadn’t eaten at home since June. Mom had insisted on having family dinners after Dad moved out, but her tendency to burst into tears before the food was dished out put a damper on things. Liam and I stopped coming home for dinner and eventually Mom stopped leaving us notes about the leftovers, let alone expecting us.

  Sometimes, while I scarfed down fries and coffee at a diner, I thought about Mom. In my mind, she remained the weeping woman I just couldn’t deal with. So I was surprised to see her reading the paper peacefully as she ate. I should have realized that almost three months had passed since my parents split, and if I’d had time to fall in love, she’d had time to mend her broken heart.

  She caught sight of me hovering in the doorway and her face brightened. “I didn’t know you’d be home. I can cook you something.”

  I practically had to leap in front of the refrigerator to prevent her from springing into action. “I’m not hungry.”

  A crestfallen expression dimmed her features. “You’re just passing through, huh? I haven’t seen you and Liam all summer.”

  I expected her to study me critically. Notice that my hair smelled like cigarette smoke and maybe like pot, too, and that hickeys peeked out from the collar of my T-shirt, which didn’t even belong to me and was on inside out and backward. But she didn’t see any of that. She wasn’t blatantly ignoring it like Adrian’s dad had; she was just too distracted by her own pain. She stared blindly past me, as if trying to project images of Liam and my father beside me, and murmured, “I miss my family. I should have focused on my kids instead of my heartbreak.”

  Mothers. They’re so good at guilt. I’d been planning to retreat to my room and seek the solace of my knife (not that Adrian would acknowledge new cuts, let alone feel bad if he saw them), but instead I took the seat beside her, my old spot. She glanced suggestively from her food to my mouth, so I indulged her by eating the rest of her pasta.

  But when she asked, “What have you been doing this summer?” I fell back into the old dinnertime routine and shrugged listlessly.

  “Hanging out.”

  “Oh.” She looked disappointed again. As I swallowed my last noodle, she pushed the paper napkins toward me in the bulky, poorly painted clay napkin holder that Liam had made for her in third grade. It was one of the things Dad had packed away when he remodeled. Even though Liam and I hadn’t been around to appreciate it, Mom had put some effort into restoring our house from the empty shell my father had abandoned. God, I’m a shitty daughter.

  “Actually, I do have something to show you,” I told her, opening my backpack. “We’re taking these newspaper articles about weird events and turning them into a screenplay.” I displayed the notebook proudly, but when she reached for it, I said, “I don’t know, Mom. It’s kind of dark…”

  “Well, maybe since the separation, I’ve been kind of dark.”

  I noticed a cynical glint in her eye that I didn’t recognize-not on her, at least. I’d seen it in the mirror plenty of times. “Okay,” I agreed. “Maybe you want the scene where the wife kills the workaholic husband by burning down his office.” I flipped to the page and pushed the notebook her way.

  She laughed wryly. “Did you write this one for me?”

  INT. THE WATSONS’ KITCHEN-NIGHT

  MARGARET WATSON is a harried woman who juggles motherhood and career. Her long hair is always slipping out of place. Her suit is worn because she chose to buy new clothes for her kids instead. She’s just saved dinner from burning on the stove, but her husband, MARK WATSON, hasn’t answered her calls to come downstairs for it.

  I’d been writing from a newspaper article about something that had happened in suburban Maryland, but I could have been describing my own mother-well, until Margaret sends her kids to the neighbor’s house, siphons gasoline from her car, and brings that up to her husband along with his plate of food.

  Mom read eagerly, the same way she’d devoured my creative writing assignments in grade school. Except back then I’d written about princesses and aliens, nothing that hit close to home. When Mom glanced up from the notebook, she smiled, but in a forced way that made the lines near the corners of her eyes and lips prominent. Her sadness had aged her. “Guess this could’ve been me, huh?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied softly.

  “I keep going over the end of the marriage in my mind, trying to figure out what I could’ve done. But somewhere along the line he stopped loving me. You can’t make someone love you.”

  I couldn’t look at her, not because of the tears welling up in her green eyes, but because it reminded me of what had happened with Adrian, and I felt on the verge of crying myself. Fortunately, Liam chose that moment to slam through the back door, skateboard in hand. Any trace of sorrow on Mom’s face disappeared. Her wide grin made her cheeks look fuller, hiding those worry lines. She clapped her hands, gleefully declaring, “Both of my kids in the same room with me!”

  Liam responded as I had, guiltily hugging her as he lowered himself into the chair that had always been Dad’s.

  Mom passed my notebook Liam’s way. “Look at this. Your sister is going to be a big-time screenwriter someday.”

  “Yeah?” Liam smirked at me and I knew he was repressing a remark about how stoned I usually was when I wrote in that thing.

  “Yeah. And I would know. I saw a lot of movies this summer. It’s actually more comfortable than you’d think going to the movies by yourself.”

  Liam’s face faltered a little bit when she said that. To keep the conversation from getting depressing, I asked, “What did you see, Mom?”

  “Well, I saw one that you guys probably did. The Crow?”

  “No shit?” Liam exclaimed, but when Mom glowered at him, he corrected himself. “No way. Did you like it?”

  “It was a little violent for my taste, but I liked it.”

  Mom asked Liam what he’d been up to and he showed off some skateboard tricks right there in the kitchen. Mom didn’t care if the wheels scuffed the tiles. Our house felt like a home for the first time since Dad had remodeled the place and made it silent and sterile. It wasn’t until Mom got up from her chair, announcing she was going to bed, that I glanced at the clock above the kitchen sink. It was nearly midnight.

  I sighed, remembering my previous predicament. “I gu
ess Adrian’s not gonna call,” I mumbled to Liam.

  “Oh no,” Liam mocked, fluttering his lashes. Studying him, I realized how much he’d changed from the previous summer when we’d sat at Lollapalooza and daydreamed about the kind of friends we had now. His thin face seemed older than fourteen, his green eyes drained of their innocence.

  I snapped, “Why do you have to be so bitter? You sound like…” I wanted to say he sounded like Adrian, but I didn’t know if that was how Adrian felt. He hadn’t even bothered to tell me that much.

  “Like a product of divorce?” Liam challenged with raised eyebrows, and gestured in the direction Mom had disappeared in. “Most marriages don’t last, some teenage fling definitely won’t. Love is a delusion. Where do you end up? Going to the movies alone and telling yourself it’s fun? I don’t want to end up like that. And neither do you. That’s why you and Adrian are no strings attached, right?”

  “Yeah,” I lied. But there was no lying to my brother.

  Liam’s palms thudded against the table. “Kara…”

  I wrapped my arms tightly around my chest, dipping my face toward Adrian’s dirty T-shirt, taking in his scent: Winston cigarettes and the air that blows in through an open car window on Lake Shore Drive. “I told him I loved him, he didn’t say anything back, and we didn’t hang out tonight for the first time in weeks.” Tears spilled down my cheeks.

  Liam reached across the table and wiped them away with two fingers. His gesture was gentle but firm, as was his voice. “Adrian is not the kind of person you should fall in love with.”

  I batted his hands away and retorted sarcastically, “Why? “Cause love is a delusion?”

  Liam shook his head and slid into the seat Mom had vacated beside me. “You know Adrian’s reputation, right?”

  “How many girls do Jessica and Mary say he’s slept with?”

  “It’s not about gossip. Did you see how Adrian acted before he was with you?”

  “The key word is ‘before.’ And Cass knows Adrian well. She told me that he views me differently than other girls. I think she’s right,” I said smugly, omitting the part about Cass being on acid when we discussed it.

  “I hope so. I want you to be happy, Kara. Just be careful. You don’t need any more hurt in your life. And if he hurts you—”

  The phone rang, interrupting Liam. I dashed over to the kitchen counter to grab it before the sound woke Mom.

  “Kara,” Adrian exhaled seductively. “I’m bored as shit and everyone’s going to bed already. Wanna go for a drive?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Quentin’s. But he’s zonked, man.” Adrian chuckled low and lazy, clearly stoned off his ass.

  “It’s late,” I told him curtly.

  “I know. I should’ve called earlier.” He sighed. “Sorry about that and…”

  I didn’t breathe, waiting for him to finish his sentence with a response to those damned three words I’d said earlier. But he took so long to speak I thought we’d gotten disconnected. “Adrian?”

  “Huh? Oh. I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. I missed you tonight. You sure you don’t want to hang out?”

  I did. More than anything. Especially after the “I missed you” comment. But I glanced at my brother, who was flipping through my script, pretending not to pay attention. I had to prove to Liam that I could take care of myself. And, for my own sake, I had to gain control over my emotions. So I told Adrian no, that I’d see him tomorrow, and hung up.

  Without looking up from the notebook, Liam finished what he’d been saying before the phone rang. “If he hurts you, I’ll kill him.”

  His display of protectiveness coaxed a smile from me, and I went over to ruffle his intentionally disheveled auburn hair. Feeling less vulnerable after turning Adrian down, I said, “Don’t worry, he won’t.”

  7.

  WHEN ADRIAN PICKED ME UP ON Saturday evening to go to Shelly’s, he kissed me with the usual zeal, but continued to ignore the unspoken words between us. I tried to forget them, too, and just enjoy the concert.

  Shelly’s basement was twice as packed as normal, teeming with all the outsider types from our high school plus a bunch from other towns. The sprawling room was arranged slightly differently. The pool table had been moved to a corner; drums, amps, and microphones were set up in the table’s usual spot in front of the bar. The kegs-four instead of the usual two-were at the back of the basement, the space between them and the makeshift stage cleared out to allow plenty of room for dancing. I noted that Shelly had put the kegs in front of the big-screen TV as a protective barrier. If things got wild it would happen away from the beer; no one wanted to put the alcohol supply at risk.

  I stood toward the back of the basement with Quentin, Cass, and Adrian as we watched the first two bands. Both of them filled Shelly’s house with an ear-throbbing wall of sound that ended with a garbled thank-you and equipment being hastily shuffled out through the basement door beside the bar.

  By the time Craig’s band finally came on, I had a killer headache, which only grew worse as the band played. Adrian insisted we go up front for the performance. This meant standing directly in front of the squalling amplifiers for half an hour. Svengoolie Is for Lovers was “experimental noise rock.” Adrian and Quentin attempted to mosh anyway. Cass stood beside me, swaying to the music she heard in her own head.

  She was tripping peacefully as usual until the set ended and the last of the equipment was carried out. “What happens now?” she asked me.

  “Well, Harlan’s DJ’ing—”

  “No, Wes should be here,” she said, panicking. “Where’s Wes? Where is he?” With that, she bolted for the basement door.

  “Quentin!” I shouted, pulling him from a conversation with Adrian and Craig. “Cass” was all I had to say and he took off after her in hot pursuit.

  I trailed him halfway through Shelly’s dusky backyard, habitually rubbing the little cuts on my left forearm. Then I stopped, calling to Quentin, “I’ll get Maya!”

  But when I whirled around I found myself facing Jessica, who informed me, “Maya’s out front breaking up with Christian for the fiftieth time. I wouldn’t disturb them.”

  “Cass is Maya’s cousin. I’m sure she won’t mind,” I replied icily.

  Before I could walk away, Jessica grabbed my wrist, her envy-colored eyes narrowed and cruel. “I thought you might want to know what your boyfriend was up to last night.”

  When I tore her fingers off of me, she combed them through her short, black locks. I glared at her. “If you’re talking about Adrian, we don’t use those terms.”

  Jessica sighed patronizingly. “That works out nicely for him. But I feel sorry for you.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I saw Adrian here last night,” she purred. “He was with Quentin and Viv. The three of them were snorting heroin and Viv and Adrian were making out.”

  Viv, the purpled-haired girl. And I remembered how stoned Adrian sounded on the phone when he’d called. I felt like I’d swallowed several razor blades, but managed to play it off, telling Jessica, “Like I said, Adrian and I aren’t an official thing.”

  On cue, Adrian emerged from the basement and Jessica fled like the rat she was.

  “What’s her problem?” Adrian asked.

  I studied him. Searching for traces of Viv. Or evidence of heroin. Or a sign that he cared at all that I’d told him I loved him.

  “Nothing,” I lied. “I’m going after Cass. She’s been doing acid for a week straight. I think she’s pretty messed up about Wes not coming home again.”

  He stared meaningfully into my eyes. “Kara, sometimes people just need space to get their head on straight.”

  “O-kaaay…” I let the word ring out, waiting for him to bring up what happened between us yesterday. I wrapped my arms around myself, bracing for the blow. He’d admit to the things Jessica accused him of, excuse his actions as an attempt to “get his head on straight,” and I’d have to
decide if I could forgive him.

  But instead, Adrian pulled a joint from behind his ear and said, “Let’s get high and let everyone figure out their own shit.”

  I shook my head, not even sure how to begin to respond to that. But before I could, a voice filtered down from the back porch: “Kara-leeeena! We’re at the same party!”

  Stacey. I hadn’t seen her since the beginning of the summer when I’d called her in desperate need of some pot and a friend soon after my dad moved out. She’d slept over that night and we’d promised to spend more time together, but neither of us had followed through. We had separate lives and were part of completely different scenes. While I went to punk shows at the Fireside, Stacey went to the Thirsty Whale, a suburban club with huge murals of Sebastian Bach and Axl Rose painted on the side of the building. Hair metal was still alive and well at the Whale and Stacey played the role of groupie.

  Dressed in a denim miniskirt and a tight baby tee that read “Thank You For Pot Smoking,” Stacey hung on the arm of a lanky guy with stringy black hair. She introduced him as “Todd, you know, the singer from Baby Killer, the second band tonight.”

  Oh yes, I thought, Baby Killer, the band that sounded even worse than their name. I forced a smile and said hi to Todd as I hugged Stacey and told her, “I’d love to hang out, but I have to check on a friend.”

  Stacey clung to me as I tried to pull away, whimpering, “No, Kara. We’re at the same party. You’re like…” She blinked, obviously drunk, but also struggling to see me in the context of my new life. “Look at you!” She pinched my cheek hard, beaming like a proud aunt. “You’re partying. You’re with a guy.” Stacey gave Adrian an exaggerated wink and then glowered at him, shaking her fist over my shoulder. “This girl is my best friend ever and if you hurt her, I’ll kick your ass!” Stacey was like the embarrassing drunk aunt who reeked of cheap beer and Marlboros.

  Adrian chuckled. “You’re Kara’s best friend?” He flashed the joint at her. “Wanna smoke up with us?”