“Are you on drugs?”
“No.”
“What’s going on, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Damn it, Maria. Something’s the matter! Why can’t you just—why didn’t you call me? You know you can always call me if something’s wrong.”
“I did.” Dory was the first one I called, after everything really fell apart. After that last party, with Brian. “I guess your roommate didn’t give you the message. You never called back.”
Dory lowered her head. Tears fell from her eyes, blotching the bedspread.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I should’ve realized. I should’ve been there—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I patted her head, absolving her. “Nobody’s ever there.”
“Don’t say that.” Dory looked up at me. “We love you. Your dad loves you. Your grandmother loves you. They’re downstairs right now trying to get you into some school in New York. They talked to your mom, and she said you could stay with her. Isn’t that what you always wanted? They’re bending over backward to make you happy.”
“I know.”
“So how can you say nobody’s there for you? We’re all here now. We’re all trying to help you.”
“I know.” I felt like crying, too, but I couldn’t. It was like there was nothing left in my eyes. I didn’t know how to tell Dory. How to tell her that something inside me felt finished. It was nice of all of them to try to help me. But it was too late for that now.
It was the first Friday since I told Brian that I didn’t want to see him anymore. I’d spent the entire week at school pretending I had to work in the library at lunch, hiding from him and his friends. But now it was Friday. Brian and the team had just won their second wrestling match of the season. I didn’t feel like celebrating. I didn’t feel like doing much of anything with Brian or any of those guys. I was sitting in my room, sewing one of my dad’s shirts and listening to an R.E.M. song on Supergirl Mixtape #11, when Brian came to my window like he always did. He tapped on the glass, and I opened it and leaned out.
“Hey, Maria, come on, we’re going to Duffy’s.”
“I don’t feel like it tonight.”
“Maria, we’re 2-0. Come on.” He lit a cigarette.
“I thought the coach told you guys not to smoke.”
“Well, he ain’t here now, is he?” Brian exhaled, exasperated. “Maria, will you come on? Donnie’s waiting and we gotta pick up Ben.”
“Why don’t you guys go ahead? I’ll catch up with you later.”
Brian squinted up at me.
“This is because of last week, isn’t it?” He ashed his cigarette and scratched his head. “I’ll be damned. You really wanna break up with me, don’t you?”
“Brian, it’s just—”
“Because, I mean, shit, I can get another girlfriend. But you’re the one I want.” He looked up at me, and for a moment I felt a sort of tenderness for him that I hadn’t felt before.
“Brian.”
“You can’t stay mad at me forever, can you?” He smiled. And the next thing I knew, I was slipping into my sneakers. But I was shaking.
Duffy was an older kid who played in bands and had his own farmhouse that his grandfather left him in his will. Everybody knew who he was, either from his bands or his parties or because they bought pot from him. He grew it out in the woods behind the house. When we got there that night, the place was packed. There were some kids from Langley, but it was mainly public school kids and older kids, probably from the community college.
Brian and Donald and Ben went off in search of the keg. I was already feeling out of my head. I’d skipped dinner and, between the beer in the truck on the way over and the half a joint I smoked on Duffy’s front porch, I was halfway to dizzy. I walked into the living room, where a tall, dreadlocked guy was spinning records. I recognized him from Rocksteady, the record store. I’d bought Dory’s Christmas present there last year, an import Nick Cave 45.
“Hey, got any requests?” It took me a second to realize that the DJ was talking to me.
“What?” I had to yell over the music.
“Requests. Got something you wanna hear?”
I was too busy trying to keep standing up. I tried to think of some cool band, something Dory would like.
“I remember you,” he said. “Nick Cave, right?”
I nodded. “It’s not a Nick Cave kind of party, though. What’s that you’re playing now?”
“Bad Brains. Hang on.” The song was ending. He put his headphones on and switched the record. Mudhoney. I knew them from Dory’s tapes.
“So, what do you want to hear?”
I shook my head. I wanted to hear my Supergirl Mixtapes, coming out of the cruddy little boom box in my bedroom. I wanted Bikini Kill and L7 and Veruca Salt and Liz Phair and Hole. I wanted to stop feeling dizzy. I wanted to quit being nervous and afraid and fall asleep till noon and wake up to my dad making me breakfast. But none of that was going to happen, at least not tonight. Tonight, I’d be out till dawn. I’d sleep with one eye open, jumping at every snapping branch. I’d wake up to my dad gone, or up on the roof, patching the holes. I’d choke down another cold bowl of cereal and start the washing machine, then go up to my room and start on my homework. I would stay in my room all day, until Brian came by and it all started again.
“Frances Farmer,” I said, swallowing hard.
“What?” The DJ flipped his headphones back again.
“‘Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle.’” My favorite Nirvana song. I handed him the record. In Utero. He nodded and put it on. The Mudhoney song ended, and Kurt’s buzzing guitar came out of the speakers. The guitar crashed, crashed into something outside the song. Something in the house. Something crashing.
I looked up and saw kids in the hallway moving, shoving, somebody getting pushed out the front door. A beer bottle smashed on the floor. Two guys were yelling. A girl was shouting and running up the stairs. Whatever it was, some people were running away from it and some were going toward it, trying to find out what was going on.
I saw Donald first, then Brian, both of them being sort of shoved and sort of carried down the hall. Duffy was the one doing the shoving and carrying. I was surprised. I didn’t know Duffy that well, but I knew he was a mellow dude. He was a big guy with a beard that went halfway down his chest, and he always wore the same pair of overalls. And now he was throwing Brian and Donald out of the house.
“I’m serious. Y’all go home or I’m calling the cops,” Duffy told them.
“Bullshit, man. Bull shit,” Donald yelled.
“Get outta my house!” Duffy yelled back.
“Fuck you, Duffy!” Brian turned himself loose from Duffy’s grip. “Let gowah me, I gotta find my girlfriend.”
“Well, find her and take off, dude.” Duffy let him go, and Brian squirmed free. I swallowed hard, remembering that the girlfriend was me. Brian saw me by the turntables and stormed toward me.
“Maria, let’s go.” He grabbed my arm.
“Ow, Brian—”
“Hey, man, watch it—” the DJ called out to him. As I jerked my hand out of Brian’s grip, my arm swung back and knocked hard into the DJ’s table, making the record skip and scratch.
“We’re getting out of this shithole.” Brian glared at me. I took one look at his eyes and knew there was something else going on, something he’d taken besides beer and pot. His pupils were huge. He was pale and sweating. The darkness in his eyes scared me to death.
“I’m not going with you like that,” I said.
“Like hell you’re not.”
The DJ intervened. “Hey, man, maybe you oughta cool out.”
“Fuck you! This is none of your fucking business!” Brian roared at him. He grabbed my hand again and this time there was no getting away. “Maria! Goddam it, first you don’t wanna come, now you don’t wanna leave. Why don’t you make up your goddamned simple little mind for once in your pathetic life—”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!” I heard my own voice ring out, high above the music. “I don’t ever want to see you again! I’m not your girlfriend, I’m not your friend, and you can say whatever you want about me but you better take your fucking hands off me right now!” I was screaming, shrieking like something out of a cartoon. Some shrill, thinly painted version of myself. But everyone was quiet. Everyone was staring. Brian dropped my hand. I felt the blood rush back into my fingers. He leaned in close to me. The music had stopped. Or maybe I just couldn’t hear it anymore. All I could hear was Brian.
“You little bitch,” he muttered, his breath hot on my neck. “You stupid little bitch. I’m gonna kill you. You hear me? I know where you live. I’m gonna break your fucking neck.”
“All right, kiddies, that’s enough.” The DJ took me by the shoulders and Duffy pulled Brian toward the door. My hands were shaking again. The next thing I knew, I was in the bathroom with the DJ. I couldn’t remember how we got there.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked. I nodded. There was still a lot of yelling going on outside.
“That’s your boyfriend?”
I shrugged. His voice was so nice. The DJ’s. He had this accent—Jamaican or something. I looked up and saw him studying me with this worried look on his face. I started crying and I couldn’t stop.
“Hey. Don’t cry. It’s gonna be all right now. Nothing’s going to happen. He’s leaving.” The DJ tried to reach out to me, to put his arms around me or something. I shook my head, pushing away from him.
“No, no, no—”
“Duffy’s throwing him out. We’ll get you a ride home. Do you have any other friends here?”
“No.”
“Is there somebody I can call for you?”
I thought of Dory, but she was all the way down in Athens. I shook my head. I was still crying.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take you home, all right? Let’s just wait until Duffy gets them out of here. How’s that?”
I nodded, trying to stop crying.
“I’m Lucas,” he said.
“Maria.”
Lucas pulled a bunch of toilet paper off the roll and handed it to me. I took it and blew my nose. He put his hand on my shoulder, and I flinched. I was backed up against the bathroom wall, as far into the corner as I could get.
“Hey, relax.” He laughed. “Is it because I’m black?”
“No,” I shook my head. I tried to smile at him, but I couldn’t. I was crying again now, harder than before. I let the DJ—Lucas—take me into his arms and hug me. There was something strange about it, and I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time a guy—Brian, my dad, anyone—had hugged me.
“Shh, it’s all right now. I’m gonna take care of you. You trust me?” Lucas whispered. I nodded slowly. I wanted to trust him. “I promise, I’m not gonna let any of those guys hurt you.”
I let him hug me again. It was nice to lean against him, to feel his arms around me, patting my back. I finally stopped crying and looked up at him.
“What about the music?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about it.” He laughed. “I think the party’s over.”
Mom was curled up on the futon when I got home. She was dressed in her bathrobe, watching a black-and-white movie on TV.
“Hey,” I said. “How come you’re not at work?”
“I called in sick. I think I’m getting a cold. How was school?”
“Okay, I guess.” I took off my Prince blazer, wishing I could burn it.
“Wanna come watch this movie with me? Stardust Memories. Classic Woody Allen. It just started, too.” She sneezed.
I sat down beside her. “You want me to get you some juice or something?” I asked.
“No, I’m fine. Travis went to get me some NyQuil. I think it’s just, you know, all the stress from moving. Oh, look.” Mom pointed out a serious-looking brunette on the screen. “Charlotte Rampling. Isn’t she gorgeous? I’d kill for cheekbones like that.”
“You have excellent cheekbones, Mom,” I told her.
“Really?” She smiled, her eyes and nose matching red. I looked at her. My mother. I wanted to tell her that she was beautiful. I wanted to ask her where she went when she disappeared for weeks at a time. I wanted to tell her that I felt the same way sometimes—that I felt like I wanted to just disappear.
But I didn’t say any of those things. Instead, I felt angry. I wanted to ask her why Nina had to be our go-between. I wanted to tell her about all these guys, these jerks, Tyler at Prince and Brian back at home. I wanted her to tell me how I was supposed to handle all of this, what I was supposed to do. But I didn’t know where to start. All these words, these questions, felt balled-up in my throat, prickling and huge. My eyes teared up, and I started to cry. I looked away, hoping Mom wouldn’t notice, but she did.
“Hey, Marinee-beanee, what’s wrong?”
“I guess I just sort of … had a crappy day.”
“Aww. Come here.” She pulled me into her arms. It was a relief, somehow. Just to rest there in her arms and cry.
“You wanna talk about it?”
“No.” That balled-up thing in my throat could stay where it was. I was afraid to start unraveling it. “Not right now.” I stole some of her Kleenex and blew my nose.
“So we’ll just sit here and be snotty together. How’s that?” I nodded. I would tell her, eventually. I would ask her all my questions, and she would have the answers. I guess it was some kind of special mom thing. Sitting there next to her, I felt like everything was going to be okay.
“Just watch Charlotte Rampling,” she whispered, turning up the sound. “She’s a total goddess.”
PART TWO
6
It was almost two weeks after the whole cafeteria thing with Tyler that I decided to start skipping school in earnest. I mean, I guess it wasn’t that big of a decision. The dread of going to Prince just piled up day after day, until finally the fear of getting caught cutting school was nothing compared to the dread of having to walk through those doors. On the day I finally quit, I stood there outside, watching everybody else go in. I felt a serene calm wash over me as I realized that I wasn’t going up those marble steps anymore. Finally I just walked off down the block. Nobody ran after me. Nobody called my name and demanded that I get to class. Nobody chased me down and shook me and told me I’d better turn myself around and march right back there. Nobody even noticed I was gone.
And that was the last time I set foot anywhere near Prince Academy.
I got back on the subway, heading downtown. My heart started beating fast. What was I doing? I’d never been a big fan of school, but at least I’d showed up. Now what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t go back to the apartment. But I couldn’t just spend the rest of the day riding the subway, either.
I got off at Union Square. Walking around in the cool air felt better. I stood on the corner, waiting for the light to change. The big Virgin Megastore was closed. The movie theater wasn’t open yet. The coffee shop on the next block looked busy, though. I decided to go in and wait there for a while, until I came up with a better plan.
After a couple of hours in the coffee shop, eating a bagel and reading Mom’s copy of Edie, a book about Andy Warhol’s main superstar, I got back on the train and headed farther downtown, to find the record store where Travis and I sold Mom’s records. The record store where I met Gram. I was glad to see him behind the counter.
“Hey, I know you,” he said. “Rivington Street. Don’t tell me—Maria?”
“Yeah. Gram, right?”
“You got it. Cold out?”
I nodded. “Getting kinda chilly.” The store was warm, but I kept my coat zipped, anyway. I didn’t want Gram to see my uniform.
“You got here just in time to hear my namesake.” He handed me the album cover. A bunch of guys in sequined suits out in the desert. Country music wailed over the speakers. This old town’s filled with sin, it’ll swallow you in. I h
anded the album cover back to him.
“You’ve heard of these guys, right? The Flying Burrito Brothers?” he asked.
“Not really, no.”
“Oh, man, it’s primo. Of course, I’m biased. But even though Gram Parsons gets all the credit for the whole country-rock thing, there was so much good shit coming out of California back then. Gene Clark from the Byrds. Mike Nesmith from the Monkees. Man, that dude’s solo stuff blows my mind. And then you got Neil Young, that whole Doom Trilogy. And, you know, even though people think of the Band as a Woodstock thing, they were out in LA—their entire second album was recorded in Sammy Davis Junior’s house!” He chuckled. “Man, I love that shit. But by the time you get to the Eagles, it’s pretty much got the life squeezed out of it. You know what I mean?”
“Sure,” I said. I had no idea what he meant.
“Then after the Laurel Canyon scene, you got the punk stuff happening, late seventies. Black Flag. The Germs. Fear. X. Man, I love X. You can play me some of that Billy Zoom guitar any day of the week. California, man. I tell you what—I’ve just about had it with New York City. One more winter and I’m done. I’m transferring out to the Golden State. I can’t take no more.”
“You’re leaving the city?” I couldn’t believe it. The one nice guy I’d met.
“Uh, well, not right away. It’s a big tangle. Money and credits and all that. Tell you the truth, though—I’m thinking about taking some time off from school.”
“I’ve kinda been thinking about the same thing,” I told him.
“It’s scary though, ain’t it? You lose that safety net—whoosh!” He whipped his hand above his head. “Who knows? You’re just out there, man. And it might be great or it might be total free fall, you know?”
“I know.” I leaned back against one of the record bins. Free fall. My throat tightened.
“Well, listen at me go on. What’s your major, anyway?”
“Me? Oh, um. Art.”
“You look like an art major. Where you in school at?”
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