“Can I take this off now?”
“Sure, but I don’t see why you’d want to.”
Mom sat at the kitchen table, clipping pictures of rock stars out of old copies of Rolling Stone and Spin to decorate the new refrigerator. It was Sunday night; Travis was gone to rehearsal and I was trying to put together an outfit to wear the next morning.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Hey, kid.”
“Was my dad … did he move to New York to become a country singer?”
“Yeah, he did, actually.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Your dad and his misbegotten country career. I’d forgotten all about that. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” I turned my attention back to the clothes. “Just wondering.”
“Why don’t you wear that pink skirt tomorrow? With the green blouse?” Mom called out over the stereo. She had another Patti Smith record on. The third one, Easter. She told me it was the comeback record, after Patti broke her neck when she fell off a stage opening for Bob Seger.
“I think if I had to open for Bob Seger, I’d wanna break my neck, too,” Mom joked when she put on the record. I didn’t say anything. My dad loved Bob Seger.
“I was thinking for the first day I could wear something less …” Outrageous? I wasn’t all that crazy about the hot-pink kilt skirt Mom had insisted on buying. Or the lime-green blouse that went with it. But she insisted.
“You want to make a good first impression,” Mom reminded me.
“But I don’t wanna … stand out too much. It’s bad enough I’m almost six feet tall.”
“You so have to get over this hang-up about your height.” She sighed and put her magazine down. “When you meet Lee, he’ll tell you. Short for models is five foot eight.” She came over to the futon to take a look at the clothes.
“What about this?” She matched the skirt with a thin black sweater silk-screened with a picture of Edie Sedgwick. “More low key than lime green?”
“Better.”
She held the green blouse up to me. “You may have been right about this blouse. It’s not your best color.”
“It would look good on you.”
“Really?” She held it up to her own face. “It doesn’t wash me out?”
“No. Why don’t you take it?”
“Seriously?”
“You’re the one who bought it in the first place.”
“Cool!” She held the sleeves out. “I’m probably too short for it, though.”
“I’ll fix it for you.”
“You are the awesomest.” She kissed my cheek and took the blouse back to her bedroom to try it on.
“I was thinking I could come with you tomorrow, if you want. To help you register, or whatever,” she called from behind the cracked door.
“Um, that’s okay,” I called back. “I can handle it.”
“I should’ve known what was going on, shouldn’t I?” She walked back into the hallway in the green blouse, the sleeves dangling. “I mean, you could’ve talked to me. If you were so unhappy in that school.”
“It’s not your fault.” I sat down on the futon. “I’m not used to … I dunno. I just usually deal with this stuff on my own.”
“I’m not doing too great with the whole mom thing, am I?” She pushed her sleeves up, frowning. “I know I’m not. But I want you to feel like you can talk to me. Like we can be friends, at least. I just—I need you to help me figure this out.”
“Figure what out?”
“This whole … this whole being your mother! I feel like I’m really shitty at it.” She scowled. “See, right there? I shouldn’t have said ‘shitty.’ That’s not very motherly.”
“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Anyway, look. It’s not like you left me in the car with the windows rolled up. I shouldn’t have cut school. But we were moving, and you were working—you don’t have to look over my shoulder all the time. I’m old enough now; I can take care of myself.”
“I know.” She sat down next to me on the futon. “You grew up so fast. I kept meaning to—I mean, it feels like I left for the weekend when you were a little kid, and now you’re all grown-up. All of a sudden. And I’m not sure how it happened.” Her voice broke a little. “The time just got away from me somehow.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “We’re catching up now.”
“I’m glad we are.” She stood up, and a switch flipped. She went from sounding like she was about to cry to smiling her wide smile again. “It is so much fun buying clothes for you. Do you have any idea, if I had your body, how much debt I’d be in right now?” Before I could tell her that I’d rather have her body, she was back on the topic of school.
“Now, are you sure, are you totally positive, that you don’t want me to come with you tomorrow?”
“I’m sure. It’s just school. I can deal.”
“Because I don’t offer to get up before nine a.m. for just anyone, you know?”
“I’m positive. I’ll be fine.”
“In that case, I’m going to go put on something that fits, and then let’s go to the diner. I’m so in the mood for pancakes. How ’bout you?”
“I could go for pancakes.”
“Excellent!” Mom ran back to her bedroom, and I sank into the futon, relieved. If she’d insisted on going with me to the public school tomorrow, I don’t know how I would have explained the driver in the big black car on the corner, waiting to take me to Nina’s place uptown.
Nina’s apartment was huge. I couldn’t get over it. The kitchen was almost as big as our entire apartment in Brooklyn. The living room was completely white—white carpet, white sofa, white drapes—and wrapped with windows that looked out over Central Park and the eruption of skyscrapers in Midtown. I couldn’t stop gawking at everything. The white marble sculpture on its own pedestal in the foyer. The chrome-and-glass coffee table with the black-and-white photography books and copies of the New Yorker. The painting on the white wall of a single red circle, a thick, cautionless brushstroke on a plain white canvas. This place was even nicer than my grandmother’s.
“You have a beautiful apartment, Mrs. Dowd.”
“Thank you, and call me Nina.” She stood in the hallway, buttoning her coat. “I thought we’d start with the Hopper exhibit at the Whitney. And then, this afternoon, there’s a Godard retrospective starting at Film Forum. Are you sure you won’t be cold in that skirt?”
“I’m fine.” I tugged at the pink kilt. It was shorter than I remembered it being when I tried it on.
“Good. Then let’s go. You’ve had breakfast, I trust?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“My God.” She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. “You Southerners are charming, aren’t you?” She jerked her chin. “Our chariot awaits.”
She whisked out the door. In her heels, Nina was as tall as I was, but I had to double-time to keep up.
I couldn’t concentrate on the book Nina had given me to read. I kept getting distracted, watching the traffic grind along the BQE and wondering how mad my mom was going to be when she found out I was lying to her.
“Hey, Loudmouth.” Travis pulled the headphones off my ears.
“Ow!” I swatted him. “What gives?”
“Nothin’. Just checking up on you.” He sat down on the edge of the futon, loosening his bootlaces. “You barely said two words all afternoon.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah? You sure about that?”
“I’m just trying to read.” I put my headphones back on, but Travis kept talking.
“That’s a pretty thick book. The new school’s hard?”
“Mm-hmm.” I tried to look extra studious.
“Well, listen, you wanna take a break? Come hear the band?”
“What?” I took off my headphones.
“We finally got a singer. She’s really great. And she’s a chick.” Travis pulled his bootlaces tight. “I think you’d really like her. You know, with all your superchic
k music and everything.”
“My superchick music?” I laughed.
“Whatever it’s called. Your tapes.” Travis latched his guitar case. “You don’t have to come. I just thought you’d be into it. And I figured this new school’s probably a drag, and you might wanna get your mind off it. Anyway …” He cleared his throat. “We’ll probably get a gig soon and you can come hear us then, so, it’s no big deal. If you’re busy.”
I thought about it. Travis didn’t usually invite me to tag along with him. And I wanted to hear his band. There was no telling when Mom would be home. So, why not?
“I guess the reading can wait.” I got up and grabbed my coat.
From the outside, the rehearsal studio looked like the kind of abandoned warehouse where a movie villain would be training a team of ninjas. I followed Travis inside, past a smoky lounge and through a heavy door that led to a smoky hallway. Muffled music thumped out of each door—ska-punk, metal, disco covers. At the end of the hallway, Travis’s band was waiting outside one of the rehearsal rooms. I recognized Slade from moving day.
“Hey, man,” Travis said. “What gives?”
“The hippies are still at it,” Slade said. “Sherry went to go tell Larry. They’re totally eating our rehearsal time again.” Slade banged his fist against the door. “Time’s up, hippies!” he shouted, to no avail. Their gurgling music droned on behind the door.
“So, Trav, you kicked the old lady to the curb?” A heavyset guy in dark glasses and a Motorhead T-shirt gave Travis a grin.
“Nah, this is my old lady’s kid. Maria, this is our drummer, Gary.”
“Hi.” I reached out my hand to shake his, but Gary just nodded. I stuck my hand back in my pocket and tried to pretend I was still cool.
“You guys care if she hangs out while we rehearse?” Travis asked. “Today was her first day at this shitty school, so I thought, you know.”
“It’s all good,” Gary said. I cleared my throat and looked down at my shoes. Somehow, I felt even worse lying to Travis about school than I did to my mom.
“I’ve got reinforcements!” A girl with bright pink hair called out from down the hallway. Behind her was a short, stern-faced guy with his hair in long dreadlocks and his beard shaved into a pointy triangle. He wore a T-shirt that said SLAYER and leather boots that went up to his knees.
“All right.” He opened the rehearsal room door and barged right through, no nonsense. “China Cat Sunflowers, time to wrap it up. Your fellow renters need the time they paid for.” He marched back out, shaking his head. “Freakin’ Dead cover bands, man.” He looked at me. “What’re you gonna do?”
“Thanks, Larry,” the girl with the pink hair said. “Larry runs the place.” She leaned over to me. “He’s the bomb.”
We waited in the hallway while the hippies packed up their gear. Travis introduced me to the pink-haired girl.
“Sherry, this is Maria. My girlfriend’s kid.”
“Hey.” The girl shook my hand. “I’m totally changing my name, by the way. Right now I’m deciding between Holly Terror and Penny Dreadful. Which one do you like better?”
“As a name? Um …” The last of the hippies shoved past us, and I followed Travis and the guys into the rehearsal room. It stank of bitter pot smoke.
“Fuckin’ reeks in here!” Gary coughed. “Fuckin’ hippies and their fuckin’ pot! It’s like fuckin’ skunks and feet!”
“Hey, Gary. Chill, man.” Travis unlatched his guitar case.
“We gotta get another rehearsal space,” Gary muttered, unpacking his snare drum.
“So, what do you think?” Sherry slung her silver-glittered guitar over her shoulder. “About the whole name thing.”
“I like ‘Penny Dreadful.’” I sat down on the sunken purple couch in the corner. The dirty gray carpet was littered with coiled pieces of guitar strings and broken picks.
“That’s the one I like, too!” She brightened. “And it means something, too. They used to have these, like, pulp comic books over in England, and they only cost a penny. Get it, Penny Dreadful?”
“Check it out—hippie leftovers.” Slade held up an acoustic guitar. “Dumb stoners left a Martin behind the bass amp.” He handed it to Travis.
“Damn.” Travis brushed his thumb along the strings. “This is a nice guitar.”
“Sounds like they were too stoned to tune it,” Slade said. Travis strummed it again, tuning the lowest string.
“Kum-baa-yaa,” Sherry/Penny sang, laughing. “Isn’t acoustic music, like, the most boring thing on the planet? I swear, if one more band goes ‘unplugged,’ I think I’m gonna puke.”
I started to say that I thought it was pretty cool when Nirvana did it, but I didn’t want to embarrass Travis. I watched him, his head bent over the guitar, the back of his neck pale white.
“It’s just an alternate tuning,” he murmured. “Like Joni Mitchell.” Travis pressed his fingers to the guitar and made an odd-sounding chord.
“Joni fuckin’ Mitchell?” Gary whacked his snare, laughing. “Hey, man, we—”
“Don’t say her name like that,” Travis snapped at Gary. “Joni Mitchell’s a genius.” Travis bent back over the guitar. Gary gave a nervous chuckle.
“Sorr-ree.” Gary held up his hands. “I didn’t know you were down with the hippie music.”
“I don’t give a shit about hippie music. But Joni Mitchell’s different.” Travis plucked the strings, a gentle, rolling pattern. “And you don’t have to say her name like that. With a fuckin’ profanity in it. Okay?” He looked up at Gary, his eyes steely.
“Okay, dude.” Gary gave Slade a look, and Slade shrugged, tuning his bass.
“Hey, guys,” Penny jumped in. “I brought those new songs from last week. I worked out the lyrics. Which one do you want to do first, ‘Society Kills’ or ‘Police Brutality’?”
“What was the one with the really fast chorus?” Slade plugged his bass into the amp. “Remember?” He thunked out a rapid succession of notes. Gary joined in with a speeding drum roll that seemed to accelerate like a car engine. Travis finally looked up from the guitar.
“It sounded nice,” I told him. “What you were playing.”
“What?” he shouted over the drums.
I shook my head and mouthed, “Forget it.” He put the hippie guitar back behind the bass amp and picked up his electric. He plugged in and joined Slade and Gary’s riot. Penny plugged her guitar in, too, and stepped up to the microphone to shout above the music as she thrashed out the chords.
I can’t be what they want me to be!
Society kills! Society kills!
Get married, get a job, and be happy!
Society kills! Society kills!
I sat back on the sofa and felt the music vibrating in my bones. I remembered the earplugs Travis had given me, and I squished them into my ears. The drums dulled to a low roar, and I could hear Travis’s guitar, sharper now, rising above Slade’s pulsing bass and the crunch of Penny’s distorted chords. Travis’s sound seemed to soar out of him, each note lifting off his fingers and flying like a spark. I couldn’t stop watching him, watching his fingers flutter along the neck of the guitar, then stop, the sustained wails hanging there for a moment, then disappearing as he attacked again, bending the strings, streaking the notes across the song like meteors flashing in a dark sky. He looked up, and I caught his eye. Immediately I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. I felt like I’d caught him in the middle of something, like I’d seen him naked, seen him as something else. In that moment, with his guitar, he stopped being Travis, Mom’s boyfriend. He started being someone else entirely.
8
Going to Gram’s party that Thursday night was easier than I thought it would be. No sneaking around required. Well, no sneaking. But more lies.
“I knew you’d be a hit!” Mom was so excited when I told her I’d been invited to a party. “Maybe public school won’t be so bad after all.”
“Maybe not,” I agreed.
&nb
sp; So far, studying with Nina was the most fun I’d had in school since second grade with Miss Miller and her room full of terrariums. Nina would take me to museums in the mornings, then to the library to check out books on the artists we’d seen. Then we went back to her apartment, where she let me type essays on her computer while she made phone calls and went to meetings. She’d come back and print out the essays to mail off to my grandmother; then we’d eat a late lunch and go to a matinee of some documentary or something foreign with subtitles. Nina’s driver would wind through the streets of the Upper East Side, Nina pointing out the various styles of the buildings as we passed, and the histories, the families who lived there. She seemed to know everything about everything—who built the buildings, who painted the paintings, what period they belonged to, their lost loves, and why they died in anguish.
“Are you grading this?” I asked her.
“Yes, but don’t worry. I’m giving you As.”
I let Mom talk me into wearing the tight black pants from Trash and Vaudeville, but I didn’t have the courage for the red silk shirt. I laced my boots up over the pant legs and wore one of Travis’s thermal undershirts with a ripped T-shirt over it.
“That’s more like it,” Travis said when he saw the outfit. We were leaving the apartment at the same time—he was headed out to meet up with Slade and Gary for poker night.
“You think it’s okay? This outfit?” Mom was working late, so she didn’t see which clothes I finally decided on.
“It’s way better than that baggy-ass shit you usually wear.”
“Hey, don’t knock my baggy-ass shit. It’s comfortable.”
“It’s enough clothes for a family of four. Which way are you going?” We jogged down the subway steps side by side.
“Manhattan. Where’s your bike?”
“It’s on the fritz. I got a buddy coming to look at it this weekend.” He dropped a token into the slot. “So who from P.S. whatever lives in Manhattan?” I followed behind him at the turnstile. I don’t know why, but I felt like telling him the truth.
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