Supergirl Mixtapes

by Meagan Brothers

  “Exactly!” He slapped his thigh. “And I wonder why I’m even bothering to freeze my tail off up here when, realistically, I know I’m not the best. If you’re the un-best, you just end up playing background music in some fancy restaurant for tips. Or becoming a stuffy old music teacher who holds his nose when somebody mentions Billy Preston. Man, that ain’t me. I look at my heroes, and not one of ’em was a music theory genius.” He pointed his thumb at Dolly Parton and Henry Rollins on the wall, and Johnny Cash on the back of the door. “I guess I’m sort of in the middle of a personality crisis at the moment. I should apologize—I don’t normally go on and on like this, but I’m still not used to telling my problems to an actual person.”

  “Yeah, those non-actual people really know how to lend an ear.”

  “I know it’s crazy.” He blushed. “When I was little, I used to curl up under that picture of Dolly Parton every night and tell her my problems. I was just this fat little dude who played piano, so you can imagine all the friends I had in Gaffney. I used to pretend Dolly was my secret girlfriend. Then I discovered punk rock, and I started talking to Henry Rollins the way some people talk to Jesus. Then in high school I got into Johnny Cash, and following his example, I finally started talking to the real Jesus.”

  “Did that help?”

  “Well, I met more girls at the First Baptist teen center than I did in my room with Henry, so I guess it did.”

  I laughed. “And what about Dolly? Should I be jealous?”

  “No, no. She’s still a special friend, but we’ve talked it over and decided we should see other people.” Gram put his hand in mine again.

  “That’s good.” My heart was beating double time. It’s not as if Gram were drop-dead gorgeous, but there was something I liked about him. Something I liked a lot.

  “Maria, I don’t want to seem … unseemly.” He laughed nervously. “I know this is sort of like a first date. And I’m, uh, sorry—I’ve never been good at this.”

  “Good at what?” I had a twinge of fear that he was about to throw me out of his room.

  “At putting the moves on someone. Especially someone like you.”

  “Oh.” Someone like me? What did that mean? Someone tall? “Putting the moves on me—is that what this is?”

  He laughed. “See? You’re too cool to kiss.”

  “Me?” Pfft. Gram thought I was cool? Not even cool, but too cool? A college guy? I had a surge of confidence, and I did it. I leaned over and kissed him. Just like that. When I pulled away, he just sat there with his eyes closed and the same blissed-out expression on his face as when he was swept up in the George Harrison song.

  “Gram,” I whispered. “I am so not cool.”

  I crept into the apartment. My lips were chapped from kissing Gram through two more sides of George Harrison. I locked the door behind me, feeling light-headed. Even Citygirls was quiet. I could hear Travis snoring softly through the closed bedroom door. As I took my jacket off, the sleeve hit the kitchen table and sent a sheet of paper curling down to the floor. I picked it up—it was a note from Mom. This time, it was a sketch of a dragon, and the words came out of its nose in puffs of smoke and flame:

  Maria,

  Hope you were a hit at the party! Your

  grandmother called while you were out!

  Call her back tomorrow—collect! She’s

  flying you back to Atlanta for Thanksgiving!

  Strict orders! Yikes!

  Gobble Gobble Hey!

  Mom

  9

  I grabbed my seat belt for dear life as my grandmother slung her ancient Bonneville sedan around the on-ramp and hurtled into the 285 traffic.

  “You look better, thank goodness,” she said, whipping the wheel around to straighten the car out. “You’ve got color in your cheeks, and it looks like you’ve put on weight.”

  “Thanks,” I said, trying to relax and breathe deeply.

  “Your father should be at the house by the time we get back. And Nell’s bringing over some of that Hoppin’ John you like so much.”

  “Sounds good.” Nell was another of my grandmother’s neighbors, and she always brought us food at the holidays—plates of fried okra, Mason jars full of pickles and preserves, coconut cakes, homemade fudge. She had her own family gatherings, and she always made too much.

  “Of course, Hoppin’ John is supposed to be for New Year’s Day, not Thanksgiving,” Grandmother sniffed, “but I think we can overlook it.”

  That was Grandmother. Sometimes it was hard to tell if she was insulting you or not.

  “It sounds like things are going well with Nina Dowd. No more incidents to report?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Excellent.” She shot the Bonneville between two eighteen wheelers without batting an eye. I dug my feet into the floor mat, bracing for impact.

  “Maria, you might find it hard to believe, but I was a teenage girl myself, once upon a time. And I had a bit of a rebellious streak. Do you think my parents wanted me marrying your grandfather? He was a traveling salesman ten years my senior, for goodness’ sake. And he came here from New York City, of all godforsaken places. They couldn’t decide whether to hate him more because he was an Italian immigrant or because he was a Yankee.”

  “I—uh—” I tried to stay upright as Grandmother merged lanes.

  “I understand now, after watching your father make the mistakes he made with your mother, that we as parents must often simply sit and wait and pray that you’ll get through your little adventures unscathed. And hopefully not pregnant. I don’t have anything to worry about there, do I?” She took her eyes off the road to give me a steely glare.

  “No, ma’am,” I answered quickly. Terrific, a sex talk with my grandmother. Where’s that eighteen wheeler when you need it?

  “Good. Well, now we just have to get you through this year and next, get you into a good college, and that’s that, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I guess—” I gasped as Grandmother floored it to pass a souped-up Honda CR-X in the slow lane. “I guess that’s that.”

  Dad wasn’t at Grandmother’s yet—the holiday traffic, he told us on the answering machine. The second message was from Dory. She’d just gotten home, and they were about to go over to her mother’s cousin’s for dinner, but did I want to come over in the meantime?

  “Don’t be back too late—we eat promptly at six,” Grandmother called after me as I escaped out the back. I cut across the yards and rang Dory’s bell. Her mom answered. Nell Schaffer was already there, dropping off preserves.

  “Come in, Maria.” Mrs. Mason gave me a hug. “Happy Thanksgiving. You know Mrs. Schaffer, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I hugged Nell. She wore a thick brown sweater embroidered with red and yellow autumn leaves.

  “Oh, look at you! Isn’t she so grown-up, Laura?” Nell fawned. Dory’s mom, always classy with her short blond hair and impeccable outfits, agreed.

  “We’re very proud of her.” As if I were her own kid, not just somebody who hung out with Dory.

  “I was so upset when your grandmother told me you were sick.” Nell shook her head mournfully. She went on before I could tell her I was fine. “When she said you were coming down for Thanksgiving, I said, Glennie, now, you let me make that girl some of my Hoppin’ John, because I know she loves it, and she probably doesn’t get any good home cooking up there in New York City.”

  “Well, I—”

  “There you are!” Dory jogged down the stairs. “Come on, I have something to show you before we go.” She grabbed my hand before I could say my polite good-byes.

  “Thanks for the rescue,” I said once we were safely behind Dory’s closed bedroom door.

  “Anytime. Hey, you look good. I love that sweater.”

  “Thanks.” I tugged at my sleeves. “So, what’s going on?”

  “The usual.” Dory rolled her eyes. “My mom and dad are already arguing over all this we-have-to-go-visit-the-family crap. I can’t wait ti
ll we get there so they can start drinking.”

  I laughed, but I knew Dory had it good. Her parents were insanely cool. Her dad taught Eastern Religion at Emory, and her mom taught art to special-ed kids. I’d seen them have what Dory called “an argument” before. It was the nicest argument I’d ever witnessed.

  “Tell me about New York,” Dory said, rifling through her backpack. It was strange to be in her room now that she’d gone to college. It was like someone had taken bites out of it. Her stereo and all her best posters were gone. Her desk and bookshelves were tidy and straight. The floor, aside from the island of her spilling-over suitcase and backpack, was unnervingly clean.

  “It’s cool.” I sat down on the bed, biting my thumbnail.

  “What’s your mom like?”

  “She’s awesome. We hang out all the time. Her boyfriend’s in this really cool band. And my mom’s got so many amazing records—you would totally freak out.”

  “Oh yeah? What kind of stuff?” She was taking everything out of her backpack now. Books, tapes, more books.

  “Um, mostly New York punk stuff. Johnny Thunders. Lou Reed. Television. Patti Smith.”

  “I’ve totally been wanting to get into Patti Smith. Michael Stipe talks about her all the time in interviews. And Jeff Buckley sang on her last album.”

  “She’s, like, so intense. You would be really into it.”

  “Dude, make me a mixtape.”

  “Okay.” I’d never made Dory a mixtape before. She already had all the cool songs.

  “Have you heard the new Nick Cave record? Boatman’s Call?” she asked.

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Ohh.” Dory clutched her chest. “I’m totally in love with it. I put some songs from it on this—hang on—” She moved from the backpack to the suitcase, tossing out all the clothes.

  “Duh. Here it is.” She handed me a cassette decorated with a picture of Trent Reznor’s head taped onto what looked like Tori Amos’s body. I read the spine: SupahGrrl Mixtape #22—Songs for the City!

  “I’ve been totally obsessed with Iggy Pop lately, so he’s all over it, too. And there’s some new Pavement stuff, and Björk—”

  “Oh yeah! I heard the new Björk CD!” It was so rare that I’d actually heard a CD before one of Dory’s tapes. “At this party—” I stopped, feeling like a show-off. At this party in New York. It sounded snobby in my head.

  “It’s insane, right? So good.” Dory didn’t seem to care about my cool party. Then I remembered that she got to go to college parties all the time. “I’ve also been totally obsessed with this band called Swell—have you heard this?” She held up another CD that was floating around in the sea of her suitcase. “Too Many Days Without Thinking? I’m starting to think this is the motto of my college years. My brain is fried. Oh wait!” She leaped up and grabbed two videotapes off her desk. “I just dubbed these with my dad’s old video camera. They’re for you.”

  “For me?” I read the spines. The Decline of Western Civilization, Part One. Ladies and Gentlemen, The Fabulous Stains. In Dory’s familiar, blocky handwriting.

  “Yeah—there’s this new girl on my hall, Rachel. She’s got this unbelievable bootleg collection. You’re going to flip out when you see these movies; they’re so killer. Decline is, like, a documentary of the whole LA punk scene. And The Fabulous Stains has the guys from the Sex Pistols and the Clash. Steve Jones and Paul Simonon are so cute. You’ll totally die.”

  “Cool. Thanks.” I couldn’t wait to show these to my mom. I wondered if she’d seen them. Dory sat down on the bed.

  “Rachel’s been getting me obsessed with LA punk—the Germs, Fear. Are you into X?” X. I remembered Gram talking about them.

  “Um, I met a guy who is.”

  “You met a guy who’s into X, huh?” Dory raised an eyebrow at me. “New York guy? Tell me more.”

  “Actually, he’s a Gaffney guy. But he’s going to school in New York. He works at a record store.”

  “Okay, so far he’s perfect. What’s his name?”

  “Gram. And it totally sucks, because he lives, like, an hour from Millville, and he’s there right now for Thanksgiving, and I’m stuck down here.”

  “So, call him! Did he give you his number at home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’re waiting for … ?”

  “I don’t know!” I rolled over, burying my face in her pillow. “I feel so lame. I’m down here at Grandma’s house—”

  “So what? Grandmas are cool. He’s probably at his grandma’s. Do you have his number on you right now? Or did you learn it by heart on the plane ride down here?”

  “On the car ride to the plane,” I confessed. Dory thrust her see-through plastic phone into my hands.

  “Do it, dude. Call him.”

  “Right now?”

  “No, next week. Yeah, now!”

  I took the phone off the hook, looking away from Dory’s hyper stare. Dory was always talking me into doing things I was way too shy to do on my own. She’d just shrug her shoulders and say “I have no pride” and jump right in. And somehow I was always jumping with her. Singing karaoke. Dancing with drag queens. Calling Gram at his parents’ house on Thanksgiving.

  My hands got slippery with sweat, dialing the number. I cleared my throat, and then cleared it again.

  “It’s ringing,” I reported. Dory gave me the thumbs-up.

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice on the other end of the line said, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “You’ve reached the Medleys. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message after the beep. And have a blessed day.”

  “It’s the machine,” I hissed, just as the beep smarted my ear.

  “Um—hi. This is a message for Gram. Uh, this is Maria, from New York, and I’m just calling to say hi and … have a blessed Thanksgiving.” I hung up the phone, my face and neck on fire with embarrassment.

  “Have a blessed Thanksgiving?”

  “It just came out! The machine said to have a blessed day!” I clobbered myself with Dory’s pillow. “He’s going to think I’m making fun of him.”

  “No, no. It’s totally cool,” Dory reassured me. “Wishing them a blessed Thanksgiving—parents love that shit.”

  “Can I die now?” I said to the heavy down of the pillow.

  “Dory?” There was a knock on the door. Dory’s mom opened it. “Honey, your dad’s packing the car. Half an hour.”

  “Okay. I’m ready whenever.”

  Mrs. Mason looked at the floor, at the upended contents of Dory’s backpack and suitcase, and then back at Dory.

  “Dorothy, this room—”

  “I know. I’m cleaning it up,” Dory said.

  Her mother sighed. “Everything all right, Maria?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I sat up.

  “She’s recovering from crush fatigue,” Dory said.

  “Hey!” I swatted her arm. Her mom just smiled.

  “Ah, understood. Just make sure you get your beauty sleep,” she advised. “I have to run and take the casserole out of the oven. You girls have fun catching up.” She closed the door behind her.

  “Have a blessed Thanksgiving,” I called out, and Dory and I both fell back on the bed, laughing.

  Thanksgiving stopped being my favorite holiday about three years ago, when my grandmother started inviting all her friends. I guess she got tired of being the minority around my dad and me, who just wanted to watch the parade, eat too much turkey, and fall asleep early. Now we had to dress up and hobnob with the Donninghams and the Spinellis and the Brents, listening to them go on and on about what a beautiful mass it was this year, then gossip about who was getting fat and whose dress was the most unflattering. Dad and I sat across from each other at one end of the long dining room table, chewing our drumsticks and kicking each other under the table when the conversation got particularly dreary. We hadn’t said much to each other since I’d gotten off the plane, but I was glad to still have a partner in crime.

  “
Maria, we hear you’re in New York now.” Mr. Brent’s voice boomed down the table. He was a big wheel at some textile plant in Marietta. “How’s the city life treating you?”

  “Fine, thanks.” I stuffed a forkful of sweet potatoes in my mouth, hoping they’d take the hint.

  “Mitchell, we should go up to the city for some Christmas shopping this year,” Mrs. Donningham said. “There’s nothing like riding down Fifth Avenue at Christmastime. Seeing the big tree at Rockefeller Center.”

  “Have you been to see any shows yet, Maria?” Mr. Spinelli asked.

  “No, sir,” I replied politely. “But I—”

  “Maria’s been very busy with school,” Grandmother said, giving me a look that told me to take whatever sarcastic comment I was about to make and nip it in the bud.

  “Oh, if you get a chance, you really should see the Disney one they’ve got now. Beauty and the Beast,” Mrs. Spinelli said. “It was absolutely breathtaking. Remember that one, Artie?”

  “Now, that was cute. We took the grandkids. They loved it.” Mr. Spinelli heaped more stuffing onto his plate. “But the one you really have to see is The Cats. That’s a classic. They’ve got some real numbers in that one.” Mr. Spinelli gave me a wink.

  Beneath the table, I felt a tap on my shoe. I looked up at my dad. He nodded and gave me the thumbs-up sign, like he’d seen it, too. I swallowed a laugh and kicked him back.

  The guests finally left after coffee and pumpkin pie, and my grandmother retired at her usual nine o’clock bedtime. I found my father sitting in the porch swing out front, drinking a Coors and listening to the crickets.

  “Hey, slugger,” he said.

  “Hey.” I sat down next to him. The swing jostled for a second, then got back into its rhythm. The yellow porch light glowed behind us. Across the street, the streetlamp was flickering white through the branches of the willow tree in the yard as they waved in the breeze.

  “You warm enough in just that sweater?”

  “I can take it.” I was wearing one of the thin sweaters Mom bought me at Trash and Vaudeville. “I’m half New Yorker, you know.”