“And how is that my fault?” she yelled again.
“Hey,” I interrupted. My heart was racing. I felt like I had to save Travis. He stood with his back against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose. I handed Mom her drink. “Here—here you go. Theo says hi.”
“Jesus, Vic. You’re gonna let her drink like that?”
“It’s ginger ale,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I was defending my mother, but I wanted them to stop fighting.
“Don’t tell me how to raise my kid—”
“’Cause you’re doing a bang-up job on your own,” Travis muttered.
“I happen to think I’m doing pretty well, all things considered!”
“Guys, I’m standing right here.” All things considered? What was that supposed to mean? Considering that we got kicked out of the apartment? Considering that I’m such a screwup?
“Come on.” Mom grabbed my elbow, spilling ginger ale down my hand. “We’ll see you after the show,” she called back to Travis.
“Is, um—” I hesitated. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I felt kind of afraid of my mom. “Is everything okay?”
“Travis is being a dumbass. Typical boys.” She gulped her drink. “Fuck it. Hey, it’s still gonna be a great show. They’re up next—let’s go stake out a spot!”
And just like that, she was happy again. Whatever awful thing had happened to make her so angry was suddenly over. I followed my mom as she pushed through to the front of the stage just in time for the opening band to announce their last number and tell us to stick around for Penny Dreadful and the Antics. I pinched my earplugs into my ears and waited. My mom kept talking about the bands she’d seen here and how great they all were, yelling over the music like nothing bad had happened at all.
Finally the band came on, in full regalia: Gary in spiked metal armbands, Slade in silver pants and no shirt, silver glitter dusting his arms and shoulders. Penny’s hair was a shock of pink, her black leather pants and vest so tight, she looked like a cross between a parrot and an inverted exclamation point. And then there was Travis.
He walked onstage last, like he didn’t even care that it was CBGBs and he had a show to play. His jeans were ripped at the knees, and the sleeves of his black T-shirt were rolled up, showing the pale, carved muscles of his arms. He didn’t even bother plugging his guitar in until after the first song had already started. But he was amazing. His guitar rang out and soared across the entire band, across the crowded room, and out into the street. I forgot everything, swallowed whole by the sound of his guitar. I was completely crashed under it, like being pinned beneath a wave but without wanting to come up for air. I imagined that sound covering the entire city, swelling up on the streets and holding everyone still, transfixed from this spell. The notes erupted and dissolved, whines and crashes, stuttering feedback and electric wallop. Mom and I jumped like mad at the foot of the stage, screaming our heads off, going nuts. I tried to catch Travis’s eye to let him know that it was working, that the spell was taking hold. But he never saw us. He never even looked down. The entire time, his gaze was fixed on something far away, hovering over everyone. Something that probably didn’t exist at all.
I couldn’t stop talking about Travis, even though I got the feeling that Gram didn’t really care.
“He’s so amazing. I can’t even describe it. You have to come to the next show. You would totally freak out.”
“I’d freak right out, huh?” Gram smirked.
“Okay, maybe you wouldn’t freak out.” We were back in his dorm room after meeting up in Chinatown for dim sum. “You’re a real musician, so maybe you wouldn’t think it was so great. But I was impressed.”
“I trust your judgment.” Gram flipped through one of his record crates, looking for the next great thing to turn me on to. “He’s probably a righteous player. He might well be the second coming of Yngwie Malmsteen, and here I went and missed it.”
“Yng—who?”
“Yngwie Malmsteen. Heavy-metal dude. I take it you’re not much of a headbanger.” He slipped a record out of its sleeve and set the needle on its edge.
“No, I can’t say I’m the headbanging type.”
“You’re into this guy, though, right?” Gram sat back down on the bed next to me as a deep, haunted voice came out of the speakers. The song was familiar, but slower or something. I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“I know this song—”
“The Jeff Buckley version, right?”
“Yeah—‘Hallelujah’—but this is—who is this?”
“You never heard the original? This is Leonard Cohen.” He handed me the cover. A man’s face in shadow, lined and sad in a way that reminded me of my mom’s Nico record. “Shoot, I had you pegged for a big Leonard Cohen fan when you said you were into Jeff Buckley. Man, I love Grace, but the best thing that record ever did was turn me on to Leonard Cohen. Even though, technically, Jeff Buckley’s singing the John Cale version of ‘Hallelujah.’ Which is pretty damn great, too. This is one of those songs you could play on a pair of spoons and it’d knock your socks off.”
“A pair of spoons, huh?” I could tell Gram was about to go off on one of his musical raptures again.
“Oh yeah. This dude is not fucking around. And now we gotta hear the John Cale version, too—” Gram lunged for the towering stack of CDs on his desk, but I reached out to stop him.
“Hey, wait.”
“What is it?”
“You’ve been jumping up and down, changing the records all night long. Why don’t we just let this one play?”
“Good point, there.” Gram eased back into his place on the bed. “Sometimes I get so excited listening to music, I wish I had three heads or twelve ears or something. So I could listen to everything at once.”
“I know! And then do you ever feel the exact opposite, like you just wanna listen to one song over and over again?”
“Until every note of it becomes embedded in your DNA and you worry that maybe you’re going crazy because you’ve spent an entire hour listening to one three-minute song about twenty times?” Gram nodded. “I know that feeling.”
“Sometimes I feel so lazy because it’s all I wanna do. Just listen to music. All day, all night.”
“That’s not lazy,” Gram said. “That’s love. Why don’t you play an instrument?”
“Never learned how.” I shrugged. “Except for the recorder in fourth-grade music class.”
“That’s a start. It’s never too late to start. Get you a drum kit or a guitar or something. Save up, go to a pawn shop, get it cheap. Get that guy to teach you how to play.”
“Which guy?”
“The one you’re so into. Travis—isn’t that his name?”
“Travis?” I laughed. “Gram, that’s gross. He’s my mom’s boyfriend. I’m not into him.”
“You sound pretty into him when you talk about him playing that guitar.” Gram fluttered his eyelashes and pitched his voice up into a falsetto. “And he’s so amazing and far out and wonderful when he plays guitar, it’s all shooting stars and unicorns …”
“Shut up! I don’t sound like that.”
“No, but you sound like you’re into him.”
“Gram.” I rolled my eyes. “You wanna know who I’m into? I mean, really into?” I locked him in a steely stare.
“Do tell.”
“Yngwie Malmsteen.”
Gram laughed. And then, finally, he kissed me. Kissing Gram was nothing like kissing Brian. There was something sweet about the way Gram kissed. Something that made me want to kiss him all night.
“Maria.” He stopped.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’m just …” He exhaled. “I’m nervous as a damn cat around you. I feel like Mr. Smooth talking to you on the phone, but then you come over here and I feel like … like I’m still just some fat kid who can’t get laid.”
“Gram.” I wasn’t sure what to say. “You’re not just some fat kid to me.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Because I want to spend the night with you, but I’m so—” He shook his head. “I’m so jumpy, I feel like it might as well be my first time.”
“I sorta—” I laughed nervously. “I sorta feel the same way.”
All of a sudden, I felt in over my head. I mean, I wasn’t stupid. I was sitting on some college guy’s bed, and we were kissing. I knew the next logical step wasn’t necessarily breaking out the Scrabble board. But getting laid? I guess I thought we’d stay at the kissing stage at least a little while longer.
“Do you, uh—” Gram cleared his throat. “Do you wanna spend the night? Because I, uh—I got all the stuff—I mean, I’ve got condoms and, uh—a bunch of condoms.”
God, how mortifying. Just the word, “condom.” Sex has got to be the most embarrassing thing on the planet.
“Listen, Gram, I can’t—I can’t really stay out all night. I mean, I live at my mom’s and everything.”
“Right, right. I understand.” He looked down at his hands.
“But that doesn’t mean we can’t—you know …” I felt myself blushing from my ears to my toes. “It doesn’t mean we can’t keep kissing for a while and see what happens. I mean, if you don’t mind. You know, taking your time.”
“For you”—he kissed me again—“I’ll take as long as it takes.”
It was just after one in the morning when I got back to the apartment. I couldn’t hear Travis snoring, and his guitar case was gone. I didn’t know if Mom was home. I tiptoed into the bathroom and turned on the light. I studied my face in the mirror. Did I look different? Would they be able to tell? Just like that, I wasn’t a virgin anymore. It was supposed to be a big deal, everybody always said. It was supposed to be this big, earth-shattering moment that would change me forever. It was a sin, according to my grandmother. Maybe I shouldn’t have let it happen. But I wanted it to happen. And, in the end, it was just kind of … nice. Gram was nice. In the end, it wasn’t anything. I mean, I didn’t feel like I had changed. Gram spoke so quietly when it was over, walking with me to the door, helping me put on my coat. Like I’d been in an accident or something. We kissed in the hallway in a daze. But the whole way home, I expected someone to notice. I was sure that someone was going to leap out at me from the shadows. I kept picturing a preacher, like something out of The Scarlet Letter, his finger pointing at me, shouting me down, a halo of fire around his head.
I was glad it happened with Gram instead of with Brian. When I was with Brian, the thought of sleeping with him always made me feel kind of sick inside, even in the beginning when I liked him. But being with someone you loved—wait a minute, did I love Gram? I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Pulled at my hair, pushed at my sullen cheekbones in the dull glass. At least Gram didn’t mind the crummy condition of my skin, all broken out and gross. Wait, wasn’t I supposed to be feeling some big feeling, instead of thinking about pimples? Wasn’t I supposed to be under the spell of some running-through-the-flowers rhapsody?
Maybe I didn’t love Gram yet. But I was definitely into him.
I opened the medicine cabinet and fumbled through the dental floss and deodorant, figuring maybe Travis had some anti-zit stuff in here somewhere. When I moved the Bactine, something fell into the sink. My heart sort of skipped when I saw it. I didn’t know what it was, exactly, but I’d seen it before. On those cop shows I watched for the sake of the skyline. It was a little plastic bag, smaller than my pinkie, full of white powder. Drugs. Fuck. Okay. What was this?
I picked it up. My fingers were trembling. Just put it back. I tucked the packet into its hidden corner behind the Bactine. I closed the medicine cabinet and stepped away like it was radioactive. Maybe I’ve got it wrong, I thought. Maybe it’s … some weird kind of aspirin. But it looked like it always did on TV. It looked like it did in the “Just Say No” brochures they gave us in health class. Okay. Okay.
I walked out of the bathroom. I walked around the kitchen table. I was pissed. I’m the teenager, here. Somebody else is supposed to find my drugs. I thought about my mom, always hyper. Did it make you hyper? I thought about Travis, so sick after Thanksgiving, like he was on fire. It had to be his. Did Mom know? What would she do when she found out?
She wasn’t going to find out. I went back into the bathroom and yanked the medicine cabinet door open. I took the packet out of its hiding place and threw it in the trash. Done. Problem solved.
No, that’s no good. That’s worse. It’s right there in the trash can for everyone to see. I fished it out of the trash, opened it over the toilet, and watched the white powder fan out and hit the water. I tossed the plastic Baggie in after it and flushed. When the tank refilled, I flushed again for good measure. Now it was really done.
I looked at myself in the mirror again. Pulled my hair away from my face and exhaled. Would Travis be angry with me? Would he go into withdrawal, get sick? How much did those drugs cost? Would Mom still find out? Why was Travis doing drugs in the first place? How did he get them? Somebody in the band? Probably Gary. I didn’t like that guy from the moment we met. Next time I saw the band, I’d tell Penny they needed to find a new drummer. Maybe I’d tell Gary myself.
“You asked for it, kiddo,” I told my pale reflection. “No more kid stuff now.”
13
The phone was getting sweaty in my hand. Meanwhile, this conversation was going nowhere.
“Your grandmother already bought you a ticket,” Dad repeated. “It’s next week. You could’ve at least said something sooner.”
“Can’t she cancel it? I told you at Thanksgiving that I wanted to spend Christmas with Mom.” I was determined to stand my ground on this, even though the thought of the inevitable Angry Phone Call from my grandmother was already giving me the shakes.
“Maria.” Dad sighed. I could tell he was giving up. “Come or don’t come, but we’re not canceling the ticket.”
“Do what you want, but I’m spending Christmas here.” I hoped that it would work like it always did. That if I was quiet, and patient, and showed that I wasn’t going to throw a temper fit, he would quietly concede.
“You do what you want,” he echoed my own words back to me. “I’m late for work. I love you, Maria.”
“You too, Dad.”
I hung up the phone. Travis walked into the kitchen, yawning. His black shirt hung open, unbuttoned.
“You were out late,” he mumbled, opening the fridge.
“So were you.”
Travis peered at me as he drank out of the milk carton.
“That’s disgusting,” I said. “We’ve all gotta drink that, you know.”
He took his time putting the milk back in the fridge. “I had rehearsal last night,” he said. “What’s your excuse?”
“I was hanging out with a friend of mine.” I busied myself taking the clean coffee mugs out of the drying rack and putting them in the cabinet. “Is there some law against hanging out?”
“What friend? That guy from the record store?”
“Yeah. So?”
“I figured.” Travis opened the fridge and closed it again. “And what are you gonna do when that fat slob knocks you up?”
“He is not a fat slob, and I’m not—” I stopped. Wow, could he tell? “You’re sick.” I stormed out of the kitchen, but the apartment was so small, there wasn’t really anywhere to storm to. I paced around the futon, tearing through the clean laundry that sat half-folded, looking for my good sweater.
“You think we don’t know what you’re doing?” Travis called out.
“We?” I spun around. “You’re not my father.” I yanked the sweater over my head.
“If your mom was here right now—”
“She’d probably be totally cool with it. Besides, you think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Travis.” I looked at him. His pale chest beneath his black shirt. The tattoo over his heart.
His dark brow. “Just get off my case, okay?” I grabbed my coat, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and walked out.
“This gift is neither romantic nor imaginative, but it’s practical.” Nina handed me a slender box wrapped in red foil, tied with a green ribbon.
“Nina, I didn’t—” I stammered. “I didn’t get you anything.”
“I didn’t expect you to.” Nina walked briskly through the living room, closing the blinds against the sharp setting sun.
“But I should have. I don’t know why I didn’t.”
“Maria, I happen to be that woman who has everything. Now, stop apologizing and open your gift.”
I slid the ribbon off and ripped the red foil. Inside the box was a black leather-bound book stamped with gold letters. MANHATTAN DIARY. I flipped open the pages. It had everything. Next year’s calendar. A day planner. Maps of the entire city. The subway lines and bus routes.
“Wow—Nina, thank you—”
“It’s a trifle.” Nina waved her hand. “But I think you’ll find it useful. The first step to being successful is being organized. And knowing which way you’re going always helps. Now”—she put on her overcoat, the one with the fur collar—“I thought that for our last evening before the holiday, we’d start at Lincoln Center—” Her cell phone rang. “Hold that thought.”
I tucked the diary into my backpack. I liked having it there. It made me feel like the next year was definite. Decided. I was staying. I was becoming a real New Yorker. I had to come up with something really great for Nina. Maybe I could get her a record. Some opera music, something classical.
“Hold on—just hold on a moment. Maria”—Nina held her hand over the phone receiver—“have you seen your mother today?”
My heart jumped into my throat. “No. Why?”
Nina shook her head. “Anthony, I’m coming right over. No, don’t—Anthony, wait for me.” She flipped the phone closed. “Maria, get your coat.” Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor and I rushed to catch up.
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