by A. R. Rivera
I am back where it all began. I’m fifteen, again. In another town. Another life. Back in Carlisle.
+ + +
2
—Avery
Angel completely ignored me for the millionth time.
It’s killing me. And it doesn’t matter.
I waited for her to show up in that corridor. For hours and hours. You know, it takes a lot of fucking effort to ignore someone who’s in front of your face.
But Angel did it.
Once I reach the end of the hallway, instead of turning like I planned, I flip back around and head for the door that’s now closing. There’s a small window in the top-center of the door. I use it to steal a peek inside. There are four people around a table. Angel and three suits: the idiot lawyer, a lady with really bad hair, and a tall skinny guy.
Angel turns toward the door and I shrink under the window. I’ve been hoping to grab her at just the right moment; a second when she isn’t expecting me. Maybe she’ll falter and let herself notice me, since she’s hell-bent on acting like I don’t exist. Right now, though she’s expecting me to be hovering.
It doesn’t matter. Maybe if I keep saying it, I’ll start to believe it.
I don’t know why everyone is so hell-bent on getting Angels’ side of the story. She never knew anything. If she’d had a damned clue we wouldn’t have ended up in prison. Then again, I was the reason she didn’t know anything. I went out of my way to ensure that she didn’t.
From time to time, when I had to give her the bald-faced lie she needed to cope, I’d wonder if she suspected. But after everything came down and she completely withdrew from the world, then I knew for sure: she never had a clue.
Which made me really fucking sad. Angry too, because I knew everything without anybody having to lay it out for me.
Angel never was one to pick up on subtlety, though. Matter of fact, she’s gifted in the art of ignoring anything she doesn’t like. Like me.
No, she always had to have shit spelled out to her; unless the shits name was Jake. He was her everything—greatest strength and biggest weakness. There were never any walls where Jake was concerned.
I think he was our biggest problem. If she’d never met Jake, none of it would have happened.
+ + +
3
—Angel
Carlisle was situated near the Arizona/New Mexico border—a stone’s throw from Zuni Indian territory. In and of itself, the town was no more than a speck. Nothing special, except that it was also home to the greatest progressive rock band the world has never heard of. It was the womb that grew and gave birth to Analog Controller.
My all-time favorite band. They began as three high school kids who all had more musical experience than most people twice their age. They were Jake Haddon, Maxwell Sims, and Andrew Greene: the weirdo’s who stayed at home to practice instead of playing outside, who read comics and poetry instead of playing video games. But when they got into high school, suddenly they were cool because other kids found out what they could do.
Before Jake was mine, he was their singer and he had magic. Being around him was like having my own, personal Houdini for those first two years; he was always disappearing and resurfacing months later. His gifts as a leading man spoke a simple truth that changed inanimate objects. His voice brought things to life. He was a living, breathing splendor. Beauty incarnate, from the inside out. And Jake was smart. He was a poet and a song bird. He could make you feel things. He was much more than my boyfriend; a gregarious rock star, an undiscovered genius by the age of eighteen.
Analog Controller had played at a house party I attended over the summer before I started high school and I would like to say that I loved the band from that moment, but I didn’t. Their instruments took up most of the living room—that’s what I remember, because I tripped on a power strip, and hit my hip on a speaker. I don’t remember whose house it was, but someone told me that they couldn’t play in the garage because there was one shitty neighbor who would call the cops. I remember that I liked the music, though I wasn’t really capable of following, what with all the fuzzy naval wine coolers pumping through me.
When we first started talking, it was about two years before we got together. I was barely fifteen. Jake was nearly four years older than me, so he had already graduated by that time. The day me and Jake officially met was at Joes Pizza Pub.
Avery was my best friend at that time. We were there hanging out after school. She was treating me to a slice of my favorite cheese pizza because I’d had a really bad day. In high school, nearly every day was like that.
The bad started with necessity. Me, rushing to the bathroom, intending to pee and make my bus before it left without me. But when I clambered through the heavy swinging door, Samantha Marris was there. She’d made it seem like running into me was the highlight of her day. It probably was. Long story short: I ended up doubled-over in the furthest stall, trying to figure out how the waist of my pants was able to sustain my weight without tearing. Suddenly she dropped me. I turned back to find Avery with her fists in Samantha’s hair. It was a blur of shoving and scratching for a few seconds, until Avery got a good hook into Samantha’s gut.
We both missed the bus that day and on the long walk home, we decided to stop at Joes for a slice. In the middle of splitting a second wedge of greasy triple cheese, we saw this really cute guy; tall, baby-faced and a little dirty-looking but in a good way. He was hauling in pieces of a drum set. We watched as he stacked them in a far corner at the back of the restaurant. And kept staring, sipping rootbeer, and asking Joe Junior—the owner’s son—what was going on.
Joe didn’t answer. He had his eyes turned up at a television set mounted on a high bracket behind the counter. He was saying, “Come on. Come on, come on, baby,” ending with a disappointed sigh. His answer came by way of a piece of paper. A flyer he slapped down onto the ring stained counter in front of us. The plain white sheet decked in black marker spelled out, Joes Pizza Pub— live music every Friday night!
“Every Friday?” I squealed. Music was always a big part of my life. It was like therapy—the notes always helped clear my head.
“So cool.” Avery’s green eyes sparkled.
Joe just nodded at our enthusiasm, as if it was old news. And, since Avery and I had nothing better to do, we stayed to watch. The foster family I was with at the time didn’t care what I did, as long as I kept my room clean and never asked for anything.
Avery and I grabbed a couple of chairs and pulled them over to the area where the guys were setting up their equipment. There wasn’t even a stage. It was a tiled corner at the back of the long room that made up the pizza pub. Someone had laid out a square of black carpet across the tile. It had blue bits of tape all over it. As we watched, a second guy appeared. He was lanky, thin and awkward. He kept his head down so I couldn’t really get a look at his face. The two guys were setting up the drum set, placing each stand so that the legs set directly on a blue piece of tape. We stayed there watching and whispered comments amongst ourselves until Jake walked in.
“He is gorgeous,” I remember saying and surprising myself. It wasn’t one of those sentences I imagined saying out loud because I wasn’t one of those girls that watched sappy movies or read romantic books about meeting the perfect guy. I never went out on dates looking for Mr. Right Now. It was just true—he was gorgeous—and so it popped out.
Jake had the most perfectly put together face and body. He actually had a look. From his semi-sloppy but stylish clothes, to his big combat boots, and most of all, his strong jaw that held steady two delicious lips that gave him a slight puckered look when he was quiet. His eyes were bright, gleaming the exact same color as his coppery-brown hair.
For most girls in high school, good looking or cute was an easy determination: if they weren’t ugly, they must be cute. But no one should be called good-looking just because they aren’t ugly. No cute by default. Guys are either hot or they’re not, in my book. Avery’s method was
a little more complex. She used to say that all guys fell into three categories: deliciously gorgeous, take’m-or-leave’m, and butt-ugly. To her, nearly all boys fell into the last two. But remarkably, when I motioned to Jake, Avery didn’t roll her eyes or respond with snark.
She looked back at me with her wild, mossy gaze and straight black hair, giving a devious smile. “I dare you to talk to him.”
Had I known at the time just how deliciously gorgeous Jacob Haddon was inside and out, or how talented—if I had seen him play the guitar or sing first, or had remembered him from that house party—I never would have had the courage to speak to him. But I didn’t realize and in my ignorance, stumbled over to him on a dare.
Our talk began when the place was still near-empty and didn’t stop until it had to. He asked me to sit with him at the counter while he grabbed a drink.
I was staring intensely at his profile, sipping a cool Diet Coke. He was staring at his sweating glass of water, set atop the sticky counter. His thumb grazed the side, joining the beads of moisture into a stream that crept down the outside glass and pooled on the countertop.
I rested my elbow up on the bar, trying to concentrate on the heels of my shoes caught on the middle rung of my stool. I didn’t know I loved him, I just knew that I couldn’t stop staring at the perfect slope of his nose, his sharp jaw that literally looked as if it were carved from marble. He was a masterpiece.
“What are you after?”
Jake looked back, eyeing me, so that I could tell his eyes weren’t brown, but hazel. He leaned in, almost conspiratorially, and our shoulders touched. “What do you mean?”
“With your music—at what point will you look at your band and think, ‘we are successful.’ Are you seeking world domination, platinum records—what?”
The curtain of music that kept our conversation private shot up in volume before suddenly cutting off. Neither of us started. It was just a sound check of the Pubs’ PA system and someone was screwing around. I heard Avery laughing from somewhere in the background.
Jake grinned, showing his naturally straight teeth. There was something about the way he looked at me that made my heart race, but also eased the tension that lived in my stomach. It was a look that made me feel like the only person in the room.
“Not the whole world,” Jake smiled.
“So, Nirvana’s got nothing to worry about? What about Beck? Should he be worried?” They were some of my favorite bands. Up until that night, anyway. They were always in heavy rotation. Every radio station—all two of them—bumped their music. Actually, most of what I listened to back then was rock music. Any and all. But I had no CDs, so I had to take what the radio stations gave me.
“Beck? No.” Jake laughed. Not the type of empty chuckle he’d start doling out to convenient fans that flocked to him as the bands popularity would inevitably grow. It was not the grin he would give to chicks who asked him to sign the free flyers they picked up at the door. Jake’s affection was earned. And he must have seen how anxious I was to invest in him. That laugh was unguarded and genuine. It held something—not simply appreciation, but fire, too. Oh, how I wanted it to consume me.
His face scrunched, and lips pressed together, his head rocked playfully from side to side. “Maybe my part of the world. Yeah, I’ll be happy to rule a little chunk. The Analog Controller Section.” He paused, thoughtful. “Nirvana can keep their sound and I’ll stick with my screamy, progressive one. As long as what I do—what I make—is important, I’ll be satisfied. It has to mean something or it won’t mean anything. I’m sure Mister Beck understands that.”
As we talked, I found Jakes’ release lever: family. I asked if he was an only child, like me, and the flood gates opened. Jake told me he was a middle child. He had two older sisters—twins—that were off at college and a younger brother who’d just started junior high, but was in a special education class.
“Henry’s got this thing. The doctor calls it autism. Gets teased a lot because he doesn’t act like other kids his age.” Jake wiped his palms across his jeans. “He doesn’t know how to stick up for himself. I tried helping him, but he’s afraid, you know?” He shook his head, looking at nothing.
“I can understand that. It’s hard enough to fit in when the doctor calls you normal. And it’s even harder to make yourself do something you’re afraid of.” I poked my index finger into the bulge of muscle on his bicep. “He’s lucky he’s got you.”
Jake turned to face me, touching his knees to mine, and kept talking. Venting, really, when I asked how he got into music. His parents were recently separated and in the midst of an ugly divorce. His mom went back to work because of financial problems. His sisters used to care of his younger brother, but since they moved away to school, the responsibility had fallen to him. Music was his outlet. His dad lived twenty miles away, and still came around from time to time, but not enough.
We eased from one topic to the next until a guy tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey man, time to warm up.”
I nodded when Jake introduced lanky Andrew, the bass player, and noticed he did not introduce me. Jake simply smiled, “Check you later, Angel,” and took Andrew with him as he walked away.
Analog Controller was going on first. They were the smallest band and weren’t getting paid, but Jake was fine with it, because it wasn’t about money. At that time Analog Controller was just beginning to understand the importance of going on at the right time. Second and third are always the best slots in an area where you want to build a fan base, but that was one of those little kernels you had to learn. Other bands playing at your level were always going to compete: lie, cheat or steal, for a cherry spot in the line-up. Analog was supposed to play second at that show, but the band that was to go first said
their singer might not make it on time, so Analog was bumped into the first slot.
That was something you never heard people talk about; the pressure of competition. It’s obvious from the inside, but when you’re trying to break-in, no one’s gonna tell you there’s a rivalry. Not even if you specifically asked.
Jake got his insider information from one of the members of the main band who happened to like Analog’s sound. “You play first, and late arrivals miss your set. You play last only if you are the act people came to see. Play second or third if you’re looking for new listeners, and always try to play with bands who have the same audience and whose sounds compliment yours.”
Going by that last directive, Analog’s biggest issue seemed that no one else sounded like them. It was September of 1994, and everyone was into the
Seattle sounds. No one else had that rooted-in-hard-rock-with-heavy-melodic-influences-layered-with-vocal-harmony-and-tight-rhythmic-transition type of sound. It was experimental and progressive. Aggressive, too. Everyone liked Analog’s style, but no one else had it.
The band was on the same floor as the crowd—eye level in a standing room. There were some kids my age and a couple of guys in their thirties who hung in the back and stuffed their faces ignoring the awesomeness, while Avery and I rocked-out front and center.
By the second song, more people showed up near the front and we were pushed closer. When I was about two feet away from him, Jake latched his gaze on me. He crooned salacious lyrics into the crowd, playing his guitar and working the pedals while he kept me in his sights. And after the show was over, he gave me a copy of their first EP and asked if I wanted go get pancakes with him. I did, of course. We all sat in a big corner booth, laughing and chatting over a short stack of pancakes and bacon 8:30 at night.
That was the night I fell in love. And the love-fest continued, for my part. I crushed hard. Thought about him all the time; about how nice he was, how genuine and sweet. And Jake was super hot. Untouchably gorgeous. In my mind, that night was a fluke. He was the hot lead singer of my new favorite band, and I was their biggest fan.
+++
About six months later, I was at another Analog Controller show. It was my third one. The second had
taken place the night before, but I hadn’t see Jake until he went on stage. He’d become this wonderful, ethereal thing: elevated and totally beyond my grasp. So, I never imagined that he did mundane things, like go to the store, or work, or walk on the earth like the rest of us mere mortals. He was superior and I’d resigned myself to worship from afar. So, during their set that second night, I hid in the back of the club, too twisted in nauseating-knots to actually make my way up front. That was the first time I had seen him since that day at the pizza pub. They never played there again.
When I went to that third show, I was kicking myself for not seeking him out the night before and had determined I was going to set my nerves aside and try to talk with Jake again. But I was also sure I’d make a fool of myself. I had decided to wait for a sign. A look or nod that would indicate he remembered me. I knew he had to meet people all the time and I didn’t want to be one of those girls who could recite an entire conversation that he’d never remember.
Well, I got my sign: standing in back of a dive bar called Aces, waiting for Avery to come out of the bathroom. The floor was sticky. I was holding Avery’s soda because she didn’t wanna infect it with the germs of the public restroom.
I was wearing an Analog Controller t-shirt that I got printed at a shop in the mall, then chopped the sleeves and shredded the back. The bottom was cropped and tied above my waist. Avery had helped with my makeup that night, so I wore more than unusual.
The air inside the club was choking me. The whole place smelled like the smoke machine was set to kill—a fog of cat litter and ammonia that burned my retinas. I was wiping underneath my eye, hoping my mascara was waterproof when a figure approached. I didn’t think anything of it, until it stopped a few feet away.
He was an outline of smoke and shadow: a shapeless form exuding a raw, decadent energy. When I looked up, I was dumbfounded, watching Jake take the last few steps to stand beside me. He was wearing leather pants . . . very nice leather pants; breath-stealing leather pants that fit like they were made for him. He leaned his shoulders against the wall at my back, but kept his hips forward.
