by Len Vlahos
No response. I let a long moment pass. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe I’d been judging Johnny through a lens of jealousy. And not just jealousy about Cheyenne, jealousy about everything he was and I was not. Maybe it was me who’d been the crappy friend.
But something was still bothering me. “I still don’t understand,” I said quietly.
He rolled his eyes. “What?”
“Why you don’t want to see Cheyenne.”
“I told you. I’m doing her a favor.”
“But she loves you.”
“Which is why I need to push her away. Do you think I like doing this?”
“Then don’t.”
No response.
“You know, John, sometimes you can be one stubborn, arrogant prick.” As I think I’ve established, this isn’t the kind of thing I was used to saying to Johnny, and it wasn’t the kind of thing he was used to hearing from me. But seeing him there helped me understand how the world saw me and that was like a tonic. For once, I could be the other guy. I could be Kung Fu.
“Be careful, Harry.” He didn’t even try to hide the anger in his voice. I ignored it.
“Dude, you’re my best friend.” This hung in the air for a second. I think it surprised us both. “And you’re the luckiest guy in the world to have a girl like Cheyenne. I’d give anything for that. I almost did. Don’t blow it.”
“Luckiest guy in the world? Are you out of your mind? Look at me!”
“I am looking, John.”
“You’re looking but you’re not seeing! This is not lucky!” He pulled the blanket back, exposing his stump. His pajama bottoms were tied up in a knot, hiding the wound, but that didn’t lessen the impact of the visual. “I’m a cripple, a gimp, a freak! How the fuck would you know anything about what I feel!” He screamed so loud I thought a window might shatter. I let his words ricochet around the room, bounce off his stereo, zigzag through his books, rattle the lightbulbs in the matching bedside lamps, careen off the poster of 1972 Olympics marathoner Frank Shorter, bounce off the worn carpet, shoot back up, and explode off the ceiling, until they were falling down on his head like soft rain.
He looked up at me, and he saw me. He really saw me. His shoulders sagged, and he nodded, realizing that I was the only person in his entire world who knew exactly how he felt.
“Just talk to her, okay?” I said quietly.
Johnny nodded again.
The shoe of our conversations had been so long on the other foot—with Johnny schooling me, and me setting my jaw and taking it—that neither one of us knew what to say next. Or maybe we’d both said what we’d needed to say, and we were worn out.
Either way, I couldn’t really look at Johnny so I let my eye wander the room.
There was a new acoustic guitar—a sunburst Takamine with a built-in pickup—propped against the wall opposite the bed. Johnny saw me eyeing it.
“Go ahead,” he said, I think relieved as much as I was, to change the subject. “My parents bought it to cheer me up. I haven’t touched it.”
I took the guitar, more as a defense against further angst than anything else, sat down cross-legged on the floor, and started strumming and picking random notes. The guitar felt heavy in my hands, but not like a weight. It was like an anchor, rooting me safely to the spot. It was like morphine, replacing so much pain with so much euphoria. People would come and people would go, I realized then, but music would be there until the end of time. (Note to self: Never question Dr. Kenny again. The guy is almost always right.)
I let that thought, about music, wash over me as I started to absentmindedly strum the chords of a song Johnny and I had been working on before we left to go on tour.
A to A7, A to A7.
I was playing soft but with a quick tempo. I let the simple chord progression drone on, the sound of it filling Johnny’s room with the joy that only an acoustic guitar can bring. Just before I was about to shift to the chords in the bridge, Johnny surprised me and started to sing along.
You give a little and take a lot
As distant guns are echoing shots
You never find the time to stop
You just keep reaching for the top
And you think you’re walking a thin line but you’re not
Able to see what’s at stake
You had your chance
To do your time
To rectify
Your useless crimes
But don’t worry
No one noticed
Your eyes are flooded with gin
Your head is needles and pins
Knee deep in original sin
Everything just started to spin
Someone had better notify your next of kin that you might not make it
You had your chance
To do your time
To rectify
Your useless crimes
But don’t worry
No one noticed.
We looked at each other as the last chord faded out, both cautious. It was Johnny who let his guard down first.
“You know,” he said, “the name of this band will make a lot more sense now that there are two of us.” He paused a beat, and we both burst out laughing. We laughed like that until we both cried.
When we were both tired and dried out, I started to strum chords to another Scar Boys song. Johnny pitched forward, ready to sing the first verse.
Music to the rescue again.
THE SONG IS OVER
(written by Peter Townshend, and performed by The Who)
I wasn’t sure what I wanted to accomplish when I sat down to write this essay. Strike that. I know exactly what I wanted to accomplish. I wanted you, Faceless Admissions Professional, to know who I was. You were never going to get that from SAT scores, my GPA, and a two-hundred- and fifty-word essay.
That day in Johnny’s room was nearly six months ago. He never went off to Syracuse and I don’t think he ever will. The four of us have been jamming again, and it’s been great. I’m not sure where it will lead, but this time I understand that it’s not where I end up that matters, but how I get there.
The truth is, while I know I’m supposed to want to go to college, that everyone is supposed to want to go to college, following the pack has never worked out all that well for me. I only filled out your application to please my parents. After everything that happened, it seemed like the right thing to do. What I want is to play music. If you’ve read this far, you’ve probably figured that out. But, did you read this far? I doubt it. And that’s okay. The exercise has been its own reward.
I started out telling you I was a coward, and I probably still am. But maybe I’ve learned something else here, too. I finally know who I am. I’m no longer the shy ugly kid with the scars. I’m the shy ugly kid with the scars who plays guitar, who loves music, and who has friends. And you know what? That’s good enough for me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would simply not exist with the love, support, input, feedback, advice, pushing, prodding, cheering—and did I mention love?—of my best friend, live-in editor, and oh yeah, my wife, Kristen Gilligan Vlahos. Without Krissy, I’d still be writing really bad screenplays in the basement.
Carl Lennertz, Allison Hill, and Sarah Darer Littman were all early champions of The Scar Boys; without their editorial input and encouragement, I’d still be writing really bad poetry in the attic.
There were far too many readers of various drafts of The Scar Boys, all of whom provided valuable feedback, for me to remember and name, but I’ll give it a shot. Thank you to Stephanie Anderson, John Bohman, Tom Gilligan, Bobbi Gilligan, Tommy Gilligan, Richard Hunt, Grandwinnie Kalassay, Kathy Leydon, Lauren McCartney, Karen Schechner, Nadine Vassallo and, and … damn, I’m very sorry if I forgot to include you here. Without your collective help, I’d still be writing really bad polemics on the patio. (Yeah, okay, this joke is already stale.)
My outstanding agent, Sandra Bond, never wavered in her faith in this project; and Greg Fergus
on, my brilliant editor at Egmont, understood this story from the beginning. His keen insight made The Scar Boys a better book at every turn. I am indebted to both. And thank you to Andrea Cascardi, Margaret Coffee, and the entire team at Egmont for their incredible, and incredibly smart, support.
Thank you to my parents for instilling in me a love of the written word. Thank you, Oren Teicher and everyone at ABA, for the ceaseless encouragement and support, especially Mark Nichols. Thank you, Chris Finan, for all the good writing advice.
I’ve had the pleasure to know many wonderful booksellers throughout the course of my life. Six of the most extraordinary—Becky Anderson, Cathy Berner, Valerie Koehler, Collette Morgan, Matt Norcross, and Andrea Vuleta—were instrumental in helping this book find a home.
And last, but not least, thanks to the real Woofing Cookies: Joe Loskywitz, Scott Nafz, and Chad Strohmayer. The adventures we had together as kids formed the backdrop of Harry’s tale. This story is their story as much as it is my own. Their friendship has and will always mean the world to me.
LEN VLAHOS
dropped out of NYU film school at age 19 to go on the road with a touring punk/pop band called the Woofing Cookies, which eventually became the backdrop for The Scar Boys. He now works in the book industry and lives with his wife and two children in Connecticut. You can visit him online at www.lenvlahos.com and follow him on Facebook and Twitter @LenVlahos.
