Chapter 1
Going from Catholic school to public school is like living in a fishbowl your whole life, and then being dumped into the Mississippi River. The classrooms are bigger, the hallways are wider, and everywhere you look, there are cliques upon cliques of students of all different styles and genres.
It was September of 1997 when I began my freshman year at Rockland High. I can still remember staring at the mass of strange faces – preppy cheerleaders who followed the jocks, stoners in leather who smelled like cigarettes, art kids in an assortment of colors whose headphones were glued to their ears at all times - and wondering where I’d fit into the equation.
But as soon as I walked into my fifth period English class, I didn’t have to wonder for long.
I spotted her in the back corner, scribbling something on her notebook. She was wearing black combat boots and a yellow T-shirt that said, “Save a Tree. Eat a Beaver.” I was wearing a Nirvana T-shirt and the purple Converse sneakers I’d owned since junior high. I took a seat next to her and we both discreetly eyeballed each other until she broke the ice.
“I like your necklace,” she’d whispered to me. I was wearing a black choker that resembled a dog collar with silver studs. A token of one of my unfortunate, short-lived goth phases.
“Thanks,” I’d whispered back. I pointed to her notebook, where she’d written the words “J.B. 1966 – 1997” with a heart around it. “You’re a Buckley fan, huh?”
Her jaw dropped in disbelief. “You like Jeff Buckley?” She looked me up and down, then narrowed her blue eyes suspiciously. “What’s your favorite song?”
That was an easy one. The day I discovered “Lover You Should’ve Come Over,” music took on a whole new meaning. It was like Jeff Buckley had beamed down from rock and roll heaven to educate society on what music was meant to be. To turn music into more than just a dancy track that saturates the airwaves, into a life-altering event. Into something that makes you view the world differently.
I relayed this information to her, at which point a glorious grin broke out across her face. “I’m Justine,” she said.
“Renee.”
Her eyes circled the room, then she leaned forward in her seat and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you want to meet me for a smoke at the Groves after school?”
“Sure,” I agreed. I’d never smoked a cigarette in my life, but it seemed ideal for an otherwise uneventful Monday afternoon.
The Groves were located in the back of the Rockland High football field, a giant spread of woods where kids would meet at the end of the day to smoke cigarettes, get high or arrange fist fights with their opposing enemy of the week. Justine led me down to a spot that was far enough in for us not to get noticed, then took a seat on the ground and handed me a Marlboro red. When I took my first drag and started coughing like an amateur, she broke into a fit of laughter.
“Never smoked before, huh?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I just spent the last eight years in a Catholic school. The most rebellious thing that kids ever did there was sniff white out.”
That made her laugh harder. Laugh is an inappropriate word actually, because Justine didn’t laugh, she giggled. And it was contagious. No matter what kind of mood I was in, all it took was Justine’s infectious, childlike giggle to snap me out of it.
I can’t pinpoint it exactly, but there was something about Justine that I was instantly drawn to. Maybe it was her constant paradox of innocence and mischief, or the way she loved music the same way I did. All I knew was that, up until that point, I’d always felt like an outsider, but when I was around Justine, it was different. I’d found someone who was just like me.
We spent the rest of the afternoon lying face-up on the grass, Justine twirling her long brown locks with her left hand and chain-smoking with her right. We exchanged grunge fashion favorites and sexual experiences. We quizzed each other on alternative one-hit wonders and complied a list of CD’s to trade. We took Polaroids of ourselves upside down in the grass and howled over the results.
When it started getting dark, Justine walked me to the top of my street. Before crossing to head home, she removed a Polaroid of us from her purse and pressed it into my hand.
“Keep it,” she said, smiling. Then she turned and walked away.
***
After our high school graduation, Justine and I wasted no time plotting our escape out of the hells of Rockland. The small-town scene wasn’t for us, and we craved a destination full of skanky rock clubs, sweaty musicians, and lots of nightlife. So, six months after receiving our acceptance letters to UCLA, we made the forty-two hour drive west to the city of Lost Angels.
So many things I never would have imagined. Living in L.A. was like one long vacation. We oo’ed and ah’ed over all the things that we didn’t have back home, the little things that homegrown Los Angelites undoubtedly took for granted: In and Out Burger, twenty-four hour diners, the ninety-nine cent supermarket. We spent our days on Venice Beach and our nights on the Sunset Strip, enamored with the seedy sinkholes that lined the majority of West Hollywood. Occasionally we’d throw aside the rock gear and layer ourselves in scarves and high heels and pretend we fit in with the high-class L.A. sector, treating ourselves to fruity champagne drinks at the Ivy, Santa Monica shopping, rooftop pool parties at the Standard. California, aside from the overpopulation and traffic, was heaven on earth.
During my senior year, I landed an internship as a music columnist for Pace, a local magazine that specialized in all aspects of the über-hip L.A. scene from fashion to nightlife. It was there that I met my boyfriend, Pace’s sports editor, David Whitman, a broad-shouldered, macho-masculine jock whom I had virtually nothing in common with. However, his charm and matching dimples were a socially and ethically acceptable diversion from this clear relationship roadblock.
Originally, I had assumed that once our four-year UCLA stint was complete, Justine and I would move back east to be with our families. But now the thought of giving up the daily dose of L.A. excitement in exchange for bleak Boston winters and small-town gossip didn’t seem the least bit appealing. So, after several heart-to-heart discussions over martinis, Justine and I made the alcohol-infused unanimous decision that we were here to stay.
The plan was set. We’d renew our lease and driver’s licenses. We’d land real jobs, ones that paid us in wages instead of school credits. We’d let our families know we’d be home to visit every summer and every Christmas, and make a list of all the things we loved about L.A. in case we ever got homesick.
Then one day, something happened that ruined our plan completely. It was the day that I walked in on Justine and my boyfriend in bed together.
Chapter 2
I was in desperate need of an apartment, although apartment hunting scored a pretty low ranking in the list of my favorite activities. Whatever qualities one apartment had, the other usually lacked, and vice versa. There were the expensive places in a great location, the reasonably priced places in a not-so-great location, and the dumps. And when you have a slowly dwindling post-college fund and no roommate to share rent expenses, you usually aim for something between the middle and the latter of those three options.
I had entertained the idea of a roommate for one brief, fleeting moment, but every classified ad I came across only reminded me of the outcome of my last roommate.
I opted to take the solo route and shell out the extra rent money instead.
I ended up settling for a small one-bedroom on the second floor of a complex about three blocks away from Central Square in downtown Boston. The hallways smelled like a nursing home and were lined with painted bricks, like a high school bathroom,
but it was one of the only places in town that included free parking, a high selling point for someone who loathes the public transportation system. I also wasn’t too keen on living in a complex since I feared the combination of thin walls and loud neighbors, but luckily it was a small complex with about twenty apartments, not the kind with fifty floors and elevators up the wazoo.
I could barely even get one box settled into my new place before my cell phone rang again. When you move across the country and land a new job and a new boyfriend, your life becomes interesting at best. When you walk in on your best friend and boyfriend in bed together, your life becomes tabloid fodder.
“Hi, Mom,” I greeted, holding the phone with one hand and attempting to unpack with the other.
“Hi honey.” I could hear the pity already. It practically seeped through the phone. “How’s the moving coming along?”
“About the same since the last time you asked.”
“Sorry,” she said, unapologetically. “You sure you don’t need any help?”
“No, I’m almost done,” I said, which was a lie. I’d spent about ninety-five percent of my day thus far on my cell phone, and the other five percent moving, which meant I’d brought exactly one box of clothing and a lamp up to my place.
“Okay, well I want to you know that I’ve been praying for you,” she said. “Everything will work out for the best, Renee. You’ll see.”
Sadly, I had actually shared this same belief at one time. Now, it just sounded like my mother’s usual bible-thumping Jesus jarble.
“So…” She paused, and I knew what was coming next. “Have you heard from Justine at all since you’ve been home?”
“No. I think she finally got the hint after I ignored the first eighty-five sobbing voicemails she left me.”
Another pause. “Honey, I know this is hard for you. But don’t you at least want to talk to her about it?”
“No, Mom, I don’t,” I said flatly. “And frankly, if I never talk to her again, that would be fine with me.”
And for the first time in my life, this is the truth.
***
The walls to my new apartment were painted lime green. Apparently the gay guys that lived there before me had taken a liking to bright colors. They’d also lost their security deposit, according to my landlord, but when he offered to paint over it, I insisted he didn’t have to. If there was ever a time in my life when I needed to Feng Shui my surroundings, it was now.
I lugged the rest of my boxes up to my new pad, then plopped down on the sofa and stared at them for a good twenty minutes, wishing they would just unpack themselves. I had agreed to meet my friend Beth later that night at Noir, The Charles Hotel bar in Harvard Square, and I knew that once I started unpacking it would be midnight before I knew it. I was an all-or-nothing organizer; once I got wrapped it in something I lost all concept of time and refused to quit until everything was completely finished.
My parents had been extremely generous and donated some of their furniture to me, which I knew was just a guilt ploy because they felt sorry for me. But even though all the furniture had already been delivered, I had been staying at my parents’ house until everything was completely in. This is what I told everyone, anyway, because it was much easier to procrastinate and lie than to admit the truth.
I was petrified to be alone.
My friends and relatives had kept me occupied since I’d returned, and they’d actually done a pretty good job keeping my mind off David and Justine. But I knew that the minute I arrived permanently in my new home and shut the door, I’d be alone with nothing but my thoughts. My thoughts and I, alone at last, all shoved into one tiny, quiet room. The thought of that was beyond frightening.
I grabbed a black halter top and a pair of jeans from a box of clothes in my bedroom, threw them on, and then turned around to study my reflection in the full length mirror. I looked like hell. It would be blatantly obvious to anyone within five feet of me that I’d barely slept in weeks. My green eyes had giant bags underneath them, my skin belonged on an albino and my hair had definitely seen better days. I quickly applied a layer of foundation under my eyes and threw the blonde disheveled mess on my head into a half-assed ponytail before heading out the door.
It was a warm June day, the kind where the smell of the air made you want to fall in love, if love was even a valid concept anymore. Part of me wondered if it was even an actual, real existence, or just something that people had to believe in, so they had a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Something to look forward to.
The sun was just starting to set, and I found myself staring at it, wishing I could teleport myself back in time, back to a place where everything felt safe. Back to what my life used to be. Everyone kept telling me to give it time, feeding me handfuls of bullshit lines to make me feel better. And although I knew it was the truth, I couldn’t stop seeing David and Justine together every time I closed my eyes. The image was forever embedded in my mind, like those 3D books you toyed with as a kid, the ones you stared at for so long that the images seem to rise above the page and become a part of you.
I could feel the blood pulsating through my skull as I thought about all the buoyant clichés I had once believed in, only to have them mock me years later. Give it time, Renee. Everything happens for a reason.
“Right,” I mumbled, looking up at the sky as I shifted my car in reverse. “Well then I’d love to know what possible reason could exist for this.”
And when the impact of the crash jolted me back to reality, I was too stunned to realize that I’d already received my answer.
Chapter 3
The summer before I entered my freshman year of high school, I had convinced my seventeen year-old next-door neighbor, Pete Maloney, to let me take his car for a spin. It was a classic 1979 Cadillac Eldorado, his prized possession, no doubt. But given the fact that I had hair the color of sunlight and a newly sprouted chest, he agreed to my proposition, as long as I promised not to leave the neighborhood.
Everybody in Wyman’s Field knew that the Queenans had the nicest house on the block. Their lilac windowsills meshed perfectly with the indigo trim on their house and the display of hydrangeas that lined their front yard. Their entire garden looked like something out of a Thomas Kincaid portrait.
So, naturally, when I drove by and noticed the Queenan brothers outside playing basketball in the driveway, I beeped and waved furiously at them, feeling like the coolest kid in the world to be behind the wheel at age fourteen. I then proceeded to drive the car up over the sidewalk and onto the lawn, leaving behind a giant row of tire marks in Mr. and Mrs. Queenan’s impeccable bed of flowers.
If you can imagine the embarrassment I experienced during that ordeal, that pretty much sums up the way I felt when I realized I’d just backed into my new neighbor’s car.
I was so busy cursing my own fate that I hadn’t even noticed the giant van that had pulled up behind me, waiting to slide into my parking space once I pulled out. The guy in the van behind me was throwing his hands up in the air and mumbling to himself. I wanted to crawl underneath my seat and hide there until he was gone.
I climbed out of my car, my cheeks burning, and waited for the other driver to follow. My first impression was that he was sort of good looking, in an unconventional, tortured artist sort of way. His T-shirt hung loosely on his lean frame, and a mass of dark hair wilted around his face and curled right below his ears. The cliff of his cheekbones was lined with a dark five o’clock shadow that ran down his entire jaw line. He looked like someone who would play the part of Jesus in a play. I chuckled to myself, thinking of how much my mother would love him.
As he got closer, there was a certain intensity about him that almost scared me, like he was withholding some sort of dark secret. His piercing blue eyes found mine and remained there, unwavering.
“Did you not see me behind you?” He crouched down and ran his hand over the dent in his front bumper.
“Obviously not.”
&n
bsp; He tilted his head upwards, his face a pale sheet of white. His eyes were like ice, a cold blue-gray mass of bitter illumination. “Well, next time maybe you should look behind you before backing up.” He spoke softly and evenly, but I could sense an underlying tone of patronization in his voice.
Without a word, I turned and ducked inside my car to find my registration. I couldn’t believe the nerve of this guy. I had just moved across the country and lost my best friend and boyfriend in one swoop, and this dope was crying over a dent in his bumper.
I fished my registration out of the glove compartment and gave it to him. He handed me his information in return, which I jotted down on the back of a receipt, the only piece of paper I could find in my mess of a car.
Dylan Cavallari
10 Park Place Apt. 18
Boston, MA 02111
I stopped writing and tried to figure out if his apartment was on my floor or the floor above me. I wanted to be sure to avoid him at all costs to save myself any future humiliation.
“California, huh?” Dylan asked, glancing at my license plate. “What’s the matter, they don’t teach you how to drive in Beverly Hills?”
“Funny,” I said. “Actually, I just graduated from UCLA, but I’m originally from here.”
After handing me back my registration, I heard him mumble “fucking women drivers” under his breath as he marched back to his van. I studied his hell on wheels contraption – a frightening navy blue monster with tinted windows and dark rain guards that lined the edges – and wondered why he was so upset about it in the first place.
“Nice child molester van you got there,” I said, attempting a joke.
His eyes wandered to the van, gave it a silent appraisal, then found their way back to me. “Thanks for the input,” he said, unsmiling. His quiet confidence was both intimidating and irking at the same time. “For the record, a buddy of mine gave it to me. It’s not something I would’ve necessarily picked out for myself.” He toyed with the silver ring on his right index finger, his gaze now back on the van. “Not that it’s really any of your business.”
Sound Bites: A Rock & Roll Love Story Page 1
