Scar Girl

by Len Vlahos

  Text copyright © 2016 by LenVlahos

  Lyrics to “Johnny’s Dead” © 1986, used with permission from

  Joe Loskywitz, Scott Nafz, Chad Strohmayer, and Len Vlahos.

  All rights reserved.

  Carolrhoda Lab™ is a trademark of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  An imprint of Carolrhoda Books

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  For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.

  Cover and interior photographs: Michael Frost (rocker girl); © Robert Kohlhuber/Moment/Getty Images (crowd); © Guru 3D/Shutterstock.com (headphones).

  Main body text set in Iowan Old Style 10.5/18.

  Typeface provided by Bitstream.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data for Scar Girl is on file at the Library of Congress.

  ISBN: 978-1-60684-607-0 (LB)

  ISBN: 978-1-60684-608-7 (EB)

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – BP – 12/31/15

  eISBN: 978-1-51240-164-6 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-51240-479-1 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-51240-477-7 (mobi)

  For all the people with whom I played music when I was younger.

  And for my parents, for putting up with me and with all the people with whom I played music when I was younger.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  What follows are transcripts of the interviews I conducted with the Scar Boys over a period of five weeks—stretching from early February to late March 1989—while the band was in the studio recording the follow-up to their debut album, Minus One. Though this material has been edited and rearranged to make the story flow, all of the words attributed to members of the band are true and accurate.

  Here, then, are the Scar Boys, in their own words. I hope you find their story as fascinating as I did.

  Joanne Cryder

  New York City, September 14, 1989

  PART ONE,

  JULY TO AUGUST 1986

  We’re a rock group. We’re noisy, rowdy, sensational, and weird.

  —Angus Young

  What defines you?

  HARBINGER JONES

  You mean aside from my face?

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I guess I’d say that I’m not good at asking people for help.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  How the hell should I know? What defines you?

  HARBINGER JONES

  How much do you know about Johnny McKenna? He was the first singer in the Scar Boys. He, Richie, and I started the band together in the eighth grade. The whole thing was mostly Johnny’s idea.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I didn’t join the band until a year or two later. Some kid from their high school had been playing bass, but he quit.

  At my first rehearsal, I remember that all three guys—Johnny, Harry, and Richie—were looking at me like I was from Mars, or maybe Venus. But the person who caught my eye most was Harry.

  Harry had been struck by lightning as a kid, and he has all kinds of scars on his face, though they’re not nearly as bad as he thinks. The lightning did a lot more damage inside than outside. Not like damage to his internal organs and stuff, but damage to his soul. Everything and everyone Harry sees in the world, he sees through the prism of a lightning bolt. All of us, all of this, lit up so bright that it gets distorted. He can’t stand the light, so he hides in the darkness.

  HARBINGER JONES

  I wasn’t struck by lightning. I was tied to a tree and the tree was struck by lightning. My injuries are the result of the severe burns I received when the tree caught fire. I was kind of like a marshmallow on a stick that gets too close to the flames.

  Did Chey say I was struck by lightning?

  You have to take Chey with a grain of salt. She likes to exaggerate the details of a story to make it better.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  About a year after I joined the Scar Boys, Johnny and I started dating. He was after me from almost the first day. I kept saying no, that it would be bad for the band, but he kind of wore me down. Johnny was like that. He wouldn’t stop until he got what he wanted. He had a kind of take-no-prisoners attitude, you know? I think that’s what made me fall in love with him.

  HARBINGER JONES

  When we were on our first tour, the summer after we’d graduated high school, before there were tour buses and roadies, when it was just the four of us in the van, Johnny and I got into a big fight. It’d been bubbling under the surface for months. For me, the fight was about how I was Johnny’s lackey, about how he was an emotional bully and I was an emotional cripple; it was even about our musical differences. But mostly it was about how I was in love with Cheyenne and how I hated that she was with him and not me. Johnny and I never said any of these things out loud; when you’re close like we were at the time, all that unspoken stuff is just there in the room with you.

  The fight got bad enough that I hit Johnny in the face. It was the first and only time in my life I ever hit another human being. The world had made me its personal punching bag for so long that I guess I finally lost it and punched back.

  After I hit him, Johnny left the tour and went home, which, if you ask me, was a complete overreaction. We decided to continue on as a three-piece and even played one gig with me as the singer—it was this giant keg party in Georgia. It was probably the best night of my life. With Johnny gone and with that great show under our belts, I really thought it was the start of something special.

  The next day was when we found out about Johnny’s accident. There was nothing to do but give up the tour and go home.

  You want to know what guilt is? Try punching—wait, strike that—try slapping your best friend in the face, and then watch as a chain of events unfolds that ends with him almost dying. I more or less shut down after that.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  Johnny was hit by a car, about a mile from his house in Yonkers. They amputated his leg. Did you know they actually use a saw to do that? I mean a real saw. Do you think they buy them at the local hardware store or something? I can’t even begin to imagine what that must’ve been like.

  Anyway, Johnny wouldn’t see me after the accident. I tried going to the hospital, tried calling his house, even tried just showing up. His mother kept running interference, but I knew Johnny was putting her up to it. He was pushing me away. It’d been almost a month since I’d seen him, and I was going out of my mind.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  The whole thing with Johnny’s leg was fucked up. I was the only one in the band to visit him, and let me tell you, the dude was in bad shape. I mean, like, his hair was greasy and his clothes smelled and his room was a total mess.

  He asked me why Harry didn’t come, too, and I didn’t know what to say. Harry had shut himself off from the rest of the world and was kind of being a whiny bitch. Johnny didn’t need to hear about Harry’s crap while he was sitting there with one of his legs gone.

  I called Harry and tried to convince him to go see Johnny, but when that dude gets caught up in his own shit, there’s no getting through.

  I give him a pass, though, you know, because of his face and stuff.

  HARBINGER JONES

  Both Richie and my shrink got on my case about being a r
ecluse after the tour imploded, but it wasn’t until serendipity put Cheyenne and me in the same place at the same time that things changed.

  I was on one of my favorite walking paths, feeling sorry for myself, blaming myself for what had happened to Johnny, when I stumbled across Chey standing on a footbridge. She looked so incredibly beautiful standing there that any thought of Johnny went right out of my head. I ignored every good instinct I had and decided to go for broke.

  “Chey, I love you,” I told her.

  She threw up on my shoes.

  For real.

  It turned out that Johnny had been keeping Chey away, and the girl was so tortured over it that she got literally lovesick all over my sneakers. I felt bad enough for her that I stupidly offered to help her and Johnny reconcile. (If I’m being honest, I would’ve done anything to make Cheyenne Belle happy, to make her like me back, even if it made no sense.) Of course, that meant I would have to visit Johnny first.

  Johnny and I had a lot of stuff to work through, but we managed it. We took what was left of our tattered friendship to the only place where it would have a chance to heal: music. We found peace and we found our friend-ship buried in the music. It always comes back to the music.

  And I was true to my word. My visit opened the door for Johnny and Chey to get back together.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  Johnny lived in a much nicer part of town than me. His neighborhood was called Colonial Heights; mine was called McLean Avenue. That’s the name of the street I grew up on. My neighborhood wasn’t cutesy enough to have a name like Colonial Heights. His street was lined with oak trees, and the houses had shrubs and fences protecting mowed lawns with dogs barking hello in the front yard. Mine was a scraggly street with low-rent retail, auto shops, and apartment buildings. We had dogs, too, but they were mostly pit bulls and Doberman Pinschers. So Colonial Heights was a different world than mine, still Yonkers, but a different world.

  Johnny’s house was three stories tall, with dark wood trim and all kinds of funky angles. It sat on a bend in the road on a supersteep hill; and he told me that at least once a year someone would crash a car through the bushes that lined the curb and wind up on his front lawn. That’s crazy, because the spot where Johnny was hit by the car, about a mile away, was almost exactly like that.

  Inside, the house was massive, too big for Johnny and his parents. His older brother, Russell, moved to New York City after graduating college, like five or six years earlier, but even if Russell had been living there, the house still would’ve been too big.

  The coolest thing about the place was the sunken living room. Maybe that’s not the right thing to call it, because it was too tall to be sunken. Maybe I should just call it the cathedral, like Harry does. Floor to ceiling it was eighteen feet. I know that because Johnny liked to tell people that his was the only house that could hold a seventeen-foot Christmas tree and still have room for the star.

  Anyway, Harry had been to see Johnny the day before and told me what to expect.

  “He’s a mess, Chey.” Harry had come straight to my house after seeing him. “He hasn’t showered; he’s not even getting out of bed.”

  “What did he say about me?” I know how lame that sounds. I should’ve been asking about Johnny, but I was too far gone. My heart hurt so bad I thought it would burst.

  “He’s been pushing you away”—Harry paused for a second and then made air quotes—“for your own good.”

  “My own good?”

  “He thinks you deserve to be with someone who isn’t . . . who isn’t . . .”

  “Isn’t what?”

  Harry looked at the ground and said in a very soft voice, “deformed.” Like I told you, Harry sees his scars as way worse than other people do. He kind of thinks he’s the Elephant Man. I didn’t know what to say.

  Harry told me not to expect miracles. “I’ve been where Johnny is,” he said. “He has a long, slow road to recovery, and there are going to be lots of ups and downs.”

  That phrase lots of ups and downs was echoing in my head when I rang Johnny’s doorbell the next day. It was a Saturday, so I braced myself for his mother to answer. She hated me, thought I was a bad influence on her little angel. She loved to make little comments about how wrong I was for her son. “We’re so proud Johnny got into Syracuse, aren’t you? It will give him a chance to carve out a whole new life for himself, don’t you think?” Only the last laugh was on her. Johnny’s accident stopped him from ever going to Syracuse. I was ringing his doorbell in early August, and there he was—no way he would be leaving Yonkers.

  I guess that sounds shitty. I don’t mean it like that. I wish he had gotten to go to college. It’s just that perfect little families are never perfect and sometimes when they get reminded of that, maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world.

  I guess that sounds shitty, too, so I should just shut up.

  Anyway, I was ready for his mother. I was going to hold my tongue, grit my teeth, and smile. And if she didn’t let me in to see him, I would just shove her out of the way.

  Only, when the door opened it wasn’t Mrs. McKenna, it was Johnny. He was showered, dressed in blue jeans and a Ramones T-shirt that he knew was my favorite, and he was standing with crutches. His right pant leg was tied up to just below his knee, but I hardly noticed that. It had been nearly a month since we’d been together and I was just so happy to see him.

  I threw myself at Johnny and had him in a hug so fierce that I almost knocked him over.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Pick,” he laughed.

  Pick was the nickname Johnny gave me when I first joined the band. He only ever used it in private, one of our secrets. He loved that I played bass with a pick. I guess Dave, the bass player in the band before me, used his fingers. I never really got bass players who use their fingers. A pick makes such a badass sound, you know?

  Anyway, Johnny and I went through his kitchen and down into the cathedral. It made me want to cry, watching him work his way down the stairs with his crutches and his missing leg.

  Once we were sitting on the couch, he held my hand. The windows were open and there was a hot breeze; I was all clammy, but I think it was mostly from nerves.

  “Why wouldn’t you see me?” I was barking at him like one of the Dobermans from my neighborhood before he had a chance to say a word. He’d kept me away for so long that I’d convinced myself he hated me.

  “It’s tough to explain,” he said, and he hung his head. Johnny’s body language was all wrong. It was the first sign of how much everything had changed. “Harry really got on my case about it,” he added.

  “Harry? Got on your case?”

  “I know, right? Him coming here was like a giant wake-up call, a giant alarm clock getting me out of bed.”

  I smiled, but all I could think was Didn’t you miss me?

  “We played music for hours. I didn’t want it to end. It’s the first time since this”—he motioned to his leg—“that I’ve really been happy.”

  “It’s so good to see you, Johnny.” I nuzzled my face into his neck, trying to turn the conversation back to us. Then I took his other hand, looked into his eyes, and kissed him. He seemed almost surprised. Not surprised that I kissed him, but surprised that he would be kissed at all, you know? But only for a minute. Then he kissed me back, and we were right where we left off.

  Except . . . well, there was something different. I could feel it. It’s like we were the same people, the same couple, but we were no longer we, if that makes sense. We were him and her, him and me.

  Plus, there was something else. Something I needed to tell him. The other reason I was getting so desperate to see him.

  I thought I was . . . well, I wasn’t sure. Anyway, even if I had been sure, I couldn’t lay that on Johnny. He was broken. I don’t mean his leg; I mean Johnny the person. He was the most confident guy I’d ever known, and now he was broken. How could I tell him I thought I was pregnant?

  PART TWO,

&nb
sp; AUGUST TO OCTOBER 1986

  I put Catholic guilt to work pretty good for a rich rock star.

  —Bono

  Are you religious?

  HARBINGER JONES

  No.

  I was a weird little kid, but I wasn’t a bad little kid. I didn’t torture animals, and I didn’t set fires. I didn’t wet the bed and I never tried to play doctor with any little girls. I didn’t do anything to warrant the amount of abuse the universe has heaped on me. I refuse to believe this was the work of some sort of God, and if it was, well then, you know, fuck him.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  You ever see the movie Carrie? My mom makes Carrie’s mom look like an atheist.

  I’m the oldest, and I was born before my parents were married. I think the guilt of having “conceived in sin” (my mom’s words, not mine) is what drove her back to Mother Church. It’s why I’m the only one of the Belle girls without a good Catholic name. I mean, think about it: Theresa, Agnes, Mary Elizabeth, Katherine, Patricia, Joan, and Cheyenne. One of these things does not belong with the others, right?

  Anyway, I’ve been through Catholic school, CCD, and every kind of mass you can imagine. You can’t turn a corner in my house without some image of Christ scaring the crap out of you. So am I religious? Yeah, but it’s not like I had any choice.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  Yeah, I believe in God.

  How else do you explain music?

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  It was about two weeks after I saw Johnny that I found out I was pregnant for sure. I was already pretty late with my period, though that isn’t so strange for me (my cycle isn’t anything you’d set your watch by). But it wasn’t just that. I don’t know how to describe it; I felt different.

  I got one of those home pregnancy tests—actually, I got three of them (I would’ve bought more, but they’re crazy expensive)—and the results were all the same: knocked up.

  I was freaked out. And I was sick. A lot. I don’t know why the hell they call it morning sickness when it comes at any time of the day. Do you know the only surefire cure for nausea? No? I’ll tell you. Puking. You can drink all the ginger ale and eat all the saltine crackers you want. You wanna feel better? Woof your cookies.