Scar Girl

by Len Vlahos

  Yes, we kissed. It was one time, it lasted all of five seconds, and it never happened again. It was right after Johnny had quit the tour and gone home, and we were all a bit confused. In the end, it didn’t mean anything. But I knew Johnny wouldn’t see it that way. He would see it as a betrayal, and I couldn’t blame him.

  I sat in my car, waiting for them to come storming out of the house. I had this mental image of Johnny hopping over to my window and bludgeoning me with his prosthetic leg. When that didn’t happen, I thought about going back inside and confronting them, but who was I kidding? There was no way that was going to happen.

  All the good stuff in my life that had started to take root was about to be wiped away, again. It was like getting your favorite cassette tape too close to a magnet, all your favorite tracks jumbled and gone.

  I started on one of my lists. It’s a trick Dr. Kenny taught me when I was a kid. I memorize and recite boring lists of things; it’s supposed to help calm me down. Anything from naming all the presidents or Oscar winners to memorizing recipe ingredients or children’s books, whatever will force my mind in a different direction.

  It works every time.

  I was up to the forty-ninth digit of pi—five, in case you’re wondering—and it was starting to have an effect. I was settling down, and I knew it was time to leave.

  I had my hand on the gearshift, getting ready to back out of Johnny’s driveway, when Chey stepped out of the front door. She had stopped crying, but she looked bewildered and more than a little bit freaked out.

  “You want a ride?” I asked through the open window.

  She didn’t say anything or even look at me as she opened the door and took a seat. Not knowing what else to do, I pulled out of the driveway and rolled on down the hill.

  We cruised streets in Yonkers, Tuckahoe, and Eastchester for at least ten minutes in total silence. At first I was nervous as hell. I was pretty sure that whatever had happened between Johnny and Cheyenne was my fault, you know, because of the song. But after a while, with neither one of us talking, I kind of disappeared into the car radio. It was playing some New Wave crap—Culture Club, I think—I would never admit to liking in public, but in my head I was singing along.

  “He asked me to leave.” Chey’s voice startled me. My nervous system was pulled right back to a state of high alert. Launch the bombers, flood the tubes, that sort of thing.

  “Why?” It came out more as a croak than an actual word.

  “He didn’t say. But I think it was his leg?”

  “His leg?”

  “Yeah, when he got up to hug me, he lost his balance and pulled us both down onto the bed.”

  “Smooth move.”

  “It wasn’t like that!” Chey snapped.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, and kept my eyes on the road.

  “That’s what he was afraid of, that I was thinking he was trying to get us to, you know. It never even crossed my mind. I could tell that he’d lost his balance and had just fallen.”

  “And he asked you to leave over that?”

  “I think he was embarrassed. Embarrassed that he couldn’t be there for me. He started crying, Harry. I’ve never seen Johnny cry. It was so awful.”

  I’d never seen Johnny cry, either. His default reaction to adversity was anger, not despair.

  We were quiet for another minute; then I decided to go out on a ledge.

  “Chey, why were you crying to begin with?”

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  When Harry asked me why I was crying, while we were tooling all over Westchester County in his car, I thought for a minute about telling him the truth. I felt like I needed to tell someone, but that seemed wrong to me. Johnny was the father, and he needed to know first. I would just have to figure it out, so I dodged the question.

  “You know what we need?” I said instead. “We need to jam.”

  There is nothing in the world, not even kissing, that brings a smile to the face of Harbinger Jones like the phrase We need to jam. Of all of us, that boy’s soul is most connected with the sacrament of music. Plus, playing a bunch of older Scar Boys tunes would wash away “Pleasant Sounds.” As much as I loved that song, I needed to get it out of my brain.

  Anyway, at the mention of jamming, Harry seemed to forget his question about why I’d been crying.

  HARBINGER JONES

  I didn’t forget about the question. Chey made such a show of changing the topic so suddenly that I just let it drop.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  It was too early for Richie to be home from school, so Harry and I went to the diner for lunch. I wasn’t feeling so hot, so I didn’t eat much, but we sat there for a long time. We didn’t say a whole lot, but that was okay. One of things I love about Harry is that the silences between us are almost never awkward.

  HARBINGER JONES

  The silences between us are almost always awkward.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  When we finally got to Richie’s house he wasn’t there. Mr. Mac, his dad, told us that he’d come home after school, grabbed his skateboard, and left. We thanked him and went to Richie’s usual skating spot, the playground at PS 28, where Johnny and Richie went to grade school. (Even though they all lived close together, Harry was districted for a different school, PS some number I can’t remember.)

  Sure enough, Richie was there, just kind of skating in circles by himself. He had a Walkman on his hip and headphones on his ears.

  We sat and watched for a minute from the car.

  “I envy that,” Harry said, as much to himself as to me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at him. He’s completely lost in the moment. It’s like the world outside doesn’t exist.”

  “And?”

  “Don’t you wish you could feel like that sometimes?”

  “Who, me?”

  “No. I mean, maybe. I guess I mean me.”

  I stared at him, thinking he must be kidding. When he looked over at me, I could see he was surprised.

  “What?”

  “Harry, have you ever seen yourself play the guitar?”

  A flash of understanding made its way across his face, and he smiled. It’s a weird and unusual smile, but I still think it’s beautiful. He stepped out of the car to go get Richie.

  I watched as Harry trudged to the playground. It’s amazing how he looks completely normal from the back. I mean, that’s got to be hard. Someone is behind you in line at the store, then you turn around, and wham!

  Harry startled Richie, who fell off his board but laughed anyway. Harry helped him up, said something to him, and then they both looked at the car. Richie nodded and followed Harry back.

  “What up, short stuff?” It was Richie’s standard greeting for me. “Are we picking up Johnny, too?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Luckily, Harry did.

  “John’s not feeling so hot today, so we thought we would jam with just the three of us. You know, like in Athens.”

  Richie, being Richie, sat back and said, “Okay.” And that was that.

  When we got to Harry’s house, Richie and I went to the basement while Harry went upstairs to talk to his mom about something. Richie took his seat behind the drums, and I sat down on my amp. I looked him in the eye.

  Like I said earlier, Richie and I didn’t talk much, so he wasn’t really expecting anything from me. He was kind of in his own world when he noticed me staring him down.

  “Yo,” he said.

  “Yo,” I answered. “So what did Harry tell you about why we’re jamming on our day off?”

  He raised one eyebrow and said, “He just told me that you were in a place that you needed to jam. As you know, I can respect that.”

  “You didn’t ask why?”

  “Didn’t need to. A dude—or dudette—needs to jam, you jam. Why, you pregnant or something?”

  Holy crap, I was not expecting that, and it must’ve showed all over my face. I was too stunned to answer.

  Richie was quiet
for a moment while he looked at me like a puppy, with his head cocked to one side. Then he saw something—maybe it was my eyes, maybe it was my boobs, and, yeah, he looked there, too—that gave me away.

  “Holy fuck,” he said. “I was just kidding. For real, you’re pregnant?” I nodded, and he paused a beat before asking, “Does Johnny know?”

  “No! And neither does Harry, and you can’t tell them, all right?”

  He nodded. “Damn, you feeling okay?”

  And you know what? Of the few people I’d told—Theresa, the priest—the only one who bothered to ask how I was feeling was Richie. Everyone else got lost in their own hang-ups. Theresa was still lost in the tragedy of her own experience, and the priest was lost in the rules of Mother Church. They both saw my pregnancy as their problem or their opportunity. Only Richie saw it as mine.

  He isn’t always the sharpest tool in the shed—I don’t know, maybe that’s not a fair thing to say; more like he’s not always the most interested tool in the shed—but he’s probably the most decent. It also felt really good and really scary that someone in the band knew.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  When Chey told me she was pregnant, I was completely freaking out on the inside. I mean, she was pregnant! I wanted to ask her all sorts of questions—Was she gonna keep it? How could she play bass when, you know, she got big and stuff? Could she feel it squirming around inside her?—but I didn’t. I could tell she wanted her space, so I kept my trap shut. I’m pretty good at that. I guess that’s why the other guys in the band tell me stuff. I’m good with secrets. I hate them, but I’m good with them.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  When Harry came back into the room, you could feel the tension. It was like waves pounding a beach. He looked at me and Richie, waiting for us to say something.

  Richie, true to his word, kept my secret. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s make some noise.” And we played.

  For a little while, everything was great. It’s always great when we play music. It’s like it connects me to the rest of the world.

  Have you ever held a bass guitar? If you have, then you know it’s big. And it’s heavy. Much bigger and heavier than regular guitars. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m small. Just holding the bass makes me feel gravity more than someone else does. The whole thing pulls me down to the earth. It’s an incredible feeling. I’m rooted, stable. But that’s only the beginning. The real magic is when you plug it in.

  Bass notes are low, rumbling, like the language mountains must use to talk to each other. It’s like the instrument plants me on the ground, and then my fingers draw music up from the center of the earth.

  It’s hard to explain.

  Anyway, we played for about forty-five minutes, and it felt good. But then the elephants in the room—my pregnancy, the fact that Richie knew about it, Harry’s song, worry about Johnny—started to gather together and dance around me.

  Plus, something wasn’t feeling right. My back hurt and my stomach was starting to cramp. Time to go.

  I told the guys I was tired and asked Harry to drive me home.

  HARBINGER JONES

  We dropped Richie at his house and then headed for Chey’s.

  “Cheyenne,” I said when we were alone in the car, using her full name so she’d know I was serious. She didn’t answer, and she didn’t look good. She just waited for me to continue. “That song I wrote—”

  “Harry,” she cut me off, “don’t. I can’t—”

  She looked like she was going to cry, and I wasn’t sure what to do, so I pulled over. We were on Central Avenue, near the racetrack.

  Turns out I was reading her expression all wrong. Crying wasn’t what she had in mind. For the second time in my life, Cheyenne Belle threw up all over me and my stuff.

  If you’ve never been puked on, it’s pretty disgusting. But for me, it wasn’t about the vomit. The other time Chey threw up on me was also at the exact moment I tried to talk about my feelings for her. I know I’m repulsive, but this was the girl who’d kissed me. I can’t be that repulsive, can I? The answer to that question, in case you’re wondering, is a resounding yes.

  Chey helped me clean up the mess, apologizing the whole time. We rolled down the windows and, even though it was cold out, blasted the AC to get the smell out as I drove the last couple of blocks to her house. She didn’t say anything on the ride over or when she got out of the car. She just gave me a sad, backward glance. Like the Lorax.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I was pretty sure it wasn’t morning sickness. That had more or less ended a couple of weeks before, and, besides, this felt different. It was more like puking from a fever, you know? I figured maybe I was getting the flu.

  I felt really bad about the mess in Harry’s car and did my best to help him clean it up. Then he dropped me off at home.

  My mother was bitching at me about something or other the second I walked through the door, but I just ignored her and went straight to my room and fell asleep.

  I had this really vivid dream that I was being chased by a pair of sneakers. There wasn’t anyone in them, just a pair of sneakers. I don’t know why I was so terrified of them, but I was. That had to be the most restless sleep I’ve ever had.

  HARBINGER JONES

  I watched Chey get safely inside, and then I just started driving. I wasn’t at all conscious of my surroundings.

  It was a lot like this one night in Athens when everything felt like it was spinning out of control and I just walked aimlessly. I wound up at a phone booth downtown and called Dr. Kenny. That night, everything in the world was hyperreal. On this day, it all sort of disappeared.

  By the time I’d zoned back in, I’d made it all the way to the Kensico Dam, like fifteen miles away. It was kind of scary that I’d driven that far without any real understanding of how I’d gone from point A to point B. I parked the car, got out, wandered into the dam’s main plaza, and sat down on a low stone wall.

  It was early November, it was gray, and it was getting cold. I wasn’t dressed for the weather, but I was feeling numb and didn’t really notice. I started listing all the things I couldn’t control:

  Thing I Couldn’t Control #1:

  I was never going to stop wanting Chey,

  needing Chey, and loving Chey.

  (Three out of three ain’t bad,

  either, Meat Loaf.)

  Thing I Couldn’t Control #2:

  Cheyenne was never

  going to love me back.

  Thing I Couldn’t Control #3:

  Chey and Johnny were going

  to be together forever.

  I could feel the world disappearing even more, so I started on one of my lists to help me calm down. It was the periodic table, rearranged to put the elements in alphabetical order.

  Actinium

  Aluminum

  Americium

  It was starting to work; my heart was retreating from the redline. But something inside me made me stop. That kind of freaked me out, because once I got going on a list, I never stopped. Ever. But this time I just couldn’t go any further.

  Strike that. Not that I couldn’t go any further; I didn’t want to.

  I was tired of the lists. Tired of preventing myself from feeling whatever it was the world wanted me to feel. Tired of walking through life anesthetized.

  It’s not an exaggeration to say that those lists saved my life. Without them, I would’ve spun out of control and broken down more than once. But now, sitting there on that wall, the massive stone dam looming over me like the personification of my fate, enough was enough.

  No more lists. Something in my life needed to change.

  PART FOUR,

  NOVEMBER TO DECEMBER 1986

  Being in Fleetwood Mac is more like being in group therapy.

  —Mick Fleetwood

  Who do you really admire and/or want to emulate?

  HARBINGER JONES

  The answer for me has always been Lucky Strike the Lightning Man. He’s thi
s guy who was struck by lightning—unlike me, he was actually struck by lightning instead of almost struck by lightning—but rather than letting it ruin his life, he turned it into something positive. He became an expert in meteorology, and he helped other lightning-strike victims. He really helped me when I was a little kid, and I’m forever in his debt.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  Johnny McKenna.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  The Bay City Rollers.

  Just kidding.

  My dad.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I woke up the next morning with a sharp pain in my gut and I was clammy and sweating. Throwing the covers off my body made the pain even more intense, and I moaned.

  It was Saturday morning, and Theresa and Agnes were both still in bed.

  Right away, Theresa could see something was wrong.

  “Chey?” she asked, propping herself up.

  “I don’t feel good.” I clutched my stomach and moaned again. I stayed on my bed, curled up on my side like a fetus. And, yeah, I get the irony. I guess it’s what all people do when the world—because of pain or sadness or something else—becomes too much to bear; we try our hardest to find a way to crawl back into the womb.

  “Cheyenne, I think you need a tampon.” Agnes was very matter-of-fact.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “Shit,” Theresa said, rushing over to me.

  I think I yelped or cried out, I’m not sure.

  “What’s going on?” Agnes had only just turned sixteen, but somehow she seemed older than Theresa and me. She was a straight-A student, treasurer of the sophomore class at Our Lady of the Perpetual Adoration Academy—the same high school I’d barely graduated from a few months before—and she played, well, I don’t know how many sports. I lost count. Agnes even had a job as a cashier at Wanamaker’s.

  She was confident, tender, and funny, and she was my favorite Belle girl. I was the bigger sister, but, really, I looked up to Agnes.

  Theresa tensed up and looked at me. Agnes must’ve sensed it, because she looked at both of us and said, “Seriously, what’s going on?”