Scar Girl

by Len Vlahos

  “Easy there, champ,” Jeff said. “Let’s not ruin what is a happy moment for our little quintet.”

  “Quartet,” Johnny shot back. “There are only four of us in this band. Right, Chey?”

  Cheyenne didn’t answer. Whatever was happening with her and Jeff, she’d been found out, and she was embarrassed.

  I took a deep breath, once again tired of all the crap. “So what’s this big news?”

  That’s when Jeff told us about the three nights opening for the Fleshtones at Irving Plaza. It was big news. By far the biggest news we’d ever had. And no one reacted. Not me, not Johnny or Chey, not even Richie. I think it put Jeff back on his heels, because he tried to keep selling the news to us.

  “I’ve got some label guys coming out to see the show. I won’t say it’s like an audition, but you guys nail it and we may have an in to cut a demo for one of the big fish.”

  He wanted us to think this was going to be our big break, and it was hard not to agree. The relentless hours of practice, the gig after gig after gig, the years of sweat, tears, and fears had been to prepare for these three dates in May. Part of me wanted to do a little dance of joy, but given the pall cast over the table—it was toxic, like Toxic Avenger toxic—the only thing that felt right was a low-key response. The dysfunction of the Scar Boys was like a living, pulsating thing.

  I looked at Cheyenne. She was staring at her food, stealing occasional peeks at the rest of us, mostly Johnny.

  Johnny gave Chey a long look, his face a chalkboard with nothing on it, impossible to read. Except for his eyes. His eyes said it all. He opened his book, started to write something, then thought better of it and closed the cover. I wanted to reach out and tell him it was all okay, but it felt like the time for that had passed. “Can we go now?” he asked me. I looked at Richie, who nodded.

  “Yeah, okay. Rehearsal tomorrow at my house at the usual time, Chey, okay?”

  She gave the barest nod of her head. I thought she was going to cry.

  Jeff, as if to prove some kind of point, put his arm around Chey while we were getting up. What a jerk.

  On the ride home from the city, I finally cracked.

  “Hey, John,” I asked, “you okay?”

  He didn’t answer, just stared out the window at the passing road. I didn’t try again.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I wanted to crawl under a rock at that lunch.

  Jeff was being so obvious, it’s like he was peeing on his territory to mark it, and I was his territory. I felt peed on. He didn’t do anything like kiss me or even hug me, but he made it clear we were together.

  Richie made a comment about “not shitting where you eat,” which was Jeff’s big thing after the New Year’s Eve gig, and Johnny laughed. It was the first time in weeks I’d heard Johnny laugh. But it wasn’t a happy laugh. It sounded mean.

  Anyway, I took the train home after that and just wanted to slink to my bed and fall asleep. I made a point of walking past my snoring dad and his unfinished snifter of brandy, thinking for the first time that drinking would only make me feel worse.

  I was wrong. I had Theresa for that.

  She was in our room when I got home, talking on the phone. I ignored her, flung myself on my bed, and smushed a pillow over my ears. Didn’t help; I could still hear her side of the conversation.

  “Yeah, a miscarriage.”

  What? I thought.

  “I know, she likes to pretend she’s high and mighty, but she’s a slut just like the rest of us. . . . I don’t know, one of the deformed losers in her band. . . . No, not the one with the fucked-up face, the three-legged stool.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I lifted my head up and looked at her.

  “Are you serious?”

  She covered the receiver with her hand. “Do you mind? I’m on the phone.”

  “You’re on the phone talking about my incredibly personal shit.”

  She looked at me blankly, just sitting there, chewing her cud. “So?”

  “So it’s my business. How would you like it if I told people about your stillbirth?”

  “You mean you didn’t?”

  I didn’t have any answer, because I’d told Johnny, Harry, and Richie about it. Though I may have jazzed up the story a bit. But that was different; I don’t remember calling her a slut or making fun of the cretin who knocked her up.

  “Who are you talking to anyway?”

  “I don’t know, just some guy.”

  “Just some guy? You’re telling my deepest secrets to just some guy?”

  She smiled and shrugged.

  The phone receiver was on the nightstand between our beds, so I reached over and hung it up.

  “Hey, what the fuck?”

  I dropped back down and put the pillow back over my head.

  “Why don’t you go and get drunk again, Cheyenne? Or better yet, why don’t you just drop dead? No one will care.” I heard Theresa leave the room.

  My drinking was obvious enough for Theresa to notice. That was bad. I mean, she drank a lot, too, so I guess she knew the signs. But still.

  The other thing she said, though, was so much worse, because she was right. Who would care if I was dead? My parents? No. My sisters? Maybe one or two of the younger ones, but there were enough of us to go around. Jeff? No, I was smart enough to know that he was using me. I was a replaceable part. If I was gone, he would find some other band with some other girl and use her, too. Johnny and I were so far gone that I thought he’d be relieved. Harry, too. The only person I could imagine missing me was Richie, and even then, only when we played music. I should just leave. Or even better, I should just end it.

  It was a new low point for me, and the only answer I had to low points was alcohol. I got up and went into the living room. My mother was sitting there, and so was my little sister Joan. They were on the love seat next to my father, who was still snoring gently. They were caught up in Wheel of Fortune, ignoring me as I walked in. Fuck them, I thought. I went right to my father’s brandy, took it in hand, and drained it.

  The warm sensation spreading from my throat to my chest made me feel better. I retreated to my room and flopped on the bed. My mother and sister either didn’t notice or didn’t care that I had just done this incredibly ballsy thing, because no one followed me. That made me feel even worse.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  The lunch with Jeff was just more drama, and, really, for a dude who was supposed to be our older, wiser manager, he was making things a whole lot worse.

  Anyways, I felt pretty bad for Johnny after that lunch. When Harry and I dropped him off, I thought he was going to cry.

  But maybe it was just deserts. I mean John’d slept with Chey when he knew Harry was in love with her. Everyone knew it, but John didn’t care. Maybe it was just a case of what goes around comes around.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I stayed on my bed for a long time, thinking about everything. My dad’s glass of brandy had been really full—like four fingers’ worth—and I hadn’t eaten since lunch, so downing it quickly made the room spin a little. I was used to that feeling, and it didn’t bother me. In some ways, I liked it.

  I don’t know how or why, but I found myself holding the phone and dialing Johnny’s number. When I realized what I was doing, I decided to just go with it. What the hell, right?

  “Hello?” His mother. Ugh.

  “Hi, Mrs. McKenna, this is Cheyenne. Is Johnny there?”

  “Just a minute.” Her voice was flat, like she’d given up on being a bitch to me. Maybe she finally realized that me, Harry, and Richie were here to stay.

  I heard someone pick up a receiver, then I heard it hang up again. I figured that Johnny’d picked up in one room and his mom had hung up in another. But there was no background noise and I started to wonder if I was listening to a dead line.

  “Hello?” I said, not sure if I’d get an answer, so it made my heart skip a beat when I heard Johnny’s voice.

  “Hey, Pick.”

>   He sounded awful. I mean, like, really, really awful.

  “Johnny? Are you okay?”

  There was a long enough stretch of silence that I thought maybe he’d hung up on me.

  “Yeah, I’m okay. Just a little bit out of it. I think it’s my meds.”

  “What meds?” I didn’t know anything about Johnny taking any meds. It wasn’t anything he’d shared with me, and I wondered if he’d gone down the same road I had.

  “It’s nothing.” His voice was slow and soft, flowing from his mouth like molasses. “What’s up?”

  Right, what’s up. I called him. I didn’t know what was up. I had no idea what was up. I let my brain shut down so my mouth could take over.

  “Johnny, look, I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch lately.”

  More silence.

  “I just don’t want you to be mad at me.” Wait, wasn’t I mad at him, too? I had no idea where this was heading.

  “I’m not mad at you anymore, Chey. It’s all water under the bridge. Everything is water under the bridge.”

  Everything is water under the bridge? I thought. What does that mean?

  “I’m really tired.” He seemed so out of it that he was barely making sense. My buzz was strong enough that I don’t think I really picked up on just how awful he sounded.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Do?”

  “I don’t know, to help you feel better.”

  Another crazy long pause.

  “Johnny?”

  “Can you turn back time?” He whispered the question.

  “John?” He was starting to freak me out. A lot.

  “Me, either.”

  And then I started to cry. I don’t know what set me off, but I wished I was there, sitting next to Johnny, on the couch in his living room. I wanted to hold him. The distance the phone was putting between us may as well have been the distance to the moon. I was so frustrated, so angry, and so sad all at the same time.

  “I’m really sorry.” I was crying harder now. “I’m sorry.” I didn’t even know what exactly I was apologizing for.

  No answer. No noise.

  “Johnny?” I choked back my tears as best as I could. “Are you still there?”

  “I’m really tired, Chey. I need to go lie down.”

  He was freaking me out so much that if he hadn’t said what he said next, I think I would’ve called a cab and gone straight to his house.

  “Say hi to Jeff for me.” And he hung up.

  I dropped the phone, turned my face into the pillow, and screamed and cried. I don’t know how long I was like that, but it must’ve been a while, because I heard my mom shout, “Stop that blubbering!” I wanted to yell, “Fuck you,” back at her, but I didn’t have it in me. This had to be the bottom. I had to have reached the end. Things really couldn’t get any worse.

  PART NINE,

  JANUARY TO MARCH 1987

  A lot of people want to die for a lot of reasons.

  —Johnny Thunders

  What motivates you?

  HARBINGER JONES

  I don’t know. If I’m being honest, I guess I’m constantly needing to prove to the world that I’m normal, that I’m just like everyone else, even though I’m not. I still haven’t figured out how to embrace that.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  Sex, and rock and roll. I don’t do drugs.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  Knowing that I have to live every day like it’s my last.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  It was the next day, and sunlight was pouring down through a window set high in the wall of Harry’s basement, bathing Richie and his drum kit in this beautiful ray of light. He was tapping a drumstick around the edge of his mounted tom and using the drum key to tighten the skin.

  Johnny had told Richie that he was going to walk to rehearsal, so the three of us were going through our normal warm-up routines while we waited for him.

  Harry was hunched over his electronic tuner, trying to get the A string on his Strat just right. I was waiting for him to finish so I could use the tuner, too.

  HARBINGER JONES

  Tuning a guitar is an art. It works best to get one string perfect and then tune all the rest to it.

  The trick, and a lot of people don’t know this, is to tune up, not down. You want to start with the strings a little flat and tighten the machines—those are the chrome doodads on the top of the guitar—rather than loosen them. For some reason, the guitar seems to hold its tune better that way.

  I had just gotten the A string as close as I was going to get it and was starting on the rest of the strings when my mom walked in.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  She was wearing black stirrup pants and a long white blouse cinched with a belt, and she had on earrings and makeup, like she was about to leave the house. The first thing I noticed was that her color was all wrong. Her skin matched her shirt, like she was sick. And her lower lip was quivering.

  Mrs. Jones is usually a pretty happy person. It’s like she doesn’t want to waste her time on bad stuff. I always admired that about her, especially after everything she’d been through with Harry.

  But one look at her and I knew something bad had happened.

  HARBINGER JONES

  My mom looked like she’d seen a ghost. Wait, strike that. She looked like she was a ghost. My first thought was that something had happened to my dad.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  “Kids,” Harry’s mom said. “I have some bad news.”

  And then she started crying. I don’t think any of us knew what to do, not even Harry. I snuck a peek at Richie, who looked as nervous as I felt. He looked back at me and shrugged.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  I had no idea what was going on. But I knew it wasn’t good.

  HARBINGER JONES

  “Mom?” I put my guitar down and went to her, and she wrapped me in a hug and wouldn’t let go. And she was crying.

  I’d seen my mom cry plenty over the years. As happy as she tried to be, my mom was no stranger to waterworks, but this, this was different. Something was seriously wrong, and it was completely freaking me out.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I realized something.

  She came into the room and said, “Kids, I have some bad news.” Not “Harry, I have some bad news.”

  Kids.

  HARBINGER JONES

  “Mom?” I asked again, totally unable to keep the fear out of my voice. She regained enough composure to pull away from me and start over.

  “Mrs. McKenna called. . . . Oh, fuck, I don’t know how to say this.”

  My mom never cursed.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  Harry’s mom never cursed.

  “It’s Johnny,” she said, choking on his name. She took a deep breath, put her hands at her sides, palms down, like she was trying to steady herself, and started again. “I’m so sorry, kids. Johnny is gone.”

  At first, I didn’t know what she meant. Gone where? He’s not coming to rehearsal? Then my brain caught up.

  “Gone?”

  The word was a sucker punch to my gut. All of a sudden I couldn’t breathe.

  I tried to will the universe into having Johnny just be gone from this house, gone from Yonkers, gone from the Scar Boys, even gone from my life, but not gone from the world. Johnny couldn’t be gone like that. He was one of the things that made the world real, like air. Johnny was air for me, oxygen. Even though we hadn’t really talked in months, he’d still been there. Johnny was gone and I couldn’t breathe. There was no air.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  “How?” I asked. I mean, shit. I knew the answer. We all knew the fucking answer. But the whole scene was kind of like a car wreck. I couldn’t stop looking and couldn’t help myself from asking how.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I’d already forgotten Richie was in the room. I’d forgotten anyone was in the room except for me and Harry’s mom. I craned my head to look at Richie, and his eyes were wet. I looked back to
Mrs. Jones, waiting for her to say what I already knew.

  HARBINGER JONES

  Everything came crashing to the fore like a tidal wave—that lost look Johnny had in his eyes all the time, that little black book he’d started carrying around, the way he was letting himself go. All the clues were there for anyone who bothered to look.

  My mom sighed. It was almost a moan. “I’m so, so sorry. Johnny took his own life.” Her voice croaked, and she started crying again.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  All I could think about was my phone call with Johnny the night before. I could have stopped this. Oh, my fucking God, I could have stopped it.

  The room started spinning, and without realizing how or why, I was on the ground.

  RICHIE MCGILL

  Chey fell to the floor. It was like the weight of it made her sit down hard on her ass. She landed with a thud. Everything was happening in slow motion.

  HARBINGER JONES

  A million thoughts about Johnny tried to push their way through to the surface: My confusion at how he could do such a thing. My morbid curiosity about how he did it. Was it pills? A gun? A rope? My wondering if he’d left a note, because that’s what people who commit suicide are supposed to do. My anger at him for leaving without talking to me first. My anger at myself for not trying harder to talk to him. My heart breaking for his older brother, Russell, who loved Johnny so much. My own thoughts about suicide and how many times over the years, when I was younger and things were really bad for me, I wondered what it would be like and if it would make everything better. My wondering if it made things better for Johnny and then my hating myself for thinking that.

  My endless lists of useless facts tried to come crashing in, too. Presidents and Oscar winners and SAT vocabulary words getting jumbled together and trying to drown out the screaming noise of the universe. All of the signal being replaced by noise, nothing but noise.

  CHEYENNE BELLE

  I screamed.

  A bomb had been shoved down my throat and had exploded all of my insides. It made me break into a thousand pieces, all of them sharp and jagged. I was Humpty Dumpty and I was made of glass.