Torn wd-2

by Stefan Petrucha

Devin shook his head. “It’s a bad move. Where would we get another bassist?”

  “Ben. We’ll move him over from keyboards.”

  “He doesn’t play bass.”

  “He will. And he’ll be better than Karston. He’s got all that stuff hardwired from those piano lessons Mommy forced him to take since he was five. Guy’s a total robot, but he’s our robot.”

  “And where are we going to get a bass?”

  “Borrow Karston’s. He’s not going to be using it.”

  Devin’s voice frog-hopped an octave. “You want me to fire him and ask him to borrow his bass? You psychotic bastard.”

  “I’m not a psycho, dude, I’m a sociopath. He’ll do it. He’ll do it just to be near us.”

  Devin shook his head. “I do not believe you. You are a piece of work, Cody. You know his mother’s a major bitch on wheels—she’s like Mrs. Hannibal Lecter, totally abusive. She screams at him. She hits him. We’re all he’s got.”

  Cody made a face. “Yeah, and my mom was an alcoholic before she slammed into a nice thick pine tree doing sixty on a side street. Boo hoo hoo. It doesn’t change the facts. He can’t play. You love him so much, get rich and then send him to freaking college, so he can learn a useful trade. We’re either serious or this is a game. I’m serious. I’m waiting to find out where you are. So where are you?”

  They were driving on a low road surrounded by thick forest. A small car zoomed up behind them and started tailgating. Devin could hear the steady boom-boom of its car speakers mix with the swish of his wipers.

  “Damn,” Devin said. The road was slick and he didn’t want to speed up, so he pulled to the shoulder and let the car pass. Two girls gave him the finger as they drove by.

  Cody laughed. “Big shot rock star!”

  Devin had nothing to say to that.

  When his laugh faded, Cody leaned his forehead against the window and looked out at the darkness flashing between the tall trees, uncharacteristically contemplative. He let out a deep sigh.

  “Okay. I got kicked out of school,” he said. “Permanently. I don’t need it. I know where I’m going and it doesn’t involve algebra.”

  Devin stared at him. Cody and Argus High were mortal enemies since the first time he walked through the front door metal detectors. A dozen possible scenarios for Cody’s expulsion flashed in Devin’s head.

  “No way. Because of the fight you were in today? I heard you hit a teacher, but I figured that was B. S. Even you’re not…,” Devin said. He let his voice trail off as he turned to his passenger.

  Cody gave him a look. “I shoved a basketball jock with a big mouth into the soda machine and his lunch went all over the floor. Chunky Meat Stew Special. Same freaking color as the linoleum. Douchebag Skiffler made me help him pick it up. So, okay, I bent down and scooped the slop back onto the tray. I was handing it back to the lame a-hole, all nicey nice, when Skiffler put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed, like I’m supposed to be afraid of his wrinkled ass. And he said, ‘Snap it up, Mr. Dosser, I’ve got better things to do with my time.’”

  Cody paused. The wipers slapped the windshield clean. Then, beaming like he was that lame jock sinking a three-pointer, Cody grinned and clenched his fist. “I slammed that Chunky Meat Stew Special right in Skiffler’s chest. ‘Lick it up yourself,’ I told him.”

  Devin’s mouth dropped open.

  Cody laughed hysterically, but the crazed pleasure soon disappeared from his face. “Got a call after school. I’m supposed to be all thankful he’s not pressing assault charges.”

  For Devin, things clicked into place. The new guitar, the desire to get rid of Karston and get more serious with the band. Torn really was all Cody had.

  “What’d your folks say?” Devin asked.

  Cody shrugged. “Haven’t told them. I erased the machine, but I’ll hear about it tonight. They’re probably waiting for me, white-knuckling it in the living room.”

  A set of lights rode in the rainy gray behind them. At first Devin was afraid it was a second tail-gater, but the lights slowed at a respectful distance and kept pace.

  “So this is it,” Cody explained. “You want to get all weepy over Karston, go right ahead, but I can’t screw around anymore. You either fire him before the recording session tomorrow, or I’ll quit.”

  “Right.”

  “Try me,” Cody said, a little angry. “I’ll hitch into the city. I’m good enough to get session work. I’ll pull another band together.”

  Cody leaned sideways and punched Devin’s shoulder. “But I don’t want to do that, man. I want it to be Torn. I want it to be us. I just need it to be now. ‘Face’ is an okay song—that and my vocal got us the gig. You’ve got something there. But you’ve also got Daddy’s kick-ass SUV and his giant bank account sending you to any college you want. I need to know where you’re at with this and I need to know now.”

  So here it was.

  Cody’s life was on the brink, and he was all set, eager even, to take the plunge. Devin wished he felt the same, but if he put more time into the band, made it more than a hobby, how could he keep up his own schoolwork? Studying was the only thing that got him past half his classes. But he loved music, loved Torn. Wasn’t the whole point of dreams to make them real?

  The road narrowed. The trees grew taller. Moonlight poked from between the rain clouds, shone through the branches, reflected off the windshield, then vanished again. More time passed.

  “How does that fence feel, shoved between your legs like that?” Cody asked. “You gonna answer? I’m not kidding. Karston goes and you tell him.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know.”

  The road curved into a fork. Devin took it a little fast, so he had to slow down to follow the line of the deserted street. As he did, he heard tires screech behind him.

  What the hell?

  Engine gunning, the car in the rear roared into the left lane, passed him, went fifty yards ahead, and then spun, blocking the road.

  Devin’s shocked mind seized, but his body managed to hit the brakes. The heavy SUV came to a wavering halt. Devin’s body slammed forward from momentum, the hard edges of the seat and shoulder belt pressing into his skin.

  The next thing he saw was Cody, ripping off his own belt in a panic, then nearly throwing himself into the back, pulling things from his bag, screaming, “Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!”

  Devin snapped forward, ready to rage at the stupid driver. Through the windshield he saw the doors of what looked like a dark sedan fly open. Into the headlights came the Slits he’d seen at Tunnel Vision, looking mean in leather jackets that glistened in the soft rain.

  “So Cody,” Devin said, his voice shaking, “is this where you got the money for the guitar?”

  But “Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap” was Cody’s only answer as he continued to rummage frantically. The Slits headed toward the SUV. Their legs moved, but it seemed like the rest of their bodies were motionless, making it look as if they weren’t getting closer so much as growing larger.

  Devin was staring so intensely, he was only dimly aware of Cody slipping back into the front seat. The feel of something cold and heavy in his lap brought his senses back to the cab. He looked down. A crowbar. Cody had tossed him a crowbar.

  “No! No way!” Devin said. “Are you crazy? Are you totally crazy?”

  “Take it!” Cody growled. “There’s only two of them! We can scare them off!”

  Devin pushed the crowbar back at Cody. “No! What happens next time when there’s more than two?”

  Cody slammed it back into Devin’s hands and held it there. “Nick and Jake and their stupid pals are all talk. They’re nothing. Nothing. The only reason they get away with this crap is because no one challenges them. They’ll back off if we put up a fight, trust me. Follow my lead. They don’t carry guns. It’s all knives and razors. Crowbar’s longer than a knife, right?”

  The two figures approached, not even blinking from the rain. Devin briefly wonde
red which was Jake and which was Nick, then realized he didn’t care. Cody shivered in a weird way, like he was trying to shake any fear out of his face.

  He opened the door, hopped out, and cast an angry look back inside at Devin.

  “Come on!”

  Devin thought seriously about calling the cops, but the Slits could kill both of them in the time it would take a squad car to get here. He wanted to drive off, but Cody was already out of the car. So, gritting his teeth and trying to keep his terrified body in control, Devin stepped out of the SUV and stood on the other side.

  Seeing him, the short one (Nick? Jake?) veered and took a step toward Devin, but the other stopped him. His hand sported a big, gaudy ring on a finger that looked more muscular than some arms. He jabbed it at Devin like a knife.

  “Stay out of this. It’s not your problem unless you want it to be,” the Slit said. “You just stand there and watch.”

  When Devin didn’t move or speak, the Slit turned to Cody. “We want our money.”

  “I told you back at the club, I haven’t got it,” Cody said. “I don’t know when I will.”

  The Slit shook his head. “That’s not good.”

  “No,” Cody answered. “It’s not.”

  The two took another step closer. Cody moved his feet apart for better balance. The change in stance only made the Slit with the twitchy shoulder grin. He took one more step. In a totally defensive move, born out of fear, Devin raised the crowbar slightly.

  The taller Slit looked at him. “You seem like a good kid. Close your eyes if you don’t want to watch. It won’t take long. That way you’ll still be conscious, so you can drive your friend to the hospital.”

  “Put that crowbar through his skull, Devin,” Cody said.

  “Aren’t you already in enough trouble?” the Slit asked.

  “See?” Cody said, not taking his eyes from the Slit. “I told you they’re all talk.”

  The taller Slit took a step toward Devin. His eyes were calm. Blank. All business. Devin felt his grip on the crowbar weaken, his shoulders slump. He moved his hand to wipe the moist rain from his eyes.

  “Come on, Devin!” Cody said. “Gotta get off that fence sometime. Now would be good.”

  “Yeah, Devin, what’s it going to be? I don’t have all night,” the Slit said, grinning.

  In a flash, the grin vanished. Something hit him hard from the side, sending the Slit down and out of Devin’s field of vision. Devin turned, confused. Cody was down on the Slit, pummeling him, hitting him again and again in the face and the chest, really wailing on him.

  The twitchy Slit was stunned by the sudden attack, but recovering. Any second, he’d jump Cody and it’d be two-on-one.

  Whatever happened next was up to Devin. But why? How far was friendship supposed to go? If crazy Cody was stupid enough to borrow money from thugs, why should Devin risk his neck?

  “Devin! Do something!” Cody shouted between blows. The Slit below him tried to block the manic flurry of punches, but Cody was too fast.

  The other Slit shifted.

  The car door was less than a foot away. Devin could get in quickly, then wait and watch. Like he always did.

  “Devin!” Cody bellowed. He turned his head. When he did, the Slit landed a blow to the side of his face. Cody was mean and fast, but no street fighter and not very heavy. He went sideways. In seconds, the two reversed positions, the Slit on top, ready to get medieval.

  Shaking, frightened, Devin tightened his grip and held the crowbar up, hoping he could have it both ways and scare them off without actually doing anything. He took a step, but his foot found something slick on the rain-wet road. His foot flew back and he flew forward.

  The shorter Slit raised his arm as the crowbar came down. It hit him in the center of his forearm, with all Devin’s falling weight behind it. There was a loud sound, a crack like a thick branch splitting. Devin hit the ground and ate some street. Badly scraped, he managed to stumble back to standing in time to still see the look of surprise on the Slit’s face.

  A voice in the back of Devin’s brain said, Did I hurt him?

  Numbly, he raised the crowbar again. The Slit, arm folded in a funny way, moved back. Devin turned toward the one atop Cody. The cracking sound had turned him around, too, long enough for Cody to pull back and slam him full on in the crotch.

  In pain, the Slit moved sideways a bit and snarled. The mask of calm he’d worn previously vanished, revealing something savage and animal.

  Moving like a caffeinated maniac, Cody rolled out and up onto the balls of his feet. The Slit, grabbing his crotch, looked around and saw his partner cradling his arm and moaning. He stumbled back to their car, pulling his friend along. Just before he vanished into the driver’s side, he said, “This isn’t over.”

  With a squeal of tires on the wet asphalt, the small car spun and zoomed off into the darkness.

  Devin watched it go, catching his breath a moment. He turned back to Cody, who was laughing, harder and harder, and saying, “That was great! That was amazing! We are Torn!”

  Devin looked at him, shocked. How could he be laughing? What could be more stupid?

  Then he started laughing himself. He was relieved. Happy, like he’d won something, like maybe, even though it was an accident, even though he hadn’t really decided anything, he was now bad enough to be in a rock and roll band.

  3

  Hours later, Devin McCloud lay in his comfortable bedroom, waiting for sunrise. The house was quiet, his parents fast asleep. He was exhausted. By rights he should have been unconscious, but his brain was locked—and not on Cody and the Slits. Though the nervous energy that propelled his thoughts was probably a leftover from that encounter, his focus was on the fact that Torn was getting together in less than twelve hours to record “Face” in Devin’s garage, and sometime before then, he would have to fire Karston.

  Grateful though Cody had seemed because Devin had fought by his side, he had not given up on that point. Karston’s bass was supposed to be there; Karston was not.

  When the Slits had fled, Devin had felt exhilarated. Now he just felt tired and kind of sick. Shifting up onto his elbow on the soft mattress, he stared out his large round window at the manicured lawns and squared hedges of the gated Meadowcrest Farms housing development. As far as he could tell, the development had nothing to do with a meadow, a crest, or a farm. It had more to do with tiny, well-tended yards, and neighbors who seemed to pose as they stopped and smiled and waved. The squares, rectangles, and circles that made up the houses were tight and perfect. Everything seemed held together by money.

  But even in the dim light of early morning, Devin could see exactly where the lawn mowers and hedge clippers stopped and something else began, something jagged and unkempt: a dark forest that went on for miles. As a child he hadn’t been allowed to go in there; now he just didn’t want to, as if all the years of comfort and security had left him too comfortable and secure.

  He wasn’t like Cody. He wasn’t a natural. He wasn’t driven. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t even know if he could write any decent songs. What was “Face,” anyway? What did it mean?

  As his eyes half closed, a line from the lullaby drifted back to him. It was his grandma’s song; Namana, he used to call her.

  Your heart beats slowly, drowsy eyes…

  It was a pretty thing, the tune. Even the small bit playing in his mind relaxed him. The rest of the words and the melody licked at the edge of memory, teasing, just out of reach, like the woods. As he reached for more words with his mind, they dissipated, like ghosts.

  Half awake, he found that strong images came to him more easily. He remembered being curled up deliciously cozy in Namana’s lap when she babysat. There was a stuffed toy in his hand. When she started singing, he’d bury his head in the toy, hide in its darkness until he felt drowsy. He could feel the rough fur against his cheek, hear her old voice as she croaked more than sang.

  Or else the wild will come for you.

&
nbsp; And snatch bad children away? A tingling along his spine told him he was on the right track.

  Be good or else.

  By the time he was six, his mother said, he had demanded Namana never sing it again. It was too horrible—he thought it might be real, that something might really come and kill him. Stupid. But at six, you think everything might be real, everything except real-life horrors like the Slits.

  Be good or else.

  Funny, but weren’t all the lullabies and nursery rhymes like that? Lost children, cannibalistic witches? Didn’t the famous ones talk about dying before you wake, or a baby falling screaming out of a treetop? Wasn’t ring-around-the-rosy about the black plague? The symptoms and the fatal sneezing fit were wrapped into the cute lyrics:

  Achoo! Achoo! We all fall down!

  As if they were waiting for just the right moment, a few more strands of the lullaby came back. They gave him a rush more familiar than the adrenaline frenzy of his fight. This was the kind of rush that came when something inside of him filled him up to bursting, the kind he got whenever he was trying to write a song and he was on to something. This was something.

  Your heart beats slowly, drowsy eyes…

  Devin thought maybe he could call Namana, visit her, ask her how it really went. The senior care facility was just an hour away. She’d love it. No one ever visited. But no. He didn’t want to deal with that place, or with her being old and feeble. The last time she hugged him (two years ago at Christmas?) her hands and arms felt so thin against his neck, it was like being grabbed by a skeleton.

  Besides, it would ruin it if he knew the real song. This was better. The less perfectly Devin remembered it, the more he was free to make it his own.

  He snapped on the light by his bed, plugged in his amp, slipped on his headphones, and played, fumbling around for the right notes, finding them more and more often. He paused occasionally, scratched down some chord progressions with the nub of a pencil, crossed others out, and filled in the missing parts with his own inventions.

  As he worked, it came to him faster, as if he were in a welcome trance. Sitting there, sleepless, working on a dream, reminded him why he’d helped Cody form Torn in the first place, why he was so worried about not being worthy. Because sometimes, like right now, working on the music made him forget all the hesitancy, all the guilt, all the fence-straddling.