Stuff We All Get

by K. L. Denman

  “I, um…” Her voice catches on a sob.

  I feel cold all over. “What’s wrong? Jolene?”

  “It’s just—bad. I can’t meet you. Oh god. I really need to get out of here.”

  Stories Mom has told me about domestic violence flash through my mind. “Are you hurt?” I ask.

  “No. Not exactly. I just have to get out of here. Could you pick me up?” Her voice breaks again. “I need a ride.”

  She doesn’t mean on a bike. “Jolene? Sorry, I don’t know what to say.” I do know what to say, but I’m stalling.

  “Okay,” she whispers. “Never mind. I’ll try someone else. Bye.”

  I don’t want her to hang up. “What about the cds?”

  “Oh. That. Maybe I’ll be in touch…” I hear a muffled thump in the background. “I better go!” she squeaks.

  “No! Wait!” I say. I have to do it. “I’ll come and get you, okay? Tell me where you are. I’m on my way.”

  I can drive. Of course I can. The car is here. Mom won’t know. What difference does a piece of paper make at a time like this?

  “Are you sure?” Jolene asks.

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  “You’re a lifesaver. Okay, I’m going to start walking. Could you pick me up at the bottom of Heaven Hill Road? Past the high school.”

  “I know where it is,” I say. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  I don’t allow myself to think about what I’m doing. I just do it. I get the spare car keys and run out to the car. I remember the cds, run back inside, grab them and go.

  Heaven Hill Road. How perfect is that for Jolene? I let myself think about that—and her. I drive at exactly the speed limit, and I’m there in five minutes. I park and look around.

  I don’t see her. What I do see in the rearview mirror is a cop car approaching. I slump down in the seat and turn my head away. I’ve only met a couple of Mom’s new co-workers, but I’m not taking any chances. I sweat through the ten seconds it takes for the car to cruise past. Then I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

  Two seconds later, a rap on the passenger window makes me jump, and I hit my head on the ceiling. I gape stupidly at Jolene. She’s smiling as she pulls the door open.

  “Surprised to see me?” she asks.

  “Uh, yeah. I mean, no. Hi.”

  She hefts a backpack into the backseat and hops in beside me. She looks incredibly hot. Her hair flies in a fine, pale mist around her shoulders. She’s lost the work apron, and without it there’s no hiding her body. The tight jeans she’s wearing, along with a form-hugging T-shirt and jacket…Wow.

  She brings her scent in too, a heady mix of flowers and fruit. I breathe it in and ask, “Are you okay?”

  “A lot better now that I’m here,” she smiles.

  I swallow hard and stare at her. She’s here beside me. Incredible.

  “So,” she says. “Maybe we should get going.”

  I get a flash of my fantasy of Jolene and me heading into the unknown. This is quickly followed by a reality check. I have to get her wherever it is she’s going, fast, and get the car back home. I don’t tell her that. I nod and start the engine. “Uh. Where?”

  “It’s not far,” she says. “Takes about half an hour.”

  “Half an hour?” I choke.

  She turns those violet eyes on me, and they’re huge. “That’s okay, right? I need to get somewhere safe. And it’s the only place I could think of.”

  I consider taking her to my house. She’d be safe there. “My place would be—”

  “No!” Jolene’s voice has a frantic edge. “If you can’t take me, then drop me off on the highway, okay? I’ll hitch.”

  “What? No.” I take a deep breath. I’ve come this far. I’ve already crossed the line. “Tell me the way. I’ll take you.”

  Jolene smiles and settles back in her seat. “Okay, you want to get on the highway.”

  Five minutes later we’re on the highway going north. I haven’t done much highway driving, but it’s actually easier than driving in town.

  I want to ask Jolene what happened, but before I can, she asks, “Have you got the cds?”

  “On the backseat.”

  Jolene unbuckles her seat belt, turns around and reaches into the back. I stare at the curve of her body, and a front tire bounces as it hits gravel.

  I gasp and swerve back to pavement. Jolene mutters, “Wow. Drive much?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I keep my eyes glued to the road.

  She wriggles back into place and doesn’t say anything.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. When she still doesn’t answer, I keep talking. “So, I burned twenty copies for you. I put the original in the bag. But I kept one at home for myself so actually there’s only nineteen…”

  “Why did you keep one?” she asks.

  “Um. I thought it would be okay. Sorry. I can give you that one too, if you think…”

  She waves a hand. “Never mind. Keep it. Not like you don’t have it on your hard drive or whatever now anyway, right?”

  “Right.” A couple of uneasy moments pass, and I have to try again. “So, about your music, Jolene. I can totally relate.”

  “Yeah? What do you mean?”

  “The song about traveling?” I risk glancing at her. “When I heard it, I wanted to hit the road. It got me thinking about how great it would be to see the world on my own terms. Be free. And the one about being alone? Wow.”

  “What about it?” she asks.

  “It was like you could be me. I moved here and don’t know anyone. It’s tough.”

  “Yeah?” She shrugs. “I guess for some people. Not me. I can’t wait to get out of this hick town. Like when I’ve gone on trips for auditions and stuff? I love that.”

  “So is your favorite song the traveling one?” I ask.

  “I don’t have favorites,” she says.

  “No? Huh. I guess you like them all for different reasons. Like the one about being made into a fool and mocked. The colors in it—I mean, I’ve experienced that too. It’s harsh. I don’t want to think about it. But you were able to put it into words.”

  I feel her stare, and then she mutters, “Yeah. But what about the singing?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “The singing. You know, the voice? I guess you don’t know much about music. You haven’t mentioned the quality of my sound.”

  “Oh,” I say. Do I tell her how sound becomes color for me? I haven’t risked that for a long time. Still, she’s so honest in her music. I should be honest with her. “I see the sound in colors.”

  “What?”

  “Colors. I’m a sound-color synesthete. The traveling song is indigo and green. And the rejection song is mostly black and red.” I hold my breath and wait, hoping she’ll understand.

  She emits a tiny snort and says, “Yeah, right.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I shouldn’t have told Jolene about the colors. Not yet. I’m an idiot. I muster a feeble grin and shrug.

  “So, you don’t know much about music, do you?” she asks.

  “I know what I like,” I tell her. “And I know I like your stuff.”

  “Nice,” she says. “But what about your ideas for promoting me?”

  “Huh?”

  She gives her hair an impatient flick. “You know. You talked about how I should send out my cds. Do you know about that? Like, I just mail them to radio stations, or what?”

  “I think so. I’m sure I’ve heard about that.” I scramble for something else to say. “And I’m sure I could figure out how to put it online.”

  “Right. The indie thing. I knew a guy who—never mind. I’d rather have my career happen the old-school way. Like, I get discovered by a label, and they help me put together a band. And they promote it. All that. So all I have to do is perform.”

  “That makes sense,” I say. “You’re the artist. You shouldn’t have to do all that other crap.”

  “Exa
ctly,” she says.

  “Plus, that way you’ll be free to write songs and play your guitar.”

  She doesn’t answer.

  I try again. “You’ve got all that depth and talent. You express feelings so clearly. It seems like such a gift. I mean, when you sang about being mocked and—”

  “Tell me, Zack,” she cuts in. “What is it about that song you relate to so much?”

  I feel a flush crawl over my face. “It’s stupid. It’s not a heartbreak or anything. It was dumb. I was playing basketball, and some jerk pulled my shorts down. Then another jerk took a picture and posted it online. After that, everyone at school was mocking me.”

  I feel her stare. “That was you?” She laughs. It’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh.

  “You know about that?” I ask.

  “Who doesn’t? In a town this size, you can’t fart without everybody knowing.”

  “Great,” I mutter.

  “It was funny,” she says. “I don’t get how that could bug you.” She drums her fingers on the dash and shrugs. “So anyway. I just want to sing.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  She goes on. “I’ve done some big auditions, you know. I even did one in the States. I was born there, and I can’t wait to go back.” Her gaze fixes on a point down the road. “But it can’t hurt to mail out cds. It’s something to do while I’m waiting for callbacks.”

  “Cool. If you like, I’ll help you figure out where to send them.” As I say this, I wish I could take the words back. What’s up with that? I do want to help her. Don’t I? But the way she’s acting makes me wonder. The Jolene sitting beside me doesn’t seem like the one who sings. I take a breath and say, “Can I ask you something?”

  “What?”

  “It’s tricky to put into words. But, you’re so honest in your music. I like that. Do you think maybe you say stuff in music that you can’t talk about otherwise?”

  She sighs and does some more finger drumming. Then she says, “You need to make a turn up here. See the sign for Summerland?”

  I see it. I concentrate on doing everything right. I signal and make the turn. Jolene directs me to take another turn and another. We’re working our way through the small town and up a hillside. A glance at the clock on the dash surprises me. More than half an hour has passed since we left Penticton.

  “Are we almost there?” I ask.

  “Almost,” she says.

  “Where exactly are we going?”

  “To a friend’s place. He’s cool.” She’s leaning forward, like she can’t wait.

  “Um,” I mutter. “About the cds.”

  She picks up the bag and says, “Forget it, okay?”

  “Huh?”

  “I don’t think you know much about the business.”

  She’s got that right. And I know I’m blowing it with her, but I don’t know why. Maybe I’m being too pushy?

  Quietly I say, “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, Jolene. I bet it’s tough to switch from composing to—”

  “God!” She cuts me off. “Do I have to spell it out for you? I didn’t write those songs, okay? I didn’t play the guitar. I just sang. That’s what I do. The important part.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A sick feeling rolls through my gut. “You just sang?”

  “Yup.” Jolene checks her fingernails. “That’s what I do.”

  “If you didn’t write the songs, who did?” I ask.

  “Does it matter?” she counters.

  “Maybe,” I say. “Aren’t there laws? You can’t just take someone else’s music, can you? I mean, when I heard that guy doing your song at the pub—wait. Is this his music?”

  “Probably. Was it a guy with a ponytail? And attitude?”

  I nod.

  “Frank. My ex. He’s an idiot.”

  Frank. The initial F in the geocache log and on the cd. I shake my head and ask, “He wrote the music? And he played the guitar?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “So? Let me tell you something, Mr. Righteous. Before you go judging me, you should know the whole story. Frank wrote those songs for me. He was inspired by me. And he wanted me to sing them.”

  “But…”

  “Frank doesn’t care about fame. He has zero ambition. Zero. He’s all about his art. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. What difference does it make if I record his songs?”

  “So,” I say slowly, “what if one of his songs became a hit? Would he get paid?”

  “How should I know?” she says.

  “Would you give him credit for being the composer?” I ask.

  “Why should I? If I go out there and bust my butt, why should I worry about him?” Her voice rises shrilly. “He doesn’t want to be famous. So I’d cause him a problem if his name got known…” She pauses. “Right?”

  I don’t know what to say, but it doesn’t matter. Jolene keeps talking. “I’ve got the recording now. It’ll be my word against his. Pull over here. This is it.”

  I brake, hard, and pull off the road. It’s a gravel road in the middle of nowhere. All I can see in the dark is one driveway curving through the trees. I turn and look at her. I take in the sulky set of her mouth. It’s not a cute pout, not anymore. The flyaway blond hair? Peroxide. The violet blue eyes? I’m betting contact lenses.

  “I shouldn’t have burned those cds,” I say.

  She clutches the bag, throws open the car door and jumps out. “Why not? I did the singing. The songs are mine. Who cares if I don’t compose or play?”

  I meet her angry stare straight on. “You do play…people.”

  She doesn’t answer. She hauls her backpack out of the backseat, slams the door and stalks away.

  I look at the dashboard. According to the clock, I’m a dead man. I’ll never make it home in time. The smell of Jolene’s perfume makes me feel sick, so I roll down my window. In the distance, I hear the sound of laughter. Her laughter. And then there’s silence.

  Lines from Jolene’s song—Frank’s song—play in my head: You’ve made solitude feel eternal / What do I owe you for giving me that?

  It takes a while for me to find my way back through the maze of side roads. My phone starts ringing before I reach the highway. I don’t stop to answer it.

  The drive home seems to take longer than the drive out. I try not to think. But when I hit Penticton, I wonder if Mom contacted her pals at work to be on the lookout for me. Would she do that? She would.

  I don’t want to get caught by a cop. I don’t want to go home and face Mom. But I’m going to have to do it sooner or later. It’s better to get it over with. To avoid getting stopped, I think only about driving perfectly the rest of the way home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When I get home, I’m braced for the rant of my life. I’m fully prepared for the possibility that Mom will have me charged with theft. She believes in consequences. Nothing prepares me for what happens when I walk inside.

  She takes one look at me and crumples. Every part of her crumples— her eyes, her mouth, her entire body— as she collapses into a chair. She buries her face in her hands and sobs.

  I’ve never seen my mother cry like this. Never. And the way it makes me feel—I’ve never felt this either. Shocked. Scared. Ashamed. Sick. Sorry.

  So sorry. I crouch on the floor in front of her and say it over and over.

  Eventually she grabs my face with both hands and says, “Do you know how many kids I’ve seen broken in car wrecks? Do you?”

  I don’t. She never talks about that. And she doesn’t now. She picks up her phone and goes into the kitchen to make a call so I don’t hear what’s said.

  When she comes back, she’s steadier. “Tell me what happened, Zack.”

  I tell her everything. When I’m done, she says she needs to think. The next day I get the verdict. I have to enroll in swimming classes and can’t stop until I’m a certified lifeguard. I have to complete a course in First Aid. And until the end of the school year, I’ll do daily crossing-guar
d duty at an elementary school.

  “Do you understand?” she asks.

  The safety theme is obvious. I nod.

  All day I resist listening to music. In the evening I start dreading going to school tomorrow. If they’re going to mock me again, I do not want to go there.

  Frank gets what it’s like to be mocked.

  Frank. And just like that, it’s okay for me to listen to his songs again. This time, when I listen, I realize that it was never Jolene’s voice I connected with. It was the lyrics and melodies. Her voice was only one small part. To be fair, she’s a decent singer. I don’t know. I’m no expert.

  It’s freaky how I’d built her up in my mind to be someone she isn’t. I was practically in love with her. I don’t get that. Maybe I’m a special sort of stupid.

  What about Frank? He doesn’t seem stupid. Jolene must have sucked him in too. That thought makes me feel better.

  I don’t feel much better, but it’s enough to get me to school in the morning. I force myself to be totally casual as I walk into homeroom. A titter of laughter bursts from a group at the back, and I keep cool. I don’t even look their way.

  “Hey! Zack.” Charo walks toward me. “I missed you.” Here it comes. Some crack about my crack. But she says, “I thought I saw you downtown a few nights ago.”

  “Yeah?” I shrug.

  “I guess it wasn’t you. So how’ve you been?” she asks.

  “Fine.”

  “Good. You know, I wanted to call you, but I couldn’t find your number listed. I felt bad for you.”

  The group at the back laughs again, and Charo looks at them.

  One of the girls calls, “Did you watch American Idol last night?”

  Charo rolls her eyes. “Yeah.” She starts to say something else, but the teacher walks in. She whispers, “Talk to you later, Zack.” And then she takes her seat.

  The morning goes like that. I hear people laugh, and I tune them out. Nobody openly mocks me, not once. The only thing related to my incident is a guy in pe who says, “Nice work punching out Perv Pete. He’s done the same thing to a couple of girls—posted embarrassing pictures online, right? He had it coming.”

  Huh.

  There’s no lunch league game today, so I go to the cafeteria. I spot Charo across the room with her usual group. I decide to keep my distance. I notice a few guys from the team and head their way.