Beige (23 page)

I open the door to Trixie’s and take in the scene. She’s painted a big
bon voyage
sign, which she’s hung with a bunch of vintage decorations in the living room. On the dining table, under the glass, is a poster of Madrid.

Auggie comes running up to me to give me a hug. He’s wearing a tiny little tuxedo. Trixie finishes setting the table, and she looks amazing in a black chiffon cocktail dress from the fifties with her hair done in an upsweep.

The room smells delicious.

The Rat comes out of the kitchen wearing his best suit and a skinny black tie. He’s got one of Trixie’s frilly aprons on.

“You’re the guest of honor, so you sit at the head of the table,” he says. Then he disappears back into the kitchen. I sit down and so does Trixie, who’s put Auggie into his chair.

A few minutes later, The Rat comes out of the kitchen proudly holding a platter. He sets it on the table.

It’s a roast. He cooked me a roast. My favorite.

“Open your present,” Trixie says, pointing to the envelope sitting on my plate.

“OK,” I say. The Rat makes a drumroll on the table as I tear it open.

“It’s a voucher for a plane ticket,” Trixie explains. “You can use it to go wherever you want.”

“But of course, we hope you might come back and visit,” The Rat says. “Just give me some notice so I can clean the place up before you get here.”

“And if The Rat is still on tour, you can always stay with me,” Trixie says, passing the rosemary roasted potatoes.

I don’t know what to say.

I look at Trixie, The Rat, and Auggie surrounding me as they meet my eyes when I look up.

They look like a family.

Wait.

They look like
my
family.

After dinner, I go back to my room and pack up my bags. I don’t have to pack everything. I am supposed to be paring down.

There’s nothing that I want to keep from this bedroom anyway. My eyes scan the room to make sure. They fall on the purple guitar, sitting in its stand in the corner next to the desk.

I walk over and touch it.

The strings squeak as I move my hands along the fret board. The squeak mixes nicely in the air. The squeak reminds me of Lake. And Garth. And Leo. And Trixie. And The Rat. And I feel sad. Sad that I’m leaving.

On the desk I notice Lake’s Sharpie pen. I pick it up and uncap it.

I stand up on my bed and face the wall. I begin to write.

I hear The Rat’s key in the door. I jump off my bed. I don’t have to turn back and survey what I’ve written because it’s not finished. I have more words to write down. But for now, it’s time to go.

We don’t say much on the ride to the airport. The Rat tap-tap-taps out a beat. I can’t stand it. I break down. I turn the radio on.

“. . . that was the punk news — glad to bring it to youse.”

The guitars start, then the others join in, then the drum kicks in. I know this song. I know it and I like it. It’s the Clash.

The Rat, still beating away at the steering wheel, opens his mouth and starts to sing, and then I start singing, and we are singing together.

I turn the volume up as loud as it goes.

I sing at the top of my lungs. I scream, scream, scream the song. The Rat duets with me, singing the guitar parts and the Spanish parts. We’re blasting down the highway, going just five miles above the speed limit, but it feels so fast. I roll down the windows and sing to the passing cars on the freeway. The sun is shining, the way it almost always seems to in Los Angeles, just a perfect blue cloudless sunny day. And the palm trees are swaying, like they are dancing to a rhythm they’ve made up all by themselves.

I am happy and sad at the same time.

It’s only a minute, but I want it to last forever. And then it’s over and we’re there.

We pull up to the parking lot at LAX. A new song has started on the radio. The moment in the car is over. We get out in silence. Don’t talk much. The Rat carries my luggage, and I’m finally on my way to Montréal, even if it is just to leave again.

Bags checked, I clutch my carry-on. Nervous. The Rat walks me to the TSA security check. The security checkpoint will separate us.

“You have everything?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Here’s a twenty in case you want some coffee or candy or a magazine.”

I take the twenty. I mumble a thank-you.

He looks down at his grungy Chuck Taylors. Then he looks back up at me. His eyes are kind of watery. He purses his lips.

“It was really great having you here, Katy. It was no trouble at all. Come back anytime. I want you to come back.
Mi casa es tu casa.
”

“Yeah, OK,” I say, but I kind of whisper it because I have to bite the inside of my cheeks. There’s a weight on my chest suddenly and my throat feels tight.

“Where’s your guitar?” he asks.

“It’s back in my room,” I manage to say. “Will you keep it tuned and ready for me?”

The Rat pulls me into one of his big bear hugs. I smell the cigarettes and the near-beer and the BO, and I don’t mind it. It smells like The Rat and I’ll miss it. I don’t want to be rid of him.

I can’t speak now. I can’t say anything, not even good-bye. I just reach into my bag and pull out my boarding pass, hoping to distract myself as I walk away. But I can’t.

I turn around. The Rat is still standing there. He’s actually crying. He doesn’t care that anybody is watching him as he’s watching me go.

And then I start to cry, too.

“DAD!” I call.

He looks surprised. “What is it?”

“Rock on!” I yell.

He smiles. And flips me the thumbs-up.

I step through the metal detector.

I’ve made up my mind. I’m off to Madrid. But really, I’m on my way.

I’m on
my
way.

Everyone I ever played music with — especially Julie McGovern, Nancy Ross, and Kim Temple;

my friends and gentle readers — Cylin Busby, Mette Ivie Harrison, Jo Knowles, and Lauren Myracle;

Rachel Cohn — for lending me a laptop;

Liza Palmer — coffeehouse study buddy;

Holly Black — for a room to write in, a shoulder to cry on, and all things magical;

Joseph Brady — for coining phrases that make my heart sing;

Steve Salardino — as always;

Jennifer Laughran, Not Your Mother’s Book Club and Books, Inc.;

Kerry Slattery and Skylight Books for constant support;

my Candlewick peeps — especially Deb Wayshak;

Barry “Mr. Fantastic” Goldblatt — and all the members of Camp Barry;

and to the divine Ms. Kara LaReau — who is every color of the rainbow — this one is for you.

1. “No Way” Adolescents

2. “Too Drunk to F**k” Dead Kennedys

3. “Hanging on the Telephone” Blondie

4. “Spellbound” Siouxsie and the Banshees

5. “Lexicon Devil” The Germs

6. “Body Bag” NoMeansNo

7. “S**t from an Old Notebook” The Minutemen

8. “In the City” The Jam

9. “Tattooed Love Boys” The Pretenders

10. “U. Suck A. / We’re Fed Up” Scream

11. “F**k Armageddon . . . This Is Hell” Bad Religion

12. “Institutionalized” Suicidal Tendencies

13. “Los Angeles” X

14. “Oh Bondage, Up Yours!” X-Ray Spex

15. “Live Fast Die Young” Circle Jerks