Brutal (11 page)

“She can't be that bad.”

“She still cuts the crusts off my sandwiches.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, that bad. Follow me.” Theo led me through the guts of the house, and we came to the kitchen. Platters of snacks and appetizers blanketed granite counters. He picked up a huge cocktail shrimp and stuffed it in his mouth. “Hungry?”

“Sure. What time does the party start?”

He looked at the clock. “People should start arriving in the next few minutes. Of course, the higher your status, the later you have to be. It's a ranking system.”

I picked up something green rolled in strips of tortilla and munched. “Mmm. Good.”

“Rabbit meat inside.”

I stopped chewing.

He laughed. “Joking. My mom got bored one year doing nothing for a living and took a cooking class. The instructor checked himself into a psychiatric ward by the time she finished, but she learned how to be a gourmet appetizer maker.”

I didn't know what to expect when I met her, and I didn't know if I even wanted to, but with a half-dozen shrimp eaten and several more green rolled things gone, Theo's dad walked in. Dark eyes, black hair, and a rugged middle-aged face with jowls greeted me. He looked like he could be on
The Sopranos,
and I saw the resemblance to Theo in his eyes. Shadowed and intense.

He ambled toward me, pale and hairy legs jutting from khaki shorts and a big belly pooching out under an untucked leisure shirt. Four big rings, all gold, decorated hairy knuckled sausages as he held out his hand to me. “Hi. I'm Theo's dad. Or so they say.” He smiled. “Poe, right?”

I shook his hand, automatically liking him. “Yes. Nice to meet you.”

He gazed over the spread. “Looks like you two got a head start on things. Get all the good stuff before the troops arrive.” He picked over the food. “Oooooh. Teriyaki meatballs.” He fingered one from the Crock-Pot and popped it in his mouth, chomping away just like Theo. “So,” he said, his mouth full, “how do you like our fair town?”

“I think it's nice.”

He looked at Theo. “You haven't begun hanging around normal people, have you, son?”

Theo rolled his eyes and smiled. “Don't worry, Pops, she's not normal.”

He eyed me. “I don't know. She sounds awfully normal to me.” He jabbed a finger at me, his eyes twinkling. “You don't breathe fire or suspend yourself upside down at night to sleep, do you?”

“Sorry.”

He nodded, raised his eyebrows, then ambled toward the sliding glass door to the back patio, another meatball pinched between his thick fingers. “I'll be damned. My son knowing normal people. Maybe the world isn't coming to an end.”

Theo laughed. “It is, Dad. And I'm the anti-Christ. But don't worry, I put you on the good minion list with Mom. You'll be taking care of the sulfur pits.”

He licked his finger. “God knows every father wants his son to be the anti-Christ.” He turned around, walking back to the counter and swiping another meatball. “Man, these things are good. Best thing in the world getting your mother into that class, if I do say so myself.”

Then Theo's mom clattered into the kitchen. In her late forties, she looked like any soccer mom in the country, highlighted blond hair, fine cheekbones with a bit of age around her eyes, and a slim, toned body. She wore white capris, open-toed heels, a plum blouse, and a white summer jacket. Her gums showed when she smiled, and her voice, high and loud, echoed through the kitchen. “Oh my gosh, Theo, introduce me immediately to this lovely young lady.” She strode forward, and she did have a circus smile. It was huge. She held her hand out, and as Theo introduced us, I shook it.

I realized I didn't know their last name. Here I was on the verge of dating a guy and I didn't know his last name. “Nice to meet you, ma'am.”

“My pleasure, Poe. I'm so happy you came.” She looked at me. “I LOVE your top! Where did you get it?”

“The Salvation Army in Anaheim.”

It didn't register with her. She turned to Theo's dad. “Honey next time we're down south, we've just got to stop by and get one.” She turned back to me. “Do they stock them regularly?”

I glanced at Theo, then shook my head. “They're used, ma'am. It just depends on who brings stuff in.”

She spun, twirled her finger, and opened the refrigerator. “Well, let's just hope then that somebody brings one in.” With that, she brought out a bag of shrimp and replaced the ones Theo had eaten. She pointed to my top. “What do those letters mean?”

I looked down at my top, which was basically a glorified pink T-shirt with three letters scrawled in fancy, Victorian handwriting across the front. I gave Theo a panicked glance.
“FTW?
Um—”

Theo cut in. “Fuck the World.”

She busied herself with replacing the green rolled things I'd eaten, smiling wider than ever. “Very nice. Very nice. A statement of sorts.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, they'll be here soon. Honey? The patio bar? Make sure there's ice?”

Theo's dad made a beeline for the sliding door and Theo hopped from his barstool. “Hey, Ma, we're going to my room. If you need us, we'll probably be naked, so knock first.”

She stacked cocktail glasses on the counter. “Safe sex, Theo. Remember that. We don't want any nasty nasties, now, do we?” I cringed, and she turned to me. “You two
have a good time, and make yourself at home, Poe. Come on down and mingle if you'd like. Lots of treats.”

I nodded, and Theo led me out and up the stairs. He chuckled. “I told you so.”

“Holy moly”

“You can say anything and she's unfazed.”

Up the stairs and to the right, Theo led me down a wide hall, then opened a door. “My kingdom. Welcome.”

I walked in. Black. All black. The walls were painted black and covered with eighties rock posters, a neon beer sign hung over the windows looking out on the backyard, and it was a mess. Clothes and shoes layered the floor, empty pop cans were scattered over his nightstand, dresser, and windowsill, and papers covered his computer desk. He grabbed a remote and switched on the stereo sitting next to the television. “The Number of the Beast,” by Iron Maiden, piped through the surround sound. I plopped on his bed. “Nice room.”

“Yeah. I don't allow the housekeeper in. She'd probably steal my stuff.”

“Your stuff?”

“Yeah. Mary Jooo Wanna.”

“I didn't know you smoked.”

He shrugged. “Not a lot, but sometimes I have to.”

“You have to?”

“Mom. She gets crazy sometimes. Like not-joking-around crazy.”

“Oh.”

“Wanna toke? I got some good stuff a couple weeks ago.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Angel girl.”

“I don't like how it makes me feel. Had a bad trip once, so I stay away.”

“Fine by me.” He looked out the window to the backyard. “The horde is arriving.”

I stood, walking to the window. Five or six people dressed like they were related milled around the outside bar. A pool glistened blue in the sun, and a built in hot tub connected to it lay still as a mirror. “Nice.”

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

Down the stairs and to the far end of the house we went, and Theo opened a hall door. More stairs down. “What is this?”

He flicked the light on. “Basement. Where we store the bodies.”

“Cool.” I followed him down, and after we passed a humidified wine cellar with a glass door on it, he stopped at another door. I looked around. The ceilings were high, the basement deep, and half of it was unfinished. “What?”

He opened the door. “Come on in. You'll like it.”

I walked in and stared. Mikes and amps and mixers and a dubbing machine, the whole nine yards. Cords lay strewn across the concrete floor, and a drum set stood in the corner. It was a full-on recording studio. “No way.”

“Way.”

I walked further in, checking things out. State of the art. Thousands of dollars. “I didn't know you were into this, Theo.”

“I'm not. The drum set is mine, but the rest is my mom's.”

I furrowed my brow.

“Yeah. Before the cooking thing, it was the music thing.

She watched the first year of
American Idol
and decided she wanted to be famous.”

“Wow.”

He laughed. “She hasn't used it in two years. A twenty-thousand-dollar recording museum.” He walked over and flipped a switch. The buzz of amps lit my ears, and the mixing board lit up. “You said you were in choir.”

I stepped toward the microphone. “Yeah.”

“And you were in a punk band in LA, right?”

“Yeah.”

He walked over to the drums, adjusted the mike, and sat down, picking up a pair of sticks and twirling them. “You play guitar?”

“Some rhythm.”

He pointed to a case in the corner. “Strap on and plug in, baby. Let's see what you got.”

I laughed. “Theo …”

“Go. I want to hear it.” He tapped the cymbal.

I clicked open the guitar case. A Fender. “How ‘bout we see if you can keep up?”

He laughed. “How ‘bout.”

I took a minute to tune, then plug in, plucking and tweaking until I found the sound I wanted. Heavy and distorted. “You can follow?”

He nodded. “Three years of the best drum instruction money can buy. Go ahead.”

I did. I ripped out a chord progression, adjusted the tone on the amp, and faced him. “Pick it up after the first progression and we'll ease into it.”

I began. The song was an original, and as the staccato of the guitar ripped through the room, I felt it rise in me. The
power. The song was called “Machine-Gun Love,” and I'd written it myself. Fast, heavy, and totally punked, my fingers flew through the chords. Theo stared at me like I was crazy. I stopped playing. “Something wrong?”

“Holy shit, Poe. Ease into it? You don't ease into that.”

I rolled my eyes and smiled. “Would an Elton John song be better?”

He growled. “Fine. Get into it and I'll pick up. I'm rusty, though, so don't say anything.”

I started again, my fingers warmed up, and I nailed it head-on, pounding the chords out rapid-fire. It wasn't called “Machine-Gun Love” for nothing. Theo snagged up a couple of times on the bass drum, but he kept up. I smiled as I played, nodding the count for the lyrics, then leaning into the mike and belting out the first lines. The drums stopped again. Silence filled the room as I looked at him. “What now?”

“What now? God, Poe. You can sing. I mean sing, sing. I've never heard a punk song with a voice. Crap, no wonder you're in choir. You should be the lead soloist.”

I smiled. “I am.”

He gaped. “Anna Conrad?”

I gave him a sly look. “Not anymore.”

He pursed his lips. “And so the real reason comes out.”

“What real reason?”

“Why you joined the choir.”

I shrugged. “I like singing.”

“No way. You joined to beat her out. Vengeance is mine, so sayeth the friend of Velveeta.”

I chuckled. “Maybe, maybe not. You'll never know.”

“And so the Poe mystery deepens.”

“Mystery?”

“Yeah. Half the school is wondering what your deal is.”

“Then half the school can wonder. Are we going to play or sit here gossiping?”

He nodded. “I'll pick you up. Go.”

And so we did. We played for over an hour, cranking the volume up until the door to the studio opened. Theo's dad stood there with several partygoers behind him. Theo smiled. “Too loud, Dad?”

He walked in, followed by the guests, all of whom had drinks in their hands. “Well, being that we got a call from two counties over, it might be considered loud.”

“Sorry.”

He shook his head. “That's not why we're here.” He looked at me. The last song we'd played was an old ballad by Motley Crüe. “We came down to see you.”

I unslung the guitar. “Me?”

“You are the person connected to the voice, I assume. Unless my son has been castrated.”

I don't blush, but I blushed. “I guess so.”

One of the guests stepped forward, a middle-aged guy in a baby blue polo shirt and white shorts. “Incredible. In credible voice.”

Theo's dad stepped forward. “Poe, this is my good friend Bill Conrad. His daughter sings.”

Anna Conrad's father, unless this tiny town had more than one Conrad family. I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yes.” He paused. “My daughter is the lead soloist for the Elite Choir. Anna. Have you met her?”

I slid a glance to Theo, then nodded. “Yes. Sort of.”

Mr. Conrad smiled. “She's actually quite a singer herself. You two should get together sometime. She might show you a trick or two. She's a great girl.”

“I'm sure she is, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow to me. “Have you spoken to Mrs. Baird, the choir director? The tryouts are already over, of course, but I'm sure she could make room for such an outstanding voice.” He winked. “I could probably even put in a good word for you. Get you into the main chorus, probably even in the Elite Choir with that voice.” He went on, enchanted with his own voice. “Who trained you?”

I smiled. “Sid.”

He took a sip of his drink. “Sid? Do I know him? I'm pretty familiar with most of the top vocal trainers in the state, and I know you're from Los Angeles. Is he based out of that area?”

“He's dead.”

He furrowed his brow, confused.

“Drug overdose.”

“Sid who?”

“Vicious.”

Theo grinned conspiratorially, but Mr. Conrad went on, scratching his head. “Sid Vicious.” He waggled his finger. “You know, I think I've heard that name. Yes. I didn't know he'd died. He was very well known, wasn't he?”

I nodded. “Sort of. At least in some circles.”

He smiled sadly. “Well, my condolences. If you've a need for a new trainer, Anna can give you her teacher's number and I'll put in a word for you.”

“Thanks, but I think I'm fine.”

After they'd gone, Theo and I stared at each other, then
busted up laughing. He set his sticks down. “You never know, Poe. He might have heard of Sid Vicious. The Sex Pistols were pretty popular with the upper-crust-attorney demographic back in the seventies.”

I laughed. “Maybe.”

“You are a heartless person. That poor man is going to drop Sid Vicious's name every chance he gets. You know that, don't you?”