Cornered (8 page)

ME: dude you'll never guess who i just saw: tiffany sanz!

NATE: you didnt give me time to guess. i was going to guess tiffany sanz

ME: u were not!

NATE: then give me time to guess next time

ME: fine shut up. isn't it crazy though?

NATE: not really. it is fairly impossible to predict the exact location of anything with certainty, sure, but it's not that odd that she would have turned up at the mall in westport the same time as you

Nate was on cross-country like me, but also in all honors classes (not like me). He was always relating everything to math and physics, and very often I had no idea what he was talking about.

ME: how do u know we were at the mall?

NATE: what else is there to do in westport?

ME: good point. it felt weird seeing her. i felt so bad.

NATE: bad about what?

ME: the way we were back then, u know

NATE: i'm sure she's over it

ME: would u be?

NATE: i doubt it, but i'm sort of a vengeful bastard that way. does she still look the same? those glasses! and remember that sweatshirt with the cats she always wore?

ME: no totally different!

NATE: hot?

ME: more like all tattoos and piercings and stuff

NATE: whoa! So . . . hot?

Nate had his own weird look these days—not at all classic nerd, but more like a hybrid hippie/heavy metal guy. He had shoulder-length hair and a thin mustache that he thought made him look tougher, but really just made him look like a perv. I imagined him hunched over his phone, waiting to hear my attractiveness rating of the new Tiffany Sanz.

ME: kinda cute i guess

NATE: dude, you gonna try to see her again while you're out there?

ME: maybe. she's in a band. invited me to go see the show

NATE: you gotta go! you need more weird in your life. go where life takes you, bry. that's my motto.

ME: i thought ur motto was “rock out with your cock out.” u have it cross-stitched on a throw pillow.

NATE: that's more of an unofficial credo. going where life takes you. that's the real motto. you gotta go to that show.

ME: eh i'll think about it. gotta run. i see my aunt & sister

I slid the phone back into my pocket and waved hello to
Aunt Tina and Hannah. They waved back.

“Hey,” I said, pointing to their bags. “You find anything good?” Hannah giggled, and I immediately regretted asking.

“We did okay,” Aunt Tina said. “You?”

“I didn't buy anything other than soft pretzels. You know, research for my study into the quality of mall pretzels around the world.”

“Someday the world will build a statue in your honor,” she said with a smile. Aunt Tina didn't look like the coolest lady in the world. She had “mom hair” even though she didn't have kids and always dressed pretty much like you'd expect a real estate agent to dress, but she was cool. Yeah.

Then, spurred on by the voice of Nate in my head (the thing about going where life takes you, not the part about having your cock out) I found myself blurting: “And—weird thing—I ran into a girl I used to know in elementary school.”

“Oh yeah? Small world . . .”

“I guess. She's in a band now. They're playing at some coffee shop on Main tonight. Vitamin's?” I stared into my hand. “Something like that.”

“I think I know the place. You need a driver? I mean a passenger?”

“I'm not sure if I'm gonna go,” I said, then muttered. “Jock strap fittings.”

Aunt Tina cocked an eyebrow, but didn't ask me to clarify. Stupid Tiffany was in my head. We headed outside toward the car. It had Aunt Tina's face on the side and her tagline.

TINA FORBES: LET
ME
HELP
YOU
FIND A HOME. YOUR NEW LIFE BEGINS
TODAY.

• • •

So I tried to get there on the late side, to reduce the amount of time I'd spend awkwardly sitting in Vortigern's (not Vitamin's) Coffee by myself. What? Of course I went. What did she mean,
not my scene
? I could go to see bands if I wanted. I didn't just plan to sit around watching sports with Uncle Eli my whole life. I could hang out with tattooed girls if I felt like it. I could do anything I wanted. Maybe I'd even come back from Westport with a tattoo of my own.

Okay, that was probably pushing it.

Uncle Eli let me drive me the short ride to the coffee shop.

“What time should I pick you up?” he asked.

“I have no idea how long these things go on.”

“Okay, then just call the house when it's over. I'll be up. And um, if it's after twelve we just won't tell your father.”

“Cool,” I said. He gave me a high five. It was impossible to believe that he was my dad's brother.

I walked in to Vortigern's Coffee Shop and heard the jingle of a bell strung to the door. No music though, besides the low background of a stereo playing a quiet, old song. The show hadn't started yet. So I
would
be sitting around, waiting. I didn't see Tiffany and part of me wondered if she was just messing with me. But, no, there on the chalkboard “marquee” was the name of her band in big white letters:
THE SHIFT STICKS.
I
noticed a few bearded heads turn and look at me as I weaved through the tables, but most everyone was locked in to their own intense conversations over steaming coffees. I really didn't like coffee. But I felt like I should have something to sip on, just to feel less awkward.

I walked up to the counter and a large, friendly girl smiled at me. She had a huge flower behind her ear and wore a T-shirt that said,
IT IS FORBIDDEN TO FORBID.
It appeared homemade, written in a style that made it look like the letters were dripping blood. She was confusing, but I liked her smile.

“What can I get ya?” she asked, wiping the counter with a towel like an old-fashioned waitress.

“I'm not really typically a fan of hot beverages,” I said, feigning confidence. “But I'm feeling adventurous. What's the house specialty that isn't coffee?”

“That would be the Yerba maté,” she said. “Tea. You'll love it.”

Without giving me time to explain that I didn't like tea either, she quickly turned around and started preparing the beverage. A few moments later she set a strange contraption in front of me. My face must have belied my confusion because she explained.

“It comes in a gourd, not a cup. You drink through that metal straw-thingy. Let it cool a little first.” I must have still looked confused because she added, “It's from Argentina.” As if that clarified anything.

“Got it,” I said as I paid for the drink. It was way too expensive
for a cup of tea, but it was too late to explain. When I found an empty table, I sat and stared around at the weirdly painted walls—knights and dragons motif with some pretty gory details—while I waited for the drink to cool. I pulled out my phone to text Nate.

ME: i'm waiting for tiffany sanz's band to go on

NATE: if it's the best band ever you owe me

ME: they're called “the shit sticks” somehow i doubt they're the best band ever

NATE: dude, that's funny

ME: is it? i don't think i get it. the shit sticks to what?

NATE: no, it's like that thing that happened to tiffany. remember? taylor and amanda got in huge trouble . . .

I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it on my own. The shit sticks. I could see it vividly now. There was Tiffany—skinny and frizzy-haired, with goofy glasses sliding down her nose—wearing that stupid cat shirt. She was out on the playground picking up sticks; she liked them for whatever reason. Actually, I knew the reason if I really thought about it: no one would play with her, and she didn't want it to look like she cared, so she pretended to be really into sticks. Each day at recess while the other kids were playing kickball or just sitting around gossiping, she'd slowly circle the perimeter of the schoolyard and browse under the trees. She'd pick up a stick, carefully consider it, then either keep it in her hand or put it back if it didn't suit her. By the end of the day, she'd have a bouquet of them.

The aforementioned Taylor and Amanda were the mean girls of Hasting Elementary. They ran the game. Called the shots. Ruled the school with their tiny, iron fists. And one day they hatched a new evil plan. I was there when they planned it and I probably egged them on. No, I
definitely
egged them on. Why? Because it was Taylor and Amanda, and they were Taylor and Amanda. I wanted them to like me so bad, so desperately I would have done anything. “Yeah, do it!” I remember saying. “It'll be soooo funny.”

Here is what “it” meant:

Taylor and Amanda chose a perfect stick with a sharp end. They returned to that place, under the slide, where that old pile of dog crap began to harden. Amanda jammed the stick's sharp end into the poop and skewered a large piece. Like a shit-ka-bob. “Oooh,” we said. We were laughing hard. I know
I
was laughing hard.

The next step was simple. Our little group walked out from under the slide. Amanda held the stick carefully but proudly, like a knight holding a lance.

“Tiffany!” Taylor yelled. “Tiffany, we found a great stick for you!”

Tiffany turned her head, and I could still see the look on her face. It registered confusion first, and then showed a toothy smile. Thinking about that genuine smile makes me sick now. She really thought Taylor was helping her with her bouquet. She really thought we all were being friendly. Being nice. Tiffany skipped—literally
skipped
—across the playground as
we all tried very hard not to laugh. Tiffany reached out, smiled, grabbed the stick, and . . .

• • •

ME: i can't believe she named the band that. you'd think she'd want to forget

NATE: seriously

ME: dude, i think i have to get out of here

NATE: why?

ME: she's obviously still pissed about all that stuff! what if she just invited me here to murder me?

Then I heard the voice. It wasn't full of murderous rage but rather something like sweetness. “Bryan Forbes, you made it!” Tiffany had apparently returned to the Sunglasses Shack to buy the neon green shades, which was weird to be wearing since it was nighttime. And we were inside. The rest of her freaky look was amped up as well. The blond dreadlocks were now streaked with green, and her lips were dark black. She sat down in the chair next to me and began drumming her fingers on the table.

“It would appear I did,” I said. “Make it, I mean.” I suddenly felt conscious of the less-than-cool outfit I was wearing. It wasn't anything lame, just jeans and a skateboard T-shirt. But it didn't make me exactly artsy or trendy, or whatever these people were going for.

“And you ordered Yerba maté!” she said, her voice sounding less ragged than the other day. “It's my favorite. Helps my
throat recover from all the screaming. But why'd you order it? I thought you hated hot liquids.”

“Well you know what they say,” I raised my cup. Gourd. Whatever that thing is. “‘When in Rome . . .'” I took a sip. It tasted nasty.

“You know,” she said, looking at me sideways. “I always thought that was the worst expression. Everyone always tells you to be yourself, to not change for anyone, but then they also tell you ‘when in Rome . . . ,' which is like the exact opposite message. Like you should change yourself just to fit in with Romans or whatever. When in Rome, you should be yourself! Hey, that's a decent lyric. I should write it down.” She pulled a notebook out of her pocket and scribbled into it.

“I never thought of it that way,” I said.

“No, I don't suspect that you would, Bryan Forbes,” she said. What the hell did that mean? Her habit of calling me by my full name was getting annoying. I was just glad she didn't know my middle name, which is Walter, which I hate.

Then the lights in the coffee shop flickered and Tiffany jumped up. “Ooh, that means it's time to take the stage! I hope you dig it.”

“Break a leg,” I said. “Or a string. Or you know, whatever.”

“I plan to break more than that,” she called back, and ran up onto the stage.

The stage was tiny. Barely a stage really. More like a really long, really short table you could walk on. There was barely enough room for the drum set, the guitar amplifiers, and the
microphone stand. The drummer alone took up half the stage. He was tall and wide with a bushy mustache that was probably supposed to be ironic. He was sweating and panting already, like a caged animal.

He was joined by the bass player who was . . . how can I put this kindly? He was the biggest nerd I've ever seen. He had enormous glasses, a mess of black hair, and a goofy-assed bucktooth smile. He plugged in his bass and played a quick riff that, okay, did sound pretty cool. Then Tiffany picked up her guitar and fiddled with the strap. It was slung over her shoulder, so she looked like a soldier with a machine gun. Ready to mow down enemy troops. She plugged in and strummed the guitar. It rang out a few clear, sad chords that vibrated in my stomach. I have no musical talent, so am automatically sort of impressed by anyone who can play an instrument—but I don't think I was the only one who was impressed. Most everyone stopped their conversations and stared at the stage, transfixed. Tiffany stepped up to the microphone and blew on it once to make sure it was working. It was. She didn't introduce the band, she didn't say hello. She just closed her eyes, strummed her guitar, and started to slowly sing over the ringing chords.