Infinite Repeat (8 page)

Chapter 14

“S
o you broke up?” Trinity asks. “But you’re still friends?” She furrows her brow as if this possibility never occurred to her. “And you’re telling me everything is fine?”

It’s Sunday night and I just finished my shift at Denali. My sister is sitting at the long bar right inside the door, sipping a latte and swinging her feet back and forth while she waits for me. She’s wearing these black leather shoes shaped like cats. They have little braided tails on the heels. Where does someone even buy stuff like that? “Yup. Fine enough where you don’t need to intervene on my behalf anymore.” I narrow my eyes. “Amber told me that you called her.”

“Yikes,” Trinity says. “She wasn’t supposed to tell you. I just didn’t want you to mess up a good thing, Micah.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “But hopefully you won’t always have to be my other mom.”

“I don’t mind. You’re a good kid most of the time.” Trinity grins. “So basically she just doesn’t have time to date because of everything happening with the band?”

“More or less.” I’m too tired to get into the whole story. I had to go straight from the airport to Denali and I didn’t sleep much last night.

“I can’t believe you’re this calm. You’re not going to go tag something, are you?” Trinity asks.

“Nope. Maybe if I’m feeling upset later I’ll cut up some clothes.” I glance down. “I might start with those shoes.”

She sucks in a sharp breath. “The kittens are epic. Touch and die.”

I reach out to tug on the braided tail of her nearest shoe and she slaps my hand away.

I punch her gently in the shoulder. “Why are we here again? Let’s bail.”

“Just a few more minutes.” She looks down at her latte. The cup is still half full.

I hold up my soda. “I can just pour it in a to-go cup.”

She shakes her head. “I’m almost finished.”

“Fine, but bottoms up. You’re nursing that thing like it’s a glass of two-hundred-dollar champagne.”

The wind chimes over the door clunk musically. Trinity and I turn toward Denali’s entrance. Lainey breezes into the shop with an even taller, thinner girl right behind her. Both of them are dressed in tiny sundresses, their hair impossibly shiny, their skin glittering under the fluorescent lights.

Trinity chokes on her latte, her pale face turning pink. “Holy crap,” she says. “Is that Kendall Chase and Lainey Mitchell?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Do they
both
work here?”

“Just Lainey, thank God.” If Lainey is a little annoying, Kendall is like Lainey on steroids times ten.

“My friend’s sister plays JV soccer, and she said those two started a trend where they wore their jerseys to school with miniskirts.” Trinity sneaks a look at Lainey and Kendall. “Then the rest of the girls did the same thing and pretty soon the whole district was doing it. And not just soccer either—basketball, volleyball, even some of the softball players.”

“Fascinating.” I swill down a big drink of soda.

Trinity gasps, like she can’t believe I’m not into the latest sports fashion news. “They’re a big deal, Micah. Two of the most popular girls at Hazelton High.”

“Don’t remind me.” I gesture pointedly at her coffee cup. “Your drink is getting cold.”

“Introduce me,” she blurts out.

“What?” I hiss. “Are you crazy?”

“I want to meet them!” Trinity has forgotten all about her drink. She’s staring at Lainey and Kendall now, watching them gesture with their hands as they debate what to order.

“No. Kendall probably doesn’t even know
my
name.”

“Fine,” Trinity says. “I’ll introduce myself . . . someday.”

“Yeah. Good luck with that.”

Lainey finally decides to order a latte. Kendall moves off to the side, texting on her phone and looking vaguely annoyed.

C-4 strolls up from the back with a box of napkins to refill the dispensers. It’s not his job, and I’m pretty sure he’s doing it only because he heard there are hot, half-naked chicks hanging around. He makes a slow loop past Lainey, a move that she ignores but Kendall zeroes in on.

“Laineykins. I think you’re being stalked,” she says.

Lainey turns around and arches an eyebrow at C-4. “See something you like?”

I almost do a spit take with my soda. It’s the exact thing C-4 said to me when he caught me checking out her legs. She must have heard us talking that day.

C-4 doesn’t even flinch. “You have glitter on your ta-tas.” His eyes linger on her neckline. “If you don’t want guys to stare, you probably shouldn’t sparkle those babies up.”

Kendall’s jaw drops so far she looks like a fish. “Oh. My. God. You perv.” She turns to Lainey. “Can’t you get him fired for that or something?”

“Maybe.” Lainey tosses her hair back over her shoulders. A slow smile spreads across her face. “But I kind of like torturing him.”

“I knew it!” C-4 exclaims. “One of these days, you and me . . .”

Lainey takes her drink from the barista. “In your dreams,” she says with a smirk. Then she strolls across the front of the shop with Kendall behind her. Both of them disappear back into the night.

“They are
so
awesome,” Trinity says.

I shake my head. “Sometimes you are the smartest girl I know, and other times your mouth moves and total gibberish comes out.”

“Whatevz,” Trinity says. She sighs. “I wish I was that pretty.”

“I wish I was that pretty,” I repeat in a high voice. “You’re just as pretty as they are.”

Trinity rolls her eyes. “You’re a bad liar.” She takes another tiny sip of her latte.

I lean against the bar. “I mean it. You just don’t flaunt it like they do.”

Trinity fingers the streak of green in her hair. “I
could
flaunt it, I suppose.”

“Please don’t,” I say. “At least not here. I don’t want to have to punch any coworkers for talking about your glittery girl parts.”

Before she can respond, the wind chimes start clunking again. In walks Stacee, Dad’s former bassist, holding a guitar case. Her hair is darker than I remember and she’s wearing pointy black glasses, but I’d recognize her anywhere. She really is the only person I know with more tattoos than my mom.

“Micah!” Stacee’s face breaks out into a smile and she strides toward me like we just had lunch together, instead of going years without talking.

I glance over at Trinity. “More meddling?”

Trinity downs the rest of her latte in one gulp. “No more after this,” she says. “I promise.”

“I’m going to need that in writing,” I say. “Signed in your blood.” I turn to Stacee. “Hey. Sorry I didn’t answer your email. My girl, er, a friend of mine just got back in town and things have been crazy.”

“No problem.” Stacee pushes her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “You look good. You look . . . taller.”

My sister snorts. “Man, it
has
been a while since she’s seen you, huh?”

I grab the top of Trinity’s ear and give it a gentle twist. “What was that?”

“Ow, ow, ow. Nothing.” She wrestles free of my grip.

Stacee looks back and forth between the two of us. “Both of you. So grown-up. It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Trinity chirps.

“Yup,” I mumble, feeling kind of stupid for avoiding her for so long.

“I just had something to give you.” She sets the guitar case at my feet. My eyes widen. I realize it’s Dad’s guitar case. With the Punk or Die stickers across the front.

“Is that . . .” I’m afraid to open it, afraid that when I do there’ll be some cheap imitation guitar inside, or maybe not even a guitar at all—maybe it’s full of pictures or something.

Right, Micah. Everyone puts pictures in a guitar case. Maybe it’s full of cereal. Or ninjas
.

Stacee lifts the guitar case up onto the table behind us and pops it open. The red Gibson—Dad’s favorite guitar,
my
favorite—sits on a bed of worn velvet.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding, a little at a time. I reach out and run my fingers down the frets. “How?”

Stacee reaches out and touches my arm. “We bought them all, Micah. The guys and me. Right when your mom put everything up for sale last year. All the guitars. Your dad’s amp. All the music stuff.” She smiles. “I know she’s doing her best to move on with things, but we didn’t want to let them go. We didn’t want to let
him
go.” Her smile wavers. “So we didn’t.”

A lump forms in my throat. I stare at the neck of the guitar. My eyes trace their way down the strings. Everything gets a little blurry. I swallow back my tears. “I had no idea.”

“I kept trying to tell you, but you wouldn’t answer my emails.”

I can’t look at her or my sister. I’m still staring at the guitar, the red reminding me not of blood, but of Dad. Dad and Stacee walking in circles. Dad practicing quietly out on the porch after everyone had gone to sleep. Dad joking about how the Gibson was his first wife, and Mom was his second. “I’m sorry,” I say finally.

“It’s okay,” Stacee says. “You guys can have everything back if you want, but maybe wait until you have your own places so it doesn’t upset your mom. I don’t want her to think the money we paid her was charity. I used a friend’s eBay account so she wouldn’t know it was me.”

“Okay.” I raise my head to meet Stacee’s gaze. Her face is a mix of so many emotions, pain and loss and peace and hope. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

She shakes her head, her black hair swishing back and forth, a vibrant shock of pink peeking out from behind one ear. “You don’t have to thank me. I just want you to know that you guys don’t have to keep his memory alive all by yourself.”

“I’m starting to figure that out,” I say, my voice just above a whisper. I ruffle my little sister’s hair. “I just needed someone smarter than I am to help me realize it.”

Trinity smiles. “I just wanted you to have that guitar back. Oh, and I wanted my own CD.”

“Right. Here, share them with friends if you want.” Stacee pulls a few copies of
Crow Black Dream
out of her purse and hands them to my sister. “So, keep in touch, maybe?”

I nod. “Deal.” I glance up at the front counter. There’s no line. Ebony is leaning against the register watching us. “You want a drink or something?” I ask Stacee. “My treat?”

“Sure.”

I order Stacee one of our house lattes and a Death-by-Chocolate-Moose Brownie. Trinity and I sit with her at a table, where she insists on sharing the brownie with both of us. We make small talk, something I suck at, but my sister does a good job of filling in the gaps.

After Stacee leaves, I make Trinity carry the guitar out to my car so I can look up something on my phone.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“One second.” I open the trunk and help Trinity lift the guitar inside. Then I gently shut the trunk and lean against the back of my car. I swipe at a couple of more pages on my phone. “Thanks for what you did, with Amber and Stacee,” I say.

Trinity leans next to me. “Does this mean you won’t need that contract in blood?” she asks hopefully.

My lips twitch. “It means I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said. About me screwing up every year.”

“Okay . . .” She trails off, not sure where I’m going with this.

“And I decided you were wrong.” I give her a sideways glance, my mouth curling into a grin.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. I’m done doing stupid, reckless things. But I know I’ve also been trying to act like Dad’s death never happened—not talking about it, refusing to go to the cemetery, etc. And I never considered how hard that was on everyone. So in that sense, you were right.” I turn toward her. “I need to accept that Dad’s gone. And somehow I need to stop blaming myself. I think it’s time to change the music.”

Trinity nods. “Hey, it’s never too late to go to the cemetery.”

“I was thinking of starting somewhere a little more upbeat.” I show her my phone. “Dead Love Story is playing next weekend. I’m sure Stacee would love it if we came out.”

Trinity cocks her head to the side. “Just me and you?”

“Me, you, and mom.” I sling my arm around her shoulder. “Like a family.”

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About the Author

Photo by Kholood Eid

PAULA STOKES
is half writer, half RN, and totally thrilled to be part of the world of YA literature. She grew up in St. Louis, Missouri, where she graduated from Washington University and the Goldfarb School of Nursing. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, kayaking, hiking, or seeking out new adventures in faraway lands. Paula loves interacting with readers. You can find her online at www.authorpaulastokes.com or on Twitter @pstokesbooks.

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