Sleeping in Eden (15 page)

The next night, Meg didn't head over to the Langbroeks' garage until nearly an hour after the so-called music started. Mostly the sounds bleeding from beneath the far-from-airtight doors were comparable to some form of primitive torture—Meg could easily imagine giving up all her secrets if subjected to such tuneless nonsense for any amount of time. But she had told Jess that she would come. Sort of.

Whether or not she cared to admit it, Jess had nothing to do with Meg's decision to partake in the inaugural festivities of his little wannabe band. She knew that Dylan was there. She had heard the throaty rumble of his brother's pickup when Dylan was dropped off. His presence was more than enough reason for her to endure any off-key attempts at music, but not convincing enough to make her run across the cul-de-sac the moment the first withering note pierced the night.

When Meg did finally decide to grace the guys with her presence, she slipped into the garage unnoticed and stood for a few minutes with her back to the door, taking it all in. The group didn't have microphones, but a few of them had shoddy-looking amps that boasted long cables like the
curling tails of fantastical creatures from some Dr. Seuss book. Dylan was one of the boys with an amp, and he sat straddling a short stepladder, one foot resting on the piece of equipment with a possessive air. His bass sported a crack in the side and a hand-me-down veneer, but he had the instrument spread across his knees almost lovingly. Every once in a while he plucked a single string, and the resonant hum of a low, deep note would pool like water beneath the cacophony of other instruments. Meg could feel the reverberation of it in her heart.

Tearing her eyes from him, Meg found Jess at the center of the space the guys had cleared between a tarp-covered car and the tangled row of Langbroek family bikes. He seemed to be tuning his acoustic guitar, the pick between his teeth as he tried to get each note just right. Meg doubted he had the faintest clue what he was doing.

The rest of the band seemed equally unqualified for the task before them. There was a drummer who appeared to be more interested in twirling his drumsticks than using them to encourage a steady beat into the din, and a guy with an electric guitar whose tongue peeked from between his clenched teeth as he struggled with chord after chord. A fifth member looked instrumentless, directionless, and completely clueless. All in all, Jess's band painted a very sorry picture in the musty garage, and Meg groped behind her back for the door handle and escape. It was just too much: too much noise and testosterone and striving. Too much uncertainty. She felt distinctly out of place.

But just as she was about to leave, Jess looked up and noticed her. The line etched across his forehead cleared and he said something, but Meg couldn't hear him over the ruckus. Reluctantly, she let go of the door and cupped an ear.

Jess turned to his band, using his arms to hush them. It took a few moments, but they eventually caught on, and in the ensuing silence Meg could feel the ripples of phantom sound waves like static in the air.

“You came,” Jess said, breaking the blessed peace.

Meg pursed her lips and nodded once. “But I can't stay,” she began, tipping her thumb over her shoulder as if the reason for her leave-taking stood just out of sight. “I've got . . . uh . . .”

“You can't go,” Jess broke in. He glanced quickly at Dylan and said in a stage whisper, “Dylan needs you to focus, he's really screwing things up here.”

“Uh-huh.” Meg rolled her eyes and was momentarily thrilled to see Dylan do the same. His lips pulled into a desultory smile, but he didn't wink at her like he once would have.

“Come on,” Jess urged. “Stay. I bought you smokes, just like I promised.” He reached into the breast pocket of his button-down shirt and threw a pink-and-white pack of Virginia Slims at her.

Meg caught the little box in one hand but dropped it to the floor the moment it made contact with her palm. “I don't smoke girly cigarettes.”

Jess tried to hide a smile, but Dylan grinned outright, only bothering to bring a concealing fist to his mouth when Meg glared at him.

“What?” Dylan said defensively when she didn't avert the icy insistence of her gaze.

“Don't laugh at me.” She made each word hard and cold, a tiny pebble of anger that she aimed with lethal accuracy.

“I'm not . . .” but Dylan trailed off, incapable of defending himself.

“Oh, yes you are.”

Jess split the taut moment by slipping his guitar strap over his head and crossing the cement floor to take Meg by the arm. One hand held his guitar by the neck, and the other hand cupped Meg's elbow. “Nobody's laughing at you,” he said, steering her toward the center of the room. “You're . . .” he fumbled, “you're perfect, Meg. Always have been, always will be. There's a reason Dylan prefers your company to ours.”

There was something left unsaid in the room, and Meg could feel the small bubble of shared tension tight against her chest. But just as quickly as she perceived it, the feeling dissipated,
and she was left standing in the middle of the group with empty hands and a sour look on her face.

All at once she realized that the boys stood over her, taller, bigger, and older, and a prickle of unease raced across the surface of her skin. Out of habit, she looked to Dylan and was happy to see that he was already coming off the stepladder, swinging his leg down in a theatrical dismount that made it seem as if he straddled a horse instead of a paint-splattered tower of aluminum. To Meg, it seemed as if he was coming to her rescue.

“Don't tease her,” Dylan said, reaching for Meg's other arm and holding on tight. “She bites. I know from experience.”

The friction Meg felt burst and scattered, and within a few seconds she became aware that the guitarist was strumming the first three chords of “Free Fallin'.”

“Can you play anything other than Tom Petty?” Jess bellowed, letting go of Meg so he could cuff the boy on the side of the head. But though his attention seemed immediately diverted, Meg felt the slow release of his fingers and understood in a moment of unanticipated clarity that he was reluctant to let go.

“You're pretty young for this crowd.” Dylan's hot breath tickled Meg's ear as he led her to the corner where his amp crouched in wait. He didn't push her down, but she sank anyway, and sat looking up at Dylan with an uneven fringe of bangs falling in her eyes.

“Jess invited me,” she said.

He glanced over at the older boy and chewed his bottom lip in an uncharacteristic display of . . . concern? worry? thoughtfulness? Meg couldn't quite tell.

“Why?”

“I don't know,” she spat. “He thought you wanted me around, I guess.”

Dylan turned his gaze toward her and didn't say anything for a moment. “I do want you around,” he managed eventually, but Meg could tell that he didn't mean it. Or, at least, he didn't
mean it completely. She couldn't read his expression, but he stayed close to her, almost hovering, his stance bordering on protective.

“What happened?” Meg asked, surprising herself. The room was filling with noise again and she hoped that Dylan hadn't heard her, but he squatted down and began to fiddle with the dials on the amp where she sat. She shifted her legs to the side.

“What do you mean?” Dylan sounded nonchalant.

“Nothing.”

“You asked what happened. With Jess?”

With us, Meg wanted to say, but she held her tongue and motioned instead to the bass that he had propped against the stepladder.

“Oh,” the word seemed laced with disappointment. “It was my brother's. It cracked.”

“Obviously.”

“The strap peg pulled out and he dropped it on the kitchen floor,” Dylan clarified. “He was never very good at playing it anyway.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Figure this will go anywhere?” Meg was asking about the band, but for some reason the question came out unnaturally high.

Dylan didn't seem to notice. “Of course not. It's just something to do.” Then, out of the blue he said, “Do you remember when we met?”

“Last year. Fourth of July. Behind the raspberry bushes.” Meg could still smell the candied-tartness of the berries and the sharp, warm tang of her own summer sweat. It was a sweet and sudden memory. She flushed.

Dylan completed the scene for her. “We were playing Ghost in the Graveyard.” He had abandoned the dials and now crouched with his forearms on his legs, meeting Meg's eyes with a look so serious he demanded her full attention.

“We call it Bloody Murder,” she said slowly. “What about it?”

“Remember how you were the best player? How you always knew where everyone was?”

Meg's brow darkened in warning. “Don't you dare make fun of me—”

“I'm not,” he insisted. “You were the best player. You did always know where everyone was. And I think it means you understand people.”

She grunted.

“Come on. You knew that Sarah avoided the shadows because she was afraid of the dark, and that some kids wouldn't go near the trees or back by the fence where your dad cleans his pheasants after hunting.”

She inched her knees imperceptibly closer to his.

“You're observant,” Dylan admitted. “I don't think you have some sixth sense or anything, I just think that you have a good head on your shoulders and an ability to see things in people that others are too preoccupied to notice.”

When a smile splintered the granite of her gaze, he smiled back.

“I'm right, aren't I?” he asked.

“I don't know. Can't say I've ever thought about it.”

“Okay, I'll tell you then: I'm right.”

“Fine. So what?”

The smile faded from Dylan's mouth. “Do you still have it?”

“What?”

“Your good sense? Your ability to see things in people that others can't?”

Meg shrugged. “I don't know. Does it matter?”

“It might.” Dylan looked over his shoulder, then stood up quickly, placing his hand on the amp beside Meg and brushing past her cheek as he moved. “Be careful around Jess,” he whispered.

When Dylan strode off across the garage, Meg was left to ponder if she had heard him correctly. Maybe he had said: Be careful with Jess? Or: Be careful about Jess? But try as she might to ascertain why Dylan would say such an incomprehensible
thing, by the time practice was officially over, nearly an hour later, she was no closer to determining his intent than she had been in the split second after he gave his cryptic warning.

It was a senseless caution, an utterly useless admonition, when Meg had known Jess practically her entire life. Jess was a year younger than Bennett, and just as much a brother to her as her own snarling excuse for a sibling. In fact, Jess was probably more of a brother to her. After all, before he outgrew such childish nonsense, he had spent many long evenings with her playing Kick the Can, Bloody Murder, and Capture the Flag. He had taught her to balance, align her elbow beneath the ball, focus on the rim, and follow through for the perfect shot. Every once in a while, he even went so far as to throw a bag of microwave popcorn in for her and Sarah when she was spending the night. And, of course, there was the night he escorted Meg and Sarah to the secret cast party. Why did she need to be careful around Jess?

Meg decided to corner Dylan before he left and demand to know why he would say something so ridiculous. The cloak-and-dagger menace of his dark advice scared her a little—she didn't mean to draw parallels between her favorite childhood game and her trusted neighbor, but for the first time, the name Bloody Murder seemed unnecessarily gory, even obscene.

But she never got the chance to press Dylan for more information.

When everyone started packing up, Jess unplugged his acoustic guitar and went to sit on a lawn chair that he snagged from a nail in the garage wall. With the chaotic shriek of instruments stilled, he began to pluck out a tune so lovely and soulful that Meg found herself completely transfixed. The steel strings cried a little as Jess's fingers rose and fell in a quiet, unhurried step that reminded Meg of slow dancing. The melody was all stops and starts, back and forth, cheek-to-cheek. In the moments between notes, Meg's heart ached with the agony of waiting.

No one else seemed to notice that Jess could play. That he could really play. It was unplugged, it wasn't rock and roll,
and Meg was convinced that what she was listening to was a language that the other boys didn't understand and therefore didn't hear. She felt sorry for them.

After a long while, Jess's fingers stilled, and Meg came to so suddenly she felt a jolt of surprise. Blinking, she looked around and discovered that she was alone with Jess in the garage. He was staring at her. She remembered Dylan's words, but she wasn't afraid.

“I didn't know you could play like that,” she said when the silence in the room demanded that she break it.

Jess ducked his head to hide the smile that bloomed there. “It's not that hard,” he demurred. “I could teach you.”

Meg laughed. “No thanks. I'd somehow manage to get my fingers twisted in the strings and end up losing a few tips. I hear you don't need them, but I kinda like them all the same.” She tapped her fingertips together in proof of her affection for them.

Drumming his own fingers on the wooden body of his guitar, Jess created a cascade like falling water drops. “Understandable,” he said. Then he gently lowered the guitar to the floor of the garage and took a few hesitant steps toward Meg.

She didn't even realize that she was backing up until her bare calves skimmed the edge of a Rubbermaid storage box. It wasn't fear that made her retreat, but there was something in his approach, something in the intent of his eyes on hers that she couldn't begin to discern.

“I could walk you home,” Jess offered.

That caught Meg off guard. “I live across the street.”