Strange Girl (8 page)

I knew Rick, I even admired him. We had a lot in common. Like me, he was a loner, more into his oil painting than school. He was smart, too, and there was no phoniness about him. Although Nicole never came out and said it, I knew it had been Rick who had ended their relationship. I suppose a girl who looked like Nicole wasn’t used to that sort of thing.

They had only been broken up three months when we began to date; that should have been warning enough. Yet I didn’t see the ax coming because I was happy and I didn’t want to see it. I wanted to pretend Nicole was happy, too. But I was naive and inexperienced. I didn’t understand that all Rick had to do was crook his little finger and say, “I miss you,” and she’d come running.

I still remember the day Nicole dumped me. We were supposed to go out that night, and when I called to ask what time she wanted me to pick her up she told me she couldn’t make it that evening. That she had to stay home and wash her hair.

Had to wash her hair? What a shitty breakup line. I told her as much before I slammed down the phone. At least I had some pride, I told myself. Later, I took that line and wrote what Dale said was the worst song he’d ever heard in his life. It was called, naturally, “I Have To Wash My Hair.”

Anyway, now Nicole wanted to talk and I can’t say I was over the moon about the prospect. At the same time I have to admit she still had some kind of hold over me.

“What’s up?” I asked. We were standing right beside Aja’s locker. It was beginning to look like she had come and gone.

“I just wanted to see how you’re doing,” Nicole said.

“I’m great. What’s new with you? How’s Rick?”

Nicole hesitated. “He’s fine, I suppose. You know he moved away.”

“I didn’t know. Where did he go?”

“San Francisco.”

“San Francisco? God, lucky him. I mean, did he want to go?”

She nodded. “His father lives there. And Rick’s always been kind of impulsive. A few days before school started, he just packed a bag, sent me a good-bye text, and left on a bus. Amazing, huh?”

I could see she was hurting and even though she’d broken my heart I felt no desire to increase her pain. I put my arm around her.

“How you holding up?” I asked.

She sighed and rested her head on my shoulder. “Oh, I’m a mess. I keep thinking what a fool I was. I knew Rick could dump me. He’d done it once, he could do it again. It was just that I . . . I think I got what I deserved. ’Cause of the way I treated you.”

“Don’t say that. You loved him. You had every right to go back to him. You and I—we were just like a couple of fireworks. We were bound to burn out fast.”

She smiled. “You haven’t changed. You always know how to make me smile.” But then she lost her smile. “You were good to me. I’m sorry I hurt you. The way I did it, I was such an asshole. Can you forgive me?”

“Nicole, come on. I’m going to be a rich and famous rock star. I’m going to be known all over the world. I’m going to have tons of hot girls chasing me. You wouldn’t like that. You did us both a favor.” I added, “Although you shouldn’t have used your dirty hair as an excuse to cancel our last date.”

Nicole didn’t smile this time. If anything she looked more worried. “I’m not here just to moan and groan and ask for your forgiveness.”

“What’s up?”

“Aja, that new girl. I heard you’re seeing her.”

“That’s not true. We haven’t even gone out on a date. She came to see our show the other night. That’s all.”

“Don’t lie to me, Fred. You forget how well I know you. In the last two minutes you’ve glanced at her locker six times. You’ve got a thing for her.”

I stiffened. “If I do it’s none of your business.”

Nicole pulled away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m doing this all wrong. I shouldn’t have talked about Rick. He’s not why I’m here. She is.” Nicole paused. “I need to warn you, Fred.”

“About what?”

“Aja. She’s playing you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Bobby Dieder and James Caruso. They’ve both been talking to her. Bobby’s in her psych class and Jimmy’s in her English class. They’ve both asked her out.”

A cold wave swept over me, the kind of cold that can only be felt on a really hot day when your brain’s so cooked a single stroke of bad news can freeze a billion neurons.

I cleared my throat. “What’s the big deal? She’s a pretty girl. Half the guys in the school probably want to go out with her.”

“You don’t get it. They’ve both been to her house. They’ve both already gone out with her.”

I shook my head and backed up a step. “When?”

“Bobby went to the movies with her last Friday. Jimmy—I don’t know when they went out. I just know he took her to dinner.” Nicole came close, put a hand on my chest. “I hate having to tell you this. It’s just that I know you. I know how sensitive you are. I don’t want you to fall for—”

I interrupted. “You don’t want me to fall for Aja the way I fell for you? Is that what you’re saying?”

Nicole nodded. “I still care about you. I care about you more than you know. I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

I stood very still. “Thank you.”

“If there’s anything I can do. . . .”

“Right.”

Nicole was no fool. She knew when it was time to walk away. “Take care of yourself, Fred,” she said and turned and left.

• • •

I decided not to talk to Aja that afternoon at lunch. Instead I ditched class, walked home, and took a nap. I needed the extra rest, I told myself. I had to put in a six-hour shift at the hardware store that evening and, besides, I wanted to work on my demo. I decided to take the next day off school as well, which I did.

I couldn’t simply drop out, though, and when I did return to school, on Wednesday, I watched from across the courtyard at lunch as first Bobby Dieder and then James Caruso walked up to Aja. Plenty of smiles all around. I couldn’t tell which one she liked more and I suppose it didn’t really matter. Janet stood beside me and tried to be reassuring.

“So she has guys hitting on her,” she said. “That’s no surprise.”

“Yeah.”

“Talk to her. She’s probably waiting for you to talk to her.”

“She has eyes. She can see where I am. If she wanted to talk, she’d walk over.”

“You could be wrong. Maybe I should bring her over.”

“No.”

“I’m just talking about checking out whether she—”

“No,” I repeated.

“All right. But I still have a good feeling about Aja.”

“Screw your feelings.”

Janet sighed. “They’re not always accurate.”

Somehow, I managed to avoid Aja the rest of the week, or else she managed to avoid me. It was shocking how miserable I was. I mean, I hardly—no, I won’t say it again.

One thing that helped distract me, though, was a last-minute gig Janet set up in Aberdeen, the third-largest city in our beloved state. A major sci-fi convention was taking place over the weekend in the town’s swankiest hotel and Janet told our band that it seemed even nerds needed loud music to help break the ice with nerds of the opposite sex.

What she didn’t tell us—at least not until we were driving toward Aberdeen—was that their first choice in entertainment, a famous hypnotist, had been stabbed to death a few days ago by his stage assistant. It appeared she’d discovered she’d only been having sex with her boss because he kept putting her in a continuous trance. Janet warned us we were the convention’s second choice.

We arrived late and were hastily setting up in the hotel’s ballroom when Aja suddenly appeared. She stepped from behind the hall’s stage curtains, wearing a tight pair of blue jeans and a white sweatshirt with our band’s name, “HALF LIFE,” printed in bold letters across her chest.

I had no idea where the sweatshirt had come from.

It looked like she had made it herself.

“Hi,” she said.

I was too stunned to think up a great comeback.

“Hi yourself,” I said.

She came closer, took the power cord running from my guitar, and plugged it into our stack of Marshall amps. “I remember that’s where it goes,” she explained.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to hear you play. You invited me, remember?”

“I didn’t think you’d come twice. How did you get here? Did Bart drive you?”

“I took a bus.”

“Does Bart know where you are?”

“I don’t know, he might.”

“You didn’t say anything to him?”

Aja considered. “He said something to me.”

“What?”

“Bart told me that boys usually ask girls out on dates—when they like them. He said that’s normally how it’s done. Then he contradicted himself and said you might be an exception to that rule and that I should give you another chance.” She paused. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Hold on a second. What about Bobby Dieder and James Caruso?”

“What about them?”

“Aren’t you dating them?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. But they keep asking me to go to places with them. And they talk to me every day at lunch and try to see me after school.”

“Try? I heard they do more than try.”

“Not today. They both wanted to see me this evening but I told them I wanted to watch you sing with your band.”

“Why?”

“I told you, because you invited me. And because I like listening to you play your guitar and sing.” She paused. “Are you trying to tell me your invitation was good for only one date?”

For some reason, right then, I couldn’t take it anymore. Here I’d been feeling miserable over Aja’s rejection and now she was telling me she wasn’t even aware what the word “rejection” meant. Or else she was trying to tell me she liked me. Either way what she was saying was so bizarre I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Pulling her close, I leaned over and whispered in her ear.

“You may not know this but you’re one very strange girl.”

I assume she thought she had to follow my example. She whispered back. “Does that mean you want me to stay?”

I let her go and handed her a bundle of amp cords. “What I want is for you to get your ass in gear and help me set up our equipment.”

She took the cords and smiled.

And just like that I was happy again.

It was then I knew I was in serious trouble.

• • •

To the band’s relief, the crowd appeared open to almost everything we played. The nerds liked our oldies section and recent hits by U2 and Coldplay, and they even got up and danced—like normal Homo sapiens—when we played hard rock. They especially gave me plenty of applause when I played my own songs solo with my acoustic guitar. The only thing they hated was when we tried our hand at rap, which we couldn’t blame them for. We were way too white-bread to pull off Jay Z or 50 Cent.

This time Aja hung around for the show, standing on the far edge of the stage on my left. Janet even put her to work: having Aja bring us drinks between songs; helping us switch out our instruments when we went from acoustic to electric; swiping cans of beer from Mike before he could finish them. All in all it was a pleasant evening.

It was only when we were breaking down our equipment that I saw a group of people from the convention crowding around Aja. I was too far away to hear what they were saying but they had a collection of tablets on hand and appeared to be grilling her about something online. I asked Janet to check it out and when she returned she looked worried.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Remember when I told you the
Rapid City Journal
would be sending a reporter to our concert at the Roadhouse last week?” Janet said.

“Yeah.”

“Well, the reporter didn’t just write an article about the show. She taped it. She taped all of it. Even the riot part.”

I was busy putting my guitars in their cases. “Not sure I’m following you,” I said.

“Stop what you’re doing and listen.” She sounded serious. I did as I was told while Janet continued. “The reporter in question is named Casey Morall. She posted the riot on YouTube. Specifically, she posted the scene where Aja raised her arms and parted the Red Sea and miraculously got the mob to calm down.”

“So? What Aja said was probably true. They were probably fighting because they were scared. I know I’d be scared if I was being shipped off to the Middle East the next day.”

Janet shook her head. “You haven’t seen the video. Aja’s sway over the audience looks a lot more impressive on film. In fact, she comes across as some kind of faith healer.”

“Huh?” I said.

“There’s a part two. The next morning the reporter interviewed the soldier Mike hit over the head with the Jack Daniel’s bottle. The guy says when Mike struck him he was sure he’d cracked his skull. He says he was bleeding like a stuck pig and the footage appears to back him up. Then, and this is the weird part, Casey suddenly zooms in with her camera and shows that his scalp wound is completely healed. There’s only a faint trace of a scar.”

“That’s ridiculous. All that means is Mike never cut the guy to begin with. The blood probably came from one of his buddies. There was so much confusion right then. Who knows what happened?”

Janet sighed and glanced toward Aja, who continued to be surrounded by the growing gang. They weren’t actually hassling her; they just appeared curious. Frankly, from what I knew of sci-fi nerds, they were the last sort to believe in miracles.

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Janet said. “But Casey Morall is more interested in making a name for herself than in the truth. You’ll die when I tell you how many hits this video has.” Janet quickly checked her iPhone. “Two million, six hundred and ninety-two thousand.”

“God. How long has it been up?”

“Two days. The hits are growing exponentially. Come Monday it’ll be the craze at school. Like Aja needs any more publicity.” Janet paused. “I’m surprised we’re only finding out about it now.”

I nodded toward Aja. “How’s she handling their questions?”

“Okay, I guess. She keeps saying that she didn’t do anything.”

I shook my head. “I wonder why that soldier would put himself out on a limb like that.”

“It’s possible he thought he was telling the truth. We know Mike hit him with the whiskey bottle. Even a minor head wound can bleed a lot and then be gone the next day. You remember when that drunk threw a bottle at you when we played Kelsa High? You bled like you’d been stabbed. We were going to take you to the hospital. I was sure you needed stitches. But driving home the next morning, we could hardly find the cut.”