The Album: Book One

The Album, by Ashley Pullo

. . . . . .

Copyright © 2014 by Ashley Pullo

Cover Design © Nick Fantini

Book formatting by Erika Q. Stokes

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior consent from the publisher, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet without the publisher’s permission and is a violation of the International copyright law, which subjects the violator to severe fines and imprisonment.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead or actual events are entirely coincidental.

For Vincent

Contents

Side A

Side B

the album

side A

Chloe

“Someday we’ll find it.”

Rainbow Connection, THE MUPPETS

July 4, 1996
Toronto, Canada

H
OLY CRAP,
I
’M EIGHTEEN!
My future is bright, my childhood is behind me, and my presents are arriving in five minutes.

Tonight is my annual pool party, notoriously themed by my crafty mother in effort to be the next Canadian Martha Stewart. But tonight is also a surprise party for Natalie, Aunt Judy and Uncle Dave. My identical cousin is moving to Connecticut next week, and although Natalie and I tried everything to stop it, the move is inevitable.

Mom thought it would be a
swell
idea to have a New England clambake and decorate the backyard with red, white and blue. She even ordered a ginormous apple pie with tiny sparklers to serve next to my store-bought sheet cake. She can be a huge dork and tends to go overboard with the party themes. Like at my 15th birthday party luau. . . my friends spent the first hour puking their brains out over some gooey shit called poi, but then, the night really lit up when half of the cheerleading squad’s bangs caught fire by the tiki torches. And then there was my first coed pool party in seventh grade, in which Mom created a whimsical carnival with games and cotton candy – and a kissing booth. Needless to say, parents were outraged.

I peek out my bedroom window and study our suburban backyard that’s exactly one cheddar biscuit shy of a Red Lobster. Battery-operated lanterns hang from the trees, emitting a yellow glow over the entire yard. The red gingham picnic tables are cluttered with blue plates, sunflowers, mini lighthouses, and the occasional American flag tucked into the hors d’oeuvre platters. It looks like one of Mom’s decorating magazines, well, except for my friend Hip Hop Casey. He’s crouching behind his portable DJ booth chugging one of Dad’s beers. Doofus.

I run down the stairs and head straight to the kitchen, immediately drawn to the fragrant smell of garlic and seafood. The kitchen is a mess and Mom is frantically opening lids on large pots and cursing under her breath.

“Hey Mom, do you need some help?” I ask as I cram a handful of blueberries in my mouth.

“Hi, honey! No, it’s just that the stupid caterers dropped everything off without any instructions on heating and it’s all cold.” She spins around with a huge smile and a large knife. “Ask your father to start a bonfire!”

“Um, no. Clambakes are usually on the beach, not in the middle of Toronto with huge oak trees. You’re the only housewife on the fire starter watch list, ya know,” I tease.

“That was years ago, Chloe.” She looks me over and whistles. “Wow, nice suit! Although, your father will likely have a heart attack.”

I’m wearing my gold bikini with a sheer gold sarong, and there’s no doubt I will excite the Princess Leia fantasies of all my guy friends. I should change, seeing as how Mom is dressed in a denim shirt and red shorts.

The doorbell chimes as Mom pours a large pot of steamed clams into a galvanized bucket.

“Chloe! Get the door and take the sangria pitchers outside!”

“Ma-um! I’m going upstairs to change. Get Dad, he’s outside giving beers to my friends.” I turn sharply and run up the stairs to my room.

As I’m undressing in my bedroom, laughter echoes through the house. There’s some familiar chatter and then the sound I have come to love, the rapid pitter patter of Natalie racing toward my room. 3, 2, 1 . . .

My door flies open like a narcotics shakedown, and if it were anyone other than Natalie, I would find the nearest thing to cover my naked body.

“Shit! Chloe, put some clothes on, ya perv!” Natalie throws her purse on my bed, revealing her monogrammed flask. “Things are getting serious. A good-bye party? With clams? What the fuck?” She begins pacing around my room as I search for an outfit as cute as her pink ankle pants and sheer top. “Okay, tonight’s the night. Operation Hootie and the Blowfish is in full effect,” Natalie declares.

“Am I the Hootie or the fish?” I put on a white sundress and wait for Natalie’s approval.

“Nice dress. You can be Hootie!” Natalie bites her lip as she rummages through my dresser. “Where’s that nickel bag I hid in here last week?”

“Hey, that shit made my bras smell funny. I put it under the bathroom sink.”

Natalie darts to my bathroom and searches the cabinets. I place my hair in a sleek ponytail and apply some lipstick. The doorbell rings continuously, and I’m a little upset that my birthday has become a grownup dinner party where guests are actually greeted at the door. In past years, Dad made all my friends line up and enter through the side gate so he could thoroughly examine all the male guests. He even went so far as conducting a random bag search last year, making Christy Carmichael cry when he discovered her six-pack of Zima and box of tampons.

“Got it!” Natalie shakes the grass in front of my face and smiles mischievously. “Now, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

We pack a few things in Nat’s oversized handbag and debate over which friends are worthy to join us. Natalie stares out into the backyard and snorts. “Chloe, look at Patrick! He’s wearing a banana hammock! But goddamn, he looks pretty good for a theater geek.” Natalie evaluates all the guests, mentally taking notes. “We could take Piper. Maybe CeCi?” Natalie pulls me over to the window and shoves my face against the frame. It’s cool looking at the party from the outside . . . actually we’re on the inside looking outside, but whatever.

“Pat has an amazing body. I spent six weeks drooling over that chest when we did
Cabaret
at school. The dude plays rugby and sings, totally hot in my book.” I blush.

“Chloe, did you screw him?” She tilts her head and narrows her eyes.

“No. He has a thing for older women. Like Ms. Brewster-old!” I laugh as Natalie makes the connection to our drama teacher.

“Holy shit. She’s like thirty!”

“And she dresses like a gypsy! Okay, let’s bring Piper and CeCi. What about Jamie?” I ask.

“No! Not tonight!”

We link our arms together and carefully tiptoe down the stairs. This is not the first time we’ve snuck out of my house, but sadly, it will be our last. We devise a plan to retrieve the other girls without our parents noticing and decide on our
Parent Trap
-method of divide, conquer and confuse. Natalie will chat with my parents while I spend a few minutes with Uncle Dave and Aunt Judy. I will then grab Piper and tell her to meet at Nat’s car in six minutes. (Six minutes because we like to say
sex
instead of six.) Natalie will invite CeCi, I will give my dad a hug and have a small plate of food in front of Mom. Natalie will tell Aunt Judy she’s been instructed to buy ice cream so Uncle Dave will fork over some cash. Natalie and I will say hello to a few of our friends, push Pat into the pool and run off giggling.

Or, we could just leave without anyone the wiser, but what fun would that be?

9:45 p.m.

“Where are we going?” Piper asks from the backseat. “Jeremy wants to get back together and I just left him with Marcy Hendricks. She’s a rebound slut, ya know.”

Natalie adjusts the radio and yells into the rearview mirror. “Oh c’mon Pipes, that asshole is a loser and a horrible kisser!”

“Natalie!” I shriek.

“It’s true, Piper. We’ve all kissed him and it’s uncomfortably messy,” adds CeCi.

“We’re women now. We need real men and I’m about to deliver. Everyone got their IDs?” Natalie questions.

“Real men?” I ask as I fumble through my wallet checking for my fake license.

“Yes! Real men with big cocks and fancy jobs!” Natalie declares.

CeCi leans forward and perches her manicured nails on my seat. “Real men with great personalities and dimples!” CeCi is adorable – everyone thinks so. She even beat out Natalie for Prom Queen, but she can be a little naïve.

“Let’s not get too picky, CeCi. Dimples don’t usually hang out in the bar we’re going to,” Natalie replies.

My favorite Cranberries song rumbles through the speakers, so I raise the volume and roll down the windows. We all sing in unison at the top of our lungs, even at a stoplight with a station wagon full of kids sticking their tongues out at us. I feel a rush of excitement as Natalie pulls into a swanky bar on the corner of Bay Street with an actual valet!

The four of us exit the car as Nat takes a ticket from the attendant and pulls me to the side. “Listen Chloe, you need a good buzz. We’re getting tattoos after this!” Natalie winks at me but I gasp. “Hey, it will be fun . . . and we decided to do this a long time ago!” she whines.

The way I remember it, Natalie wanted a tattoo of a skeleton with roses and I said I would go with her and maybe get my tongue pierced . . . but that conversation was years ago when I was confused and we both wore blood-red lipstick and flannel.

Nat and I join the girls at a small table near a karaoke stage. It’s odd, actually. The bar is full of businessmen in suits drinking whisky and brandy, but I can’t imagine they will start a drunken rendition of Billy Joel anytime soon.

“Remember, always order casually. Red flags go up when you ask for a Slippery Nipple or some silly drink.” CeCi smoothes out her glossy hair and waves a waiter over to our table.

“How about tequila, can we just order a round of shots?” Natalie shoots me an evil smile and I shake my head in disgust, remembering our graduation party – I’m not a classy drunk.

The waiter arrives at our table with four beers sloshing on a small tray. Damn he’s hot! Tatted up the wazoo with an incredible smile and nice, broad shoulders.

“Well, hel-lo! Thank you for the beers,” Natalie says seductively. The waiter wipes his hands on his jeans and reaches for Piper’s hand.

He laughs quietly, and I notice a small chip on his front tooth. Puck to the face probably, but extremely sexy.

“You realize you’re the only women in here, right? You don’t need to order drinks.” He motions to all the men around the bar gaping in our direction.

“We know. But maybe we don’t want beers,” Piper explains with a sweet smile.

The waiter takes out a small pad and shakes his head. “Okay, what’ll it be? I need to relay the order to your admirers.” He glares at me, and there’s something about his sexy roughness contrasted against the room of dark suits that makes me want to lick his tattoos, one by one.

“I would like a Seven and 7, heavy on the ice,” Ceci says confidently. I know for a fact that CeCi is hardcore, like the best in her weight-class for a keg stand. She would never order a drink so boring unless she firmly believed she had to.

Piper waves to a guy across the bar while deciding on her order. “Tell that gentleman, the one with the goatee, I will have a vodka tonic.” Again, boring. Piper invents drinks, like her famous Mountain Rita (Mountain Dew and tequila.)

“And what about you, gorgeous?” The waiter is waiting for Natalie’s drink of choice, but he’s watching me.

“Tell me, what time can I start doing shots with you – what’s your name?” The waiter snaps his head back in laughter as Piper glares at Natalie.

“I’m Andrew, and if one of these suits hasn’t swept you off your feet by eleven, come find me.” He moves to my side of the table and squats down, bracing his tattooed forearm on my chair. He smells fantastic, like cedar and soap, and his upper lip curls like Elvis. “How about you, sexy?”

I unconsciously lick my lips, inviting him to do the same. “I want a Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against the Wall.” I take my time saying the words, because I do want it, and I want him to want it.

“All right.” Andrew stands and places the pen behind his ear and the notepad in the waist of his jeans, slightly lifting his t-shirt and revealing an impeccable stomach. I’m eye-level with his crotch and he knows it. “Coming right up.” He saunters off with the empty tray while Piper goes ballistic.

“What the hell, Chloe? You’re going to get us arrested and I’m leaving for college in two weeks!” Piper screams.

“Ah, shut up Pipes,” Natalie says calmly. “Chloe, that was impressive. That dude totally walked away with a boner.”

“Is that even a real drink?” CeCi asks.

“It’s a real drink! It’s basically vodka, sloe gin and orange juice.” I laugh at CeCi’s amazed expression and continue. “My dad has this weird mixology book from the ’70s and I memorize the ones I like. You never know when it’ll come in handy.” As I’m finishing my explanation, several suits approach our table. There are three of them and four of us, so I take this as my cue to visit Andrew at the bar. Besides, I’m attracted to musicians and mysterious guys in jeans, not mutes in suits.

I find an open spot at the bar and sit on a velvet stool. It’s strange spending my eighteenth birthday in a bar full of men, some twice my age, and I find myself wanting to go home and have clams with the people that love me. I want some of that apple pie and I want to open my presents and—

“Hey, sexy.” Andrew rolls the words off his tongue rhythmically, causing my female parts to wave the white flag of surrender.

“Hey yourself.” God, that’s lame.

“Let me take these drinks to your friends. Don’t go anywhere – you need your screw.” Andrew winks at me before he turns to walk away, an invitation to evaluate his ass. Very nice.

I watch him shove past the group of men to place the drinks on the table. He leans down to Natalie and they exchange a few words. They look at me and I quickly drop my head in embarrassment. God only knows what Nat told him . . . she once offered me to a ticket scalper in exchange for Radiohead tickets – crap, he’s walking back with a smug look on his face.