The Disenchantments (7 page)

I’ve walked several blocks now, away from Walt’s house, toward the water. Soon I’m on the path we walked earlier, heading back to Glass Beach. A car idles where I parked the bus this afternoon and a bunch of vagrant kids gather around it, their huge, worn packs cast aside on the street.

“Hey, man,” one of them says.

I tip my beer can at them. They raise brown bags in return. I keep walking, wondering what it would be like to be one of them, traveling around with no specific destination, just moving for the sake of it.

The moon is out over the rocks, bright enough that I can climb down to the water. In the darkness, the beach glass is colorless, unremarkable. Waves crash against the land and drown out the sound of my footsteps. I keep thinking about those recordings Bev and I used to make. There was one song we sang more often than all the others.

I hum the melody; the words come back to me.

Soon you’ll be leaving,
I sing.

I sound good. I sound older. More like my dad in the original than the kid-me in the recordings.

I sing the whole verse louder. I really belt it out.

Soon you’ll be leaving

And I don’t know what I’ll do

You pull on my heartstrings

Till I’m tied up in you

Dad and Uncle Pete must have spent days on these songs, getting the words just right, all sweet and simple like they wanted them. They didn’t even have girlfriends. All the heartbreak was hypothetical. For some reason I start thinking about Walt living in that house with his dad all his life. PBR was right—it
is
pathetic. Which makes the thought of going home after this trip terrible. I can see it: me, Dad, and Uncle Pete. Drinking coffee together every morning. Taking day trips in Melinda. Listening to records and getting high on special occasions. Once in a while my mother will call from Paris and we’ll huddle around the phone to listen to the news of this one woman, the most important woman in all of our lives.

As I turn back I decide,
No
. I don’t know what I’m going to do now, but I promise myself that it won’t be that.

The post-show scene at Walt’s house is less than beautiful. Bev and the guy from earlier huddle outside, smoking cigarettes. I pretend not to notice them as I walk past, and Bev doesn’t say anything to me, either. Empty cans and bottles cover the basement floor, rendering the room demarcations irrelevant. Most of the people have already left, and those still here look drunk and tired and a little bit sad. PBR rests on the bed, a passed-out girl slumped against
his shoulder. Across the room, Walt is stationed at a flimsy table, playing cards with Meg and two other guys.

I take a seat next to Alexa on the sofa, next to the card table. I’m feeling better after having had some time away. A little more like myself. She has the insert from a cassette tape unfolded, spread across her lap.

“What are you doing?”

“Reading along with the lyrics.”

Classic rock crackles from a corner of the basement where Walt has set a boom box on top of a pile of laundry. It looks like it could tumble over at any moment. Women with strong voices sing over a muted electric guitar and synthesized keyboard.

“It’s so eighties,” I say. “Who is this?”

“Heart,” Alexa says. She extends her hand, painted with the blue peace sign, and points to Walt’s poster that I noticed earlier. I take a longer look at it now as a song fades out, and Walt crosses the room to turn the volume up. Two girls with heavy eyeliner and blue eye shadow stare at the camera. They’re wearing black lace around their necks. One brunette, one blond; one expectant, one wistful. Skinny, some cleavage.

“Listen,” Walt tells Alexa. “This one’s very special.”

He returns to his seat at the card table but keeps an eye on Alexa to watch her reaction. A keyboard or piano starts—I can’t tell which—and soon one of the women
starts singing about lying awake at night, wondering about the guy she loves. Then the drums and harmonies kick in, and she sings with this powerful classic rock voice about how she used to be independent and carefree, and now she’s consumed by desire. Apparently this was the night she was going to confess her love, but he hasn’t answered the phone or shown up to see her, so she lets out this kind of screaming wail and belts out the chorus again. I glance at Alexa, ready to say something smartass, but she blinks back a tear. Crying over these pathetic lyrics and synths? It knocks me speechless. I can’t even tease her.

The song fades out and she whispers, “That time it was Anne singing, right?”

Walt points at her. “You got it. They’re speaking to you, aren’t they?”

“I love it. I completely understand what she’s feeling.”

I laugh and scoot closer to her so I can read the lyrics.

“You’re listening to the tick of the clock?” I ask. “You’re waiting to touch some guy’s lips?”

She laughs and yanks the tape insert from me, wipes away a tear with the back of her hand. Blue smears on her cheek. She looks at her hand, sees what she’s done. Shakes her head and laughs harder. The bells on her headband chime.

“No,” she says. “But that emotion? I’m going to feel that for someone, someday.”

“Add it to the list?”

“Oh, no,” she says. “Matters of the heart don’t go on the list. Strictly professions.”

She stands up.

“I love Heart,” she says to everyone in the basement. “Heart is my new favorite girl band. Meg, we should go soon.”

Meg nods without looking up, and Alexa walks outside to tell Bev we’re leaving. Through the screen door, I can see them. The guy stands and grabs Bev’s arm, pulls her up. She stands fine, but he puts his hands on her hips as if to steady her anyway. I cough away the knot in my throat.

“Pair of aces!” Meg says, slamming her cards down on the table. The other players sigh, and she hums a victory song as she finds her bag and clicks her bass guitar case shut.

Alexa’s back now and we start saying our good-byes, Heart, epic in the background, like a sound track to our leaving.

I grab a stray extension cord, help Alexa with the last parts of her drum kit. We head to the door.

“Go conquer the world, kid,” Walt says.

I turn to face him and laugh.

“Okay,” I say, but Walt doesn’t smile.

“I’m not joking,” he says.

The tape ends with a click, leaving the room suddenly quiet. Walt keeps looking at me, tired but insistent, and it feels like everyone here is waiting for us to resolve something.

I nod, and say, “Okay” again. I look straight at him
when I say it, and for a moment I try to believe that the world is something conquerable. Like I could wake up tomorrow morning, and know what I want to do, and do it. Like the anger and defeat could just lift away. Like Bev could change her mind.

The two guys at the card table with Walt start gathering the cards and shuffling, ready to start a new game. I scan the basement for the last time: tape peels off the floor, the stage area is empty again. Is this what our trip will be like? A long series of endings? Walt nods at me and then turns to his new hand. PBR brushes a strand of hair off the forehead of the passed-out girl. There’s so much tenderness in the gesture that I have to look away. When I look again, PBR lifts his hand to wave good-bye. I lift mine back.

We walk into the hot room at the Bianchi Motel and Bev heads straight for the windows. She unlocks and pushes them open, one after the next, with breathtaking efficiency. Even though I am wrecked and exhausted and angry, I could still watch her open windows all night. But there are only four, and then she is finished.

A breeze comes and we all exhale, drop our bags on the worn magenta carpet, survey our options: two twin beds with brown comforters, a mustard yellow couch, the floor. Off to one side, a narrow doorway leads to a small, white kitchen. I’m probably supposed to be chivalrous and take
the carpet, but I don’t want to be chivalrous. So I don’t say anything. If they want to claim the beds and the couch, I’ll go sleep outside.

Bev lets her bag slide off her shoulder onto the couch.

“I’ll take this,” she says.

“Meg kicks in her sleep,” Alexa says. “And those beds are really small.”

She looks at me, concerned.

“I’ll just sleep in the bus,” I say, a brief fantasy flashing across my mind of waking up at 2:00
A.M.
and driving home by myself.

But then Alexa discovers a sliding door on one side of the room with a tiny balcony.

“Perfect,” she says, and lays down her sleeping bag. “I can’t sleep when it’s too hot. And listen. It’s so quiet.”

She smiles at me. It’s supposed to be a casual smile, but I can tell it’s a pity smile, so I look away.

“Okay, good, but there is no way we’re going to sleep yet,” Meg says. “The night is young, and we are free forever. Not you, Lex. You’re just free for a couple months.”

Alexa shrugs. “I like high school.”

“I have plans for us,” Meg says, which is not entirely surprising. Meg is always coming up with plans. She’s the one who, in the middle of a party when everyone is content with their mild boredom, will stand up and declare it time for a game of competitive improv, or pass out copies of song lyrics so we can have a spontaneous sing-along.

She crosses the room, pulls the knit hat she wore all winter out of her duffel. Next comes a stack of paper, cut into thin strips. After that, perfectly sharpened pencils. We sit on the floor—Bev, leaning against the couch; Alexa, cross-legged, under the open windows. I lean against what has become my bed while Meg distributes the paper and pencils and explains the rules.

“So this is how it works. Everyone writes down three questions, one for every person here not counting yourself. Write the person’s name and a question that you really want to ask them. It’s kind of like Truth or Dare, but without the daring, and better, because the questions are anonymous.”

Meg seems really excited about this, so I try not to reveal how terrible an idea I think it is. But really. I would rather drive another hundred miles down cliffs in the dark.

“Maybe we should just watch TV,” I say.

But they are already writing questions, covering their slips of paper with cupped hands like fifth-graders taking a test. So I pick up my pencil and write,

Meg: Is your hair naturally pink?

Alexa: If you could describe your mood in a color, what color would you choose?

Bev: I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.

Once the folded strips are in the hat, Meg feels around for the first strip of paper, and pulls it out with flourish.

She clears her throat. “Alexa, the first question is for you. Are you ready?”

Alexa nods. Her expression turns serious and she brushes her long black hair away from her face and looks at Meg.

Meg reads, “‘If you could go back in time and change your mind about a decision you made in high school, what would you do?’”

Meg looks like the host from a reality show, head tilted toward Alexa with an expression of mild concern and expectation. Bev absentmindedly runs her hand through her newly short hair. Her gaze is fixed above Alexa, through the open window. I wonder which of them asked the question.

“I regret not going to prom,” Alexa says. “Which sounds really stupid, because I know that we all decided that we were over high school and over dances, but I regretted it right away.”

“Oh no, really?” Meg says. The TV host look is gone now, replaced by real concern.

Alexa shrugs. “It’s not a tragedy or anything. I can go to mine next year. But, yeah. I kind of wanted to get dressed up with you guys and wear a flower on my wrist. I bet the energy would have been great. All these people, together for one of the last times ever.”

Bev says, “Everyone said the after-party was the best part, and we made it to that.”

“True.” Alexa nods. “But it would have been nice to see everyone when they still looked all dressed up and pretty. Before all the puking. Don’t you think? Next year I’m going
to go. Even if I think I’m over it. Because all there is, is prom and finals and graduation, and then it’s really over.”

“I don’t know, Lex,” Meg says. “This may be sentimentality talking. We’ll check back in with you a few months from now.”

She reaches into the hat.

“Question two is for Bev. ‘Bev, what was the saddest moment of your life?’”

Bev’s position stays the same—her legs extended across the carpet, one arm propped casually on the couch, fingers through hair—but her face darkens. I wonder about these questions, who wrote each and why all of them are so into this game, why they think it’s better than just asking about the things they want to know.

But okay, yeah: I still want to know what Bev will say.

She isn’t answering yet. Instead she’s silent, picking at the worn pink carpet, silent for so long I wonder if it’s possible she didn’t hear the question, or heard it but thought it was for someone else.

“Bev?” Alexa finally says.

Bev looks up.

“Pass,” she says.

“No passing,” Meg says. “Against the rules.”

“What rules? You made this up.”

“Wait a second,” I say. “‘Pass’ because you can’t think of anything or ‘pass’ because you don’t want to tell us?”

“I can think of something,” Bev says.

“Do
I
know?” I ask. I can think of a couple moments that would make it onto Bev’s sad list, mostly involving death, but for some reason none of them feel like they would be her single saddest thing.

Bev turns back to the rug. She shakes her head, no. And I can’t even contain how much this pisses me off. Bev knows everything about me. Everything.

Meg says, “It’s my game. There’s no passing.”

Alexa turns to Meg and mouths,
Stop it
. She scoots over to Bev and puts an arm around her.

I watch Bev act as though she doesn’t notice Alexa’s gesture, and think,
Who is this girl?
And at the same time, under that, is the beginning of a memory. I feel like there was something, once, that happened. Something that she tried to tell me, or almost told me, but never did.

“It’s okay,” Alexa says. “You can pass.”