Torn (2 page)

Daphne stepped forward and leaned down to put her arm over the seated girl's shoulders. “You saw what happened to Sylvia. She was with us for a very long time until the night she told that story—
her
story. Don't you remember what she said? ‘It's me. My god, this story is about me.'”

Mary came forward to stand next to them. Thinking of Sylvia, she recalled bits of a poem by
Byron, a poem of beauty, of light and of music. Under less somber circumstances she might have quoted from it. Instead, she put her lips very near Shirley's ear and said softly, “Don't you remember how beautiful it was? Don't you remember how she smiled so,
so
brightly? And then, her body turned to specks of shining white light, and she was gone.”

“But we don't know where she went,” Shirley argued, sniffling.

“Perhaps,” Mary whispered, “but we know she moved on. I have to believe heaven finally made a place for her.”

“Anne will be angry with us,” Shirley said.

“Anne is always angry with us,” Daphne replied, giving Shirley's shoulders a tight squeeze, knowing she was about to agree to the game. “Next time, we'll let her roll first, and she can take three turns if she wants.”

“Maybe we just shouldn't tell her,” Shirley suggested.

“A capital idea,” Daphne said with a laugh. “So, you're in?”

Shirley let a smile creep over her tear-stained face. “Why? Are you writing a book?”

The girls laughed. Quickly Daphne pulled away
and spun one of the desk chairs to face Shirley's. Mary turned and gently brought another chair forward until the three desks formed a blunt triangle. She set the Clutch on the desk before her and waited. The familiar excitement of playing the game flooded her.

“Shall I?” Mary asked, indicating the vermillion bag.

“Well, Anne opened it last,” Daphne said, “so it is your turn.”

“But we won't tell Anne,” Shirley insisted.

“We won't say a word,” Mary promised.

With trembling fingers, Mary touched the smooth fabric. She stroked the velvet material, let her fingertips pause on the hard lumps made by the bones. She parted its mouth and upturned the Clutch. Bones, coppery with age, spilled into her palm. She felt the smooth side of the skull and the sharp points of claws. They tingled, as if eager to be rolled.

With a gentle shake she let the bones fall on the desk, and knew instantly that she had not won.

“My turn,” Daphne said. But she too failed to roll the winning combination.

And so it went, one turn after another. Mary. Daphne. Shirley. Then Mary again. Excitement and
disappointment mixed in the girls as each turn produced no winner.

“Maybe we can't play with just three,” Shirley said, dejected after her last failed roll. “Maybe it has to be all four of us.”

“We've rolled a lot longer than this with no winner,” Daphne said. “Let's keep at it. Mary?”

And again the bones were in her hand: at turns soft and smooth, jagged and rough. Mary studied the tiny symbols etched into the bones. She concentrated on the one symbol that meant the most: the symbol that must appear on three of the bones for her to succeed.

She rolled.

“You did it,” Shirley gasped, as if it were a genuine miracle.

The room around her grew very quiet, and Mary held her breath, waiting for the story. No sound of rain or thunder touched her now. Something was coming.

A great whooshing, like a hurricane wind, filled her head. There were faces and voices and odd machines…

Then there was music.

The band's intro by club owner Allen Bates was short and sweet. The thirtysomething entrepreneur grabbed the mike at the center of the small stage, brought it to his lips, and screamed “Torn!” like it was four syllables long. Then he stepped back, slamming his hands together wildly, nodding for the crowd to do the same. As the applause rose, blue lights came up on the five figures on Tunnel Vision's stage. Showtime.

Devin slammed an easy E on his refurbished Fender. Cheryl ripped along the drum kit, her hair flailing back and forth across her face like a long blond whip. Ben doubled Devin on the keyboard, and even the bassist, Karston, came in
almost on time for a change. The sound rode the cheering, revving the crowd.

As the tempo built, square-jawed Cody, his bed-head spiky hair bleached white, leaped into a spotlight with a spanking new Les Paul hanging from his neck. His insanely deep, raspy voice flooded the room:

It was an easy number, Devin thought as he watched and played. He could sleepwalk through the changes.

Cheryl, her strong but feminine arms flashing
from her sleeves as she confidently crashed out the beat, stopped swinging her head long enough to give Devin a wide, sexy smile. “Face” was his song, the one that got them the gig. He smiled back, almost missing his harmony on the chorus:

The crowd wasn't huge for a Friday night, but it was big enough, and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Feet stomped, hands clapped, hips twitched. Torn was going over. It was a big night for their little nu-metal garage band.

Devin felt like he should be thrilled, proud, or pleased, but he wasn't any of those things. Instead, he felt out of it, like he was watching everything from somewhere far away, judging. Why? What was wrong with him? He had what any seventeen-year-
old guitarist craved: a rock group finally breaking into the Macy club scene and a relationship with the hot drummer, but all he could manage was this weird disappointment, as if he'd gotten to the promised land, but it had turned out to be trashy.

It wasn't the club. The long, dark space with the curved fieldstone roof and walls used to be a train tunnel. What could be cooler than that? During the nineties freight trains used it to carry textiles in and out of the adjoining warehouses, but textiles were on the way out all over the state and the town was hard hit. The line was abandoned, the warehouses emptied. Now the only active warehouse held a children's discount furniture store.

Two years back, Allen Bates bought the tunnel; bricked off the front and back; added doors, electricity, plumbing, and ventilation; and brought the funky structure up to code. Now, on Friday and Saturday nights, the place was packed with local teens who danced under the spinning lights until the gray stone walls grew slick with their sweat.

Playing Tunnel Vision had been Torn's only goal for the six months they'd been together. Now they were here. So what bothered Devin?

Maybe it was the song. Maybe deep down he thought “Face” sucked and sooner or later somebody would figure that out and call him on it. It had taken only ten minutes to write. That didn't bug Cody. Torn's totally psycho front man launched into his searing guitar solo with extreme gusto. The new axe sounded great, even if it was a complete mystery how someone as financially strapped as Cody could afford it.

Maybe Devin was just looking for something to be wrong. If he was, he found it. Just as the number was ending, Karston, their skinny, anxious, self-conscious bassist, lost his place. The crowd had already started applauding, so most likely no one in the audience noticed, but Cody did. He spun and gave the bassist a killing look with his bright green eyes.

Leave him alone!
Devin thought, grinding his teeth, as if Cody could hear him.
The last thing we need is to make him more nervous!

Before Cody could fire away with any more
laser-beam glances, Devin nodded at Cheryl and they launched into “If It Doesn't Kill You,” Cody's song. It was a trick he and Cheryl used on Cody. Whenever he got out of line they'd hold up something bright and shiny to distract him. Sometimes Cheryl would flirt with Cody playfully; sometimes they'd go into a song. Devin and Cheryl were good together that way. In a lot of other ways, too.

Devin's chords blasted through the amp, rolling between A and F-sharp minor with a fast, easy rhythm. The crowd started up again, clapping to Cheryl's beat. Cody forgot Karston and went at the vocal with major passion.

For some incomprehensible reason, the incident made Devin relax a little, like it made everything seem more real. He even started enjoying himself during the last of Torn's three-number tryout set, “Flush with Your Foot.” It was an early effort, stupid fun, written a year ago, when Devin was sixteen. Cody really let loose on that one, vamping up and down the stage, and in the end adding an outrageous, unexpected solo.

Which was not good. Unexpected things, that is. Not with Karston at the bass. He'd been doing better since his “Face” screw-up, but now lost it completely, hitting the wrong notes, off tempo. He
sounded like an elephant with bad gas farting into a mike. Cody caught the mistakes just as he was going down on his knees in a dramatic stage move. Devin watched as Cody, in the middle of finishing his lick, tried twisting his head to give Karston another nasty look.

It wasn't pretty. The usually graceful frontman went off-balance, catching his bare shoulder on a jagged metal clip on the corner of his amp. Blood, looking black in the blue light, flowed freely down his long arm, spotting his shirt. It was a moment that could've spelled disaster. But it didn't.

The pain didn't stop or surprise Cody. It set him on fire. He went on with his solo for another eight bars, then finished as the crowd cheered wildly, not one of them caring about or remembering Karston's mistakes. They were all too busy watching Cody finally proving to himself and the world that he was the real thing.

Allen Bates beamed at them, his large hands again slapping together, this time loud enough to be heard over the crowd.

“Torn!” Bates screamed again. The band headed for the storage area behind the stage that passed for a dressing room. Devin knew—they all knew—from Bates's face they'd be invited back.
They'd done it. Now all they needed were enough songs to fill a twenty-minute set.

Once the door was closed, Cheryl flew into Devin's arms. Borrowing her enthusiasm, he swung her around, feeling the heat of her body against his.

“Yes, yes, yes!” she screamed. “It's like I'm dreaming and I don't want to wake up!”

She kissed him hard, finally giving him the buzz he'd craved from the crowd. He'd have to be dead not to react to her. Devin had never thought he'd have a chance with a girl as beautiful as Cheryl, and now they'd been seeing each other for three months. At first he used to get jealous when he saw how other guys looked at her, even Cody, but tonight he figured she was all his.

He stopped kissing her long enough to say, “Tomorrow!”

His parents had gone away for the weekend, and after Torn came over for some recording, he and Cheryl had a big night planned. Usually when they wanted to be alone, they had to head to an abandoned housing development near his home and park. Even the roomy seats of his Dad's SUV could be awkward in that situation, but tomorrow they'd have a whole big, empty house, at least from nine, when rehearsal ended, until
Cheryl's midnight curfew.

Cody strutted into the center of the room like a prize bull, ignoring them. He stretched his Les Paul high over his head and made a sound that could only rightly be described as a roar. Ben, also known as One Word Ben, since he seldom spoke, applauded. Even Karston grinned sheepishly.

“We are so damn cool!” Cody cried.

“Not that it's going to our head or anything,” Devin said, still holding Cheryl aloft. She was so light, he felt like he could carry her forever.

Cody laughed. “Whatever.
I
am so damn cool! The rest of you suck!”

Everyone took it as a joke, until Cody glanced over at Karston and the gleam in his eyes shifted from glazed megalomania to something more predatory. Cody snarled and moved as if he were going to attack. Karston visibly shriveled.

Tensing, Devin reluctantly let Cheryl slide off his body, in case he had to pry Cody away from the smaller, thinner teen. Cody could be brilliant and exciting, but so could lightning. The singer had a penchant for explosive, demanding, infantile, and downright psychotic behavior. Devin looked around for another shiny object to distract him, to break the tension, when he noticed the blood still
dripping down the side of Cody's arm.

“Going to do anything about that cut?” Devin asked, pointing.

Cody howled wildly, twisted his head, and licked the fresh blood off with his long tongue. “Yum!” he said, pleased with himself.

“Disgusting,” Cheryl said, but she looked a little tickled.

“How would you know? You haven't tasted me yet,” Cody answered. He wiped the cut with his broad, long-fingered hand, looked at it a moment and slapped Karston on the back.

A silence followed, during which Devin held his breath, but then Cody just said, “Come on, let's get some free food before the next band plays.”

“Yeah!” said One Word Ben.

As they moved out, Cody pulled Devin back by the shoulder. “Hang back a minute.”

Devin had his arm around Cheryl's waist and didn't want to let go. “Can it wait?”

“No.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes and slipped out. Devin felt the warmth depart. The back room was cool and the sweat from the lights and the performance was drying on his skin. He got ready to launch into
his usual speech about how hard Karston was trying, how he'd worked all summer saving every penny to buy that bass and amp, even if it was only a four-string knock-off, how he practiced for hours every day, and how hard it was to find a bassist in Macy, but Cody didn't let him. He just said:

“Karston's out and you have to tell him.”

“What?”

“He's holding us back.”

“Holding us back? We played one night here. It's not like we have a recording contract, or even more than three songs.” Devin laughed.

Cody was dead serious. “Yeah, that's exactly it. We've only got three songs because that's all he can play. Do you know how much we can't do because of him? I had a solo worked out for a cover of ‘Hey Bulldog' that would've kicked major ass, but he can't even handle the opening riff. He can't even play a stupid run from a third to a fifth to a seventh without thinking about it for twenty minutes.”

There was a flat tone to Cody's voice that told Devin he'd already made up his mind, but Devin had to give it a shot anyway.

“He's trying, Cody, he's really trying.”

“So what? He's not succeeding.” He held the Les Paul out toward Devin. Its surface shone, even in the dim light. “Like the new axe? Nice, huh? I risked a lot for this guitar because I know we can make it. You heard them out there. If we could make a decent recording of ‘Face,' we'd be getting local radio time, but we can't because Karston sucks.”

Devin tried for something bright and shiny. “How
did
you pay for the axe?”

Cody would not be moved. “You don't want to know, and don't change the subject. You know I'm right. The only question is, when are you going to tell him?”

Devin's eyes flared. “Me? Why me?”

Cody snapped his fingers in front of Devin's face. “Because I could do it like that, just like I broke it off with my last girlfriend—what's her name?”

“Debbie.”

“Whatever. But you're always straddling the fence like it's a hot girl. You never even would have asked Cheryl out if I hadn't threatened to tell her you were ready to stalk her. I could've had her, too, you know, but I didn't, as a favor to you. But your wussiness, man, it's in your face, it's in your voice, it's in your music, and if we're going to get
anywhere, it's time to step up! Testify!” Cody put his hand on Devin's shoulder. “Look, I'm only telling you what an asshole you are because I'm your friend. I don't want this to be a game anymore; I want it to be my life, and if you want something to be your life, you have to be willing to risk your life for it, right?”

Devin stood there, unable to speak. Cody shoved him gently backward, then headed for the door. “And you better get out of your lame moodiness and start writing more kick-ass songs, man. We're hot. People are watching. Time to stop being a poser.”

The door opened and Cody disappeared into the light and sound beyond, leaving Devin among quiet crates and cardboard boxes. That feeling of not being quite a part of things came over him again, hard and heavy. He was watching himself, watching himself, watching.

Cody was right about Karston. Was he right about Devin? Cody was all fire. His father, a former textile worker, had been unemployed for years. Now Cody had a mean-streets rut to rebel against, and no future to look forward to except retail. What did Devin have to overcome? A comfy bourgeoisie life in a million-dollar pre-fab home, so
cookie-cutter it was called a McMansion, with a flat-panel TV and Dad's SUV to truck the band around in? What was he? What was his life? Where was his fire?