Zero (16 page)

“I don’t think I can worry about it right now,” I tell Jenn.

“That’s cool,” Jenn says. “Are you mad at me?”

“For what?”

“Saying all this.”

“No, no. I see what you’re saying. But I’m not going to think about that, is all. And yes, I’ll take it slow. Plus,
if
we ever did it, I’m sure I’d suck, so probably best not to embarrass myself.”

“You mean sex?”

“Rebuilding a carburetor. Yes,
sex
, Jenn. I don’t know what a carburetor is, either, though, come to think of it.”

I lean even closer and drop my voice to a whisper. Kinda crazy to be asking
her, this, now
, but she knows more than I do. “How do you know when? I mean, how do
I
know when? It’s not gonna be anytime soon. But.”

Jenn takes my hands into hers. I don’t stop her. She inches nearer.

“When there comes a point,” she says in a conspiratorial tone, “when words aren’t enough. When there’s absolutely no other way to say what you mean. Like, it’s the only way you can make clear how much they mean to you.” She squeezes my hands and leans back. “I mean, I kind of loved my first. But that’s not why I did it. And I guess I kinda wish I hadn’t now. So, yeah, don’t rush it.”

“But
you
rushed it.”

“Which is why I’m telling you not to. Wait awhile. Wait a year. Wait
four
. Whatever. If he’s the right guy, he’ll wait for you. And in the meantime, I have to say, there’s something about just, you know,
touching
and kissing that can get lost afterward, so enjoy it.”

Is it in any way ironic that this woman makes so much sense? Discuss.

“Gotta say, it’s nice to see you looking not quite so lonely,” she adds.

“I used to?”

“Every day, kiddo.”

I didn’t know that. But I’m not surprised.

“And when I feel that way, I go find someone,” Jenn mutters. “It’s never enough. It’s never real.”

“You must feel that way a lot,” I go, but grin so she knows I’m kidding with her.

Jenn doesn’t grin back. “Yeah,” she says softly.

Ouch. God, I
suck! And the Bad Timing Award goes to …
!

I reach for her shoulder. “Jenn …”

But then Mike walks back in, and I drop my hand. Jenn gives me a quick head shake, dismissing my worry, like it’s all good. She turns back to him as he sits.

“Miss anything?” Mike asks.

“Girl talk,” Jenn says airily. “So are you going to be nice to her?”

“That is my … 
intention
, was the word, I think.”

“Cool,” Jenn says. “You can stay.” She smiles for him, and I feel relieved somehow.

Jenn gets up. “Well, I don’t want to keep you guys. Nice meeting you, Mike.” She gives me a hug, which I return. We say goodbye. Jenn gathers her catalogs and dances out of the room. And I feel remarkably good about the whole thing.

“So I can stay?” Mike says.

“What? Oh. Heh. Yeah, as long as you want.”

“Whew. So she’s your, like, best friend?”

“Yeah. Best-slash-only.”

“You never mentioned her before.”

Gulp.

“Yeah, well, see, we had a … problem. Issue. Movie of the week, or a very special episode. You know?”

Mike nods. “I get it,” he says. “It’s all good now?”

“Yeah,” I say. “It actually is.”

“Cool,” Mike says, turning back to my sketchbook and studying my drawings. Under his breath, he adds, “Friends are how God apologizes for your family.”

Amen to that.

I take Mike home about an hour later—then spend thirty minutes in the car, since, clearly, we have to make out in my front seat before I can even think of going to sleep. Mike knows exactly what to do and not do. He keeps his hands on my neck, or hips, or side. Doesn’t try to sneak them to anyplace I’m not ready for. How ready I am is up for debate, but he doesn’t rush me. And that makes kissing him so, so good.

Eventually, we peel ourselves off each other, and he gives me a quick smile.

“I’ll call ya about the Spike’s gig,” he says. “See ya later.”

“Later, skater!”

I watch him until he goes inside the house, then drive home, all warm and girlie. The night improves even more when I’m able to get into the house without attracting Mom’s attention from the living room; Dad’s truck, of course, is gone.

But when I open the door to my room, the first thing I think is,
Bitch
.

Mom’s been in here without my say-so.

But my second thought is,
What’s with all the packages?

I haven’t even crossed the threshold when Mom suddenly appears behind me. “I did a little shopping for you,” she says quietly.

I walk to my bed. There are about a dozen flat boxes and fancy sacks. New clothes are in all of them.

“But what—why?”

“Sort of an early birthday, I suppose,” Mom says, leaning against my door frame and
not
coming in. “Seemed like a good time. School starting. A new boyfriend …” She tries on an uncertain smile.

“Um … thanks,” I say, and poke through the clothes again. She’s, um … Well, they’re not things I would’ve picked out, to say the least. But they’re not
entirely
lame, either.

Mom clears her throat a little. “So, I’ve been wondering,” she goes, “have you thought at all about looking into any more scholarships?”

“Not especially, no.” I’m probably going to fail Doc Salinger’s dumb class, based on my last few assignments. While she hasn’t told us our grades on anything we’ve done yet, I’m sure my assignments have been pathetic. I’m not convinced I’m ready to submit myself to the fresh hell of building another asinine portfolio.

“Oh, well, I just thought with your art and all …” Mom’s gaze lifts to my ceiling, and lingers for a sec on the painting of my mirror-face. “I know you were disappointed about Chicago, but perhaps there are loans or something you might qualify for. You could use your school money for a dorm or something. If you had to.”

What is this, a hint? Get the hell out? Listen, lady, the plans are in the works, trust me. “Uh … yeah, sure. I’ll look into it again.” But I don’t really mean it. Maybe Arizona State wouldn’t be a total loss….

“Good,” Mom says. “That’s good. You really do need to finish school, Amy.”

“That’s the plan, Mom.” Even if it’s not SAIC, CalArts, any good F’ing school? I guess.

“Good. Good. Well, I won’t bother you.” She gestures toward the clothes. “Let me know if you want to keep any of that. I kept the receipts, I can take it all back if you—”

“No, no, they’re nice. They’re good. Thanks.”

“Well, if you change your mind.”

“Okay.” I’ll change my mind if they make me look like more of a hippopotamus, yes.

Mom sort of nods, and backs out down the hall. Strange.

I pull out all of the clothes, shut my door, and start trying them on. They’re all too tight, I think. Which stands to reason, considering my epic girth. But … they’re kinda nice. There’s even a—wait for it
—skirt
that is actually kinda cute: red-and-white-patterned, tight around my hips, and swooshing out with these sort of ruffles or something. I don’t know what you call them. But it looks okay.

I decide to try one of the outfits out the next time I see Mike. Just to see.

It’s early on
the Fourth of July when GR and their now resident artist (me!) show up for the Liberty Spike’s gig. GR’s opening for a couple of other bands, including Nightrage, which is headlining, so we arrive way before it gets dark, which in July is, like, eight-thirty. I wear a new pair of walking shorts from Mom’s trip, red plaid, and two layered tanks, black and white; and when no one’s looking, Mike gives my rear a little pat, and I hafta say … score one for Mom.

Liberty Spike’s is freaking
packed
when Gothic Rainbow takes the stage. I’d like to think it’s because of the flyers I designed—I ended up choosing the Dalí ant version over the Pollock—even though that’s probably not the case. The crowd starts cheering before they even play a song. Even Hob looks a little surprised at the reception. Spike’s isn’t known for its welcoming atmosphere. Already there’s a group of skins
standing in the middle of the dance floor, readying to become bald pillars around which the inevitable pit will form. But they’re cheering, too. Not sure if that’s a good thing or bad thing.

“What’s up?” Hobbit calls into his mic as Brook slaps hands with people at the front of the stage.

The crowd roars back at him. Hob can’t hide a decidedly unpunk smile as he plays a test chord on his black guitar.

“Hey, anyone know this song?” he says, and jumps into the introduction of one of their originals.

A
lot
of people know it. There are several screams of recognition, and the people not immediately launching into the pit are trying to sing along.

They are on fire from the get-go. Mike’s beat vibrates my entire body, Hobbit’s voice punctures the crowd, Brook’s fingers are magic, and even Eddie puts on a bit more of a show than usual. Punks are lifted up by their compatriots and flung about on dozens of upturned hands. Security doesn’t even bother trying to stop them. Smart men.

The crowd eats up every syllable—everyone except for one guy near the back, who’s crossed his arms and seems to be studying the band like Dr. Salinger studies my paintings. Instead of dancing or singing along, he just watches and seems to be taking mental notes. Halfway through the song, he pushes his horn-rim glasses up on his nose and leans over to this Asian girl and says something into her ear. She’s maybe in her early twenties but peers over thin oval specs at the band like a grandmother. Weird. Get
into
it, losers!

I remember this part from the last couple shows. I love it, and so does everyone else in Spike’s. The band trails off to silence, but it’s like the rest of us have rehearsed this moment.

We all scream at the top of our lungs:
“And smokin’ till my very last breath!”

So I don’t smoke, sue me. It just feels right.

Hob’s face explodes with joy. Brook rapid-fires a
“One-two-three-four!”
and the band kicks in again. The club screeches approval.

Hob tosses in a few well-placed
pickitup pickitup
s over Brook’s solo, and the pit at the edge of the stage obeys him, guys tearing through each other like rabid animals.

I laugh out loud and absolutely burn for Mike. I’m loving the show, there’s no doubt, but I have to have him. Sweaty, tired, spent—and that’s before I’m done with him, ha!—whatever
condition he’s in after the show, I can’t let the night end without maybe turning the heat up a little.

Geez. Down, girl.

But I’m ready. I really am.

To distract myself, I check out the two people at the rear of the club again. They’re still watching the band and attempting to have a conversation over the glorious noise, shouting into each other’s ears. When the song ends and we all cheer, they clap but don’t holler.

“Man! Thanks, everyone,” Hob says into his mic as Brook’s last chord fades. “That was kick-ass. Thank you, sir, may I have another?”

He pounds down on the guitar—a Les Paul, Mike has told me—and the next song starts.

This one is a Misfits cover, which they bring to life wickedly better than the original, in my humble and
entirely unbiased
opinion.

Twenty minutes go by in fast-forward. Spike’s fills with sweat and smoke and the shouts of overjoyed punkers as GR creates a canvas for them all to spill their guts onto. My first experience with them at the Graveyard gig was awesome, but this—it’s, like,
transcendent
. I see a golden record spinning in my head and flinging itself onto Mike’s bare bedroom wall.

Hob glances up at the sound booth in back of the venue. I see the sound guy hold up his index finger.

Hob nods. “Okay, we got one more for ya tonight. This is kinda new for us. This song’s by a band outta England called the Levellers …”

Three point two people clap. Who the hell are the Levellers? I feel my street cred plummet.

“… and they play with, like, bagpipes and fiddles and stuff … but, uh, we
don’t
. This is for a friend of ours out there in the crowd tonight; it’s called ‘Is This Art.’ Here we go.”

I’m frozen in place.
Is this art?

The song consists of heavy bass and just three or four darkened chords, as far as I can tell; not unusual for GR or any other band that plays Spike’s. But it punches into me with more ferocity than their other songs. Because—and I
have
to be right about this—it’s for me.

The song is basically about how science and technology are worshipped as the ultimate form of art, which the song then questions (
Now isn’t nature wonderful/But is this art?
). So it’s not exactly about surrealism or Seurat, but it doesn’t have to be.

Halfway through the song, Hob announces, “Ladies and gentlemen … drum solo!”

The crowd cheers as Mike’s arms blur behind his kit and the other guys play quietly underneath. Somehow, through the whirlwind, Mike looks out at the audience and finds me. He smiles without missing one incredible beat.

Thank you
, I mouth to him.

Mike ends with a spectacular drumroll that sounds like there are two kits onstage. They finish the song with a crash, and we their disciples raise our hands and scream.