Zero (28 page)

“Okay, well, yeah, it is, but let me finish.”

Oh.

“The tour is about three, three-and-a-half months,” he says. “All over the country. Couple dates in Canada, too, up near New York? We circle around and end it in L.A. around Halloween. We’ll swing through Phoenix, too, it sounds like. But just for the one night.”

Three months. I don’t know how I can live without him for that long. I fall butt-first straight to the floor. Melodramatic enough? Just in case it’s not, I cover my mouth with my hands.

“Oh,” I say through my fingers.

“Yeah.”

I look up at him. His face is being torn in half, one side thrilled, the other terrified.

“And, um … if things go well on the tour, there’s a decent
chance the label might pick us up, too. Which means we’d have to get started on an album. And we’d have to stick around there.”

“There? You mean Los Angeles?”

“… Yeah.”

My stomach tightens as if a corkscrew is slowly spinning my organs inside out.

I feel my mouth evaporate inside. Sonoran desert sand replaces spit.

“So you’re moving away.”

“No, not—actually … yes. Probably something exactly like that.”

He peeks at me through his bangs. “Which is why I called you.” He swallows hard again, and stares at me.

“Interested?”

Dalí has a painting called
The Three Glorious Enigmas of Gala
. When I first saw it in one of Mr. Hilmer’s books all those years ago, I thought the painting was of clouds, or maybe vanilla pudding. Just three progressively larger soft blobs of yellow-white. Then I realized it was Gala’s profile, facing down. I could never look at the painting again without seeing her faces, unable to recapture that first impression.

The feeling in my body right now is a combination of both sensations: soft, fluid whiteness and a certainty that nothing will ever be the same.

“What?” I whisper.

“Do you want to come with?”

No way did he just say that. No. Fucking.
Way
.

“Z, listen, last night—you’re right, it was a mistake, but I
didn’t exactly stop you. And that’s not why I’m asking you this now. What d’you say?”

What do I say?

How about something along the lines of
freakin’ time me!
Except I don’t verbally say that. I think it. I think it
hard
. This is fantastic, ridiculously incredible; it makes up for all the shit that’s been happening, it’s a big old finger to Doc Salinger, it’s a kiss-my-ass to my dad—

And Mom. And Jenn. Things are back to something resembling normal with her, and god knows she came through for me last night….

And what
about
Mom, and Dad?

Shit
. Wait.

“It seems … fast,” I say slowly.

“Yeah. It does.”

“That doesn’t scare you?”

“Hell, yeah, I’m scared! You scare me to death, Z. I don’t know what this is, but … there’s nobody else I’d want to come with me more than you.”

Go for the joke: “That’s awfully romantic comedy of you.”

“It is. But we’re only going around once, you know? I mean, we’re not going to be able to do this when we’re twenty-five, thirty.
Forty
. If we’re gonna screw up, let’s do it now while we still can.”

Suddenly, it’s not Mike sitting on that bed; it’s Dr. Salinger. Waxing poetic about how now is the time to try things, to just go and travel the world.

It made sense at the time. It even makes sense now. Just up and go and to hell with everyone else. Be young, have fun, seize the day.

Which she turned right around and did to me.

Is that what artists do? Act flaky and dumb and chalk it up to “Oh, well, I’m an artist”? But Doc S, like, ditched me; Mike’s not doing that. He’s here. Inviting me to go along.

“And you leave
when
?” I heard him the first time, but maybe I was wrong.

Mike looks at the carpet. “Well, see, that’s sorta the catch. The guys left this morning.”

“This
morning
?”

“Tour starts next week. They were planning on Nightrage, so. Everything was already set up. We have to rehearse, go over stuff with the label….”

“Wait—so then why are you still here?”

Mike looks at me again. Straight in the eye, straight to my guts. His eyes dazzle me into submission.

“To ask you face to face,” he says. “I got a bus ticket for tomorrow, at noon. Thought you’d need a little time to think about it.”

“So, twenty-four hours to think about moving out of
state
?”

“Zero, I gotta go. I can’t …” He stops, pressing his lips together.

“Mike, I’m
seventeen
. And there’s so much going on right now…. What about school?”

“What about it?”

I start to get pissed at the carelessness with which he asks that, but the anger turns to something else. Doubt, I guess. Because, yeah—what
about
it? After Doc S’s little dodge, how am I supposed to come up with better work, or the recommendation letter, to get that scholarship? Plus, it occurs to
me: I haven’t told Mike the entire story. Not just that she left me in the lurch, but that we were going to be working on it at all, that it might be as early as spring when I resubmitted.

Why hadn’t I mentioned that?

“What happened to if I want something I should go get it?” I ask.

“I still think that. Clearly. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be going on tour.”

“Okay, so? What do
you
want me to do?”

“I
want
 …” He pauses, sighs. “I want you to do whatever is going to make you happy,” he says, dropping his voice. “I mean it. But I also want you to think about this chance. It might not come around again. C’mon, we could see the whole country. We’re playing a show outside of Chicago, you could go visit that school even, if you wanted. Maybe you’d get there and see it and change your mind.”

Something inside me bristles. “You want me to change my mind?”

“I didn’t say
that
.”

“No? What’d you say?”

He forces in a deep breath. “What I’m saying is that art schools are always going to be there. Touring with the band might not be. Listen, I’m not trying to be melodramatic here, Z. The absolute truth is this is much more likely to be our last tour than our first. Know what I mean? There’s no guarantees. And it’s only three months. You could still work on your portfolio, fill out applications, whatever it is you have to do, but you could do it with … me.”

The bristling part of me softens. Because he’s right. On the other hand:

“But you said you’d be staying in L.A. afterward.”

“Well, it’s possible, yeah. But c’mon, there’s got to be some great schools in L.A., of all places. I mean, I dunno, what about, like, UCLA, or one of the Cal universities or something?”

There are, of course. Plenty of great schools with great programs. I gave them only a brief glance when I was prepping my application for SAIC, though, because that was my dream. For all I know, SAIC is the absolute
wrong
school for me. I know that’s possible. But it’s been at the top of my wish list for so long now, I can’t imagine going anywhere else.

But Mike sure as hell isn’t going to be moving to Chicago.

Right then I get this black-hole suction sensation in my gut. Like I’m being twisted inside out. The absurdity of the whole thing suddenly hits me right there, right in the belly, where for all I know, a little Baby Mike or Baby Amanda is growing even as we speak. What are we going to do if I have a baby, move in together? People twice our age wait longer than we’ve
known
each other to do that. Well, most of them, anyway, I assume. We shouldn’t even be talking about this.

Except … we are.

And I
like
it. I’m scared to death, and the one thing that’s taking my mind off my fear is that maybe I’m one of those lucky ones who find the right guy the first time out. I mean, it’s possible. Isn’t it? There
are
other schools; they
aren’t
going anywhere. I have money. Instead of going to school, I could use it for an apartment. Food. Baby food. Child care …

I push my palms into my eyes. “What if I’m pregnant?”

Mike freezes. His face goes blank; then he nods.

“Okay. Well, if that happens, obviously I’ll come back.”

“Mike, that’s a huge, big thing.”

“So was last night.”

And frankly, that all but settles it in my mind. It
was
a big thing. He knows. And despite the whole moving away part, in one sense, he’s not going anywhere. And where he
is
going next, I could tag along.

I squeeze my eyes tight, try to think.

“How long’ll it take to find out?” he asks gently.

“Jenn says maybe tomorrow, a few days. If I get my—you know. Then probably I’m not.”

“If you are,” he says, “then I’m all in, whatever you want to do.”

“But the tour.”

“No, uh-uh, forget the tour. Zero, come on. Just because I didn’t want to doesn’t mean I didn’t
want to
. I was there, too, remember?”

Yeah. Pretty clearly.

We sit in quiet for a long time. My thoughts spin so quickly that the only thing I can think to do is pick one thing to focus on for right now. What’s in front of me.

“You’re right,” I say at last. “You can’t not go.”

“I know. And I’m glad that you do, too.”

I look behind me at the framed album on his wall. It could be his someday.

Mike catches me looking at it. “A record would be cool and everything,” he says, “but I also want … I’d like to see where it is
we’re
going. You know?”

I shut my eyes again and lean over my crossed legs, trying to make myself breathe normally. Not happening.

“Mike,” I say, “I can’t move to Los Angeles. Or go on a three-month tour. I can’t.”

“Actually, you can. If you want to. Z, I don’t know where this is all headed, but I want you there for it. And I mean, it’s not just me, the guys want you to come, too. We’ll need flyers, posters, T-shirts, buttons, stickers … whatever. All that stuff. And hell, in a few months, we might even need to start talking about cover art for an album, you know? We all want that to come from you.”

I can’t tell if I’m suffocating or merely having a cardiac arrest.

Mike gets down next to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Think about it,” he says quietly. “Just think about it. I’ve gotta get to L.A. with the guys and work out some details and stuff, but I mean, you could even take the whole week, if you need it. And if—you know,
everything’s okay
, you could meet us there.”

I hear a loud pop and look down at my hands. I’ve tied my fingers into sailor knots, so hard one of the knuckles cracked. The feeling of my fingers tightly woven together like this is familiar but displaced, like trying to suck your thumb a year after you stopped.

I realize I haven’t made this gesture in some time, this finger-lacing thing. It’s been a while.

And it kind of hurts.

I pull my hands apart and stare at my fingers, which are still cramped into talons.

These are my tools, and I was destroying them.

“Mike, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. You don’t have to, and I’ll understand if you don’t. But don’t say you can’t. About anything.”

I want to.

Of course I want to go.

It’s a rock band tour. I’d be making art. Probably sleeping in a van or strangers’ houses, sharing space with four guys I’ve known only a few months, one of whom happens to be my boyfriend, who I would probably curl up to every night. And if it turned out I was—what’d they call it?—
In Trouble
, well, we’d be back way before it would become an issue.

How many people get a chance to do something like this,
ever
?

There are other advantages, too, I think as I stare past Mike at his empty bookshelf. I’d be away from Mom and Dad, the residue of Dr. Salinger, everything. In other words,
not here
. Like I’ve always wanted. Like I always planned.

Of course I want to go.

“Mike …”

“Think about it,” he says again. “Dad’s giving me a ride to the station, but we could …”

Move to California. With my boyfriend. It sounds so … stupid. Like,
trite
. Typical. I’d be living up to my self-imposed reputation—moody art girl meets musician and they run away to Cali. Love, sex, and rock and roll. Take off and to hell with everyone else.

“After everything you told me when you got here,” Mike says, “your parents and all … well, hell, why
not
? I mean, what have you got here?”

What do I have here?

What
do
I have here.

So I tell him, “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

For the first time since I first saw him, I don’t have an urge to kiss him. I’m too confused, too muddled, too—everything. I get up, go down the hall, out to my car, and drive home without looking back.

When I get home, Mom asks if “now’s a good time.” I say no, I have work to do. I go to my room, and for the first time, I not only look into my
Metamorphosis of Narcissus
poster at my reflection, I sit down in front of it and stare. My eyes glaze back and forth between the painting and my face, like a cheap version of a stereogram, those posters made up of all dots that when you cross your eyes create a 3-D picture. Mine is only two dimensions, but I get equally lost.

Run away to California. That’s what I’d be doing, essentially. Running away from home.

I leave my room only long enough to go to the bathroom or grab food from the fridge. I play music. The Adolescents, Agent Orange, Bad Religion. (
I tried to make things make sense but I can’t
. —Greg Graffin, lead singer of Bad Religion. Thanks …)

I almost call Jenn but don’t. I have to do this for me. I’m a big girl now, right? I can make my own shitty, fucked-up, stupid decisions just fine. The only question is, stay or go: which one is the shitty, fucked-up, stupid decision?

A shaft of moonlight bounces off my floor and lights up the faces on my ceiling. When did the sun go down? I stare at those faces even as my eyes try to close from exhaustion.