Zero (3 page)

And it’s not that he’s cute. Or hot. It’s something that’s
else
.

Jenn starts to smile. “Oh, come on—”

“Okay, Jenn? I don’t think this is a conversation I want to have with you right now, so.”

I nod to indicate she’s free to leave at any point in the near future.
Now
being one example.

Jenn’s smile evaporates. “Oh,” she goes. “Yeah, um. Okay.” She slips backward off her seat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bug you. See ya later?”

I almost stop her. Almost. Jenn scowls and goes out into the crowd. She saunters up to a tall slab of meat dressed in jock regalia and rubs against him. Guess she’s not alone after all.

And he looks familiar. Oh,
super!
Mr. “Are You a Dude,” in the rancid flesh!

The jock strokes Jenn’s sides and whispers into her ear. Jenn grins wickedly, as if our little discussion hasn’t bothered her at all, and nods to him. But she shoots me this look over her shoulder through the windows.

I shake my head. Jenn gives me the same frowny face she always gives me whenever I bum her out, then they shove their way to the exit and are gone.

Good. Blow the joint with that Cro-Magnon asswipe and leave me here to pine away for some drummer who I will never have the
balls
, if you will, to speak to. And of course she and I need to talk. Just … not yet.

But I can’t leave, either. There’s a good chance Jenn is lingering outside, pressed up against a jockmobile and getting herself nice and felt up before they take off for her house or his dorm/apartment/basement/locker room to get liquored up
and bump uglies. Like
hell
I’m going to wander outside and be witness to that. God, I should have stayed home.

Ten minutes. I’ll wait ten minutes to make sure they’re gone, then go home and pretend to be an artist for a little while before I pass out. Outstanding.

Gothic Rainbow finishes their set with three monster power chords. The audience goes wild, and I’d clap too except that I’d look like—well, a dork clapping all by herself.

“Thanksalot, we’re outta here,” the singer says into his mic as the other guys start unplugging their instruments. “Nightrage is comin’ up next, so stick around. We’re Gothic Rainbow, ssssssee ya!”

To keep myself busy, I keep an eye on the drummer as he disassembles his drums, twirling chrome knobs in his fingers and packing cymbals away in black cases. I check the clock over the bar. Seven more minutes.

Nightrage comes onstage as Gothic Rainbow finishes their teardown. There are handshakes and palm slaps all around. I’m sort of surprised; Nightrage is a great band but has a reputation for being assholes. Nightrage sets their gear up and runs through sound check (test one, test two, test test testicles,
huh huh huh
!) as Gothic Rainbow disappears backstage.

Good. I can’t handle staring at the drummer anymore. Just thinking about his eyes makes me dizzy.

Three more minutes.

Nightrage bursts into their first song, one I’ve heard before at Damage Control, the sole Big Deal club in town. DC caters to none and all, which is probably why it’s still in business. Hip-hop, jazz, mellow acoustic, ska—DC hosts
anyone who can draw a crowd. Black Phantom used to play there two or three times a month before they left town. Now Nightrage plays there a lot, and I get the feeling Gothic Rainbow hasn’t quite made the grade yet. Otherwise, they wouldn’t’ve played first tonight.

I’m counting down the seconds remaining in my last minute of this stupid night when Gothic Rainbow reappears from backstage and worms through the crowd.

Heading for the patio.

All four of them.

I spin back toward the bar and glare at myself in the mirror. Kind of a rarity, really: seeing myself in an actual mirror instead of my posters.

Know what?
I whisper-think to the pathetic soul staring back at me.
Screw Mom, screw Jenn, and screw this. Go home. You know you’re not gonna talk to him
.

I want to.

So, so bad. I want to try, just once. Anything to take my mind off the destructionist paintings that are now emblematic of my postfriendship with Jenn and my—what was it?—oh yes, utter failure as an artist.

In the mirror, I see the drummer and the band walk onto the patio. They file past me, taking seats at the other end of the bar.

Eleven minutes have passed since I promised myself I’d wait ten minutes. It’s safe to get up right now and go home.

But the alternative is facing my mother, who’s probably still awake.

The alternative is letting what happened at Jenn’s last week continue to bother me instead of moving on. Finding new friends. Or something.

My hands spring leaks of cold sweat and my heart feels like one of that guy’s bass drums, thrumming and trembling. Like my body knows before I do that I’m actually going to risk talking to this drummer guy.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to my reflection. Like I have no choice.

Maybe, when all is said and done, I don’t. Maybe none of us do. I dunno.

I slide off my bar stool and chug the rest of my Coke like it’s a shot of Jäger. As if. I love me some soda pop, but liquid courage it is not. Most liquid courage makes me puke, I’ve learned recently. Wish I had Dad’s
constitution
on that front, sometimes.

There’s an empty seat next to the drummer. I force one foot after another toward that stool, which is somehow getting farther and farther away. I pass behind him, reach the bar stool—

And promptly bang my knee against it as I try to climb up.

“
Ow!
Fuck!”

The entire band looks at me.

“… Hey,” I add.

Three heads tip backward in greeting. The drummer just stares at me.

He is Caravaggio’s
Medusa
. I am a failed Perseus, turned
to stone in his gaze. I want to dive into him through his pupils, swim around, know everything.

“You okay?” he says.

I rub my knee and nod, lying. “Yeah, yeah.” I point to the stool. “D’you mind if I …?”

Pop quiz! Which of these is longest?

“Sure,” he says. His voice is low and, like,
suspicious
.

I climb onto the stool and lace my fingers into their usual knots. The other band members turn away and resume their conversation. I decide to dazzle the drummer with my knowledge of all things domestic, foreign, and galactic.

“Um,” I say.

He blinks at me.

“My name’s Zero,” I say, as if this will help.

“Zero.”

“Yeah.”

“A whole number less than one.”

“Yep, that says it all. Heh.”

His eyes never leave my face. He says nothing else.

“Well, Amanda, I mean,” I say. “I just, you know, like, go by … Zero.”

And I’m just, you know, like, a jackass
. But he’s listening. Doesn’t that mean something? More likely: he’ll let me ramble on for a while before laughing at me and taking off.

I clear my throat. “So, um … I liked your music, you’re really good.”

There. That’s Jenn talking. Give the guy a compliment, pump his ego, get him talking about himself. That’s her sage advice. Like she has to do anything more than shake her ass to get a guy. I’m afraid if I shook my ass, it would never
stop
shaking. Colossal waves of chub could reverberate for weeks.

The guy raises a shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, uh … it was cool. How long have you been around?”

“Couple years.”

“Yeah? That’s cool. You guys were really good.”

Do I have an encyclopedic vocabulary or what? Bloody hell.

Nightrage stops playing suddenly. The singer and bassist are about to swing at each other, while the guitarist tries to break it up. Jerks. They do this at every show. Gothic Rainbow’s drummer watches them explode, shakes his head with a grin, and turns back to me. He’s shifted position a little, so I can see his face up close and personal. Cute and all, but I don’t care. All I can think about are his eyes. Like they know something I don’t.

I look at my boots. “So, I just, um … thought I’d come over here and have absolutely nothing to say.”

“Yeah?” he goes. “How’s that working out for you?”

“So far so good?”

I think one corner of his mouth turns up a bit. He sort of squints at me, like he’s trying to figure something out. If it’s
me
, I wish ya luck, bud.

But he doesn’t reply.

I fish for a new topic. “So … what, um … kind of music do you like?”

He tips his glass and sucks out the last bits of ice, his teeth crunching down, crushing the cubes. “Been known to listen to D.I.,” he says.

I twitch, electrocuted. “
This
D.I.?” I say, pointing to my shirt.

He glances at me. “Mm-hm. Underappreciated, in my opinion.”

There’s this tiny, odd flutter tickling my belly. It, um … feels kinda good.

But he doesn’t add anything else.

Time to cut my losses. “Cool. So, um … maybe I can—I mean, maybe I’ll see ya around again … sometime?”

“You never know.”

“Yeah,” I say, my stomach withering. “I guess not.”

I suck. In case you didn’t notice.

“Well …” I spin on my (prodigious, malformed) ass, ready to bolt. “It was nice meeting you.”

For no good reason at all, I stick my hand out, amazed that my palm doesn’t dump a gallon of sweat onto the bar.

The drummer gazes at me for a moment, looking at me sort of quizzically. “Mike,” he says, giving my hand a quick shake. His is dry and calloused but warm.

“Nice to meet you, Mike.”

“Likewise. Zero.”

We sit there and look at each other. I can’t turn away from his eyes; I’ve got to figure out what the hell is going on behind them. See if charcoal can capture the startling blue with pastel black.

But somehow, I doubt I’ll ever get the chance. I’m about ready to make my exit when Mike asks, “So now what?”

Surprised he’s initiated more conversation, I say, “Um … that’s a rather astute question, actually.”

“Is it? Hey, thanks!”

And suddenly, unbidden, unanticipated—and kinda neat—I laugh.

Mike does not. But he does sort of give me this little grin.

“We could, um …” I search for a solid answer. “I dunno, talk sometime?”

Holy hell, I really just said that.

“We could,” Mike says.

Nightrage starts up again—crisis averted—but despite their frenzied thrashing, I’m naked and trapped like I’m in an Edvard Munch landscape; swallowed by dismal curlicues, hearing nothing.

I give myself a shake. “Yeah. Okay, so … let me give you my number, then, I guess?”

Why not. I yank out my wallet and pull out a worn business card for Landscapes Art Supply. I have the number memorized. I flip the card facedown on the bar and grab a golf pencil from a mug. Are they kept here for just such an occasion? I write my number down and push the card toward Mike with my fingers, like I’m feeding a tiger.

“Anytime. Okay?”

Mike nods and picks up the card. “Got it.”

“Okay,” I repeat. “Well, thanks. I mean, cool. I’ll, um … hope to hear from you, then?”

Mike blinks lazily back at me. But there’s this
activity
behind his eyes. Like I’m watching a master artist paint a new
piece, but only able to watch his eyes while he works, never seeing the canvas as the painting takes shape. If that makes sense.

“So … see ya,” I say, and slide off the stool.

“See ya,” Mike says. And his eyes sparkle.

I force myself to walk straight to the patio exit. As I pass the other two band members, I hear one of them whisper: “
Nice
ass.”

I check behind me in time to see the singer smack the bassist upside the back of his head.

Clearly, I misheard. Must’ve been
wide
ass.

I walk out of the patio, and I’m compelled to wave to Mike through the window. Mike raises a casual hand in reply. A friendly hand; a no-way-in-hell-will-I-call-you hand.

I should feel, like,
elated
or something as I drive home, but I don’t. I feel like a tool. Yeah, so I got my guts up and talked to the guy. No big. I lived to tell the tale, and that’s about it. I try to tell myself that’s what matters, that I at least gave myself the chance.

Then I tell myself to kindly shut the hell up. I’m tired of thinking about it, sick of the merry-go-round thoughts of it all. Better to just get home, toss in a movie, read a book, paint by numbers, whatever. Forget this whole night ever happened.

When I get home, Mom’s still at the sink, like she never left. Awesome. I wonder if Dad pays her to be a housewife or what, because she doesn’t have a job.

“Where were you?” she demands before I’ve even closed the door.

God, for real? “A club.”

“Amy, would it be so horrible to let me know where you’re going to be?” She rubs her forehead and squeezes her eyes shut.

“Mmm … possibly. I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

“Amy, I—”

“
Dad
home yet?”

Crap. I swear I didn’t mean for it to sound like that; all smart-ass. No, I
didn’t
. His truck isn’t in the driveway; it’s not like I could have missed it.

Mom looks at me, slapped. I try to come up with a way to apologize, but Mom walks down the hall to their bedroom and closes the door, massaging her head.

Way to go, Z, you’re a champ
. I go into my room, shut the door, and start getting ready for bed. This whole night drained me. See! That’s why I should stay home. So much for a fun, relaxing weekend.

On the other hand … I did talk to Mike. That’s, like, momentous. It’s
something
. Right? And even avoided talking to Jenn.
Yay
, I guess …

I consider trying to capture Mike’s eyes on canvas, now that I’m here and have all my weapons at hand. Even before my fingers graze a brush, though, I know it’ll be a waste. I’m too tired, too bitchy, and art supplies don’t come cheap. Whatever.

I change out of my shirt, and catch myself pausing just before pulling on an old pair of sweat shorts. Biting my lip, I slowly turn around until I can look over my shoulder at my reflection in the glass covering Dalí’s
Young Virgin Auto-Sodomized
by Her Own Chastity
. Which is not quite as gross as it sounds.