Zero (8 page)

“Lot can happen in two years,” Mike says. “We’ve only been playing out for that long.”

“Well, I really can’t afford anything else,” I say, clandestinely holding my keys quiet in one pocket while pretending to search for them in another. “Not without that scholarship, and I already tried that once.”

“Once.”

I stop my fake search. “Yeah?”

Mike gets a thoughtful look on his face. “Do you know how many record companies we’ve sent our demo to?”

“Mmm, not off the top of my head, no.”

“Twelve. Know how many albums we’re recording this year? Nada. Zilch. So I guess we should stop bein’ in a band.” He raises his eyebrows. “Right?”

Ouch, dude.

“Well, but … I mean, they already said no….”

“So you can’t apply again? Or get a loan?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I kind of doubt it, not for that much. My dad makes too much money.”

Mike takes a breath, like he wants to ask more, then lets it out and nods slowly. “Lot can happen in two years,” he says again.

I have no answer to that. I mean, he’s right, I know that. But still. If I wasn’t good enough this year to pull it off, what could I do differently next time?

But then again … I didn’t
have
to sign up for a summer class.

Mike watches my mental gymnastics for a second. “So,
Zero,”
he goes, leaning against the rear door. “What’s that mean, anyway?”

“Nothing.”

And I laugh my ass off. I can’t help it.
Zero? Nothing?
Come on! Comic gold! And I get that urge to kiss him again, if for no other reason than he has the smarts to know when to change the subject.

Okay, maybe there are a
couple
other reasons.

Mike gives me a chuckle. “C’mon, what’s it mean? That’s not a random nickname.”

I hope he hasn’t noticed I’m stalling, because my keys aren’t exactly hard to find. “Well, in junior high, I was—wait for it, now—the loner art chick. And kids were calling me weird stuff. Like negative, nonexistent, that sort of thing. Someone called me zero, and I sorta picked it up.”

Mike nods. “But your name’s Amanda.”

He remembered. Down, girl.

“I try to avoid it. That was another big joke. The jocks would all say, ‘Who is that? A
man
, duh!’ It bugged me. Just don’t call me Amy, we’ll get along fine.”

“Amy’s short for Amanda?”

“So says my mother.”

“Huh. Never heard that before. Well, promise never to call me Mikey, and you got a deal.”

“Yeah? How come?”

“Someone used to call me that and it didn’t …” He stops, shrugs. “It’s a thing.”

A thing
 … that has something to do with where his last Banquo shirt went? All hail my intuition! This is definitely about a girl. I glance toward the van where the guys are waiting. Hobbit has Eddie in a headlock and is grinding his knuckles into the bassist’s hair while Brook laughs. They don’t seem to be paying any attention to us.

“What kind of thing?” I ask Mike.

Mike shrugs again. “Hey, what’s your middle name?”

“Is it just me, or was that a really obvious segue?”

Mike’s face gets all stony and grim, but only for a sec. Then he smiles. “Pretty obvious. What
is
your middle name?”

So I guess now’s not the time and place to ask about this girl. I suppose that’s fair. It
is
only our second … date-like event. If he kissed me, I’d know for sure. But then, if he doesn’t, I’ll know for sure anyway.

“Catherine,” I sigh.

“It’s a girl kind of thing,” Mike replies right on top. “Moving on?” His smile still shines.

Moving on
is the last thing I want to do, but it’s probably also the smartest right now.

“Moving on,” I agree, forcing myself to be casual. “So what about Gothic Rainbow? What’s that mean?”

“It’s, um … a study in contrast and irony?”

“Impressive. What else?” I ask this because I can see in his (drop-dead gorgeous) eyes there’s more to the story, and if I can hold out just a little longer, he
has
to go for the kiss, right?

“Well, a rainbow is supposed to be this symbol, like a promise?”

“Where troubles melt like lemon drops.”

“Right. Whereas, anything Gothic is typically dark, maybe foreboding. The two can’t coexist. It’s all
very
deep and profound. Also, we were up pretty late that night trying to come up with something before our first gig, so there was a sleepiness factor.”

“Well, you guys sound great,” I say, just in case I haven’t made this abundantly clear. “I can’t wait to see you play here.”

“Thanks. That makes five of us now.”

I glance back at the guys. Brook and Eddie are playing something I can only call Rock-Paper-Scissors … Deadleg. Hobbit stands a couple feet away, arms crossed, staring at Damage Control like he’s plotting an invasion.

I turn to Mike. “DC is like the next big step, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, as far as this town’s concerned. It means you can bring a crowd. Means more word of mouth, which means better luck with a tour. We have a better chance of a label taking us seriously if we can prove we have a following. That means we’re more likely to make a record. Like, a real one, not just a demo tape. Not exactly a gold record there. Which, personally, is what I’d like to see.”

“A gold record, huh?” I have to give him credit for aiming high.

“Yep.”

“Well, you’ll get there.”

Mike leans away from my car. “So will you. When do I get to see your paintings?”

See
them? Uh, never.

Except, wait … he said
when
. Indicating a future time. So we’re not finished here? Tonight? Tomorrow? The rest of my life?

“Um,” I say. “I’m not … I mean, I’m still learning.”

“
Next
week, then.” Mike smiles, and something inside me melts. “So, gimme a hug?”

Time
me! This is like a precursor; a
prerequisite
, a college student might say. We’ll be close, so very close, and it’s only a matter of adjusting a little to go for a—

So I wrap him in my arms, around his waist, as his encircle my shoulders. At first he squeezes me, gently, and it forces my eyes closed. Then he relaxes but doesn’t let go. He just holds me for an extra few seconds.

A girl could get used to this. One hopes.

When he lets me go, I hesitate long enough to be inviting, not so long as to look like an idiot. When he doesn’t tilt his head toward me, I pretend to have found my keys, even though I’m dizzy with lust or desire or some other such foreign thing.

“Tuesday night, you busy?” Mike asks, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Seven-ish?”

“Nope. You?”

“I am now. If that works for you.”

“It does!”

“All right,” Mike says. “I’ll give you a call, then. See ya.”

“Later, skater,” I say. I don’t know if I’m thrilled we made such close contact or sad a kiss didn’t happen. Unless I’ve already been relegated to Such A Good Friend status?

Mike waves and jogs back over to the van, where the band is waiting. They climb in and tear out of the parking lot.

I get into my car and sit for a second, trying to sort my collage of anxieties. Would he really have asked me out again if this wasn’t going to turn out romantic? On the other hand, if it is, why a
hug
? Everyone hugs everyone. There are a million different hugs for a million different people, but only a couple kinds of kiss. It would be nice to know for sure where I stood with him, and kissing would be a super-deluxe way to clarify that.

But maybe I shouldn’t complain. God knows I could, if I stopped to take stock of the rest of my silly-ass life, which I should
not
do right now—except that’s all it takes to envision a cubist rendering of Jenn’s house, jagged and sharp, and dammit, why not just call her and tell her everything that happened tonight so she can tell me what to do?

Answer: Because there are only a couple kinds of kiss. That’s why not.

On Monday, what
is now my first real day of higher education, I’m ten seconds from grabbing my keys and heading out when my phone rings. Like any self-respecting, fallen-for-a-musician, in-control-of-her-world female, I pick up and answer with an excited “Hello!” assuming Mike will be on the other end, because who else would—

“Hey.”

—call me. Crap. Ambushed.

“… Hey, Jenn.”

“You said it was okay if I called.”

“Yeah, I know, but I’m on my way out the door. I start school today.”

“You’re taking summer school?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Nothing, nothing, I just—I thought we were going to blow off summer together.”

“We
were
.”

Silence. I almost hang up right then. I can’t. We’ve known each other since freshman year. At seventeen,
almost eighteen
, four years is a long time.

Early freshman year, our entire class went to the Phoenix Art Museum to see a Monet exhibit on loan from collections around the world, and I happened to be standing next to Jenn when she pointed to
The Path Through the Irises
and snottily said, “What is that supposed to even be?” I spent the next five minutes explaining:

Jenn was this cheerleader-looking fourteen-year-old who never was a cheerleader. Honestly, for as popular as I always thought she was, she never really hung out with anyone. Besides guys, I mean. She’d stared at me for a sec, then started laughing. Just when I thought I was going to have to start throwing punches, she slid her arm under my elbow, pointed to a later version of
The Japanese Footbridge
, and asked, “Okay, what about that one?”

I spent the rest of the trip telling her the kind of details only someone like me would care to know. She listened to every word. Almost like she was just happy someone was even talking to her. I never understood that until I met her parents, which took about four months. Mine are psycho in their own special way, to be sure. But they’re
there
. Mr. and Mrs. Haight are what you might generously call “absentee.”

So of course we became friends. Jenn would have me over and tell me about her latest sexual conquests and create these amazing foods. If she hadn’t learned to cook, I imagine she’d have ballooned up, eating fast food every day since her folks were gone so much. I would have her over and show her recent drawings I’d done; sometimes she’d cook at my house, too, much to Mom’s surprise and gratitude. We’d go to Hole in the Wall and gossip about school, parents, boys … the usual stuff. Everything was fine and fun until the night we graduated.

And the next morning.

“So what’re you taking?” Jenn’s voice startles me, it’s been quiet for so long.

“Uh, Intro to Art. Have you
met
me?”

“Oh, hell, you could teach that class,” Jenn says with this short laugh.

“Look, I gotta go,” I say.

“Okay, well … what about hanging out? Like, tomorrow night? We could get coffee, or I could bake some—”

“I have a date.”

“Oh!”

Yeah, and thanks for sounding so surprised, I want to say but don’t.

“That guy from The Graveyard?” Jenn asks.

“Yeah. Mike. We have plans.” I don’t know what they are yet, though.

“Oh,” she repeats. “That’s— Good for you. Well … some … other time, maybe?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Zero …”

“I gotta go,” I say again. “See ya.” I don’t wait for a response, just hang up.

Dammit, I do not need this on my mind before an art class. I
don’t
. On the drive, to get Jenn out of my head, I listen to the radio (
How you get so rude and-a reckless? Don’t you be so crude and-a feckless
. Thanks, Joe.) and make up compliments my art teacher will give me after our first assignment. It almost works.

After parking my car, I find the art department and pull open this cumbersome glass door to the lobby, where I pause to enjoy blessedly cold air. Phoenix is once again reaching highs in the hundreds. I definitely won’t miss the heat, wherever I end up.

I move slowly through the lobby to absorb the student artwork on the walls. The skill and talent on display are mixed. There are some decent pieces but also a lot of … I guess
self-congratulatory
work is a good term. It’s not like it all sucks; it doesn’t. But it feels like the artists are too aware of the fact that they’re artists, if that makes sense. Desperate, maybe.
See, see, lookit! I painted this, I drew this, I can draw real good, huh?

Makes me wonder what mine looks like to someone else. Is my work any different? I’ve seen what Mr. Hilmer could
do, and his work seemed effortless. Probably that’s wrong, he probably worked hard on his art, just like I do—but I don’t think any of these pieces are SAIC material. Ergo … I’m not sure mine is, either.

I tug the brim of my green porkpie hat down to hide my eyes, plunge through the building, find my studio classroom, and slip inside, taking a seat in the middle of the room. My “desk” is a flat stool in front of a skeletal easel. I drop my bag to the floor and try to blend into the surroundings.

At the front of the room, a tall, willowy woman wearing a flowing, multicolored dress, exactly the type Mom would kill to get me in, is pacing back and forth, a clipboard balanced on her forearm. She eyes each of us in turn, neither smiling nor scowling but judging all the same, I am sure.

The instructor demurely clears her throat and recites names off her clipboard. I’m last.

“Walsh, Amanda?” Her voice is high and birdlike.

I gag on a dry throat. “Here.”

“Wonderful!” she says. And I’m like,
That I’m here or what?