Drummer Girl, page 15
“Yeah, I had to snap a pic with my phone. I asked your dad if I could look at your yearbook for a surprise. He was nice, by the way.”
I freeze. Eyes grow wide enough to dry out fast. An oscillating fan working in the corner of the living room space helps things along.
“You went to my house—while you were supposed to be in school—and you asked my dad for my yearbook so you could make me a fake ID?” I almost want to laugh; this situation is so unbelievable.
“Well, when you say it out loud yeah, it’s gonna sound crazy, but I didn’t take one of you, which I probably should have, and we were on a time crunch…” Jesse starts to laugh midway through his delivery and the old man steps in close with his own chuckling breaking into a long cough.
“It’s not nice to mess with your girl like that, Jess. He’s pulling your leg. My grandson found a record online. Pretty much everything in a person’s life ends up on the Internet. He’s a pro, and usually he can increase the resolution and make things look just like the ones you get from the DMV, but I think this will do the job. You just need to get in a door, from what I understand.”
“It looks great, Biddy,” Jesse says, resting his hand on the old man’s back. The man is wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants that are somehow too big for his portly belly. A belt is pulled tight to keep them from falling.
“Give it five minutes or so and you can pick it up. Meantime, you two sit. It’s been a while.” The man moves to his refrigerator, opening it and dipping his head to peer inside. “Get you a Pepsi?”
I glance beyond him and see nothing but rows and rows of Pepsi stacked end to end, filling every inch of space in the fridge. It’s super weird.
“Sure,” I say, baffled but hey, a little thirsty. He hands one to both of us and I sink down into a well-worn sofa next to Jesse. I’m about to whisper at his side and ask how Biddy and he know each other, when the answer stumbles through the door, clearly uninvited.
“Who the fuck is parked in my space?” The man who just burst through the door smells of cigarettes and motor oil. He’s wearing a torn flannel, ripped jeans, high-top basketball shoes that have seen better days, and a bandana covering a pathetic tuft of blond hair.
He leans out the door and spits on the small wooden porch we climbed to get in the door. His spit is thick, tobacco-colored. It’s gross.
Jesse’s ease is gone. I felt it leave his body the moment this man entered the room. It’s been replaced by heat, a rigidity of his muscles, and a palpable tension reflected in Biddy’s eyes.
“How’s your mom?”
There’s an arrogance to the man’s question, and I know in the breath before Jesse leaps from the couch that this man’s sole purpose in saying that was to incite him to do something.
“You can suck my dick, Malcomb. That’s how she’s doing.” Jesse steps into the man’s chest, and their equal height puts them on eye level with one another.
They’re really the same size, but the dirt and grime and rough edges on this new stranger makes him seem so much more dangerous.
“This your little girlfriend?” He leans to the side to look at me around Jesse’s frame, which makes my boyfriend push the center of his chest; he falls back a step out the door.
“How are my kids?” The man is relentless. I’m starting to realize he’s also a little drunk, just enough to be belligerent. He’s foolish and mean. And he’s Amanda’s second husband—the other loser in her life.
“You would know if you gave a shit and my mom didn’t have to take a restraining order out on your ass. I thought you were done with this fool, Biddy? Gotta say…I’m disappointed.” Jesse shifts his weight from one leg to the other, his fist forming at his hip. My chest is full of dread that this man is going to light the final match to set off a blaze.
“He’s just doing some work at the shop, Jess. You can’t turn your back on your kids completely. You know how it is,” Biddy says.
“Oh, I know how it is. Maybe you should ask your son about turning his back on his kids though. He’s a real fucking expert.” Jesse steps close to the man again, his nose brushing against the man’s face. The guy has no response to that other than to stare harder into Jesse’s eyes, pleased with his own havoc. I hate this man.
“How’s that ID coming, Biddy?” My nerves fire up my feet, and I stand from the couch, abandoning my unopened Pepsi in exchange for an uneventful exit out of this place.
“You got my dad making an ID for your girl? How cute…she know Dad’s your dealer, too?” Malcomb is pushing more. He won’t be happy until Jesse decks him.
“Yep, I’m aware. Thanks a bunch,” I say, injecting my brand of sarcasm into this miserable situation.
I pull my cash from my wallet and set it on the table in exchange for my ID. I pick it up and feel the stickiness between my thumb and index finger instantly.
“Shit,” I mutter, palming it and looking at the spot where I left a huge thumb print in the coating. This is such a mess. This whole thing—playing at a bar, getting me into the bar, this ID business, and Alton.
Alton fucking Barringer.
“You keep the cash, hon,” Biddy says. He moves his teeth in his mouth and they shift a little more than normal. It’s unnatural. They’re dentures.
“Are you…sure? You did the work…”
He lifts my stack of bills and folds it in half before handing it back to me. I take it and he closes his aged, dry hands around mine. There’s something sweet about this man, a little bit hippy even. It’s hard to imagine Malcomb coming from him. His wife hasn’t moved from her chair in the corner. She hasn’t taken her eyes off Jesse the entire time we’ve been here though. I can’t tell if it’s adoration or suspicion.
“I feel bad on account of you getting the thumbprint in it, and we’re doing all right. I’ll take care of my grandson.” Biddy mentions it a little too loud, and I wince in anticipation.
“Oh, you hold up. Brandon do that for her? For him?” Malcomb charges around Jesse, pointing his thumb over his shoulder while his chest puffs up. “Nah, nah. You don’t give handouts from me or Brandon to this asshole. He gets nothing.”
“You mean just like the nothing you gave AmberLynn and Conner? Like that?” Jesse steps back in front of Malcomb. Both of their tempers have long passed the rational mark. They’re ready to tear each other apart.
“Jesse,” I say his name under my breath as I step into his back and wrap my fingers gently around his elbow. His bicep bulges against my touch. “Let’s just go.”
“You ain’t worth it,” Jesse says, stepping into me, a little in front of me too, as if he’s making a barricade between me and this man who was once his stepfather. “You ain’t worth shit.”
Jesse spits at Malcomb’s neck, a wet slosh of hate and venom splashing against his skin. It’s just the fire needed. In a flash, Jesse is pushed back against the door we need to leave through, Malcomb’s hands wrapped around his neck.
“Always choking people. That’s your thing…isn’t it?” Jesse coughs out his words, and Malcomb shoves into him with enough force I’m sure his windpipe is bruised, if not broken. I yelp and cup my mouth.
Jesse begins to laugh.
“Do it, you pussy. You know you hate me,” he seethes.
“Damn right, I do,” Malcomb fires back. Biddy places his hands on his son’s shoulders, pulling with his entire body weight until his grip on Jesse loosens, then falls away.
“They’re leaving. Malcomb…let them go!” Biddy grunts with every tug.
Eventually, his body falls back a few steps and Jesse coughs for air. He laughs like a madman, too, and my stomach rolls over with enough acid I fear I might throw up right here in the middle of this doublewide.
“Thank you,” I stammer, making eye contact with Biddy. He nods at me, and I tug at Jesse’s arm. He puts up a little resistance, and I know enough about him to know that he’s flirting with the idea of going in for more, for hitting Malcomb for real.
“Jesse,” I say his name loudly. I repeat it again, “Jesse.”
His head tips slightly, his chin tucked in but his eyes on his enemy. He’s breathing hard, like a bull getting ready to rage.
“I want to go,” I finally say. It’s a simple ask, and I keep my voice calm. I want him to do this for me, and I’m praying internally that he will sense how important it is to me that we leave.
Choose me. Please, Jesse…choose me.
His hand reaches for the door knob, and he twists it to pop the door open. I fall out and trip a little over my own feet. Jesse’s hand holds to my forearm, catching me. He keeps his eyes forward while he steps back through the door until I’m safely on the ground outside and walking toward the van.
Biddy steps out as Jesse leaves and moves closer to the driver’s seat. I glance behind our vehicle and groan when I see Malcomb’s car, an older Dodge something, parked just enough behind us to block our path. Jesse opens the door and slides in, slamming the door as he settles in.
“We have a problem,” I say, flipping in my seat as he turns the engine.
“No, we don’t,” he says, backing up with enough speed to ram into the back passenger-side of Malcomb’s car. He rips the bumper clean from the car and it drags behind us as Jesse twists the wheel and peels out. Sparks fly where the metal drags along the ground for several feet before coming loose and falling at Malcomb’s running feet.
I can’t make out the words he’s yelling, but they’re really just more of the same. What an awful, awful man.
“You’re mom’s gonna be really pissed when she sees the back of the van. I think you did some pretty good damage,” I say, turning around and pulling my buckle on. Jesse only picks up speed as we leave the trailer park and hit the main highway back home.
“She’ll be fine with it when I tell her why. She might just high-five me,” he says.
I laugh nervously, but Jesse doesn’t at all. He wasn’t making a joke, and I get that quickly. I settle into my seat and hold my palm open on my leg and look at my shitty fake ID.
“I messed it up,” I mumble.
He glances at my lap then holds out his palm. I nod toward the road, which he should be looking at. He grimaces but looks ahead. I hand my ID to him to hold at the steering wheel. He runs his thumb over the place I messed up.
“You’ll be fine. Just hold it like this with your thumb there. The guy will just glance at it,” he says, handing it back to me. I practice it, trying to make the move feel natural. I know in my gut this isn’t going to work.
We travel several miles in complete silence, not even the distraction of radio commercials and the same ten pop songs counting down over and over to fill the quiet. I don’t have a lot of questions for him. And I don’t think I can say something that’s going to take any of his pain away. All I can do is apologize on their behalf, but he’ll hate that because I didn’t do anything wrong. I wait until his body has started to relax and his posture has changed along with the way he’s gripping the wheel. When he rests an elbow on the window ledge and forms a fist to lean into, I decide it’s time to speak.
“So, that Malcomb guy’s a real dick.”
I stare at him patiently, and after a few seconds his mouth curls on the right. His shoulders lift with a single laugh and he glances at me with a short appreciation.
“Yeah, my mom is oh for two,” he says.
I nod and think about that fact. She really is. But…
“You and your siblings are pretty great, though…so maybe she’s…” I pause to count and get it right. “Three for five.”
“Ha,” Jesse blurts out. It’s a genuine chuckle. His crooked smile dives deeper into his cheek.
“Yeah. I like that. You’re right,” he says, looking over at me again as he takes the exit onto the bypass to get us home. He reaches his hand out to take mine, and our fingers fold together on contact. His squeeze is gentle but constant.
“I videotaped that fucker beating my mom. He went to prison for a little bit. I convinced her to charge him with assault, and that’s how we got enough money for the van. He served eighteen months.” He stares off at the roadway growing dim ahead. The sun just fell below the horizon and the sky is a hazy purple shade. It looks like it should be colder outside than it is.
“But you still talk to Biddy…” I say, knowing that’s probably how he discovered pot. It’s a questionable influence, but I get the sense that Biddy’s heart is in the right place.
“I do,” Jesse says. The lights flicker along our stretch of the highway. It feels lucky that we get to see it somehow, so I close my eyes and make a wish.
“Four out of six,” Jesse says, and I pop my eyes open at the sound of his voice.
“Hmmm?” I question.
“Biddy was a good thing, too. He ups the count,” he says.
I notice he doesn’t mention the wife. Or Brandon, who I guess was his stepbrother for a short period of time. If they don’t make the list, then I’m glad not to know their details. As it is, I’m fine not ever seeing any of them again. I’ll make do with my shitty fake ID.
Chapter Sixteen
Bessy hasn’t pissed the floor in years.
That should have been my first sign that today was going to just be flat-out wrong.
My dad was griping when I came down the stairs. Dog pee or not, it’s strange to hear my dad gripe about anything. He’s the king of shiny-happy faces. Nothing upsets him to the point of actual foul language, but I’m pretty sure I heard an F bomb on my way down the steps.
He hasn’t said a word through my breakfast. Granted, it’s just Corn Chex and milk, but usually there is pleasant banter. He’ll tell me a bad joke, ask about my day, about drumline. Lately, he’s thrown out a few feeler questions about the band. He doesn’t like them. He doesn’t know them.
He doesn’t know Jesse.
I’m circling my spoon in my milk, chasing after the last fleck of cereal, when my mom flings open the door and dumps her purse on the counter. She folds her arms and stares at me, then gives her head a quick twist to the left to catch my dad’s eyes. He’s been standing at the sink doing nothing but fold the same wash cloth over and over.
“Did you talk to her yet?” My mom sounds livid. It’s…strange.
“Thought I’d wait to do it together,” my dad says, turning and meeting what I am certain is an extremely furrowed and puzzled look on my own face. My confusion lasts for another full second then clears up the moment my dad tosses my fake ID on the table.
If time travel were really a thing, I think it would feel just about the same way my insides do right now—like someone is twisting them and wringing them dry of any and all liquid. I am an idiot. I knew this ID thing would do nothing but cause me trouble. I didn’t hide it because I’m not used to hiding things. Hell, I bring home my drunk friend at least twice a month and nobody in this house even blinks, despite the fact that it’s pretty damn obvious Sam is passed out.
I suck in my top lip and stare at my photo. The thumb print doesn’t look as bad as I remember. Of course, I’m pretty sure I’m not getting this ID back.
“Well?” My mom shifts her weight. My dad pulls one of the chairs out from the table and sits with his legs crossed and his eyes down at his lap. Is he seriously disappointed?
I shrug when my eyes meet my mother’s. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. It’s pretty self-explanatory on the surface. I have a fake ID. I’m only seventeen. Probably going to be grounded for the first time in my life.
“It’s those boys. I told you it was going down this path, Allen.” My mom leans forward and snatches the fake ID from the table and stares at it with laser eyes.
It’s silent while she stews and my dad avoids conflict. The longer it drags on, the more my insides boil, until eventually, I break this mold we’ve been living in.
“Those boys! You mean that boy! You haven’t even met him!”
“Oh, we know that boy,” my mom cuts in. Her eyes are void of reason. I’ve seen Sam’s parents get like this, but never mine. Maybe I’ve never given them reason to. Maybe they just never noticed. This is the realest moment I can remember us ever having, though.
“No, Mom! You don’t know that boy!” I stand and my body bumps the table and splashes some of the milk from my bowl. Of everything that’s happened, that’s the thing that sets my father off.
“Dammit, you’re making a mess!” He lunges forward and snatches my bowl, spilling the rest of my milk and igniting a fury that sends my bowl across the room, crashing into the kitchen wall and cracking it into several pieces while it chips into the plaster.
For several seconds, we stand in a triangle formation and just breathe. We’re like rabid dogs, in a famine, fighting over a rabbit. We’ve been starving for this release. It was inevitable. I just can’t believe it was a fake ID—that I’m not even using to buy beer—that did it. The ridiculousness hits me and I fall into a fit of laughter.
“I don’t see how any of this is funny, Arizona,” my mom says, which only makes me laugh harder. The tears come next, a release kind of cry from years of questions and a decade of just going along.
“It isn’t, Mom,” I say, letting the giggles fade out. I wipe my eyes with my arm and sniffle as my smile sinks into a frown. “It isn’t funny. But it’s real, and we haven’t been real in a long time.”
“We’ve always been real. We’ve been close. I can’t believe you have kept this whole world hidden from us,” my dad says, pinching the bridge of his nose in some show of disbelief.
I laugh out once again.
“Whole world? You don’t even know what my drumline sounds like. You and Mom haven’t been invested in my world since…”
“Don’t go there!” My mom stops me before I say it and I choke out of habit.
My dad’s eyes begin to well up with tears.
“Ella. Ella, Ella, Ella…” I say her name on repeat through my own tears that stream down my face.
“Your mother told you to stop,” my dad growls, stepping at me and grabbing my forearm with enough force that he leads me toward the hallway, toward the stairs. I jerk free.
