Drummer Girl, page 5
“The bruises on his arm were pretty deep, and he took a swing or two at Jesse’s mom, her head got cut open and shit. And then there Jesse was with a Colt Special he knew his stepdad kept under the bed. He released the safety and cupped it steady in his hands, the barrel only a few feet away from Alton’s guts, and he screamed for his dad to get the fuck out of his house. He was pretty manic for a few days after that, and Amanda had to admit him to the psych ward because she was afraid he was going to hurt himself.”
I’m dizzy taking everything in.
“That had to be a lot on him. I can’t imagine anyone comes out of something like that okay.”
Unless someone’s good at pretending and smiling in the mornings. Carrying on. I shake my head of the thoughts as Rag shrugs, then pulls the wrapper he saved from his pocket and spits out his gum. I swallow mine, which my mom hates when I do, but clearly there are worse things in the world. I know that for certain.
After nearly forty minutes of calm, an explosion of noise happens at the house we’ve been staring at. The front door flies open, and while the rain has picked up enough we can’t hear the words, we can tell Jesse is shouting. Alton’s arms are flailing wildly, and I can’t tell if he’s acting angry or defensive. With every step Jesse takes forward, Alton takes one back.
Rag flicks on his headlights and shifts his car, moving forward on instinct. I don’t know what kind of backup I could offer other than bearing witness, but my blood is pumping so hard and hot with adrenaline I’m not even scared.
We pull in the other side of the driveway just as Alton is climbing into his truck; the rain is pelting Jesse, heavy drops coming down in a near pour now. Rag pushes the gear into park and flings his door open, slamming it behind him and giving me a few seconds of sound from outside.
“You’re a motherfucker, and that’s all you are!” Jesse shouts more before and after my glimpse, but I think it’s probably all the same words, or really close synonyms.
Alton’s face looks ghost white, thinning hair plastered to his head from the downpour and gaunt cheeks caving in with his frown. This isn’t a man who can threaten anyone anymore, but he said or did something to stir the hornet’s nest.
My eyes catch his, and they practically beg for help as they pass my gaze and continue on to look over his shoulder as he backs out of the driveway. Before his front tires clear the curb, Jesse picks up a fist-sized rock from the gravel along the house and heaves it at the driver’s side headlight, cracking it good. He picks up a second one, but Rag manages to halt his arm mid-throw.
It’s like I’m watching a silent movie. Jesse pivots back and forth, letting the rock fall to the ground, his face red with heat and his eyes wild with anger. His hands weave together atop his head, and Rag keeps reaching for him, trying to get him to break free from the rage. Jesse swats away his hands a few times before stalking through the glow of Rag’s headlights to my door. He tugs it open just as Rag opens his side.
“Get out,” he says to me, curling his fingers urgently.
“Fuck you. It’s pouring outside!” I don’t know how I muster so much audacity, but there it is. I’m not wrong. It’s torrential.
Jesse huffs and rolls his eyes, bending down and grabbing my elbow to pull me from my seat. I fight back, but quit struggling when his hands wrap around my waist. We shift positions in some sort of scrappy, sloppy dance, and as Jesse falls into the passenger seat, I come down with him, landing on his lap.
“Get your feet inside,” he orders.
I do, but my body is a mix of fire and needles as I struggle to understand what just occurred.
Jesse reaches to the side and grabs the handle, yanking the door closed, then wraps his arms around my stomach, holding me like a child would his favorite bear. I swallow at the intimate…everything. I’d feel excited, maybe flattered, if this seemed like anything other than making do of a situation to Jesse.
“Where you wanna go, man?” Rag’s voice sounds frustrated and maybe a little defeated.
“I don’t know. Somewhere. The Yards, maybe.”
“Yards it is,” Rag says, shifting into reverse and peeling out of the driveway in a rush.
“Aren’t your brother and sister inside?” I turn my head to ask, and our chins touch when I do. I feel his breath against my face, and it sends a second breath down my spine. He smells like rain and sugar, and something else that I think is just distinctly him.
“They’ll be fine. AmberLynn’s old enough to know what to do if the house catches on fire.”
He’s irritable, and I can feel his heart pounding against my back. I bet if I held my fingertips to his neck, I’d find his pulse. He’s roaring like a train…like his songs.
“You didn’t even lock the door?” I swallow when I feel his hands squeeze me just a little.
“Jesus Christ, Arizona. They’re fine.” His chest deflates with his heavy exhale, and my face falls with worry. He’s right; they are fine. But I’m not so sure we are.
“We’re not going that far,” Rag says in a half whisper. I don’t know why, because Jesse can still hear him. We’re sitting the same distance away. It’s like he knows the rules, though, of how this goes—this blowing-off-steam mission I think we’re on.
My lips close tight, and I turn my attention out the window, the rain hitting the glass and creating the illusion of traveling at lightspeed—stars rushing by us while we propel away from here.
Rag’s promise was accurate, because he pulls off the main road after just a couple miles, fishtailing onto a muddy side road leading to an abandoned frame that was probably going to be an office building at one point. He slows up next to the structure of metal and heavy brick, shoving the car into park. I catch the fading sign as Jesse opens our door.
THE YARDS
I’m sure it was supposed to sound elegant. Now, it feels like a dystopia.
We’re all soaked in a matter of seconds after leaving the car, but Rag follows Jesse into the multi-story building frame that’s only lit by his Camaro. I follow them in after a few more seconds, but stop just under the wide umbrella of a large metal beam. It isn’t perfect, but it protects me from the direct rain enough I can stand and wipe the water from my face with my soaked sweatshirt.
Jesse starts to climb a ladder that doesn’t seem to really go anywhere at all, and before he can get too far up, his cousin grabs his leg at the knee and shakes his head.
“Don’t pull this shit. We’re here to vent.” They have a stare-off that lasts a few long seconds until Jesse picks up a piece of metal rebar and thrusts it across the open space, clanking against the broken foundation ground.
I start to shiver, but I don’t dare mention I’m cold. A second later, Jesse screams. His voice bellowing, broken by the rush of rain.
“He wants my music. That’s it, man. He wants to steal the only thing I have left!” His teeth grit as he speaks the words, his eyes moving from his cousin to me, and a realization colors his skin that I’m in the dark for most of this. I know more than he realizes; I don’t know enough.
“What do you mean? That doesn’t even make sense. Just…back up, and start at the beginning. He came over and then…what?”
I can tell Rag has had to do this conversation before. I wonder how many times Alton Barringer has been a disappointment.
“Get this…he’s an agent now. Or he has a record label. Or…fuck, I didn’t even really listen when I started to smell the bullshit. He’s just doing what he always does: weaseling his way in by finding what makes me weak. He was like, ‘Merry fucking Christmas, kid. Let me fix everything in your life and sponsor your dream. You know…because I have such a great track record at being good at business.’ He did it to my mom so many times—lied? That’s why I can see it!” He bites down on his bottom lip and shakes his head.
My body is starting to convulse now, and Jesse notices. I wince with guilt.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“No, you’re not. Dude, forget it. Just take us home. Get her inside.” Jesse walks back toward the car, and Rag stares at me for a second or two before nodding for me to follow along.
“I’m sorry. He swings his emotions when it comes to Alton. A lot of things, really. But being pissed is better than being depressed; so if he wants to come break shit, I break shit with him.”
Rag’s insight stops when we reach the car. I get that it’s not meant for Jesse’s ears. I also get that Jesse’s manic.
I curl back into his lap, and his hands slide around my waist again, his palms flat along my stomach and sides. His touch is a little more personal this time, though. He’s trying to keep me warm.
When we pull onto the main road, I feel his head come to a rest against my back, between my shoulder blades, and his breathing—the once rapid rise and fall of his body under and against mine—slows to a long and steady motion.
“I’m sorry,” he says in a low voice. I don’t know if that’s meant for Rag, me, or both of us. I answer regardless.
“It’s okay,” I say, my hands moving to the place where his rest along my body. At the first feel of my touch, he grasps a hold on me, an almost desperate hold that comes with the release of one small breath.
It’s exasperation.
It’s exhaustion.
It’s disappointment—in Alton, and in himself.
The rain has let up, but it’s still a steady mist, tiny drops that sting more than pelt. We stop in front of my house, and Jesse helps me climb free, getting out with me and leaning into the car to talk to Rag.
“I’m good. I’ll walk her up then jog home. Let’s rehearse again tomorrow, yeah? Logan can come then, so it’s better anyway.” He reaches in with a fist, pounding it against Rag’s. I bend forward and wave to my side with an open palm, still holding myself to stay warm.
“You sure you’re good?” Rag asks, glancing to Jesse for a beat. I know what he means—can I handle him like this? I nod. I can handle so much more.
Jesse and I walk up the driveway as Rag circles around and leaves our street. I lead him along the side of the house to the back gate. My parents leave the patio door unlocked so I can get in at night. They started doing that last year when Sam and I began staying out well past midnight.
“I’m okay here,” I say.
Jesse nods, his eyes lifting to mine, heavy with pathetic apologies. The mist and thin rain has become white. Snow flurries. That’s the one thing people get up here near these ugly, bare hillsides. There’s always a chance of snow. Not the real, magical kind on greeting cards—the kind that teases and disappoints when it melts along the ground. Still, I like the way it dusts Jesse’s hair right now.
“Rag tell you what that was all about?” He closes one eye as he asks.
“He told me enough.”
His gaze meets mine again as he nods. His attention quickly goes back to his feet, though. The flurries are practically singing to us against the metal gutter, a melody of faint tings and splashes from leftover rain growing lighter and lighter until it barely feels wet at all outside.
“I had a sister,” I begin. Jesse’s brow dents, but his eyes remain on the wet ground between us, a burst of fog parting his lips. “We were a year apart. She dove into a lake up north from our uncle’s boat in the middle of the night. We were out there fishing, and out of nowhere, she tossed her rod to the side and dove in.”
Jesse’s gaze creeps up, and when our eyes meet, I know he knows the end of this story. I say it anyway.
“She never came up. I was six. She was seven.”
My breath quivers, and it’s not because I’m cold. I haven’t talked about Ella in years. More than a decade, really. Not since I quit having to talk about her to therapists willing to give me pills.
“Ella was bipolar manic, and she was in a serious low. We were kids, and I had no idea what any of her problems meant. I just knew my mom cried a lot, and my parents both worried. They watched us like hawks, and my uncle promised he’d watch us too. It was just one second.”
I laugh at the sadness of it all. I think I have to. I’m not sure, because I’ve never really talked to someone like this…about this.
“For whatever reason, after mourning her for a year, my parents just decided to hit reset. They quit law jobs they hated and bought a shipping business that makes barely enough to get by. They started giving me more freedom. They put me in music classes. I fell in love with the drums.”
Jesse breathes in, his lips parted in thought before his front teeth come together as he exhales, holding back whatever it is he’s trying to say. I get that, too. I didn’t talk about Ella for an entire decade. My parents still haven’t. Ten years later, we’ve just moved on, as if she never was.
But she was.
Sometimes, when I’m in my peaceful place—when I’m playing—she still is. I feel her often.
I get why Jesse doesn’t like the holidays. It’s the same reason I adore them. This time…it was Ella’s favorite, too.
“I’m really glad I met you, Jesse Barringer,” I say, my voice cracking from my nerves and the cold.
I’m not sure what to expect from him, but I know more than anything that those are the words I had to say right now. Those are the words he needs to hear from someone who doesn’t have a damn thing to do with his dad.
His eyes dip and his mouth curls on one side, and I think maybe he’s a little embarrassed by my compliment…my appreciation of him. His eyes flicker with thought for a few seconds, but then rise to meet mine in a blink. In a sudden step, his lips brush against mine as his hands come up to gently hold either side of my face. I stand completely still, my arms staying tethered around my own body—paralyzed. His kiss lasts for the smallest moment, long enough for his lips to hold onto my top lip with the force of a feather, then falling away.
“Goodnight, Arizona Wakefield. I’m really glad I met you, too.”
I remain in the dark, in the mist and under the clearing sky while he walks with his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans back to the house where his siblings are probably tired of pretending they aren’t afraid.
The storm came and left.
And so did Jesse.
Chapter Six
I didn’t tell Sam about the kiss. It was mine—just mine. I think maybe it was just Jesse’s a little, too, because when we all gathered in the garage to rehearse last night, there wasn’t a hint of it lingering between us. Instead, Jesse was irritable, and none of us could do a damn thing right. We practiced for exactly an hour, exactly half the time it took Logan to drive to Jesse’s house in the first place. We sounded good. The beat was tight. But our third pass through the third song was his final straw, and he just unplugged and told us all to “fucking quit” if we wanted to. He went inside and locked the door. I walked home wondering if I’d ever get the boy in the rain again.
Marching practice never felt more inviting. I got here early this morning. I was the first to plant my feet in the dewy grass.
Jesse was the second to arrive. And, in the last hour, he hasn’t moved from the back row of the bleachers. I can’t tell if his eyes are open or if he’s sleeping with his back resting against the press box. About twenty minutes ago, when the sun broke the horizon, he flipped the hood of his black skull sweatshirt up over most of his head. I can see his breath, though. I’ve been counting the rhythm of every puff that leaves his lips. It’s distracting, and it’s starting to mess me up.
“Ari, leave your boyfriend at home next time,” Josh teases, slapping his sticks across mine over my drumhead.
I scowl and jerk to the side.
“I don’t have a boyfriend, and let’s go one more time. I got this one; I promise.”
Josh rolls his eyes, blowing up at the dark, wild lock of hair that’s fallen over his eye. He raises his hand and twirls his stick a few times while nodding to the rest of our line.
“A’right. One more time,” he says.
I click it out on the rim and let my eyes haze out over everything else in my periphery. I erase Jesse’s form for six minutes, and we get it perfect—finally.
State is this weekend. People wouldn’t know it by walking the hallways of our school. Band championships aren’t really celebrated the same way football games or cheer competitions are. Our football team sucks, and our cheerleaders are completely disinterested in school spirit. So, by all accounts, the fall season at Vista High is done, chapter closed. The school won’t even approve flipping the lights on for us on the field so we can practice at night; instead, we make sure everyone within earshot is awake and humming our four-song set by the time they hop in their cars for their morning drives.
Don’t like it? Take it up with the principal.
Given the cold shoulder we all got in the garage yesterday, I didn’t expect to see much of Jesse today, let alone have him take in my morning routine. I pull my drum harness from my shoulders when I spot him taking the bleachers down to the field two steps at a time. It’s strange how I can be both excited that he’s coming to see me yet praying that he turns the other way when his feet hit the track. It’s the teasing from Josh, partly, but it’s also the lecture and impending awkwardness that will come from Mr. Williams, our band director.
I know that technically this is before school, but Mr. Williams has always counted it as zero hour—as in his time with us. He doesn’t have a lot of leeway for things he perceives as goofing around, especially days before we defend our state title.
The school that sucks at football is damn good at marching band.
I see the tips of Jesse’s shoes in my field of vision just seconds before I hear Mr. Williams bellow out my last name. I let the wave of dread and excitement collide in my chest; it feels like my ribs are collapsing.
“Here, let me carry this,” Jesse says.
“It’s okay…” I try to stop him from lifting my drum harness over his shoulders, but I’m not quick enough and he’s wearing it by the time Mr. Williams steps into our now three-person circle. His arms are folded, and his mouth is drawn in tight. I count to three, which is exactly how long it takes for his sightline to swing from Jesse to me while his eyebrows lift up to his hairline.
