Drummer Girl, page 7
Those are the eyes that come with the kiss. I wonder if he’s thinking about that kiss right now, and I wonder if that kiss was a one-time thing.
“Where are your brother and sister?” I decide to ignore him calling me dopey-eyed.
“Out,” his mouth ticks up—parentheses.
My head falls to my shoulder as I glare at him and lean against the side of his door. Jesse coughs out a laugh and slides more to his side, propping his head up on his palm, elbow bent. He shrugs the higher shoulder.
“My sister wants to be an ice skater now…I guess.” He glances to the open space next to him. I force myself deeper into his room and to the bed, taking a nervous seat on the edge. I try to mask my tremors by pulling his pillow up into my lap. I sit sideways with one foot still on the floor.
“Conner likes playing hockey in the corner. They let the little kids wear these special shoes on the ice so he feels like a badass or whatever. He just runs around smacking the puck into the glass while AmberLynn does her pirouettes or whatever.”
“Spin,” I correct. He grunts out a short laugh, so I shove his own pillow at his chest. He takes it and tosses it to the floor. My body instantly reacts to the lack of barrier between us.
“What?” I say. “I took two years of ice skating. I wanted to be an Olympian too. It’s a girl thing; you wouldn’t understand.”
He doesn’t laugh me off this time. I get his flirty version, a slow crawl of a smile and squint to his eyes.
“Bobsled,” he says.
I furrow my brow at first then breathe out a quiet laugh when I understand.
“Have you ever done one of the runs at Big Bear?” I ask.
He rolls to his back again, his body nudging closer to me as he looks up at his purple ceiling.
“Nah, we didn’t do a lot of vacationing and shit like that when I was a kid. My mom’s always worked nights or long hours, and she doesn’t really get time off.”
“What does she do?” I ask.
“This…that.” It’s a strange answer that is also decidedly final. I feel a ping in my stomach because I want to push. I know now isn’t the time, though. Just one more color I need to identify in Jesse’s mysterious rainbow.
“You’re still a kid,” I say instead. “You could go to Big Bear now, try out the track?” I bump the back of my hand against his bicep, but I pull it away because leaving it there would mean…well…it would mean.
Jesse’s quiet for a few seconds, and his eyes blink at me slowly.
“I haven’t been a kid in a really long.” That calm line is back on his lips. All I can do is stare at it. The longer I look, the more meaningful the quiet becomes, and the more my pulse starts to make my arms tremble.
“Can I play your guitar?” I twist to the side abruptly, grateful for the guitar stand next to me and the pleasant distraction of music.
“Drums and guitar? You really are the perfect girl,” he says, lifting himself up to a sitting position. I smile to myself and take those small, flattering words in, then dismiss them with the same attitude I’ve somehow always had with him.
“I pretty much am, yes,” I say, lifting the guitar strap over my head and resting the body of his guitar on my thigh. I run my thumbnail along the strings and take in the sound, making sense of how his instrument is tuned. When I look up, I catch his eyes on me and the parentheses are back.
“What shall I play?” I’m not very good, but I’ve always had an ear, so I can usually pick out just about anything if I know how the melody goes.
“Play me your favorite song,” he says, his eyes flashing from mine to the spot where my hand hugs the neck of his guitar.
My lips draw in while I think. The favorite-song question is always tricky. Nobody has one true answer. Favorite songs change with age, with mood, and mostly with the person who is asking.
“Sweet Jane.” This is not a song I would say to anyone else. This is my favorite song for Jesse, and I’m surprised by how easily the title rolled off my tongue.
He smirks, his eyes dancing with approval.
“Velvet Underground or Cowboy Junkies?”
My lungs tighten because this question is tough. I could lie and say Velvet Underground because I think that’s what Jesse wants to hear, but it wouldn’t be true.
“Cowboy Junkies. No question,” I say, picking out the melody poorly but at least slightly recognizable.
Jesse’s stare holds on me while I continue to fumble through the song. After more than a few foul notes, he chuckles and swings his legs around. He’s sitting in front of me, my knee bent to the side to hold his guitar. His jeans brush against my skin and I stop holding down the strings. I’m instantly glad I wore cut-off shorts with my sweatshirt.
“Here,” he says, gesturing for his guitar. I hand it to him and his amused expression focuses on me while he loops the strap over his head and situates the guitar in his lap, his hands instantly finding the right sound.
I take in the hard line of his jaw while his chin tucks into his chest as he positions his fingers just right. I recognize the key quickly, and the familiar swing of this song I haven’t heard in maybe a year spills from the hollow center of his guitar. I will never forget how it sounds right now.
My focus blurs on his hands and I allow myself to shut my eyes when he hits the first verse. I wasn’t expecting him to sing, but I’m oh so glad he is. He sings the Junkies’ version, and only nerds like us would notice the differences in the lyrics and rhythm. It’s slow and seductive, which is what I like so much about it.
Jesse’s eyes close as he finishes the first verse, and he starts to just feel the song. This is when he’s at his best, and I wish he let this side out more when we rehearse with the band. His sound is so special when he abandons the technical things—the quest for perfection—and just feels.
His head rocks with the words, lulling me into a comfortable numb that settles my nerves. I’m in Jesse’s bedroom, at night, alone—in a house with no parents and no friends and no lights. And he’s singing to me. And I…I am swooning.
He stops in the middle of the song. It isn’t abrupt, and it doesn’t jar me at all. It’s a note that begs to be continued, but he simply dampens the string with the pad of his finger and opens his eyes. His long lashes blink a few times as his crooked smile grows. His cheeks are dusted with freckles that match the same dirty-gold color of his hair. He’s beautiful, and I want to tell him right now so bad, but it would be weird.
Jesse’s eyes meet mine, and his brows lift for approval. I shrug.
“It was a’right,” I say, joking of course. He knows it too, because my comment pulls a laugh from the depths of his chest. I soak in the crackling sound.
“That’s the first time I’ve played that song. I like it. We should add it to our set,” he says, pulling the strap from around his neck before setting his guitar at the foot of his bed. “What do you think?”
He twists until our knees are touching and our shoulders are squared.
“I think you’re a showoff, one. And two…I totally think we should close with Sweet Jane at our gig. People love retro shit like that at shows.” I don’t really know what people like at shows because the only kinds I’ve ever been to have been for high school marching nerds or jazz geeks. I probably don’t even deserve to utter the word gig yet. I’m a gig virgin. I do know movies, though, and if this life was a movie, our band would close with that.
Jesse’s eyes linger on my face, making me warm.
“Okay then,” he says, finally. “And I’m not a showoff.”
His lips pucker with his smirk and mine follow suit until a laugh seeps through.
“You totally are!” I shove at him playfully, and his hands wrap around my wrists and shove back gently but don’t let go.
“No, I’m a great example. It’s a totally different thing,” he says, pulling me toward his chest until my fingertips meet the hard surface of his pecs under a well-worn white T-shirt.
“I’m pretty sure it’s just a synonym for showoff how you’re using it. In fact, now you’re just being arrogant!” I gripe back through laughter, a wry smile playing at one side of my mouth. Jesse remains quiet, though. His head leaned a tick to the right. My lips vibrate with this sudden change in atmosphere, and without even helping myself, I bite my bottom lip. There is just enough light in the room to see these small things we’re doing, these…signs. At least, I’m giving a sign. I hope I’m not imagining Jesse’s.
Three full breaths pass between us without words. I count mine, and I guess how many he takes because really, I can’t see much beyond the dark centers of his eyes and the top curl of his lip. I wait for him. Even though I’m dizzy and happy and excited, I don’t want to be eager and desperate. I wait for him to move closer…to do something.
I wish for him.
“Would it be okay if I kissed you now?” He moves an inch or two closer after his words, and his eyes glow violet in this light. It’s something I notice, a little memory I tuck away just like the chill in the air the first time he kissed me.
“You’re so fucking talented,” I say as his nose inches closer to mine. I stare at him in awe. It’s the only thing I can think of to say that feels better than just “yes.”
“Yeah, I am,” he grins. I love his grin, the way it stretches his mouth from one dimple to the other.
“You’re shit at the drums though,” I let out in a whispered tone as his lips near mine. This fake bravado and arrogance suits us, whatever we are. His breathy laugh tickles my face, and my body rushes with butterflies as he drags his thumb along my cheek, scooping thick waves of my hair away from my face.
“That’s why I have you,” he says, pausing to meet my eyes, our faces so near he has to focus on one eye at a time. “Unless we decide to go with Josh.”
I scrunch my face and push against him lightly in a teasing protest.
My nerves force my eyes closed first. I’m too afraid to look, afraid to leave them open way too long and come off like a weird kisser. The result is a million tiny surprises that kidnap me all at once. His nose grazes along the side of mine before his mouth dusts my top lip with a faint kiss. His hands slide up the length of my arms to my shoulders and up my neck until his fingers comb into my hair and hold on. We both dip our chins so our foreheads meet and his breath sounds out with a quiet gasp.
“Your parents are going to hate me,” he says through a chuckle. I grab fists full of his shirt and laugh with him because he’s totally right. They’ve been itching to meet our new neighbors, to meet the guys in my band that I keep insisting are “no big deal, just a chance for me to pound some drums.”
“But you’re such a great example,” I say through a breathy laugh, boldly shifting the angle of my jaw until my mouth finds Jesse’s open lips again. His hands move, cradling my head as his body slides closer and his lips close around my top one again, sucking in gently.
Every movement of his mouth brings us closer, and my guard dissolves the moment his right hand trails down my back, crooking under my leg and lifting me gently until I follow his lead and climb into his lap, a knee on either side of his body. His hands dig into the back pockets of my shorts and he pulls me close, his kiss no longer asking permission, his tongue tasting mine. I let myself go, tangling my fingers into his golden curls.
His body begins to lean back, but I feel the hesitation—the non-verbal ask if this is okay. I answer by sliding to the side and urging his body to roll with mine until I’m lying under the weight of his chest, my head caged between his arms. His mouth breaks away for air, but only briefly before he’s kissing me again. His hand teases with the soft skin along my side, and the tickle of his fingers makes me flinch and giggle. My movement makes him pause, lifting his body enough to look me in the eyes.
I can feel how much he’s enjoying this, where our bodies meet, and I’m enjoying this too. More than that, I don’t want it to stop.
“I’m ticklish is all,” I say, looking at him coyly.
Jesse’s eyes settle on mine and the comfortable smile falls back in place.
“Okay,” he says after several long, quiet breaths. But he doesn’t move his hands back to where they were. Instead, he moves them closer to my face, thumbs drawing soft lines down my cheeks. Whatever I thought I wanted before, this is better. Somehow—this is better.
Chapter Eight
My regimen used to be a lot more complicated.
Two blue pills.
One full glass of Mom’s seaweed-spinach Omega blend with ice and tasteless, but probiotic-rich, yogurt for texture—a texture that would make even a person with zero nerve-endings in their mouth gag.
Thirty minutes of yoga, or an attempt at yoga, my balance is crap; this part usually resulted in me leaning against the edge of the couch with my ear tuned in to listen for approaching footsteps while I sifted through nonsense on my phone because I suck at yoga.
Ten minutes of calm, whatever the fuck that means.
A dose of melatonin to encourage sleep.
Hours spent pretending it worked so my mom could feel satisfied that she was doing enough every time she peeked inside my bedroom door at night.
A lukewarm bath to start the morning and more seaweed-spinach torture.
Have a normal childhood day.
Normal. Because all of the above is normal.
Repeat.
This was the recipe that my parents concocted and convinced themselves would erase any negative effects from being in the boat when my sister evaporated into the midnight-black water of a lake we’ll never go near again. We never talked about the crazy shit they had me drink and do. Other than the few months I spent in a therapist’s office once a week when I was six, the word “treatment” was never uttered. They referred to it all as my “routine” or my “special diet.” For years, I just thought it was normal—what other young girls did to make sure they grew up strong and right in the head. I let it play out until gradually, item after item fell from the list and all that was left were the small blue pills that I now hold in my palm, a glass of plain tap water in my other hand. I put them on my tongue and take a gulp.
Right in the head.
Aren’t we all?
My house smells of warmed pot roast and cooked onions; Dad had the pot going for the entire day. This brief twenty minutes—when we’re all in the house together before Mom goes to close up the store and Dad comes home for the day—is when we dig in for dinner. Only, I’m leaving for a party I don’t want to go to, which will lead to my parents having that moment they have every time I break from our pattern.
“The store was busy today!” My dad is buzzing around the counter with his bowl, anxious to get to the large spoon my mom is pulling from a drawer.
“Good. Maybe we’ll make a profit,” Mom says.
They both laugh.
Living check to check is amusing to them. I get that they laugh at it because it makes it easier than playing off their stress, but I think there’s a small part of their reaction that’s actually genuine. My family has a tragically beautiful perspective on what things are important, and profit isn’t one of them. Survival is.
“Ari, grab a bowl! It’s perfect.” My dad talks through his full mouth, shoveling in the chunks of tender meat. He skips lunch and always gorges on dinner.
“I’m actually…” I feel the pause in the room. They both set their bowls down. I hate that it’s like this.
“Sam’s coming. And it’s a party, and one of those everyone is going kinda parties. I would have told you, but Sam and I just made plans, and…”
“No, sure. Yeah, sure.” My dad always relies on the word sure. That’s his tell. If my adolescence were a game of poker, I would clean my dad’s stack out in one massive “all in” the moment he said the word sure.
“Where is this party?” My mom has started eating again, and she’s turned her back to me. This is her tell. She won’t make eye contact with me again until tomorrow. She’ll have an edge to her tone as if I’m in trouble, though we all know I’m not.
“Kelsey. She’s on cheer,” I say.
“Yes, I know Kelsey.”
My mom doesn’t know Kelsey. She barely knows Sam and Sam practically lives here.
“Right, well…Sam’s going to be out front in a few minutes, so I’m just gonna…”
“What time will you be home?” My mom’s question comes out sharp. I glance at my dad and our eyes lock. This is the part I can never read well. I don’t know if his stare means I should say an early time, or if I should be honest. I vacillate on how I handle this.
“Probably pretty late. I have State tomorrow, though, so I’m going to try to talk Sam into leaving early.”
“Oh. Uh huh.” My mother’s head moves with her affirming nod, and I view it all from behind.
“All right, well…” I walk backward to the front door, my small wristlet zipper bag clutched in my hand along with my phone.
“Have a good time,” my dad adds this in sometimes, along with the tight-lipped smile as he holds up a hand to wave goodbye. It feels like they’re pod people.
“I will,” I say, escaping before my mom squeezes in one more question or reminder. Sometimes she throws out a “be safe!” I can usually hear her voice break when she does that, and it ruins my entire night. I get out of the house without hearing it tonight, though.
I’ve never stayed to listen to their conversation after I leave. I wonder sometimes if there is debate over where I’m going, how long I’ll be out, and each of their various reactions.
* * *
Sam’s car shakes as it rounds the corner to my house. It’s an old-person car, an aged patina-silver paint with velvet seats and sharp, boxy edges. It’s too long to fit into most parking spots, and it’s nearly impossible to drive on the freeways in California. I think maybe some of those limitations are why her parents bought it for her.
My finger circles in the air to signal to hop over to the passenger side. She shifts to park and practically skips to the door.
