Scar Girl (The Scar Boys #2)(26)

“That bass line isn’t working.”

“Sorry?”

“The bass line,” he repeated, a note of exasperation in his voice, “isn’t working. The notes are clashing with the chords Harry’s playing. You should be landing on the root note.”

Chey, who never liked being told what to do and who seemed out of sorts to begin with, folded her arms and rested them on her bass. “And now you’re an expert on bass guitars?”

“No,” Johnny snapped. “I’m an expert on what sounds good and on the crap that doesn’t.”

Whoa. While this was definitely a flash of the old Johnny, even the old Johnny would never have told Cheyenne she sounded like crap.

“Sorry,” he said, and hung his head. I could see the tension in his jaw. “But do me a favor and try it with a simpler line that focuses on the root notes.”

Chey was clearly pissed, but she nodded, said, “Fine,” and tried it Johnny’s way.

Of course, he was right. The tweak in the bass made the song a thousand times better. But that wasn’t the point.

Something was going on with Johnny, and it wasn’t good.

“Pleasant Sounds” turned out to be one of our best songs. It was quintessential Scar Boys. But at what cost?

“I talked to Carol at CB’s,” Johnny said matter-of-factly when we took our next break, “and they can fit us in the second Friday or second Saturday in December.”

“Better make it the Saturday,” Chey said.

We all looked at her, waiting for more.

“I got a job.” She waited for us to react, but honestly, I think we were too stunned. “I’m working Friday nights from now on.”

The times, they were a-changin’.





CHEYENNE BELLE


I think I was the first one of the Scar Boys to ever do an honest day’s work. But I was motivated. I felt like I had to take control of the few things that were actually in my control, you know? And paying Theresa and Agnes back became a priority. It was also something for me to focus on other than all the horrible stuff I was feeling.

Both girls were home when I was getting ready to go to the mall to look for a job, both of them watching my every move as I got dressed.

“What the hell are you doing?” Theresa asked.

It was only a few days after the D & C, and besides what I was feeling emotionally, I was still hurting physically, so I’d taken my meds. The painkillers the doctor had given me—Vicodin—were making everything numb, not just my belly. My feet felt numb, my arms felt numb, my tongue felt numb. Best of all, my brain felt numb. I’d taken one half an hour before I’d started trying on clothes, and I was feeling pretty good.

“I’m going out to look for work,” I answered Theresa, my voice something between tired and singsongy, “to pay you guys back. I want to look the part.” I was tossing each piece of clothing I owned onto a pile on my bed. Nothing seemed right.

I like to think that my style is my utter lack of style. Most days, I throw on whatever pair of shorts or pants happens to be lying around, and grab whichever T-shirt—washed or not—is within arm’s reach. The only time I ever bother to think about my appearance is at gigs. And even then, my approach to fashion is casual with a capital C.

For a job, I figured it was different.

Problem was, I didn’t own any interview clothes. I mean, I had some old Easter outfits that might still fit, but I didn’t think that a frilly white dress with white tights and Mary Janes were going to score me a gig at Sam Goody’s.

Luckily, Agnes is petite, too, and she came to the rescue. Sort of.

“Try these.”

“Really?”

It was a magenta skirt and a cream-colored blouse, with a turquoise blazer that had massive shoulder pads. “Yes, really.”

I tried them on. “I look like Jo from Facts of Life.”

“Better that than looking like a scary punk rock girl.”

“I am a scary punk rock girl.”

“One, you’re not scary, and two, the stores in the mall don’t hire scary punk rock girls.”

“Not even the record store?”

“It’s the mall, Cheyenne.”

“What do you think?” I asked Theresa. She had been quiet, and even though I don’t think she knew any more about this stuff than I did, I figured a second opinion wouldn’t hurt.

“I think Mrs. Garrett is going to love it.”

Agnes laughed and I groaned. I don’t know why I bothered.

Anyway, I didn’t see any other options. I put on the most sensible pair of shoes I owned (the Easter dress Mary Janes), took my bag, checked to make sure I had a pen—someone once told me to always have a pen when you’re applying for jobs—and left.

The Cross County Shopping Center isn’t really a mall in the way a mall is a mall. For one thing, it’s outdoors. There’s no enclosed building, no food court, none of the things more modern malls—like the Galleria in White Plains—have. It’s just a few intersecting walkways lined with scrubby trees and tacky stores.

It was late afternoon, so all of the high school girls were out shopping. I swear to God, not one of them was taller than five feet, but with their shoes each one was closer to six, especially when you factored in the tower of hair. At least the weather had turned colder, so they were wearing jackets and I didn’t have to look at their belly buttons. Between May first and September thirtieth, not one girl in Yonkers ever wore a shirt that covered her belly button. It’s like it was a local law or something. I think it was true on Long Island and in New Jersey, too. I don’t know why, but belly buttons kind of freak me out. They’re weird, you know?