Scar Girl (The Scar Boys #2)(30)
When we got home, we went our separate ways. Scenes from that afternoon were swirling in my head as I watched him react to my news about wanting to apply for college.
“I think it’s wonderful, Harry,” my mom said. “And we’ll support you in any way we can. Isn’t that right, Ben?”
My father gave my mom a long look before nodding and turning his attention back to me. “Of course, son,” he said, while trying to hold back a smile. “Of course.”
We spent the next few minutes talking about the application process—I didn’t tell them about my epic application essay—and then we were done.
It felt both really good and really bad that I’d told them. Good that it was off my chest and that I had their support, bad that, all of a sudden, it was real. It was my first moment of buyer’s remorse.
But nothing was written in stone. Not yet.
CHEYENNE BELLE
We played a nightclub called the Bitter End.
The place had a very different vibe from CBGB’s. Where CB’s was in the Bowery, the Bitter End was in the Village. Where CB’s was a crap hole, the Bitter End was nice. Where CB’s history was all punk—and, yes, I do love punk—the Bitter End had more to it. It made its name as a venue for folk artists like Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, before they were famous. Isn’t that cool?
Anyway, by this time the band was really humming, and our following was growing. This was the first show where we were the headline act on a weekend in New York City. That was a big deal.
We were blown away when more than a hundred people turned out. Something magical was starting to happen with the Scar Boys.
It was also the first time I played a gig drunk.
I felt like I was being chased. Not by a person, but by all the things I’d done wrong and all the secrets I was keeping—my pregnancy and my miscarriage, for sure, but even before that, my kiss with Harry in Georgia, and before that, my whole relationship with Johnny. So many secrets, and I felt like I needed to outrun them all. And like I said, I’m not so good at asking for help. While being high or drunk didn’t really fix things, it made me care less, made my problems seem further away. Farther away? I can never keep those words straight. Grammar kind of sucks.
I didn’t drink a lot—just three beers that a creepy old guy at the bar bought me because I let him hit on me. Even though I was totally skeeved, I didn’t flinch when he put his hand on my ass. I’m not sure what a guy like that is thinking, but whatever it is, it’s messed up.
Given my size and given that I was still a novice with alcohol, those three beers went right to my head. It didn’t help that I drank them fast, back to back to back, mostly so I could get up and get away from the creepy guy. It didn’t help that I hadn’t eaten dinner. And it definitely didn’t help that I downed them right before we went on.
Even with all that, I did pretty good with the bass. The high of music can do a lot to counteract the low of booze. Adrenaline, meet alcohol. It wasn’t my best gig, but it wasn’t a disaster, either.
We closed our set with “That’s Not My Leg.” The girl who caught Johnny’s peg leg leaped on stage and jumped around like she’d won a million bucks, and the whole place was going crazy.
So of course they were all screaming for an encore. Johnny talked us into having “Pleasant Sounds” ready, in case we got called back up, which wasn’t like us. We always ended with something loud and fast, and “Pleasant Sounds” was a ballad. But it worked. Holy shit, did it work. It worked so well that, for the first time ever, we were called back for a second encore.
The soundman and the woman handling the lights were pissed. Unless you’re playing Madison Square Garden or the Nassau Coliseum, you don’t get two encores; the crew just wanted to go home. But this audience wasn’t going to let anyone go anywhere. So the lights stayed low and the mics stayed hot.
Problem is, we had no idea what to play. We hadn’t planned for this, and as a general rule—really, Johnny’s rule—the Scar Boys was a pretty well-scripted act.
“What do we do?” Richie asked as we stood on the side of the stage, a thunderstorm of claps and hollers making it hard to hear one another.
“I have something,” Johnny said. “A song I’ve been working on.”
“Something new?” Harry sounded freaked out. “We can’t play something new.”
“I don’t know, seems like a pretty rock-and-roll thing to do, if you ask me.” Johnny knew Harry’s weak spot. As soon as Harry thinks he’s not being rock-and-roll enough, like there’s some giant rock meter measuring his life, he needs to find a way to fix it. Richie nodded.
The adrenaline high of the set was fading, and the aftereffect of the beer was making me a bit loopy.
“So how do we play along?” I asked. I think I might’ve slurred my words because Johnny looked at me funny.
“It’s simple. It’s the same riff over and over again. The song is all about the dynamics, about how loud and soft we play the riff. Kind of like ‘Heroin’ by the Velvet Underground. Harry, give me your guitar.” Harry did, and Johnny showed him what really was a very easy riff. “It’s that, over and over again. Just follow me for how loud and soft to get. Chey, can you follow?”
I’m guessing Johnny singled me out because he could see that I wasn’t quite right. The room was spinning a bit, and I really had no idea what he’d just played, but I nodded anyway.