Scar Girl (The Scar Boys #2)(31)

“Richie,” Johnny said, “let us get through the first verse or two, then come in big, okay?”

“Got it.”

The crowd had organized itself into a steady, rhythmic clap and chant of “Scar Boys, Scar Boys,” and when we walked back onstage, they erupted into a frenzy.

There was one guy—a good-looking older guy—sitting at a table in the front row, who wasn’t clapping or chanting or even standing. I didn’t remember seeing him there before, so he must’ve snuck up front during the break between songs. He had a big smile on his face, and when he saw me catch his eye, he nodded.

“Thank you, thank you,” Johnny said into the mic, sitting down at the piano as the crowd settled down. “We’re going to do something kind of crazy.”

A few isolated whoops and hoots.

“We’re going to play a song that we’ve never ever played before. Not that we’ve never played in public, but that we’ve never played as a band before. In fact, Harry, Cheyenne, and Richie have never even heard it before.” Louder whoops and hollers. “It’s a song I’ve been working on, and I thought, Let’s see what these fine people think of it. Would that be okay with you?”

The room absolutely exploded into a wall of noise and positive energy. Johnny nodded to Harry, and Harry started playing the riff Johnny showed him. He played it perfectly, which brought a smile to Johnny’s face, which was good to see. I mean, it’s not that Johnny didn’t smile; it’s that lately he hadn’t seemed to mean it. This time, he did.

Against the backdrop of Harry playing that lonely guitar riff, Johnny started to sing:

I am only what I seem

When I hear my mirror confess

That I live in American dreams

And that’s useless.


Cracked cement trains of thought

Going off the tracks.

What’s the difference if no one’s on board?

It’s useless.



That’s where Richie and I came in big, and Johnny, as if he knew what we were going to do, added a beautiful organ line.

But I was off, a hair late with everything. And my bass line was too simple. My fingers weren’t able to do any of the stuff they would normally do. It was hard enough to land on the root notes and just follow along. My performance was, what’s the word, uninspired. Johnny shot me a look that was half annoyed and half concerned, and sang the next verse.

Writers spend hours staring out windows,

Watching it rain minutes,

Yet still never a word written

That’s useless.


I’ll find the girl who cries in the street,

I’ll follow her trail of tears.

When I reach the puddles at her feet,

I’ll see her washed-out fears

In a puddle of tears,

Drained over the years.

It’s useless.



At this point, Johnny held up his hand to have us dial it back and then slashed the air to tell Richie and me to stop.

We did. And again, I was late.

The only sound was Harry’s guitar echoing through the room.

With my head in my hands, confused,

Nothing is what it seems.

And just when I thought nothing had use,

I find the only truth

Is in dreams.



Harry played the riff four more times, each one slower than the one before, until he ended on a bright but sad-sounding E chord.

The room was dead quiet for just long enough to make me wonder if I’d really messed up. Then the audience went nuts. And I mean, seriously nuts! I couldn’t hear myself think as we leaped off the stage.

Richie high-fived Harry, me, and Johnny, but when I went to hug Johnny, he looked like he was going to kill me.

“What the fuck was that?” He was yelling at me. Harry and Richie looked as surprised as I did.

“What?” I said in full defender mode. “I’ve never heard the fucking song before.”

“Bullshit.”

“What do you mean? I’ve never heard—”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” Johnny was as pissed as I’d ever seen him. “You played the whole set high or drunk or something, didn’t you?”

I had no response, but I didn’t break eye contact with him.

“Maybe you don’t need this band, Cheyenne,” he said, using my full name, which he almost never did, “but Harry and I do.”

Harry looked up like he’d been slapped, like he wanted no part of whatever was happening between me and Johnny, like he didn’t want to be dragged into the middle.

“Yeah, I’m the first bass player in the fucking history of fucking rock and roll that had a couple of beers before playing a set. You’re out of your mind, John.” I always shortened his name to John when I was being serious with him.

“However many beers Dee Dee Ramone or Paul Simonon had before a set, they never messed up the music.”

“I’d never heard the fucking song before!” Now I was shouting.

“Fuck you, Cheyenne.” He may as well have punched me in the stomach. Fuck you, Cheyenne? For this?

“Whatever,” I mumbled, and I walked off to the bathroom.

But even with that big scene, it wasn’t the awful thing he’d said that was echoing in my ears as I stomped away. It was his new song.