Scar Girl (The Scar Boys #2)(38)

“Hey.”

“How was Christmas at your aunt’s house?”

“It was good.” That was a lie, and Johnny probably knew it. “How was dinner at your house? Sorry again I couldn’t make it.” That was a lie, too.

“It was nice. Just me and my parents.” He sounded, I don’t know, sad, and there was a brief pause in the conversation.

“Did you get any good presents?” I asked. He had just the one brother, Russell, who didn’t live at home, so Johnny was pretty spoiled, though I don’t really think he acted spoiled. Since this was the first Christmas after losing his leg, the haul of presents was even bigger than normal.

He rattled off this incredible amount of loot he’d found under the Christmas tree while I listened. It’s amazing how two people can talk about so much while talking about absolutely nothing. It was like everything between us was so damaged that neither one of us could talk about it. It was early in the day, and I was feeling jittery. That’s not quite right. I was feeling . . . period. I didn’t want to feel anything. I wanted to cut the call short.

Johnny finished itemizing his list of Christmas presents, which trailed off into another long pause. He didn’t ask what I got because he knew it would just be embarrassing for both of us.

“Chey,” he started, “we need to talk.” Chey, we need to talk. That’s never, ever a good thing. It’s pretty much the exact phrase every boy uses before he breaks up with you.

“What about?” I asked. My whole body now felt like a sore tooth that needed Anbesol.

“I don’t know, all kinds of stuff. Can we get together before rehearsal tomorrow?”

“Isn’t Richie picking us both up?”

“Yeah, well, maybe we could meet somewhere first. Can you come over here?”

I don’t know why that pissed me off. It shouldn’t have pissed me off. I mean, the guy was walking around on a fake leg, right? But it was always me going to his house. Never him coming to my house, or even my neighborhood. When I think about it now, I was probably mad because of that day I’d walked all the way to his house when I was pregnant and feeling like shit, the day before I lost the baby. And even though I know it’s not true, some part of me feels like the long walk up and down that hill caused my miscarriage.

“Can’t we just talk at rehearsal?” I asked.

“I want us to be alone.”

“So we’ll go outside and talk.”

Johnny was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah, okay.” He sounded for all the world like he’d just lost something important. He regrouped and started again, this time somehow managing to sound more serious.

“Cheyenne, listen—”

“Give it back!” My sister Patricia, nine years old, ran into the room ahead of my sister Joan, ten years old. Their birthdays are ten and a half months apart, what some people called Catholic twins. Patricia was holding Joan’s diary, her Christmas grab-bag present from Agnes (also bought with my store discount), in the air, high over her head.

Even though Joan was older, she let Patricia push her buttons every time. (Patricia was actually kind of a bully.)

“Chey, make her give it back!”

“John,” I said, using his more serious name, “I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And I hung up.

Saved by the Belle. That’s a joke we use a lot in our house, and this time it felt real.

I separated my sisters, then hung out in the living room, waiting for my father to fall asleep so I could sneak some of his brandy.





HARBINGER JONES


Our first rehearsal after Christmas was just awkward.

Richie had borrowed his dad’s car and picked up Johnny and Chey. I was in my parents’ basement, sitting on my amp, messing around on the guitar, when they came in.

Johnny and Chey were both tight-lipped. That’s really the only word to describe how they looked; their mouths were straight lines pulled taut across their faces. Richie, who trailed them into the room, looked at me and rolled his eyes.

I mumbled hello, not wanting to get caught in the crosshairs of whatever was going on, and turned my attention to Richie.

“How was Christmas?”

“You’re never going to believe it,” he said. “The old geezer got me a bike.” Old geezer sounds like Richie hated his dad, but really it’s a term of affection, though not one his father was at all aware existed.

“A bike?”

“Yeah, dude, a bike! It’s used, but it kicks ass. It’s a 1973 Honda 450cc road bike, and it runs great. My dad and I spent yesterday taking apart the engine and putting it back together. It was awesome. ”

“Did you ride it here?” I was excited. I’d never been on a motorcycle before. “Is it outside?”

“Dude, it’s winter. And, dude”—Richie was in his dude phase then—“I had to pick up these mopes,” he said, pointing at Johnny and Cheyenne.

Neither one was paying any attention to our conversation. Chey had her head down, tuning her bass to an electric tuner, and Johnny was sitting behind the keyboard, playing something with the volume low.

“Right,” I said to Richie. “But when the weather warms up, I want a ride.”

“Definitely,” he answered.