Scar Girl (The Scar Boys #2)(39)
Sensing a lull in the conversation, Cheyenne, without warning, launched into one of the few songs in our set that starts with the bass guitar. It was “Girl in the Band.” It’s an unwritten rule that when one of us starts playing, everyone else jumps on board. So we did. We tore through that song at what felt like twice the normal speed and then just kept playing songs, one after the other—it was kind of like chain-smoking—until an hour had gone by and we were all exhausted. It was pretty incredible.
The mood in the room had softened in the warm glow of good music. That feeling was, unfortunately, short-lived.
“Chey, can I talk to you outside for a minute?”
All three of us looked at Johnny; then Richie and I looked at Chey.
She nodded. They left.
“Did they have a fight or something on the ride over?” I asked Richie after they walked out. I don’t know why I asked; I felt so done with the whole thing. I guess I was like a junkie who couldn’t live without his fix.
“No, dude. Neither one of them said a word. It was like Superman’s secret fortress. Fro-zen.”
CHEYENNE BELLE
It was cold in Harry’s backyard. Witch’s tit cold. I didn’t have a jacket on, so I hugged my arms around my chest.
“Chey,” Johnny started. “I—” And he stopped. “I—” he started again, but didn’t get any further the second time.
For all the world, Johnny looked like he was going to cry again.
I had snifted some of my dad’s brandy before I left the house—snifting is how you drink brandy, did you know that?—and I had a nice little buzz going. I wasn’t drunk, but I wasn’t 100 percent in the moment, you know? I was also a little paranoid. I thought Johnny was going to come after me again for drinking, and I wondered if he could smell it on me. I was chewing gum all the time then, and I’d started wearing perfume to cover the smell, but I was freaked out just the same.
“Chey,” he started again.
“C’mon, Johnny, it’s freezing out here. What is it?” My tone of voice was pure bitch. I sounded like Theresa.
“It’s just that—” He stopped again, and now I was getting mad.
“Jesus Christ, will you just spit it out already?” And then it all came spewing out of me. It was like throwing up on Harry, but so much worse. That was only puke. Disgusting, but harmless. This was daggers, arrows, and bullets. “What is it? Are you going to yell at me for drinking again? Are you going to prove once and for all how uptight you really are? Am I playing the bass wrong again? Am I just not good enough for you? Will I ever be good enough for you? What. The fuck. Is it?!”
I’m sure Johnny thought I was still mad about our blowup at the Bitter End. But I knew the truth. This was about the pregnancy.
I know, I know. It doesn’t make any sense. Johnny didn’t know I had carried and lost his baby, our baby. He was in the dark, and that wasn’t his fault. I can’t defend or explain the way I acted. It’s just the way it was, you know?
I was letting myself fall deeper and deeper into this big fat hole I’d been digging, and pretty soon there wasn’t going to be any way to climb back out. Worst of all, I was pushing Johnny further away.
Anyway, he let out a heavy sigh, something he’d been doing more of lately, looked at the ground, and said, “Nothing. Never mind.”
“Whatever,” I mumbled, and started to head back inside.
“Wait.” This time, Johnny’s voice was decisive. “Here.” He thrust a small wrapped gift in my hands. He said, “Merry Christmas,” and went back into Harry’s basement.
HARBINGER JONES
I don’t know what they talked about outside, but Johnny came back in first and said he wasn’t feeling well and wanted to clear his head. “I’m going to walk home,” he told us. It was only about a ten-minute walk, but with Johnny’s leg and all, I was surprised.
“You sure you don’t want a ride?” Richie asked.
“No, I really need the fresh air.” He was already walking up the stairs before I could say anything.
Part of me thought the guy really did need to clear his head. But another part wondered if I should go after him, ask him what had happened with Chey, and I almost did.
I could feel the words start to form in my mouth: Johnny, wait. But there was no breath to push them out. I just didn’t have any more air in my lungs for this. It was a sin of omission, and it was an act of either exhaustion or cowardice. I plead guilty to both.
When Chey came back inside a minute later, she was pale like the December sky. I thought she might throw up on me again. Instead, she asked Richie to take her home, and he did.
CHEYENNE BELLE
I waited ’til I was alone in the bathroom at my house before opening the present Johnny had given me. It was a small, gold, engraved pick. It said in tiny type, For Cheyenne, my rhythm and melody, Merry Christmas, Johnny.
I wanted to die.
PART SEVEN,
JANUARY 1987
No one wants to be the one to say the party’s over.
—John Lennon
What do you miss most about home when you’re on the road?