Scar Girl (The Scar Boys #2)(40)

HARBINGER JONES


Really, I don’t miss a lot. I mean, I love my parents and all, but I almost never feel like I want to be back there. I want to be here, playing music. Period.





CHEYENNE BELLE


I miss my sisters.

When I’m gone for a long time and then go back home, it’s like everyone and everything has changed. I mean, I’ll leave and Katherine will be into dolls and cartoons, and I’ll come back and she’s into pop music and makeup. (Bad pop music and too much makeup. I need to get Theresa the hell away from her.) It’s kind of mind-blowing.





RICHIE MCGILL


My dad. He’s all alone since my mom died. I wish I was there for him more. But he’s proud of me, and that means everything.





HARBINGER JONES


For the first time ever, the Scar Boys had a gig on New Year’s Eve.

It turns out that New Year’s Eve gigs are hard to come by. They pay like three times what a normal gig pays, and every band, every accordion player, every novelty act featuring pigeons and balloons and scarves, wants one.

Our gig was thanks to our new manager, Jeff. We’d been clients for maybe three weeks, and already it was paying dividends.

A club in Tribeca, a part of the city we’d never really explored, had a last-minute opening. The guitar player for one of four bands on the bill, Here’s the Beef, had been arrested. The poor guy was going to be welcoming in 1987 from a jail cell. “Possession,” Jeff said. “Let that be a lesson to you.” Jeff loved to say stuff like that: “Let that be a lesson to you.” “I hope you learned something here.” “Give a man a fish and he eats dinner; teach a man to fish and he eats for a lifetime.” Truth is, after a while that crap wore on my nerves. I think all four of us looked at Jeff as a kind of kung fu master. He was wise. We were idiots. Only half of that turned out to be true.

We were scheduled to go on at 1:00 a.m., which for a New York City New Year’s Eve party is actually pretty good. The only better slot is to be the band onstage at midnight. But it also meant we had a lot of time to sit around and wait.

Johnny and Chey were camped out at the bar, talking quietly, while Richie and I watched the other bands. I decided to take a cigarette break at 11:55, making sure I was outside when midnight came. Johnny and Cheyenne had seemed to reach some kind of truce, and I didn’t really want to watch them ring in the new year with a kiss.





CHEYENNE BELLE


Every time a person thinks she hits bottom, she finds a new flight of stairs leading down. The stairs that New Year’s Eve were especially long.

It’s funny, because the night actually started out pretty good. We got there early, unloaded our gear, and checked out the club. It was called the One More Chance Saloon—the name was a joke on something called the Last Chance Saloon. Or at least that’s what Harry said.

Anyway, it was a smallish, square-shaped room with a tiny stage up front. There was a bar on the left-hand side and a balcony on three sides looking down on a dance floor. There were already a bunch of people there, and the vibe, like it always is before midnight on New Year’s Eve, was good.

The first band on the bill was just getting started.

“Hey.” Johnny was standing next to me but had his eyes on the stage when he spoke.

“Hey,” I answered. He and I hadn’t talked since my freak-out in Harry’s backyard, and I felt pretty bad about it. “Look, Johnny,” I began. I wanted to apologize and wanted to thank him for the guitar pick, but he held up his palm and turned to face me.

“Hi,” he said, extending his other hand. “I’m Johnny McKenna.” He smiled. It was the old Johnny smile. The smile I fell in love with. “Can I buy you a drink?”

And just like that, a month of feeling bad about us was wiped away. Well, not wiped away, but watered down.

“I would love a drink,” I said, shaking his hand. I led him to the bar.

The club was pretty lax about carding. Whether that was because we were in one of the bands or because it was New Year’s Eve, I don’t know. Either way, they barely glanced at our fake IDs and served us each a beer.

Johnny and I made small talk. We talked about the club and how we both felt at home in places like that. We talked about Richie’s new motorcycle and what we thought that might mean for his skateboard. We talked about Jeff.

“Has Harry seemed distant lately?” Johnny asked when there was a lull in the conversation.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s like his heart hasn’t really been in the band lately.”

I couldn’t tell if Johnny was upset, worried, or just curious about Harry, but I didn’t really care. Talk of Harry was going to ruin the mood, so I steered the conversation in a different direction.

“Thanks for the pick.” I was wearing the pick he’d given me for Christmas on a silver chain around my neck, and I showed him. Johnny leaned over and gave me a slow and gentle kiss on the cheek, letting his lips linger for just an extra second. He pulled back and smiled. It was a beautiful smile.

I don’t know how long we were sitting there, but I saw that my glass was empty, while Johnny’s was mostly full. I flagged the bartender, and she poured me another.

We kept talking, the beer and Johnny both giving me a warm feeling inside. We talked about how well he had done with his physical therapy. We talked about my new job at the bookstore and how much I liked it.