Scar Girl (The Scar Boys #2)(46)

When she was about to go into surgery, my dad tried to get me to go wish her luck and tell her how much I loved her, but I wouldn’t do it. I just stayed in the hospital waiting room, reading comic books. My dad didn’t push it. He let me hang out there with my aunt.

My mom died during the operation.

For a long time, I thought it was my fault, that if I’d told her I loved her, maybe she would’ve lived.

I told my dad all that a few years later, and it was the only time, other than my mom’s funeral, that I saw him cry.





CHEYENNE BELLE


Things settled down for the next two months. We were back to a pretty routine schedule of rehearsing, and when I wasn’t rehearsing, I was at the bookstore. I’d kept the drinking mostly under control, only occasionally letting it get bad, and was feeling pretty good about things.

Jeff kept pressuring me to crash at his apartment. I said yes sometimes, but a lot of times I said no. I felt mature and grown-up with Jeff, but I also felt pretty bad.

The only boy I’d ever slept with before Jeff was Johnny, and that ended with me having a miscarriage and him losing his leg. I mean, he didn’t lose his leg because we had sex, but in my mind, everything was all twisted together in one of those crazy tight knots that you can never seem to unravel, you know?

The first time Jeff and I were together—and, really, most of the times we had sex—I was so drunk that I barely remembered it. I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach that was more than nerves and less than nausea. There was no real pleasure in it for me, other than knowing that I could still please someone else. And for whatever reason, that mattered to me. I felt broken, and being able to please someone else made me, on some level, feel whole again. I guess that’s kind of messed up.

I was also terrified that Harry and Johnny would find out. They would’ve both freaked out.

But then again, maybe not.

The Scar Boys was a completely different band than it used to be. We were still tight musically—in some ways, tighter than ever—but the joy had gone out of playing. It was turning into a job.

I told that to Jeff on one of the few nights I did stay in the city.

“That’s good,” he said. “It should feel like a job. You guys need to understand what a slog this is going to be.” Slog. Another Jeff word.

He was standing in the kitchen of his apartment—he called it a railroad flat, whatever that was—wearing only tighty whities and a smile. I had kind of hoped that grown men wore something better under their clothes, but maybe that was only in movies.

The apartment was long and narrow, with hardwood floors and exposed-brick walls. There were framed concert posters everywhere, giving the space just the right amount of cool. It’s exactly what a girl like me thought a New York City apartment was supposed to look like. Except for the roaches. Lots of roaches. More roaches than should be allowed to live in one place. Jeff spread this white powder called Borax along the floorboards to kill them, but I’m not sure it worked. It might’ve helped if he’d ever bothered to clean a dish in his sink.

“But if this isn’t fun, why does anyone do it?” I asked.

“Have you ever worked a real job?”

“You know I work at the bookstore.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure that sitting around all day and reading books and talking about James Joyce Oates or whoever is work.”

“That’s not how it is at all in a boo—”

“Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”

There was a bit of Johnny in Jeff. When a conversation was closed, it was closed. Because he was older, I went along with it. Plus, he let me drink when we were at his place.

“When are you going to get us another gig?” I asked.

“Funny you should bring that up.”

I waited.

“I just found out today and was waiting for the right time to tell you.”

“Yeah?”

“I got you a gig opening for another band.”

He was having fun stringing this out, and I let him.

“A pretty cool band.”

I waited.

“At a pretty cool club.”

The long pause this time was more than I could take. “Well?”

“Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, May seventh, eighth, and ninth, the Scar Boys will be opening for . . .”

“Oh, c’mon!”

“Drum roll, please.”

“Jeff!”

“The Fleshtones. Three nights at Irving Plaza.”

“What?” I was blown away. “Really?”

“Really. And it wasn’t an easy gig to get. Usually, the label wants that spot for another band on their roster, but I talked them down in price.”

“How much?”

“You guys are doing it for free.”

I didn’t care, and I’m pretty sure the other guys weren’t going to care, either. I ran over to Jeff and gave him a monster hug. “We have to tell the other guys right now!”

“No, we can let that wait ’til tomorrow.” He looked me in the eyes, took me by the hand, and started to lead me to the end of the apartment with the bed.

“Wait,” I said. He stopped and looked at me again. “I need more wine.”