Scar Girl (The Scar Boys #2)(48)

“Welcome, kiddies, one and all,” he said, holding his arms open wide like he was Tommy, from the movie, like we were his disciples.

“So what’s going on?” I asked.

“Do you want to tell them?” Jeff turned to look at Cheyenne. The way he looked at her, the way she looked back—no, wait, strike that. Not the way she looked back—the way she let him look at her, I could tell there was something between them. I shot glances around the table and saw that Johnny and Richie could tell, too.

Johnny, who hadn’t been saying a whole lot lately, put his hand on his journal and gritted his teeth. “So Cheyenne knows this news, whatever it is, already?”

“I got here first, and Jeff couldn’t wait to tell me,” she said without missing a beat. Jeff smirked at that, as if he was thinking, Good little girl. It was like a billboard that said, I own this one, and it made the mood at the table a million times worse.

Richie, being Richie, said, “So what’s the news? Is it okay to shit where we eat now?”

Johnny let out one loud cackle, a laugh of derision, hatred, and disrespect. It echoed among our water glasses and died a slow death.

“Easy there, champ,” Jeff said. “Let’s not ruin what is a happy moment for our little quintet.”

“Quartet,” Johnny shot back. “There are only four of us in this band. Right, Chey?”

Cheyenne didn’t answer. Whatever was happening with her and Jeff, she’d been found out, and she was embarrassed.

I took a deep breath, once again tired of all the crap. “So what’s this big news?”

That’s when Jeff told us about the three nights opening for the Fleshtones at Irving Plaza. It was big news. By far the biggest news we’d ever had. And no one reacted. Not me, not Johnny or Chey, not even Richie. I think it put Jeff back on his heels, because he tried to keep selling the news to us.

“I’ve got some label guys coming out to see the show. I won’t say it’s like an audition, but you guys nail it and we may have an in to cut a demo for one of the big fish.”

He wanted us to think this was going to be our big break, and it was hard not to agree. The relentless hours of practice, the gig after gig after gig, the years of sweat, tears, and fears had been to prepare for these three dates in May. Part of me wanted to do a little dance of joy, but given the pall cast over the table—it was toxic, like Toxic Avenger toxic—the only thing that felt right was a low-key response. The dysfunction of the Scar Boys was like a living, pulsating thing.

I looked at Cheyenne. She was staring at her food, stealing occasional peeks at the rest of us, mostly Johnny.

Johnny gave Chey a long look, his face a chalkboard with nothing on it, impossible to read. Except for his eyes. His eyes said it all. He opened his book, started to write something, then thought better of it and closed the cover. I wanted to reach out and tell him it was all okay, but it felt like the time for that had passed. “Can we go now?” he asked me. I looked at Richie, who nodded.

“Yeah, okay. Rehearsal tomorrow at my house at the usual time, Chey, okay?”

She gave the barest nod of her head. I thought she was going to cry.

Jeff, as if to prove some kind of point, put his arm around Chey while we were getting up. What a jerk.

On the ride home from the city, I finally cracked.

“Hey, John,” I asked, “you okay?”

He didn’t answer, just stared out the window at the passing road. I didn’t try again.





CHEYENNE BELLE


I wanted to crawl under a rock at that lunch.

Jeff was being so obvious, it’s like he was peeing on his territory to mark it, and I was his territory. I felt peed on. He didn’t do anything like kiss me or even hug me, but he made it clear we were together.

Richie made a comment about “not shitting where you eat,” which was Jeff’s big thing after the New Year’s Eve gig, and Johnny laughed. It was the first time in weeks I’d heard Johnny laugh. But it wasn’t a happy laugh. It sounded mean.

Anyway, I took the train home after that and just wanted to slink to my bed and fall asleep. I made a point of walking past my snoring dad and his unfinished snifter of brandy, thinking for the first time that drinking would only make me feel worse.

I was wrong. I had Theresa for that.

She was in our room when I got home, talking on the phone. I ignored her, flung myself on my bed, and smushed a pillow over my ears. Didn’t help; I could still hear her side of the conversation.

“Yeah, a miscarriage.”

What? I thought.

“I know, she likes to pretend she’s high and mighty, but she’s a slut just like the rest of us. . . . I don’t know, one of the deformed losers in her band. . . . No, not the one with the fucked-up face, the three-legged stool.”

I couldn’t believe it. I lifted my head up and looked at her.

“Are you serious?”

She covered the receiver with her hand. “Do you mind? I’m on the phone.”

“You’re on the phone talking about my incredibly personal shit.”

She looked at me blankly, just sitting there, chewing her cud. “So?”

“So it’s my business. How would you like it if I told people about your stillbirth?”

“You mean you didn’t?”