What Have We Done (82)

He smiles as she raises her head.

It’s then he notices it. Around her neck, the chain with the medallion.

An identical match to the Saint Christopher he wears around his neck.

She walks toward him, and he thinks she’s going to reach out her hand, say, “I hope you can forgive me.”

But she passes without a word.

And with everything he’s done—the chain of events he set in motion that hurt so many—he knows one thing: It’s what he deserves. But he’s determined to be better. For Annie and the others.





DONNIE


Donnie sits backstage at the 9:30 Club in Washington, D.C. He’s staring at the set list he’s written out.

He released the songs on the internet two days ago—well, he didn’t, his new manager did.

It’s risky doing a set without playing even one of Tracer’s Bullet’s hits. The crowd might revolt.

But if they want to hear Tracer’s Bullet, watch Tom shake his aging ass onstage, they should go buy a cruise ticket.

He examines the set list again.

He named the song collection—there’s no such things as “albums” anymore— Savior House.

Eight new songs from Donnie Danger: Drowning

Brother from Another Mother

That’s What She Said

Finding Mom

High in the Trees

Ghost Writer

Overboard

The Innocents

A knock comes on the dressing room door. In pops Pixie. He poached her from Tracer’s Bullet.

She was happy to be off the cruise-ship circuit and away from Tom. Her eyes are alight with pre-show energy. “I sneaked a peek at the crowd and—”

“Ah. I don’t wanna know. If there’s only ten people out there or a thousand, I’m gonna give it everything I got.”

Pixie doesn’t say anything for a moment, but she looks worried. “Before we go on, I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me? Hell, what for?”

“For including me. These songs. They’re…” Pixie’s eyes well up.

“Don’t you go gettin’ sentimental on me.”

She shakes it off. “Okay. If I’m not being sentimental, maybe I should ask whether you need that.”

Her eyes move to the bottle of Jack on the dressing room table.

“There’s the little tyrant I know and love,” Donnie jokes.

There’s a knock on the door. Their manager pops her head in. “Five minutes.”

Donnie stands up. Bounces on his feet. He gives Pixie a sideways grin, then grabs the bottle, takes a swig. “I don’t need it. But like Popeye said, I yam what I yam.”

Pixie frowns. Nods in resignation.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Donnie says. Pixie throws her arms around Donnie, then, without a word, heads out to the area behind the stage entrance.

Donnie stares at the set list again, at the last song, “The Innocents.” That’s how he chooses to remember them. Nico sitting on the monkey bars barefoot, cracking That’s what she said jokes; Jenna hiding her grief about her parents, protecting them from Derek Brood; Benny escaping into his books, being Donnie’s brother from another mother; even Arty, brutally bullied, manipulated by a man who claimed to understand his unconventional mind.

Donnie looks at himself in the mirror, which is bordered by lightbulbs like an old-time Hollywood dressing room. He doesn’t need self-affirmations to pump himself up. He has the songs.

Out loud, he says, “I’m not scared anymore, Benny.”

And in the reflection behind him appears a tall Black man. Donnie whirls around—no one’s there, of course. But in his head, he hears Ben’s voice: The world looks brand-new. Let’s go exploring.

Donnie gets his guitar from his tech on his way to the stage. The band’s in a circle with their hands stacked at the center, like a football team before kickoff.

Donnie doesn’t join in. He struts onto the stage, where he’s met with a roar louder than any other crowd he’s ever heard. The room is electric, and for the first time Donnie can remember he feels comfortable in his own skin. He doesn’t need to pretend to be Rock Star Donnie. It’s who he really is.

He heads to the mic and says, “This one’s for Annie. And the others.”





JENNA


“Girl, I can’t even. If I looked like you for my prom. I would’ve dumped my date and called Timothée Chalamet to come pick me up.” Blue Flowers, the Saks Fifth Avenue stylist, stands in the lounge area of the fitting room with her mouth agape. Willow’s perched on the platform in front of the trifolding mirror. It’s the fourth prom dress she’s tried on, and it’s exquisite.

She steps down, spins around, and looks to Jenna. “What do you think?”

Jenna feels a surge of emotion. Things have been better between them. Willow’s still traumatized by what happened. She’s seeing someone for occasional panic attacks and anxiety. But the only good

that came out of those awful twins entering Jenna’s life is that it brought her closer to her stepdaughter.

Jenna and Simon told Willow as much of the truth as they dared. It was more of a Netflix glamorized version, where Jenna was in the CIA—one of the good guys—and the people after her were dedicated to destroying truth, freedom, and the American way. She wasn’t sure Willow believed it all—Willow’s a smart girl—but she accepted the explanation without too many questions.