More Than Good Enough(12)

“Let’s do some movies,” he said.

I brought out the video camera I’d borrowed from class. Dad was posing like the Hulk, which was pretty hilarious. I took a few practice shots, but honestly, I had no idea what

I was doing.

“Mr. Hollywood,” he said. “I was in a movie once.”

He showed me an envelope stuffed with black-and-white publicity stills. It was for a documentary about life in the Everglades. He gave me the whole speech about his rock band, how they’d played a special show just for the film crew. The footage was never used. The director only wanted traditional shots of the Miccosukees—elder ladies stringing beads, kids paddling a kayak, bare-chested men hacking through the swamp with machetes. That kind of shit.

“What happened to the concert footage?” I asked.

Dad shoved the pictures in the envelope. “Gone.”

“Ever think about getting the band together? That would be awesome.”

He was looking at a crack in the wall, toward the west, the land of the dead. “Son, there’s nobody left.”

I didn’t get it. “Then maybe I could play bass with you?”

“Maybe,” he said.

I made the drive on Sunday and hung around outside Churchill’s, but Michelle was late as usual. No point waiting for her sorry ass any longer. I fumbled for the blunt rolled in my sock, sparked up behind the double-decker bus (it’s always parked in the same place, facing Second Avenue). Checked the time for the umpteenth time: 11:11 p.m. Make a wish.

One of the DJs had already dragged their gear into the street—portable amps and snakelike cables, milk crates stuffed with old-school records: Thrilling Chilling Sounds in Stereo, The Song of the Humpback Whale.

“Hey, Trenton.”

Nobody called me that anymore. Unless it was she-who-shall-remain-nameless.

My ex was all skanked out in her DJ getup: silver gladiator sandals laced to the knee, a stretchy tube top that reminded me of tinfoil. In other words, hot in a desperate sort of way. But I refused to think of Michelle in that category anymore. Or any category.

“I like your style,” Michelle said. “Seriously. I’m feeling the wilderness effect. What’s that thing on your head?”

“A trapper hat,” I mumbled.

“And what are you trapping in downtown Miami?”

Her backup crew laughed like this was the funniest joke ever. Of course, things are always funny when you’re wasted.

Here’s what I wanted to say:

1. You suck.

2. Thanks for destroying my life. Why did I waste my entire Christmas break trying to make sense of this f*cked-up relationship?

3. I just pretended to like all those fake-ass bands on your stupid mixtape. I mean, come on. Who’s dumb enough to attempt a techno mashup of the Braveheart soundtrack? That shit is classic.



Of course, I didn’t say any of this.

“Hey.” Michelle plucked the blunt from my fingers. “How’s it going?”

How’s it going? How did she think it’s going?

“Do you want your mix back?” I asked.

“My what?” She sucked in a mouthful of smoke.

“You know. The mixtape you made for me.”

“Mixtape?”

Silence.

“You can keep it.” Michelle coughed.

There was nothing else to say.

I filled the emptiness with something idiotic. “It’s just that … you worked so hard on it. I mean, it’s really tight.”

“I just sort of threw it together,” Michelle was saying.

This was the girl who told me about exploding stars, how everything on Earth is made from their death—even the iron in our blood. Meanwhile, her groupies were passing around my blunt.

“I enjoyed the idea of playing bass guitar … more than actually playing it,” this dude was saying. He watched me watching them.

“Just trying to figure out where you’re going with this silent treatment,” Michelle said. “I’m not, like, a mean person, you know? We could have an actual conversation. Doesn’t have to be super long or anything … ”

“Guess what? I’m ignoring you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

Michelle heaved a long sigh. “What sucks is that you used to be cool, right? And then you go acting all weird and stuff.”

“Just leave me alone, okay?” I started fast-walking toward the entrance. Michelle lurched in front of me. Her friends hooted as we shuffled around, left, right. Left.

“There’s this vegan place,” she said. “It’s literally next door. They’ve got empanadas.”

“Vegan empanadas?”

Michelle pinned me against the wall, so close I smelled the “premium malt beverage” leaking out of her pores. “Man, you’re so judgmental,” she said.

She’s the one who was judging.

“So, we’re doing this or what?” Michelle clapped three times, like it was a magic trick.

If only she would disappear.

Okay. Confession time. I was this close to saying yes, I’ll go with you to this empanada place, follow you just like your brainless dog.

I didn’t want to be her dog anymore.

Michelle stood there, waiting for me to humiliate myself. The first band was warming up. I could feel the bass rumble all the way from the parking lot—a stuttery solo. It sounded like a conversation that couldn’t get started.