The Accidentals(24)

“Musicians never have to grow up,” my mother once said, when I’d been begging for a reason for his absence. It was one of the few little crumbs my mother had ever offered on the subject of Frederick.

I put a half gallon of milk into the cart, and wonder what the hell had happened between them. And if I’ll ever trust Frederick enough to ask him.





Later that day, the house fills up with musicians. I listen from the landing as Frederick greets them.

“Party’s over, Ernie! Now we go back to work. Jesus, Art. I don’t know about that mustache.”

“It’s growing on me,” comes the answer.

The front door makes another beep, and then the guys downstairs greet someone named Henry. The infamous Henry—my father’s punching bag. I can’t help but eavesdrop as they catch up with each other.

“Let’s get a picture,” Henry says. “I haven’t put Freddy’s face on Instagram in weeks.”

“Jesus,” my father grumbles. “The fucking world will stop turning if you don’t update Instagram.”

“Shut up and put your arm around Ernie. Your other arm. I don’t want to be able to see the hand that’s supposed to be injured.”

“You could just injure him for real to make it credible,” someone says, and I hear my father’s laugh.

I take my time drying my hair and straightening out my belongings. When I run out of things to do upstairs, I put my wallet in my back pocket and descend as quietly as possible. But when I come into view at the bottom of the stairs, all conversation stops.

My father clears his throat. “Guys, this is Rachel. Be nice to her. She’s not used to dealing with hooligans such as yourselves.” But the joke falls flat, because four guys are staring at me with undisguised curiosity.

“You should see your faces,” I whisper.

The guy with the shaved head recovers first, dropping his eyes. “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been staring at Freddy’s mug for a couple decades. I never knew he’d look better as a girl.”

“What did I say about being nice?” my father complains.

“You said be nice to her,” he points out. “Didn’t say a thing about being nice to you.”

“The smartass is Ernie. He plays the bass,” my father says. But I already know that. Ernie appears in the liner notes of every album since the very beginning. In interviews, Frederick refers to Ernie as “my best friend.” They both grew up in Kansas City, then they went to Claiborne College together. And Ernie’s shiny head is visible in most of the music videos.

“Nice to meet you, Ernie,” I say. He has soulful brown eyes and wide shoulders.

“And this is Henry,” Frederick says, indicating the only preppy guy in the group. “Don’t let him boss you around.”

But Henry only rolls his eyes and then shakes my hand. “I work for Freddy’s management company. Your father pays me to boss him around.”

After being introduced to a rumpled drummer and a young keyboardist, I flee. “I’m going for a walk,” I say, sliding into my shoes beside the door.

My father follows me out onto the front stoop. “Sorry about that,” he says.

“It’s okay.”

“Just to orient you, the beach is that way.” He points down the block. “We’re on 16th Street right now. North is higher numbers, south is lower numbers. Wait…” He pulls his wallet out. “This is for you.”

It’s a credit card with my name on it. “What for?”

He shrugs. “T-shirts, coffee. Those groceries you’re so fond of. Whatever it is bored girls need on a summer’s day.”

I turn the card over in my hand. “Thanks.”

“There’s a bookstore on Manhattan and 9th. You’ll see.”

“Cool. I’ll see you later.” I walk down the little front walk. He’s still watching me.

“Do you have your phone?” he calls.

The question hits me in a funny way. For the first time, he sounds a hell of a lot like my mom. I turn around. “Why? Is this a dangerous neighborhood?”

He laughs. “No.”

“Then bye.” I walk away without looking back.





It’s lovely to be alone. I haven’t been alone, with nothing to do, in a very long time. I walk down Manhattan Avenue looking into the shop windows. At least half the storefronts are upscale boutiques, each with a beautiful window display.

I stop to admire some bathing suits, their design managing to be both sporty and sexy at once. The price tags are mostly turned face down, but one is visible. $260, it reads. As I smile, I feel my mother smile along with me. We used to amuse each other with outrageous price tags.

My mother’s nose crinkled up whenever she laughed.

Strangely, I feel her presence over my shoulder as I walk all over Manhattan Beach. As far as I know, she’d never been to California. But together, we notice how fit and sporty everyone looks here, and how California smells different than Florida. It’s saltier, drier.

I make my way down to the beach itself. The sun has really warmed things up, and I sit down on the sand. The bookstore will be my next stop, but I realize I have another question for my new friend Jake. I tap the texting app and try Jake’s email address, in case they’re linked. Hey, it’s Rachel Kress. Do you know if there are any books I should read for Sr. Lit? Heading to a bookstore. Thx!