Ballads of Suburbia (12 page)

A
DRIAN WOULD ALWAYS SAY THAT I
came up with the idea to turn his scrapbook of newspaper articles about the darker side of suburbia into a script, but it wasn't really a stroke of brilliance, just a comment I happened to make at Scoville one afternoon.

I'd been avoiding Adrian at the park all week because I was still grappling with how I felt about him. Should I try to be his friend? His make-out partner? Would I end up getting hurt if my feelings grew more serious? But on Friday, Maya and Christian disappeared to have another one of their friends-versus-more-than-friends debates. This meant I could spend my afternoon alone watching Liam skate by the statue or I could join Adrian, Quentin, and Cass at the bottom of the hill. I decided that spending more time with Adrian might help me figure things out.

Adrian had the notebook on his lap when I approached, so I asked if I could look at it again as an excuse to sit down beside him. He reminded me that I couldn't read the ballads until I wrote my own, but the five-subject notebook was half filled with newspaper clippings, so I had plenty of interesting reading.

After learning how a bunch of moms in suburban California were lobbying to put all the local sex offenders on an island,
I remarked under my breath, “Rapist Island,
that
would make quite a movie.”

Adrian jumped to his combat-booted feet, declaring me a genius. “Kara, that's a great idea. We should write a script out of all these articles!”

“I was just talking to myself,” I mumbled, but I celebrated on the inside, thrilled to have impressed him again. Besides, school had been out for two weeks, and sitting around smoking cigarettes and the occasional bowl at Scoville was already starting to get boring. Writing a script would make for an interesting summer project.

Adrian led us to the library across the street from the park to look for books on screenwriting and to a store to pick up another notebook. We returned to Scoville and I quickly familiarized myself with screenwriting format while Adrian culled his notebook for the perfect story. He went with a football game where a girl had actually gotten beheaded when the bleachers collapsed.

“Start with the head,” Adrian instructed me, “that's a strong image.”

Adrian read what I wrote, affirming, “That's
awesome!
”

Quentin flipped through articles, his black braids falling in his face. “Next maybe we can do date rape at an out-of-control party. That's a suburban classic.”

Cass contemplated Quentin's suggestion, exhaling from her cigarette. “It is, but we need to think about how to tie all these incidents together into one story. Are the kids who were at this football game really going to go to a party after they just witnessed a girl getting beheaded?”

“Sure they would,” Adrian insisted. “It's the suburbs, the land of ignoring your problems. And that's exactly what we want to illustrate in this script.”

Cass inclined her head in agreement and recommended to Quentin, “Look for the one that happened in Minnesota. That was particularly violent.”

 

We had fun that afternoon, but I was surprised when Adrian pulled me aside before I left Scoville and said, “So, there's this new place to see punk shows. A bowling alley in Logan Square, the Fireside. Wanna go see some bands with us tonight?”

Even though Adrian had both of his hands on my shoulders when he asked me and he stood close enough that if he lowered his head six inches he'd be kissing me, I knew this was not a date. He'd said “us,” meaning Quentin and Cass, too.

I wanted to become closer friends with the three of them and I always wanted to see some bands, so I said yes. For purely non-crush-related reasons. I mean, would I have brought my little brother along otherwise?

T
HE
F
IRESIDE
B
OWL
WAS A SIGHT
to behold. Giant, tacky red-and-white tiles covered the side of the building. A large red bowling pin loomed above the doorway, stating redundantly, “Bowling,” and though it was probably secured well, the threat of it crashing down seemed imminent, due to the worn state of the establishment.

I'm sure many a driver innocently cruising down Fullerton before a show at the Fireside wondered why droves of scruffy kids with colorful Mohawks and liberty spikes were lining up to go bowling. You didn't get advance tickets to Fireside concerts, you just showed up. If the band was popular, you showed up really early, claiming your spot on the grubby concrete outside of the venue, which you would trade in for your place right in front of the band. If you got there early enough, you would probably see the band unloading their equipment while you waited in line outside. There was no stage entrance, no backstage, absolutely no border between audience and band. It was the way a punk show should be.

Adrian, Quentin, Cass, Liam, and I passed beneath the huge bowling pin, paid our five bucks, got our hands marked so that supposedly we couldn't drink-Adrian had a beer in his mitts within minutes-and emerged into the bowling alley. It was still a functional bowling alley. The bands played on a small platform
next to the first two lanes and sometimes people bowled at the other end while the show went on.

Adrian led me toward the ball return between lanes four and five, helped me up, and then climbed beside me. We stood there with our feet uncomfortably hovering over the gap where the balls usually rested. We held hands the whole time. At first, I thought it was because I kept wobbling, my toes and heels the only things that had something solid to rest on, but he didn't let go once I gained balance. He held my hand and swigged from his illegal beer and occasionally shouted something into Quentin's ear. Much like with the kiss on the head, I didn't know what to make of Adrian's gesture. Excitement would bubble inside of me for a moment, but then I'd hear Maya say,
“Adrian doesn't do serious.”
Instead of analyzing the situation, I forced myself to focus on the concert.

Cass and Liam left us right away, pushing their way into the pit. I watched them more than I watched the bands. Cass's dreads wriggled like snakes and Liam's skinny body collided with the shoulders and elbows of bigger, burlier guys.

Eventually, as much as I enjoyed having my hand in Adrian's, I wanted to be out in the middle of it all. I nudged Adrian in the side and he leaned down so I could shout into his ear. “I'm gonna go in the pit!”

He shouted back, “You're gonna go in the pit?”

I nodded enthusiastically.

Psyched by my decision, he turned to Quentin and shouted, “Pit!”

But Quentin shook his head and remained perched on the ball return, his toes tapping along with the beat.

Adrian jumped down and held his hand out to me. I steadied myself on his strong forearm as I leapt to the sticky floor. Then I led the way, shoving through the crowd to the place where it was most frenzied.

I'd been in my share of mosh pits by then; a good thing, because this one was by far the most intense. If I didn't know how to keep my balance, I'd have been flying around like a balloon that somebody had suddenly let the air out of. I lost Adrian to the tornado of people almost immediately (though I did see Cass fly by in a flash like the lady on the bicycle in
The Wizard of Oz
). I fell to the ground twice and got helped up by strangers. There were enough girls and nicer boys in the pit on that occasion. A few weeks later, I would learn the hard way not to expect to be helped up at a hardcore punk show when the pit is all boys with bulging biceps and shaved heads. I acquired a split lip that night, but on our first outing to the Fireside, I came out merely bruised.

After the last song, we hit up a diner a few blocks away. Adrian continued to hold my hand beneath the table, so I knew what happened at the show wasn't a fluke. Post-nourishment, we headed to Shelly's even though it was after one a.m.

A smattering of people passed a bowl around on the front porch. Harlan remained ever observant despite his heavy pot handicap. If my brother or Cass noticed my and Adrian's handholding, they'd shrugged it off, but Harlan was on it.

“I knew you guys would hook up!”

My cheeks started to get hot, but they quickly grew cold again when Adrian dismissed Harlan's remark. “I have no idea what you're talking about,” he said with an inscrutable expression. But then he asked me if I wanted to see if there was any beer left inside. Since Quentin and Cass didn't follow us, I knew something was up.

When we found the keg bone-dry, I grabbed two shot glasses from the bar, told Adrian, “I know where there's vodka,” and led him up to Shelly's bedroom.

Adrian leaned against Shelly's bed. After I produced the bottle of vodka from underneath it, he grinned at me. “What do we
do now? Pillow fight?” He grabbed a lacy pillow from the bed, smacking me lightly in the leg with it. “Truth or dare?”

“What do you think this is, a slumber party?”

He smirked suggestively. “Maybe.”

Wow, I'd figured maybe we'd talk about what was going on between us once we were alone, but maybe he just wanted to make out. Not entirely sure where I stood with that, I uncapped the bottle of Absolut and said, “Okay. Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Adrian answered automatically.

“Umm…” I perused the room for inspiration. At a loss, I sat on the floor across from him and pushed the bottle his way. “Do three shots. Right in a row. No chaser.”

When Adrian rolled his eyes I remembered how wasted he'd been the first time we met. Obviously this would be no problem for him. He did the shots without so much as flinching. Completely sober, he stared into my eyes. “Truth or dare?”

Knowing I wouldn't get off nearly as easily, I quickly replied, “Truth.”

All he asked with a simple smile was, “Did you have a good time tonight?”

“Yeah, I'm just bruised as hell.” I rubbed my left shoulder and arm. His hand followed my path, lingering on my forearm. His touch sizzled. “Is that it? That's all you wanna know?”

“Do I get a part two?”

“I guess.” I snagged the bottle of vodka and did two quick shots, wincing from the burn.

“Pain relief?” he quipped.

“Yeah,” I lied. Truthfully, I was trying to quell my anticipation. I wanted to touch him like he'd touched me, maybe even kiss him, but I didn't have the guts to do it. I really hoped his next question would involve asking me out.

But consistently unpredictable, Adrian's hand dove under the thin fabric of my long-sleeved shirt and grazed the raised red
lines beneath. “Why do you do it?” His voice was low, inappropriately seductive.

I jerked my arm away. “That's none of your damn business. If that's your question, I'll take a dare instead.”

“Fine.” He rocked himself forward and pressed his lips against mine. Hard. His tongue probed my mouth. His teeth scraped my bottom lip. All very intentional. All very good. I was truly breathless when he pulled back and sat cross-legged in front of me, nothing touching but our kneecaps.

I blinked for a moment and repressed an urge to stammer. This was a test. I needed to act as cool as he did. “Your turn. Truth or dare.”

He nodded, obviously impressed by my recovery. “Truth.”

This time my gaze fell upon his arms. I gestured at the “Thrown” tattoo on his right forearm and then the “Away” on his left. “What's it mean and where'd you get it?”

“That's two questions.”

“You asked two questions.”

“You didn't answer one.”

“I took the dare instead,” I pointed out, offended.

“Was that a dare?” he retorted, mock offended.

“Fine. Tell me the story behind the tattoo and I'll answer
your
second question.”

Adrian inclined his head slightly. “Deal. I'll even tell you the real story, what I wrote in the notebook. My ballad, as you would call it.

“I got the tattoo in New Orleans. I went down there last year.” He inhaled sharply through his nose and pushed his long hair over his shoulders. “I had a big blowout with my parents. My
adoptive
parents. They kicked me out, so I went to where I was born to try to find my real parents.”

“Did you?”

Adrian didn't answer directly. “I got ‘Thrown Away' tattooed
because nobody wants me. Not the people who conceived me and not the people who worked so hard to get their white American baby. “Cause those are the hardest kind to get, you know.” He flashed a sarcastic, game-show-host grin. “The tattoo is a reminder that even though nobody wants me, I'm fuckin' here anyway.”

He looked at me expectantly; time to keep up my end of the bargain. I didn't have a grand story like his. I discovered cutting through becoming blood sisters with Stacey, sure, but that was so cliché and really had nothing to do with why I kept doing it.

I glanced at my left arm, visualizing all the little lines that crisscrossed my skin beneath my sleeve. “Maybe I should get a tattoo instead. I just don't have words or an image to express the feelings I'm trying to release yet. Sometimes I hope the scars will form letters and spell it out.”

“I know.” He nodded and tapped the thick, black
a
in the middle of “Away.” I saw faint lines like a fragile web behind the tattoo, hidden by the prominence of the dark ink.

“You did it, too?”

“Still do sometimes.”

I was awed into silence, relating to this boy on a level I'd never dreamed possible.

“A lot of people do it,” Adrian said.

Thinking of the last person I'd told about cutting, I replied, “Not Maya.”

“If she doesn't, she wishes she could or she's got something else she does to cope.” It was a bizarre gift he had, zoning in on the ugly truths people couldn't admit. “Cass does it,” he informed me. Maya hadn't told me that, but they kept family matters private. Adrian brought me into his tightly knit group when he added, “Quentin, too. That's why you're one of us.”

A blood bond without the ritual Stacey and I performed.

“And because you're smart as hell and you can write. First
your theory about ballads. Then the script you started today, wow.” Adrian's eyes shone like a proud parent's, but the devilish gleam broke through. He raised the stakes, surprising me like he had throughout our game of truth or dare. “That's why you're my girl,” he said with the slightest curl to his lips, so I couldn't gauge the emotion behind his smile.

I didn't know if he meant I was his girlfriend or I was his friend who he identified with or what. But I decided I didn't care and kissed him again. I liked kissing him. I decided that I would spend my summer with Adrian, going to shows, writing the “Stories of Suburbia” script, and, most important, kissing.