Blazed (9 page)

Now I'm salivating.

“Damn,” I say, walking toward it. “This is amazing. I've never played one of these before.”

“You play?” Savannah goes. “So do I.”

“Have you tried it yet?” I ask.

“I have.”

“And?”

“It sounds beautiful. It's tuned perfectly.”

I glance back at the two of them, and my father looks creased because I've butted in.

“May I?” I ask.

“Ummmm, sure, Jaime,” my father goes. “Savannah, why don't you come downstairs with me. I want to run over some things with you and Jackie now that I'm back.”

“Sure,” she says.

“Great.”

“Jaime, have fun,” she says.

The two of them leave, but they don't shut the door behind them.

Me, I take my seat on the bench and strip off my parka and stretch my arms and fingers. My knuckles crack. I have no idea what I'm going to play, so I warm up to get going. I've always done this one hand at a time. I gently set my right fingers down and go up two octaves. I go through the two octaves, like, ten times with each hand.

After that, I go through all twelve scales and play them in tenths. Then I increase the speed. I do this for about ten minutes and it feels great. All the other shit from the past two days, it feels irrelevant at the moment. Right now, it's just me and this piano. Me making my life art the way I do with the poems and the videos.

Once I'm done warming up, I think for a moment, before deciding to play that Youth Lagoon song “Montana.”

I learned it right after I heard it first. I even played it once for that whore I was with. It was really cool when it happened. We were all alone together this one Saturday afternoon, and she was wearing a blue skirt with black socks
pulled to her knees and a red cardigan buttoned up with a white collar shirt underneath it. She hopped onto the piano at my house and lay across it, resting her head on her hand, and asked if I'd play her something amazing.

Without hesitating, I went straight into “Montana.”

She didn't know the song, but she really liked it when I played it for her.

She really did.

She smiled all the way through as I sang, and when I was done, she leaned down and lifted my chin and pulled my face right up to hers and we French-kissed.

It was the boss.

She was the best once.

Now she's just a stupid whore.

I count off and begin. Hearing my own fingers making this gorgeous sound gives me goose bumps.

I start singing. . . .

“Your honesty was killing me, the monsters in the room were all dancing to the music all around us . . .”

Right as I'm about to slip into the haunting chorus, another voice cuts in.

I stop playing. I'm totally put off. I turn around.

Standing in the doorway is this extremely pretty black chick who looks a little older than me.

She's probably my height, like five-seven. She's got this black hair that falls to her shoulders. The right side of it is shaved down and the four Black Flag bars are cut into it. Her eyes are intense. Her body looks pretty tight.
It's lean and fit and she's got a nice pair of tits.

A large earring hangs far from each ear, and they're different. A large gold loop with the Wu-Tang logo dangles from her left ear, and this silver-and-white feather hangs from her right. Around her neck is a large black necklace with some kind of imitation animal tooth tied to it.

She's wearing a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled to her shoulders.
SALEM
is written in black Sharpie across the front. She's also got on these tiny black shorts and a pair of black socks that are pulled past her knees. Bright-red Keds with black shoelaces cover her feet.

And her septum is pierced. It's hot. I like everything I'm seeing a lot. But I'm still fucking irritated about what she did. And I tell her this.

I go, “That's really fucking rude, ya know.”

“Excuse me?”

“What you just did. This wasn't a duet.”

She makes a face. “Whatever. I was going to make what you were doing better.”

“Is that right?”

“It is.”

Now she smiles at me. And me, I smile back.

I love her attitude. It seems genuine, and I can usually tell if someone's a phony except for that one slut.

Swinging my legs over the bench, I go, “Salem, huh?”

She walks toward me. “Love that band.”

“Me too. You make that shirt?”

“I did.”

“Beautiful.”

“So is your playing.”

“Thank you,” I tell her. “That's super nice of you to say.”

Pause.

“Do you make a habit of interrupting like that, though?”

“Not usually. Close the damn door if you wanna be left alone next time. Fucking attitude.”

“It's rude,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever, man. I heard it from downstairs. The scales you were playing. You're trained. I could tell by how you were warming up.”

Even though I'm agitated by how she butted in, in reality, this is like the most perfect and rad and unbelievable moment ever. A real teen dream, just like that Beach House record. I'm skeptical, though. Like, maybe none of this is real. Maybe I slipped into an Oxy coma two weeks ago and none of this has really happened and I'm gonna wake up, with my bed drenched in sweat, and obsess about this dream, missing it, even the cruel parts, and I'll wonder what it all means, what it was really about. Then slowly, I'll forget the details, but the nostalgia will keep me yearning for that dream again, but nothing will ever be that good.

Wiping my forehead, I go, “How long have you been watching me?”

She shrugs. “Maybe since the seventh scale. I ain't really sure, though.”

“What's your name?” I finally ask.

“Dominique.”

“Nice name. I'm Jaime.”

“I know,” she says.

“How?”

“Jackie's my mother. She works for your father. You look just like him.”

I rub my face and go, “Don't say that, please.”

“You do, though.”

“Just stop,” I snap.

“Okay,” she says.

Another pause.

“Can I sit with you?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to.”

“There's other places to sit.”

“Jaime,” she says. “There's plenty of room on that bench too.”

“You really want to?”

She nods.

“Fine.” I swing my legs back over the bench and slide over to make more room for her.

As she sits down, she puts her hand on my shoulder. Her skin is so soft and her palm is sweating. Immediately, I think of that Postal Service line from their song “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight”:

“Smeared black ink, your palms are sweaty, and I'm barely listening . . .”

Also, she smells really good. She's wearing Chanel. I know it because it's what my mother wears.

“Thanks for the seat, Jaime.” She winks.

“You're welcome.”

Dominique cracks her knuckles and starts playing that Knife song “Heartbeats,” then cuts to that Shins song, “Caring Is Creepy,” before rolling into “Dramamine” by Modest Mouse.

I'm super impressed. She's pretty good.

When she stops, she says, “I can't play like you, but I got some chops.”

I roll my eyes.

She folds her arms. “What? Are you that surprised, man?”

“Kinda. I'm surprised when pretty much anyone outside of the kids who take lessons where I do can sit down and play like that. It's fucking rad. Do you take lessons?”

She shakes her head. “Nah. I taught myself.”

“Seriously?”

“It's the truth. My older brother Jamal, he got this Casio keyboard for Christmas when he was twelve cos he wanted to be some kinda music producer, but then he never touched the thing. So I started messing with it and I couldn't stop.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten.”

“Fuck yeah.”

“I was obsessed with it, and I'd spend hours after school learning how to play other people's songs. After a couple of months, I started making up my own and writing lyrics for them. I can also drum a little, and play some guitar, but my main thing is the keyboard synth.”

“No shit.”

“Swear on my grandmommy's grave. You play anything besides the piano?”

“Guitar, ukulele, synth, bass, and I drum a little too.”

“You're like a prodigy, huh?”

“Something like that. My mother pushed it on me. Art comes first. Music comes first. They're the meaning of life in my house. They're the only things that matter.”

“That sounds intense.”

“It is.”

“Your mother sounds really cool.”

I look away from Dominique and nod. “Yeah, she is. She's a cool lady. She's my whole life, ya know.”

“Your father's an awesome guy too.”

I make a face. “Can we not talk about him, please?” My hands are shaking.

“Okay,” she goes. “But he's a great guy.”

“Just stop!” I snap. “Stop it. You don't know anything, all right? My mother's a great person. My father's a piece of shit.”

“Hey,” she goes. “Don't yell at me like that.”

I bury my face in my hands. I can feel the Oxy leaving me.
It's a miserable thing. I get really short with people. I get pissed off way easier than I normally would.

“I'm sorry,” I finally say. “I'm just tired. It's been a long couple of days. I should go find my father.”

“Right.”

Pause.

“But hey,” Dominique says, as I stand and slide on my parka. “Can I have your number?”

“Why?”

She makes this exasperated face. “Are you always this wound tight? All I was thinking was that it might be nice to see you again before you leave.”

“Even though I'm an asshole.”

“Especially cos you're an asshole.”

I laugh. “Sure,” I say. “You ready?”

“Of course.”

I give Dominique my number and she saves it and then texts me hers, and I leave the room as she resumes playing.

I think Dominique might be the coolest chick in the world.

A total babe.

Which means nothing in reality.

All the monsters I've met in my life have come gift wrapped in gold or killer band shirts.

“I'M GOING TO TELL YOU
this right now, Jaime. And it's the absolute truth. Okay? If there's one thing about life that I really want you to understand, it's this.”

I watched my mother take a drink of red wine and light another cigarette.

“Women will try to ruin you. They will sink their claws into you and rip you to fucking pieces. They'll destroy you, and they won't think twice about it.”

She yawned and slid her hand under her sunglasses, rubbing her eyes.

“There's no such thing as a nice girl, Jaime. We're all fucking insane and we're all fucking evil. We will betray you. We will. And then we'll laugh behind your back afterward. We'll lie to your face like it's nothing. We'll make you believe that we love you, but it's not true. It'll never be true. All we want is to fucking tear you down and shred you to pieces because we can. Because it's so damn easy.”

She poured another glass of wine and smiled.

“If it has a cunt, it is a cunt, Jaime. And there's no exception. Every woman you'll ever meet is a cunt. You understand me?”

I nodded and watched my mother drop a pill down her throat.

“So keep that in mind when you want to have a girlfriend. It doesn't matter how old that girl is, if she's got a pussy, she'll try her hardest to destroy you. She will ruin you, and she'll enjoy it.”

I didn't say anything.

And she went, “Nod if you understand.”

I understood.

“Good,” she said. “Because it's important. I fucking ruined your father before he ruined me. That's why he got so violent in the end. He couldn't stand the fact that I could make him feel as small as a dead dandelion. That fucking prick.”

She yawned again and twisted her cigarette out.

I was ten years old.

I'VE NEVER BEEN THIS ALONE
before. I've never really belonged anywhere, belonged to anything, but I was never all alone. She's always been there. It doesn't matter what state she was there in, she was always there. It was something at least. It mattered. It was better than nothing.

And now she's gone.

I'm totally fucking alone.

I wanna hurt someone so bad. I do. I'd love to take a knife and cut somebody.

Watch them bleed.

Watch them hurt.

Watch them live through pain like I've felt all these years.

I'd shoot my father if I had a gun right now. I would. I'd shoot him in the face and laugh as pieces of his skull flew through the air. That fake. That materialistic prick. And then I'd steal a fucking airplane, and fly toward the sun as far as it can go. Then it's done. It's over. It crashes into the ocean, and the waves will swallow me, and no one will hear a thing.

I'll just be gone.

And who the fuck cares that they're alone when they're just gone.

DOMINIQUE TEXTS ME AN HOUR
later. It's a picture of a Casio keyboard synthesizer and she's written,
I make fucking magic with this.

I text back,
It looks dope
.

Her response reads,
You're really cute
.

I roll my eyes.
Why tell me that?

Cos it's true.

You barely saw me.

Whatever. You need to relax.

You don't know anything about me.

I'd like to start knowing.