Bounce (13 page)

The time on my alarm clock flips to 6 a.m. My bedroom door is cracked and I hear the soft whir of the espresso machine brewing from the kitchen. It's Sunday and on Sundays we get up and surf. Not today, though. Today, our mom arrives.
His
mom. Madeleine only raised me from the age of five, which shouldn't even really count. Don't they say the first five years are the most important in a kid's life? Well, she had nothing to do with those. Not that my birth mom did, either. All I remember from those years was the smell of cigarettes and booze—and fear. Just a constant, constant fear. Of going hungry or getting hit. Of watching my birth mom drink. Worst of all, watching her let some new asshole into our lives, which would mean more getting hit and more going hungry for both of us.

The espresso machine shuts off, and I hear Adam moving around. I can't believe he's letting her stay here. He knows how things stand. Mom and I haven't talked since August. I never want to talk to her again, and my head hurts, and there's no way I'm staying here with her. Getting out of bed, I reach into my closet for my duffel and start throwing some clothes into it.

“You're up. Are you sure you don't want to—” Adam says, appearing at the door. He lowers the espresso cup, his eyebrows drawing together. “What are you doing, Grey?”

“Packing. Titus invited me to go on safari with him.” I mean, shit. What does he think I'm doing?

I head to the bathroom, grabbing my things from a drawer. I catch my reflection and see hard, pale eyes like concrete. My dad's eyes. Adam took after Madeleine, in almost every way. Their calm temperament and long fine bones, like if they just ran fast enough, they'd take off flying. But I'm like our dad. Hard, volatile. Brawling stock. Husky. Big. Built to survive the back alleys of the world. Dad's wealthy now but he grew up that way, on the streets, and still has some shady back alley running through his veins. I'm a souvenir from that part of him.

“You're seriously leaving?” Adam says. “Where are you going to go?”

Wrong thing to say if he's trying to stop me. I have no idea where I'm going. All I know is I'm not staying here. That's as far as I've gotten. But the insinuation that I'm homeless without him, worthless without him, only makes me angrier.

“A hotel,” I say, though I know that's a lie. That's depressing, like something people do during a midlife crisis. Then it hits me. The band's rehearsal garage. I'll go there. It's already my second home anyway.

I head back into my room and grab my keys off the dresser, then stop. Adam is still at the door, blocking my exit. “When is this going to end, Grey? What the hell happened between you two? What did Mom do?”

For the first time in the eight months since I left home, I actually want to tell him. I don't know if I'm just tired of dodging his questions and her calls or what, but I hear myself say, “She didn't do anything, Adam.
I
did. I screwed everything up.”

He's silent for an instant, as surprised that I answered him as I am. “You couldn't have. She's been trying to talk to you since—”

The storm inside my head's reaching hurricane levels. Time to go. I push past him, shoving him out of the way as I step into the hall. It still surprises me that I'm bigger than him, stronger, though I have been for years.

“Come on, Grey. Enough of this shit.” Adam follows me as I head for the garage. “If you're going to run every time you don't like something, you're going to spend half your life running. Can't you see that? Whatever it is, you need to
stand
and
fix it
.”

In the garage, I'm momentarily caught off guard when I see the Mercedes parked in my spot until I remember that's my new work car. I hate that my truck is still sitting at the studio parking lot. Suddenly, it just seems too damn easy to get rid of important shit. You shouldn't just be able to ditch things like a truck or a kid like some travel coffee mug you forgot somewhere then decide you don't really need. My throat tightens, and my eyes blur as I throw my bag in the backseat. I have to get out of here
now
.

I hit my head as I climb into the Mercedes and it takes everything I have not to punch the car in retaliation. “You said she'd be here for two weeks, right? I'll probably be back once she's gone.”

Adam runs a hand through his hair in frustration, making it stick up. I can't see inside the house anymore, but he sends a quick look that way. To Ali, I'm positive. We've woken her up, and he's telling her to stay where she is.

That's right. Stay away from Grey. He's a hazard.

It feels like it's taking a year for the garage door to open. Adam comes over to the car, and I hate that I left the window down because he props his hands there, and I can't pretend I don't hear him.

“I was trying to help,” he says. “I thought this would help.”

“I know. It's fine, Adam.” I turn the engine. “You mind?”

His hands come away, and he straightens. I glance up for confirmation, and sure enough, there's more pain than frustration on his face.

That's what I wanted. I knew exactly how to play this so it would inflict maximum damage on him. It feels familiar. A lot like what I did with Mom. Madeleine. With people close to you, acting like you don't give a shit is the worst thing you can do. At least a fight has meaning. There's feeling in a fight.

“I'll see you at work,” I say, and back out.

On the drive, I call Titus and have him meet me at the garage. I don't want to sit around alone. I can't.

He's waiting when I get there. His bloodshot eyes take in the duffel I toss on the Titanic, my new bed, but he doesn't say anything. All he says is, “You hungry? 'Cause I'm starving.”

We walk down to the coffee shop and order breakfast sandwiches. I look outside as we wait for them, feeling like a vagabond. I know this neighborhood, but it looks different to me now that I won't be leaving it tonight. I try to figure out if it's a place that feels like me, reflects some part of me. Rhode Island never did. Malibu hasn't either. But Venice, for all its funky shops and low-key vibe, doesn't feel like me, either. I wonder if connecting with a place is a real thing that happens to other people or if I'm just making it up in my head, like a myth. Some kind of physical plane I'll never reach.

Titus starts to tell me about the show I missed last night. Blake Vogelson was there to check out the opening band, Heydey. Vogelson's a producer at Revel Music. He's pretty new on the music scene, but he's already big time. He's a genius at spotting talent, so everyone in the band—in
my
band—was buzzing. Just knowing that magic of discovery might happen—even if it's for another band—had them all pumped. I know exactly what he's talking about. That kind of energy, like life is happening, like moments are significant, is what I feel around Skyler.

“I'm not sure they had enough,” Titus continues. “The songwriting could've been better and the lead singer had a decent voice, kind of reedy, but she looked terrified up there. I felt bad for her. She forgot her lyrics a few times. It wasn't easy to watch. But the cool thing is Reznick talked to Vogelson for a while. Rez managed to get his card. Vogelson said he'd take a listen to our demo.”

It's good news. Normally, it would give me a major bump of adrenaline. If Vogelson actually listens to our stuff and he likes it, it could be life-changing. It could lead to a record contract, which is everything I want. I don't know what's wrong with me. Why I can't seem to get as excited as I should be.

“Revel. Cool,” I say.

“Yeah. I think Rez was going to email him this morning.”

“Nice.”

Titus lifts a pierced eyebrow at my lame reaction, but he doesn't say anything.

We get our food and grab a table outside. Titus tells me he thinks he's going to keep his head shaved because this girl he likes commented on it last night. He's not sure if it was a complimentary comment or not, but he's guessing it was.

It's an effort to follow along. I'm halfway here and halfway nowhere. Maybe my place is nowhere. Maybe I'm like a GPS that's always recalculating routes, never setting a firm point on the world.

I'm being an asshole, I realize. I make myself respond.

“Wrong, dude. You have huge ears. Let it grow back,” I say. It's actually the truth, and he had a pretty cool look when he had blond dreads. He kept them short, which gave him a sea-anemone-head look that was pretty unforgettable.

Titus runs a hand over his scalp. He smiles and tells me to go to hell, then keeps bringing the bullshit. Shane and Nora found a scrawny black kitten in the Whiskey's parking lot after the show. Nora begged Shane to take it home because she can't have pets at her apartment. Shane put up no resistance, and by the time they got it in the car, they'd named it Thor. Titus thinks it's the first step in them settling down. He thinks they'll be living together, with Thor, by summer.

“Sucks for them,” I say.

“Totally. Dude's practically married,” he agrees, but we're both lying. We'd both take what Shane and Nora have. Like, easy. Easy decision.

When we're done, we head back to the garage. Titus picks up his guitar and sits at the table while I open the garage door. The morning fog is burning off. A homeless guy wearing piles of oversized clothes shuffles his way across the street with a gray pit bull in tow.

“Check it out, Blackwood,” Titus says. I join him at the table and rub my eyes, trying to make them focus on Titus's fingers, hovering on the guitar strings. “I thought up this melody last night,” he says. “I think we could build it out into something.”

He bends around the instrument and attacks it, his head bobbing to a rhythm that's driving and urgent. With every chord change, I can feel myself coming back to life. I don't think he just thought it up last night. What I think is that he's probably had it and realized this morning that it's the one thing I can actually lock into—and I do. The melody puts me back together, limb by limb. It makes me want to yell and laugh and break shit. It takes away the feeling I've had since I left home that I'm floating.

You're right here,
it says to me.

You're right fucking here, and here is amazing so snap the fuck out of it because life is amazing. Feeling
—
feeling
anything—
is incredible.

Titus's hands finally still, and it's quiet for a beat. Then sounds come back. Cars driving. Birds arguing. A street cleaner cleaning. All of it. All the life in the world seems brighter, sharper, better.

Music is where I belong. Music is my home. Music doesn't ever leave, or give you up, or smack you around, or treat you like someone else's dirty laundry. It doesn't want you to be better than you are. It doesn't make you feel forgotten, or unimportant, or ashamed. Music is all. It's everything. Home.

“What do you think?” he asks, peering up at me.

I nod, because saying
dude, you just brought me back to life
seems a little over the top. “We'll call it ‘Runner,' ” I say.

Titus slides my notebook over to me. “You got a pen?”

I do. And we're on our way.

  
Chapter 16
  

Skyler

I
wake to the sound of a cello being tortured. Opening my eyes, I find Mia posing in my bedroom, my beautiful Christina in her arms.

“Ta-da!” she says, and drags my bow across the strings, creating a sound like someone strangling a cow.

I sit up, feeling nauseated from too little sleep. I didn't conk out until around four, amped from the audition but also worrying, worrying, worrying—like I do—about Grey, Beth, my mother, children in impoverished countries, whether the music store down the street will make it to the holidays. Everything. My brain a churning, discordant symphony until, finally, I wore my consciousness down to a sleepy nub.