Friend Is Not a Verb (13 page)

Underage Talent Night was officially over.

When I walked off the stage, Emma was still nowhere to be seen. I spent several minutes staring at the women’s room door, waiting for her to walk out. The bartender walked out instead.

So. Emma had split before the show was over. No goodbye. Not even a wave. She’d vanished. Just like Sarah. Ha! Was
there a pattern forming? Maybe it was something about
me
…

Petra rushed over, looking harried. “Hey, Hen?” she said, handing me her guitar case. “Can you do me a huge favor and drop this off at my dad’s apartment? Just let yourself in again. The door’s open. I want to go back to Bartholomew’s place to see if there’s anything salvageable for a demo.”

I nodded absently. The sinking emptiness in my stomach began to spread in waves through my body.

“Hey, are you okay?” she asked.

I nodded, heaving her guitar onto my other shoulder. With both my bass and Petra’s guitar, I looked like a hunchback. I felt like one, anyway.

“Don’t worry,” Petra murmured. “The show wasn’t that bad. I’ll call you later, okay, sweetie? Bye.” She pecked me on the cheek and raced out the door.

Not that bad?
I wondered.

I hobbled over to the bar, where the bartender was wiping out empty mugs with a dishtowel.

“Can I please have a Coke?” I said.

“No,” she replied. It was the first time she had spoken all night. She didn’t even look up. She kept right on wiping.

“Um, excuse me?” I shook my head, flabbergasted.

“Get it somewhere else,” she said. “You should have seen yourself onstage, all off balance and whatnot. I can’t believe you didn’t fall off. It pisses me off that kids think they can smuggle in their own booze.”

I had to laugh. “I hate to break it to you, ma’am, but I didn’t
smuggle in anything. Not even my own water. And it’s sort of hard to keep your balance when there’s no room on your teeny little stage, ma’am, because—”

“Ma’am? What am I, your grandma? Look, no offense, but I’m just saying that your body doesn’t look as if it can handle any more alcohol.”

My body doesn’t look…
Okay. No problem. No offense taken. I turned and stomped toward the door, with the sole intention of buying a lighter and several gallons of kerosene and returning to burn the Bimbo Lounge to the ground—but one of the guys from Spacetime Logic stopped me.

“Hey, bro, that was a cool set,” he said.

“Ha-ha,” I muttered. I tried to brush past him. He stood in my way.

“What, dude?” he said. “I loved it. Especially that song about Oedipus.”

“Really?” The tension in my jaw started to ease slightly. “You mean it?”

“Yeah. You know, it’s weird. You guys sound a lot like we did when Atlantic was interested in us. We sucked back then.” He grinned. “So, hey—what’s your singer’s name?”

“Petra Dostoyevsky,” I said.

“Petra what?”

“Dostoyevsky. Like the Russian novelist.”

“Oh. Cool. Is she seeing anybody?”

I frowned. “Not that I know of.”

“Well, look, bro, can you do me a favor? Friend me on
Facebook. My Facebook name is Brian Hussein Singer. Then recommend her as a friend.”

“What? Why?”

“Why?” He laughed loudly, and then stared at me as if I were an idiot. “Because I wanna bang her, dude. She’s totally hot.”

When I finally made it to Petra’s dad’s loft that night—after telling Sid to screw off when he asked me to pay him for the recording (the first time in my life I’d ever told off a stranger, and it felt pretty freaking awesome, thank you), after nearly giving myself a hernia schlepping both guitars up the long, rickety stairwell…after all
that
, I pushed through the unlocked steel door to find a strange black man in the middle of the room.

I rubbed my eyes, hoping he would disappear. He didn’t. He was real, all right, standing beside one of the longer couches, reading a piece of folded paper.
What the hell?
He was maybe ten years younger than my parents, bearded and unkempt, dressed in some kind of hippie poncho and one of
those ridiculous green wool Rastafarian caps.

He glanced at me. “What’s up, chief?” he said.

I figured I had three options. One: I could smash him over the head with either Petra’s guitar or my bass. But that might be messy, and I didn’t want to accidentally kill him. A blow like that could also damage the instruments. Two: I could scream for help. But would anyone hear me? The walls were thick and the sweatshops below were closed. That left number three: I could attempt to communicate.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

He erupted in a long, wheezing giggle. “
Heh-heh-heh.
Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?” he said.

So. Option number three wasn’t working. Petra should really start locking her door. New York City was dangerous.

“The magazine flew me back for a couple of days to load up on supplies,” he said. “I couldn’t find the kind of film I needed in Guatemala. I just thought I’d check up on the place and see how Petra was doing.”

My jaw dropped. “You’re her
dad
?” I gasped.

He giggled again. “Yeah, but don’t worry. Black people make me nervous, too.”

“I—no—jeez, I’m sorry,” I stammered. The bass case slipped from my shoulder and hit the floor with a clumsy thud. “Petra didn’t tell me you would be here—”

“Relax. She didn’t know. It’s cool.” He flopped down on the couch. “So which one are you? Bartholomew?”

“Hen.” I tried to smile, scrambling for the bass. Petra’s guitar
fell off on top of it. I scooped both instruments up in my arms. “I—I—”

“Ease up, chief!” He laughed again. “I’ll be out of your way in a minute. I’m sleeping at my girlfriend’s place. I was just hanging out. I lost track of the time.”

I bit my lip. I had no idea what to say. He was right: The fact that he was black
had
made me nervous. I was a horrible human being.

“So how was the gig?” he asked. “Sorry I couldn’t make it. Oh, wait, before I forget—one of Petra’s friends dropped by and asked me to give her this.” He held the letter toward me. “Would you mind passing it along?”

“No, no. Of course not.” I left the instruments in a heap on the floor and shambled over to him. But as soon as I plucked the paper from his fingers, I froze. On the back was written:
For Petra
. I recognized the handwriting instantly. It was Emma’s.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay, chief? You look a little pale.” He chuckled. “You know, paler than most white people.”

“I…um…” I forced an awkward laugh. My eyes darted between him and the note. If this was meant for Petra, I probably shouldn’t read it. Then again,
he’d
been reading it when I walked in. Besides, Petra and Emma wouldn’t even be friends if it weren’t for me. It wasn’t in an envelope. It might as well be public property.

“I always used to get the shakes after I played a gig, too,” he said. He pulled a small wooden pipe out of his pocket and tucked it between his teeth, then grabbed a pack of matches
from the coffee table. “Conventional wisdom says you’re more nervous before you get onstage, but I say you’re more nervous
after
. You’re loaded with adrenaline. I played bass in a band, too—did Petra tell you? Roxy Mountain High. We were like the Meters meets the Allman Brothers…”

I stopped listening. I honestly hadn’t meant to read whatever Emma had written to Petra—at least not right there and then, not right in front of him. But once I started, I couldn’t stop.

My throat tightened. My eyes began to sting. I blinked several times. Suddenly I realized that the air had filled with pot smoke. I glanced up from the page.

Petra’s dad sucked in his breath and held the pipe in my direction. “Want a hit?” he asked in a strained voice. He didn’t exhale.

I peered at the glowing embers in the bowl. I’d never gotten stoned before, and I had a definite feeling it wouldn’t be wise to make this my first time. “No thanks,” I said.

He flashed me a used-car-salesman grin. “It’s Guatemalan homegrown.”

“No, really. I’m cool.”

“So what was I saying?” He coughed. “Oh, right. Your band. No offense, chief, but I think if Petra really wants to make it big, she has to lose you guys. It’s all about the solo acts these days. I’m sure you guys rock and all, but…”

I stopped listening. My eyes were still teary. I was overwhelmed by a sudden urge to rush back to Brooklyn and hug Emma as tightly as I could. She didn’t have to write that letter. It would have been a lot easier for her to play Yoko Without Benefits until I
did
get kicked out of Dawson’s Freak again. But Emma didn’t operate that way. I was her friend. She was looking out for me, even if her plan
was
a little convoluted and hurtful. But that didn’t even matter. The hurt was only for the good.
My
good. Besides, if she made a mistake, she copped to it. And she hadn’t complimented Petra or the band or the show because she thought it would somehow get back to me, either.
There were no ulterior motives, other than being nice.

Amazing. I’d forgotten people like that existed in real life. If only the world were populated with clones of Emma Wood…Jesus. I’m normally not a walking cheese factory, but I couldn’t help myself. “The Age of Aquarius” started blasting through my head. I finally understood what the song was about. If everyone were more like Emma, we’d all be jigging around together in blissful harmony, and the planet would be a sunny, Technicolor wonderland described in a thousand corny Grateful Dead songs. (Was “The Age of Aquarius” by the Grateful Dead? Whatever.) All would be paradise.

“…the thing is, you’re not gonna get signed,” Petra’s dad was saying. He smiled, his eyes red slits. “I’m not saying that you’re
never
gonna get signed, like in some different band down the road. But with your current lineup, things just aren’t gonna happen. And it’s not just that Petra needs to go solo. The era of the power trio is over….”

I nodded. I knew I should be offended, but he’d lost me. I couldn’t get my mind off Emma. Once in a great while—when I was lonely or desperate or depressed (and, yes, I happened to be all three at the moment)—I would convince myself that we
should
have been a couple. Just like all the troglodytes wanted. Had I made some kind of egregious, catastrophic mistake by never making a move? We could have been hooking up ever since I’d “discovered girls.” Practically married. I
could
have made out with her at the dog run. I
could
have made eye contact during the second song tonight. Yet somehow, somewhere,
we’d slipped into permanent friends mode. Had that been a conscious decision on my part? It didn’t seem likely. As far as I knew, Gabriel was absolutely right: I was always thinking about hooking up with any female, at any time.

“I should probably go,” Petra’s dad said.

“Huh?”

He giggled loudly. “Damn, chief, what have
you
been smoking?”

I shook my head and blinked, then folded the letter and clutched it tightly. “Sorry, I’m just…” I didn’t finish.

“Make sure Petra gets that, all right? I think it’s important.” He stood and dumped the ashes on the floor, then tried to brush them aside with his Birkenstocks. “It’s funny. I was just talking about power trios with some of the guys from Phish. You remember that band? Great live show.”

I shook my head.

“Yeah, I know. Your thing is nineties rap rock, right?” He tucked the pipe back into his pocket. “Too bad. I mean, I get the joke, but Petra can do better than that.”

“She probably can,” I agreed quietly.

“Don’t worry.” Petra’s dad patted me on the shoulder and shuffled to the door, leaving a trail of ash footprints. “When I was in high school, I was just like you. I wanted to be a rock star, too. But then I realized I had to practice.” He burst out laughing, as if he were a rabid fan at his own stand-up comedy show. “Once you see how hard it is to make it, something else will pop up. It always does.”

I shrugged and nodded.

“Yo, chief, I didn’t mean to bum you out. I’m just talking out my ass. It’s the jet lag. I was in London the day before yesterday. What’s your name again? Ben?”

“Hen,” I said.

“My fault, Hen. Take care, all right? And keep an eye on Petra. She’s a crazy one.” He paused. “Y’all aren’t doing the nasty, are you?”

“Every night,” I heard myself answer.

He burst out laughing again. “
Heh-heh-heh!
My man. Just be safe. Peace.”

“Hey, wait! Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

I bit my lip. “Are you really friends with a friend of the guy who made the Steal Your Parents’ Money stickers?”

His bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Probably. I know a lot of cats.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well. Just curious.”

He nodded, looking vaguely concerned. “Get some rest, chief.”

I watched as the front door slammed behind him.

For a moment, I just stood there. Whoa. The warm, snuggly Emma-is-a-goddess feeling quickly evaporated into thin air, like the pot smoke.

That bizarre little encounter had seriously unnerved me. On the one hand, I was certain that Petra’s dad was a stoned, stuck-up idiot. Did he really believe that I was doing “the nasty”
with his daughter? Did he really not care? And what was he even talking about? The era of the power trio was over? Then why did half the bands on MTV fit that description? Without thinking, I could probably name five: Green Day, and…
hmm.
All right, one. And they’d peaked in the nineties. But still. There hadn’t been as many power trios gigging around New York since the days of Cream and the Jimi Hendrix Experience. If anything, I’d always assumed there were
too
many power trios.

On the other hand…
what
? He wasn’t trying to be a jerk. Actually, he was a supermellow guy—considering that I’d probably come off as a racist.

Suddenly I realized what bothered me about him. He reminded me of Emma’s dad. Seriously. He was the black stoner version. He handled himself with the same stupid jocularity. And he came at you with the same rude, nonstop, volume-on-eleven broadcast:
Look at me! Dig it! I’m a success and you’re just a dumb teenager!