Gus (11 page)

"Please don't tell me that. We share the same bathroom." She's not smiling anymore, but it's not rude.

"I gotta take a leak, but I need to talk to you before you stow away in your bunk again. I promise I'll use the pisser with my eyes open this time."

"Okay."

After Franco finishes in the bathroom, I can hear him give a quick sell on the job prospect. I've still got my curtain shut, but I hear him hand her the slip of paper—the one with Ma's cell phone number and email address written on it. I didn't put her last name down because Hawthorne might set off an alarm.

She sounds stoked, and for the first time in a long time my heart feels lighter. Like I've somehow redeemed myself a tiny bit and maybe I can shed the asshole persona I've been hiding behind, or under, or inside of, for months now.

Saturday, June 3

(Scout)

I'm officially a degree-holding college graduate. Well, I'm not physically holding it, because I wasn't at the ceremony today. That's okay. I'm still proud either way. I've been smiling inside all day. Paxton and Jane both called to congratulate me. Their praise was like a physical hug I could feel through the phone. I usually don't need that sort of thing, but today I can't deny that it felt so good. They were here with me in spirit. For me. My celebration is complete.
 

Monday, June 5

(Gus)

This afternoon, I called Ma from a small coffee shop down the street, a block or so from the venue we play tonight. I wanted to phish for information about Impatient, without anyone on the bus overhearing. Ma was oddly tightlipped about the whole thing, which isn't like her at all. Usually she's open about everything with me. I don't know if it's because she feels like there's bad blood between Impatient and me and she's just being the overprotective mama bear, or if she's trying to keep this somewhat confidential because Scout and I have an existing working relationship and she doesn't want to jeopardize herself as a potential employer. All I could pry out of her was that Impatient called her this morning and emailed her resume.
 

That's it.

Nothing more.

Tuesday, June 6

(Gus)

I had an epiphany this morning.
 

I'm getting fat.

And soft.
 

Like my limbs and gut have been filled with cream cheese.
 

My lazy ass has probably gained twenty pounds this past month. I've always been active and staying in shape was never an issue before, it was the unintentional consequence of surfing almost every day. But it's impossible to be active when you're on tour. Okay, it's not impossible. Impatient runs every day, and from what I can tell she's in phenomenal shape. But being active requires effort. And these past few months, effort just doesn't hold my interest. I make an effort to survive my own self-destruction. Which is a little fucked up. Survive and self-destruct shouldn't coexist within the context of the same thought. But for me it's been the norm. The European tour was fueled by booze and drugs and not much food, which would probably explain why weight wasn't an issue then. This US tour is fueled by booze and junk food since apparently my appetite is back. Which is why I decided I need to make some changes and add some sort of exercise to my schedule.
 

I tried to jog this afternoon. Dismal failure. My smoker's lungs laughed at me about a quarter of a mile in. It was audible. I heard a peal of laughter emanate from within my chest followed by, "Gus, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" I'm pretty sure the vocalized taunting came from my lungs and legs working in concert, teaming up against me. The short-lived attempt segued into a long walk around the streets of Madison, Wisconsin. Don't get me wrong, Madison was cool, but this functioning like a doughy, middle-aged man shit isn't gonna fly. I've just been bitch slapped by poor choices and I don't like it. Guess who's getting back in shape? This fat ass, that's who.

Three more weeks and I'm home. I can surf again.
 

Every.
 

Damn.
 

Day.

For now, I'm sticking to long walks.

Saturday, June 10

(Scout)

I talked to Audrey again this morning. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have my heart set on this job. I want it more than I've ever wanted anything else in my life. It's a dream job. And not only is it a dream job, but it's a dream job across the country from home. I need that.
 

I also know better than to get my heart set on anything, so I try not to dwell on it. But Audrey's so personable and welcoming. I feel like I click with her. And I don't click with many people.
 

I also know Audrey is Gustov's mom. I did some research online after I talked to her the first time. When I saw her photo on the company website there was no denying that the last name wasn't a coincidence.
 

Which means Gustov had something to do with facilitating this opportunity for me. An anonymous favor. Which is incidentally my favorite kind. When someone initiates kindness anonymously, you know it comes from the most pure, kindhearted part of them because they'll probably never be singled out and thanked. It speaks to his character.
 

I still feel like I need to keep my distance from him. I don't really belong in his world. Not that he's rock star cliché like I first thought. He keeps to himself most of the time on the bus, but his lifestyle is still something I can't wrap my head around, even though I've been on this bus with him for the past several weeks. While people flock to him, people keep their distance from me. We're opposites. And if this job doesn't work out with Audrey, I know we'll never see each other again. What's the point in even trying to develop any sort of friendship at this point?

So, Gustov and I still don't talk, but, in addition to the sticky notes, I do find myself communicating with him in other ways. It's like subtle charades and he's good at it. His eyes are more expressive than anyone else I've ever seen. Just one look tells a story. And it's never benign. Every wink, squint, stare, widening, side-eye, scrunch, and eyebrow raise means something different and always gets a reaction out of me—an internal reaction that I usually hide, but that I also can't deny. It's a strange connection that I've never had with anyone else.

Tuesday, June 27

(Gus)

There's a sudden pain in my ribs. Both sides. Franco's punching me from the left side, and Jamie's poking me from the right.
 

"Wake up, ass hat," Franco says, practically shouting into my ear.
 

"We're on the ground, Gus." It's Jamie this time.

My eyes are sticky and crusted with sleep. And my nose, my entire head really, is stuffy and congested. My throat is sore, like I've been swallowing razor blades. I have a cold. Symptoms started last night before our last show of the tour, but after a few hours' sleep on this flight home, it feels as if the germs have waged an all-out assault on my immune system. Summer colds are bullshit. As I clear my throat and pry my eyes open, Franco punches me again. Hard.

I hold up my hand to ward off any further physical attack. "Stop. I'm up, dammit. I'm up." My voice sounds like sawdust, dry and dusty.

As we wait for those in the front rows to exit the plane, Jamie hops out in the aisle and pulls down our carry-ons. Robbie joins him from across the aisle.

When the semi-orderly evacuation finds our row, my body protests vehemently to standing and walking. Every joint in my body aches. Strike the foolish notion that this is a cold—it's definitely the flu. I trudge behind Franco, Robbie, and Jamie, following their taunts about how slow I am the entire way to baggage claim. I can't say it bothers me at all though. Over the past few weeks, things with the guys are back to normal. The tension and edge is gone.
 

After we find our bags at the baggage claim, we head outside to the taxi lanes. Franco, Robbie, and Jamie share a cab. Jamie and Robbie share a place in Carlsbad with a couple other guys, but they're staying at Franco's place in San Diego tonight. The three of them leave for Hawaii tomorrow. They're going on vacation for a week. Surfing for a week, no less. Me, I'm just happy to be heading back to Ma's. I don't need a vacation. I need home.

The cab ride takes about thirty minutes and though all I want to do is sleep, I can't get this nagging feeling out of my pressure-filled head. Impatient left Sunday afternoon from Dallas. I heard a muffled conversation between her and Hitler on the bus right before soundcheck. When we arrived back on the bus after dinner, she was gone. Her bunk was empty. She fucking vanished into thin air. It was like she'd never even been there at all. It was a shock I felt in my gut. I don't know if it was the fact that familiarity had been altered. I don't know if it was the fact that I knew I was on my own again, if only for two days. But what bothered me the most was that she didn't say goodbye, which is batshit crazy, because I know she didn't like me. We never talked outside of that morning at the laundromat in Tennessee. But we had established a routine of silent communication using sticky notes of all things, and the past three weeks we added hand gestures and facial cues. What started off impersonal turned into
intimately
impersonal. When you don't speak with someone out loud, you study their mannerisms and body language much more closely. You get to know them on a different level. Bright Side and I were that way. We could carry on an entire conversation without ever uttering a word.

By the time we pull in Ma's driveway and I pay, thoughts of Impatient have gone foggy and given way to exhaustion. I'm struggling to put one foot in front of the other to walk up the front porch steps, and all I can think about is sleeping the day away while Ma's at work.

My eyes are hazy and scratchy when I open them. The sun is setting outside my window. I blink a few times trying to clear my vision to take in the view. The sunset doesn't come into focus; instead it becomes a blur of fiery orange. I feel a sudden rush of grief. I blink, and realize that my eyes are filling with tears. Sunsets have always reminded me of Bright Side. She and her sister, Gracie, loved to watch the sunset. They did it every night. It was a planned event, and they called it "showtime." Seeing the sun drown itself out in the ocean tonight is bittersweet because it brings with it thoughts of her and the fact that I'll never watch a sunset with either one of them again. The pain builds in my chest until it erupts into sobs. I haven't cried like this for weeks. When I finally catch my breath, I'm covered in sweat. My body feels foreign, and my mind seems to float at a distance. It takes more effort than it should to heave my body out of bed and strip off my soaked T-shirt and sweats, and slip into a pair of board shorts from a pile of dirty clothes on the floor next to my bed. I don't want to make the journey to the kitchen, but I'm so thirsty and I need some aspirin. My head is throbbing.

I hear Ma's voice talking to someone as I round the corner into the kitchen. She stops mid-sentence when she sees me. "Gus, honey, what's wrong?" The back of her hand is to my forehead in a flash. "You have a fever."

"Flu," I confirm. "Better keep your distance, Ma. Hi, by the way. I missed you."

"Hi, Gus. Oh, I've missed you, too." She hugs me despite my warning and I'm grateful for it. I squeeze her and my muscles scream, but I ignore them. Arms still wrapped around Ma, I open my eyes and notice the person standing across the kitchen, cutting onions, mushrooms, and red peppers. Seeing her confirms that I've gone from feverish to delirious.

It's Impatient.

What the hell?

Her stance hints at her normal guarded defiance, but she also looks sheepish. Or scared. I can't tell which. Either emotion is all wrong on her. She nods her head. On the bus, that was
good morning
, or
hi
, or
good night
. I'm so fucking flustered right now, that I'm not sure it means what it used to.

I release Ma and look at her questioningly. She knows I'm looking for answers.

She clears her throat. "I guess I don't need to introduce the two of you. Gus, I hired Scout to be my new assistant." That was tentative, even for Ma. She's trying to gloss over this as no big deal.

But now that Impatient is standing in our kitchen, I realize that it's a big deal.
 

I shake my head and the percussive pounding between my ears amps up. Hours ago my mind had turned Impatient into some weird regret, and now that I'm standing in the same room with her again and can feel her tightly wound constitution, all I want to do is leave and go back to bed. I don't know if it's the fact that I feel like hell, but I hope she's not still here when I wake up because this house seems all wrong with Impatient inside. Maybe this is all just a fucking dream.

As I turn around, Ma's words stop me as I exit the kitchen. "It's taco Tuesday, Gus. Don't you want something to eat?"

"No thanks, Ma. I'm not hungry." I shuffle back to my room and fall asleep the instant I drop into bed.

Wednesday, June 28

(Gus)

It's closing in on noon when I finally wake up. I stretch involuntarily, and my body doesn't protest angrily anymore. Still, the glands in my neck feel swollen ten times their normal size. I swallow, and it feels like I'm trying to force a goddamn grapefruit through a drinking straw.
 

I cough and immediately feel a deep, uncontrollable craving rush through my body. Cigarettes. I grab the pack and my lighter off my nightstand and step outside onto the deck.

Every puff sates my need, while simultaneously agitating the beast that's taken my glands hostage.
 

I struggle through two cigarettes. Struggle is not an exaggeration—if anything, I'm being too kind. I feel like my lungs are preparing for mutiny.

After a long shower, I call Ma at work.

She answers on the second ring. "Good morning, honey. How are you feeling?"