Red Velvet Crush (2 page)

I will end up holding Billie's hair while she pukes, or stopping her from getting into a girl fight, and then cap off the night by chasing her down to get her into the car so I can drive home.

If that was fun, then it would be awesome.

Dad is planted in the doorway, the front door resting against his hip, the clock ticking, work waiting.

“Okay . . .” I sigh, knowing this is what he wants, an easy exit, a steady course. “We'll go.”

The screen door, the one Winston should have taken down months ago, has already rattled shut behind him.

I'm singing at the top of my lungs, driving down a silent country road. George Michael spills out of me, slipping through the crack in my window and disappearing into the cold dark night.

The very first time I started this car, George was there.

A CD, caught on track number two, was stuck in the stereo when I bought it. So Billie and I listened to “Faith” endlessly, helplessly, day after day, until one brilliant winter morning when she figured out how to pry the CD loose with a nail file. Slip. Pop. We were free!

Billie stashed the file in her purse, and then we twisted and twisted the volume knob, our fingers freezing before the car warmed up in the slant of early-morning sun. Our breath fogged up the windshield faster than the old fan could defrost. The windows finally cleared, but that was it: the stereo was dead.

Billie pounded the dash with her tiny fist and the speakers crackled. Our eyes lit up and then faded as they went silent once more, never to return.

The little knob still turns, and the light comes on, but no sound comes out. It is one of those things you learn to live with, like no phone when the bill goes unpaid, or very limited heat in your house. You put on a sweater. You sing. Even to George Michael, if you have to.

“Faith” is now my go-to singing-alone-while-my-drunk-little-sister-is-passed-out-in-the-seat-next-to-me song. I kind of want to hate it, kind of like I want to hate Billie, but I don't. I can sing my ass off to that song.

I pull into our driveway, my throat hoarse.

I kill the engine, and Billie moans, slumped over in the passenger seat. The seat belt is the only thing holding her up,
her legs akimbo, grass stuck to one knee, shoes abandoned. Just one more year of school, I remind myself, and my days of baby-sitting Billie will be behind me.

A light is on in the garage, and the garage door is open. We made just two puke stops on the way home, and still Winston somehow managed to beat us.

I sit and stare at the puffs of breath, or maybe it is smoke, swirling above his head in the cold night air as Billie's breathing settles.

I am tired.

It had been the same party: the same people, the same sad life. Like a film on top of a pond, my life is growing in from the edges, clinging to me, holding me down, stagnant. I can almost smell the duckweed.

Billie snores. There is no need to move her now, so I lean back and let my thoughts tumble and drift.

Loose and light, they lift over the dash and then hover above the garage, escaping the tips of the branches and dancing above the trees before flickering far, far away, farther than the edges of this world, somewhere in the deep dark black where the air becomes the sky and the sky becomes the night.

I am suspended, in the wash that was this Saturday night and the empty Sunday sitting in front of me before Monday morning comes along and we start all over again, safe and simple and routine.

I roll my head along the edge of the seat, staring at the stars.

Suddenly, safety seems overrated.

A chance—to try something new, to see if my music is any good—has opened up, and it is glimmering right in front of me. Dripping down from the Big Dipper and landing in my lap, it is as shiny and big and as bright as the North Star. And I want to jump, to leap, even if all that is below me is dirt.

I lean over Billie to crack the window and then tip her head in its direction, hoping that if she wakes, any barf will roll outward.

The stars sparkle above me as I get out of the car. I am nervous and shaky, but I chalk it up to the temperature. Winter has left Oregon behind and headed north. The early-spring air is cold and sharp, the grass wet under my feet.

Winston is leaning against the old beat-up workbench in the garage. His dark blond hair curls down over his collar. When he sees me coming, his eyes light up brighter than the glow of his cigarette.

I pull a CD from the bottom of my bag—one he hasn't heard before, the one I pushed the buttons for myself—and I set it, silver and shining, on top of the workbench. Winston waits silently, the cigarette drooping from his lips.

“Okay,” I say.

I pause, breathing for a second before I commit
completely, because there's no coming back. “I'll do it.”

Winston nods.

I reach past him, pull the cap off a thick black felt-tip marker with my teeth, and write across the CD in all caps, “RETURN TO TEDDY LEE.”

“T
eddy!” Winston calls out, trying to get my attention. His voice is muffled even though he is pressing himself up against the thick pane of glass that separates us.

We are in an old recording studio at the radio station. I am standing in the engineer's booth as Winston sets up the studio space for auditions. Dusty cardboard boxes are piled in the corners of the studio, and stacks of white Styrofoam cups tower on a stand next to a burned-out coffeepot, with no coffee.

Winston backs into the far corner of the studio and stands next to a well-used set of drums. I lean closer toward the glass between the studio and the engineer's booth and watch his lips move. “Can you hear me now?”

I shake my head no. It would be great if Winston were
always behind a wall of thick glass. Then I could turn off the sound of his voice with the simple flick of a switch. I sit down on my swively chair, and smile. I like that idea. We should live here.

Winston suddenly straightens up and steps out of the dark corner. A boy is walking into the studio, his jeans sliding low, his T-shirt stretching across broad shoulders. I tilt on my axis toward him.

His dark hair is cropped short, buzzed almost to the scalp, but not quite. He holds drumsticks in his left hand, the ends taped and stars drawn down the length of them in what looks like black Sharpie.

He walks big. In just a couple of steps he is across the dim space and shaking Winston's hand like the real MVP. He isn't as tall as Winston, but nobody is.

On the far side of the glass their arms pump up and down, their voices swallowed by the thick honeycombed walls. My eyes flick back and forth, trying to catch what they are saying.

I am tempted to lean down and hit the button so I can hear every word, but I can't look away long enough to locate the right switch on the console. It is like a cockpit in here: a cockpit covered in cigarette ash and sticky drips of Dr Pepper.

Randy is sitting next to me.

He reaches over, hits the magic button, and says, “Let's hear it, kid.”

All business, that guy.

You wouldn't think so with the pooch, the comb-over, and the slightly stoned state of being, but you would be wrong.

I watch as Star Sticks settles in, stretches his hands, and adjusts the stool. He says something I don't catch because I am too busy staring.

His arms are big, but not too big—definitely strong enough to pick me up. I am dying to see what his muscles look like without that shirt. Stupid combed cotton, getting in my way.

He has that line, the one that dark-haired guys get along the cheek and above the jaw when they should have shaved this morning but slept in instead.

His lips make me want to write a love song.

Randy leans over, pushes another button, and then gives the thumbs-up through the glass. He is recording the auditions.

“I'm Ty,” the boy says, staring at me through the glass with some seriously amber eyes. He slips a pink sweatband onto his right wrist, watching me the whole time.

“Great,” Randy says. “Whenever you're ready.”

This Ty is so not my type I am concerned for my sanity. I usually go for the thin, rockery, used- and abused-looking ones, the ones that you can tell right off the bat are no good and a little bit crazy and completely untrustworthy. They are scruffy and scraggly and scented with nicotine, and they never last for long.

I will him to look my way again, try to pull him into my
path, but an explosion of drums pins me to my chair, heavy.

He is tearing through it.

The snare sounds like pistol fire.

His arms rocket—they never seem to stop. His rhythm thumps deep into my chest, replacing my heartbeat. Staccato and steady, each strike hammers all the way down to my toes. I shiver. This guy has staying power.

Winston looks at me with one eyebrow cocked and his arms crossed. He nods and bobs along from his spot along the wall next to the studio door.

Ty is building toward a big finish and I can tell Winston is psyched. His leg jiggles as he scribbles on a legal pad and then presses it up against the glass. “One flyer = one drummer,” it says. I smile because Winston isn't always such a whiz at math.

“He's got a heavy foot . . . ,” Randy says when the drumming finally stops, “like that Led Zeppelin drummer.”

“John Bonham?” I ask.

Randy looks over at me.

“No, no. You know . . . ,” he says, shaking his head as if I were the fool here, “the one that drowned in the ocean.”

I stare him down, then turn back toward the glass and watch Ty rise up, a white smile breaking out in the middle of his dark sandpaper stubble. Randy, you crazy old man, Bonham choked on his own puke; every Zeppelin fan knows that. And that boy is perfect.

Ty does not travel lightly. He showed up at our house this morning with his entire drum kit and two friends in tow. One has shaved hair, like his but not as dark, and a tiny green 7UP T-shirt stretched across his muscles.

His stomach peeks out above his belt as he walks down the driveway. The other one is tall and thin, a gangly redhead.

I didn't know what to expect when Winston told me about the three of them last night. We were walking through the lobby at the station, auditions wrapped, clicking off the lights as we went.

A whole roster of drummers had shown up after Ty, most of them wearing stovepipe jeans and sporting sunken, hairless chests and skinny arms. Not one of them was a girl, and not one of them was any good. We played the recordings back at the end of the day just to be sure.

Winston was pissed; he was hoping for at least one drummer girl to show up and fail miserably so he could console her with cigarettes and wondrous tales of local radio. Honestly, I didn't notice anyone after Ty. He swept all categories: best drummer, best smile, and best muscles. No need for the swimsuit competition. Ty was the one.

Winston said that Ty had been in a band called the Trigger Brothers with three other guys, but it fell apart a year ago when the singer-slash-guitarist ran away, chasing a girl to New York. Now it was just Ty and two other guys.

They've been playing together in someone's basement
ever since, but they aren't anything official. I figure they can play in my garage for now since that is as far as we will probably ever get.

Winston hops up and helps the skinny one with the drum he is carrying. It is bigger around than he is. I stand in the corner of our garage, rocking back and forth on the heels of my boots while they set up, pretending not to be checking out Ty.

Billie is on my left, slowly spinning on a stool that Winston stole from the Dumpster behind the auto parts store. She twirls to the top, stops herself, plays with her phone, and then twirls back down to the bottom, feigning boredom with what is going on around her. Fine by me. Billie can't play an instrument, can't be trusted with brand-new boys or shiny objects, and has a disturbing love of Avril Lavigne. She is only here to watch. But I'm pretty sure she is checking out Ty.

I'm guessing from what Winston told me last night that the one in the soda shirt is Jay. He and Ty seem like brothers, even though they look nothing alike other than the hair. They have the same bounce, the same energy. They finish each other's sentences, each other's jokes. I bet they will be friends forever. Grow up to be gray-haired old men in cardigans and class rings kind of friends.

I move out of the corner to make room for the drum set and lean up against the bench next to Winston. If the other two are half as good as Ty, we are going to get torn up.

Billie twirls until they are set.

Ty counts down, and they crash into it. Some really old rock 'n' roll, then some more complicated and kind of jazzier stuff that could use some horns, and then a few straight-up pop songs that I've heard pounding away in the background at parties and streaming from open car windows at long red lights.

Winston wants us to play classic rock covers since Randy told him that is what bar hoppers want to hear. It seems like these guys can play anything, and that unnerves me. My repertoire is not that big: some classic rock, some favorite singer/songwriter ballads, and the stuff I make up for myself, sitting alone in my bedroom at night.

When they tumble to a stop, Ty looks right at me.

“Do you want to give it a go?” he asks.

I glance over at the redhead.

He has remained silent since they got here. No jokes, no smiling, not a word. He did, however, spend an obsessive amount of time playing scales and warming up.

Ty lifts his chin and says, “We call him Ginger Baker.”

“Ginger Baker played the drums,” I say.

Dad has a Cream poster tacked up above the washer and dryer at the bottom of our basement stairs. I know Ginger Baker. He is front and center every time I descend with a load of Winston's dirty underwear: sparkly drum kit, sixties Nehru jacket, big hair, and all.

Ty pulls up the sleeves on his worn-out thermal.

“So does he,” he says, nodding at Ginger Baker. “Better than me, actually. But he prefers rhythm guitar. I think because it's harder to spell.”

I raise an eyebrow at Ginger Baker. He has a lot of hair. Like Mozart, but with freckles.

“He doesn't communicate well,” Ty explains. “Needs an interpreter. But he rocks out and can play anything. And he really wants to be in a band.”

Jay leans forward and presses his bass against his stomach.

“To get chicks,” he stage-whispers.

Ginger Baker winces when Billie giggles and twirls to a stop.

“Are you a matched set then?” I ask. “Or can we get pieces and parts?”

“We're together.” Ty answers for all of them. I can tell they talked about it on the way over.

I pause, already intimidated by their unity. It doesn't help that they can also actually play. Why do they want to hook up with a girl and her guitar in a dusty garage way out here where the sidewalk ends?

Winston nudges me with his shoulder.

It doesn't matter to him if I am nervous or intimidated or out of my league. I've always stepped up for him. Helped him out and stayed in the background, holding the flashlight to shine on the never-ending Winston show.

I rolled the newspapers for his first paper route until my
fingers turned black with ink. I returned his one and only jockstrap to the store his freshman year when large turned out to be too large. I lied to countless girls who cried at our door, held the blocks of wood when he learned to karate chop with his bare hands, grabbed the motorcycle before it rolled over him when he dumped his first wheelie. I wrote his book reports and put ice on his black eyes and broken knuckles, and I would do this, too. But not for him: this time I am doing it for me.

I want to know I can do this. I want to be the one to stand in the light.

I straighten up and reach for my guitar.

“Okay,” I say.

“Cool,” Ty says.

“Cool,” Jay repeats, bouncing on his toes, ready to go.

Ginger Baker nods in time to the cadence Ty is quietly rapping onto his thigh. I take that as a yes.

I slide my guitar strap over my shoulder. It is old and worn, covered in the moon and stars, a strung-out constellation of silver and blue thread stitched onto black fabric.

The guitar is old, too. It's my dad's. He used to play weekends in a Cal rock band when he met my mom, before Winston worked his way into this world with that really big head. The Eagles, Poco, mellow stuff that he loves and still hums to this day under his breath while he is tying his boots or putting on his coat and thinks no one is listening.

Ginger's guitar strap has a double helix running down to
his black guitar. Jay's has orange flames that clash with Ginger's hair. My eyes rebound between them, like visual reverb.

We all have mics and amps in front of us. They are kind of old school and definitely used looking, but Winston magically appeared with them this morning, and I did not ask.

I am as ready as I am ever going to get, so I nod.

“Two, three, four. . . .” Ty taps us in.

We play little interludes, bits and pieces of songs, dancing our way through decades of music, jumping around the dial from 30 Seconds to Silversun, seeing how we fit together and where we collide. I tilt my head when I don't know the song, listening hard until I can catch on and catch up.

“How about some vocals?” Winston shouts.

A trail of gray cigarette smoke curls up from his tapping fingers. His right leg rocks along.

I reach up and adjust my microphone. I steady my guitar with shaking hands. The lyrics to the song roll through my mind like a piece of sheet music from an old player piano, but I see only the holes.

I open my mouth to sing, but my voice comes out as a scratch, a scrape, something from the doctor's office that involves a tongue depressor and a pair of rubber gloves. I sound like a cat.

I can feel their eyes meeting up behind my back—especially Ty's. My shoulders curl up. Jay and Ginger Baker stop playing. I feel lost and embarrassed, but Ty keeps his toe
tapping, his bass drum thumping along as if nothing ever happened until the boys join back in.

Billie's arm brushes up against mine. She moves in next to me, lifts her chin, and starts to sing. The light coming in through the garage window dances through her hair as she slips right into the song, like she's been ready and waiting to take my place.

When we were in elementary school and my mom was acting parental and responsible for once, she signed me up for an after-school program, two days a week.

I did not want to go, clinging on to her leg, whining and crying and throwing a fit did not want to go.

“I'll go,” Billie said. She was waiting then, too.

Off she went every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, taking my spot. I don't think my mom even bothered to change the name on the registration form.

I'd watch her skip up the walk when she came home, clutching a glitter-covered construction paper chicken or a homemade felt hat with feathers glued on, and seethe with jealousy. She sparkled.