Zero (10 page)

“Howdy,” Mike says. “I’m all set, you ready to go?”

“Um,” I say, and clear my throat. “Yeah, absolutely.”

“You all right?”

“Yeah, yes, I was just …” I glance up at my ceiling. “Just finishing a painting real quick. I’ll leave in about five minutes.”

“Perfect,” Mike says. “Hey, you like ice cream?”

His voice slowly brings me back to the present tense. I feel my shoulders relax. “On the advice of counsel, I decline to answer. Wait, scratch that. Hell, yes!”

Mike laughs, and I don’t resist a grin. Just hearing him talk, even over the phone, has miraculous healing properties.

“Awesome. That’s all I needed to know.” He gives me directions to his house. “See you in a few.”

I hang up and consider taking another minute to go ahead and paint over Jenn’s drawing, but honestly, I’d rather get out of here and focus on being with Mike. I can do the cover-up later.

“Going out,” I say as I hustle past Mom, who is at her usual post beside the sink.

“With Jenn? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

For one moment, I really and truly consider telling Mom the whole sordid story, right then and there. She’s a big Jenn fan, always has been. What would she do if I told her the truth? Other than possibly not believe me?

“Um …”

“I didn’t think so,” Mom goes, and scrubs a pan as if to wash its sin away. Sinful pan! “Is it … a
boy
?”

No, Mom, a fifty-something tranny named Luscious Tits
. I consider saying this because there’s a decent chance it’ll make her head implode. How’d she know about Mike anyway? Maybe Dad said something. But that would mean they’re
communicating
.

“As a matter of actual fact, yes,” I say.

Scrub, scrub, scrub, be cleansed, heathen pan! “Where exactly did you meet this boy?”

Gotta watch my step here. It’s not like she doesn’t know I go to clubs, but she’s sure they are filled with
iniquity
. She’s right, to a degree, but god, it’s not like I’m doing drugs or getting hammered or giving clandestine BJs in the parking lot.

“He’s a musician,” I say, and regret it immediately. Might
as well have him riding a Harley and wearing a German spike helmet.

Clearly that’s the vision Mom’s got in mind when she whips her head around. “That’s not what I asked you, Amy.”

I
so
do not have time for this. I’m picking Mike up at seven, and it’s quarter till already.

I fold my hands primly, choir girl extraordinaire. “My apologies, Mother, when wouldst thou care to meet him?”

Mom’s head sort of drops. She looks so tired. God, I don’t have to be such a bitch.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Look, maybe I’ll bring him by. Sometime.”

Not that I have any intention of letting Mike anywhere near my mother. Or Dad, for that matter. I’d hate to catch him on a drinking night. So that means days ending in
Y
are out. The problem is, I really want to show Mike my canvases and sketchbooks tonight. No—it’s like, I want to
show
them to him, but I don’t want him to
see
them. Make sense? I thought I’d bring him over
after
Mom would’ve gone to bed tonight.

Mom sets the pan aside to dry, absolved of its heinousness. “We’re free this evening,” she says. “I’m sure your dad would like to meet him as well.”

“Mom, we have plans; we’re—” Doing. Something. I don’t actually know what, all I know is I’m picking him up at his house, somewhere downtown.

“Amy, please, it’s a simple request. If you’re going to start spending time with someone, we would like to know more about him.”

I can’t help a prolonged eye roll. “Fine, I’ll see,” I tell her, and stomp toward the door.

“And where exactly will you be tonight?”

“At a movie,” I flat-out lie. Maybe it’s not a lie, maybe that’s exactly where we’re going, but the point is, I couldn’t care less. I’ll be with him, and that’s all that matters. God, wasn’t she
ever
seventeen? Just for a couple days at some point?

Actually … that’s right, she was. I almost forgot.

“I see. And what time is the movie?”

I grind my teeth into pigment. There’s only one way out of this. Because if I don’t, it’ll just be that much harder to see Mike again (and again, and again).

“Fine!” I say. “Tonight. I’ll bring him by tonight. I don’t know when exactly.”

Mom smirks, just a little. “Thank you,” she says. “I’ll let your father know.”

Swell. I boot the door open and go out to my car.

What the hell have I gotten myself into now? Two minutes with my mom and Mike is going to pack a bag for Australia.

Fine. I’ll go with him.

It’s bad enough that Mom wants to meet Mike. But I can at least comprehend it; it’s, like, a Mom Thing, right? Perfectly natural, if not unholy and unreasonable, but whatever. What bugs me most is … who is it she’ll be meeting?

I mean,
is
he just a friend? Or are we something more than that? Because the truth is, if we’re not—which makes me want
to turn around right now and go home—then I don’t care if Mom and Dad ever meet him. But if we’re
an item
, or whatever the cool kids are calling it these days, then I kinda want him to see the house. See my room. See
me
.

And if they meet him now, Mom especially, then it’ll just save me a headache when I invite him over later.

If
we’re an item. Or something resembling itemy. Itemness. Itemimity? (Bitch, stop.) I’d better find out for sure. Like, tonight.

It takes me half an hour to find Mike’s house. He lives in this section of downtown where these little cottagelike homes were built when Phoenix was an actual cowboy town. They are small but cute. Lots of Spanish architecture, all whitewashed arches and tiling.

I park on the street and climb a short rise of steps covered in rust-colored Mexican tiles. Most of his tiny house is covered by creeping vines. There are no lights on in any of the windows. A disreputable pickup is parked in the cracked driveway, chrome bumper torn, paint flaking.

After I knock, Mike opens the front door. He’s wearing these kick-ass narrow black shorts and a sharp white Operation Ivy “Unity” T-shirt that doesn’t exactly hug his chest but isn’t baggy, either. His bangs hang free and swing in front of half his face. Nice.

“Hey!” he says. He gestures into the house. “You wanna come in real quick, or …?”

Time me! “Sure,” I say casually, and cross the threshold. “Is that your truck?” I ask as he passes in front of me after closing the door.

“Dad’s. He lets me borrow it sometimes, though.”

“So am I going to meet him?” What with turnabout being fair play and all.

“Ah, no. Just missed him. He just walked down to the park.”

“What, is he feeding the ducks?”

“Most likely,” Mike says, and doesn’t smile, so I wipe off my grin real quick. Weird.

On my left is the kitchen. Two cracked vinyl chairs are shoved beneath a cratered Formica table the color of plaque. Mike says, “So, this is the kitchen.”

He leads me down a dark hallway. He points toward the living room, names it, and continues down the hall.

“Bathroom,” he says, gesturing. “Dad’s room. And the Man Cave.”

He opens a door and steps aside. I stand in the doorway, letting my eyes wander. It’s Spartan in its appointments: scuffed bureau, twin bed covered with rumpled white sheets, gray metallic folding chair, portable stereo on the bureau, and a bookcase filled with paperbacks and tapes. The floor is hardwood, which with some polishing could be gorgeous, but it’s buried beneath a ream’s worth of scattered paper and the occasional sock.

“So this is the inner sanctum,” I say.

“Yep. Abandon hope, all ye who enter.”

I step into the room. A polished acoustic guitar is propped on a stand in one corner. It’s a thing of beauty. Maybe art. Its body is cedar-dark. An iridescent pearl inlay on the neck depicts a pair of Harlequin masks. Black nickel tuning knobs jut from the headstock. I approach the guitar reverently and reach out to touch its steel strings.

“Wow. This guitar! It’s beautiful. You play guitar, too?”

“Not much, actually. This used to be Dad’s.”

“Oh yeah? He plays?”

“No, not anymore. He gave up a while ago, but he never got rid of this.”

“Oh. Why’d he quit?”

Another shrug. “Too famous too fast, I guess.”

“Famous?”

Mike points to a wall. There’s only one hanging frame, almost lost beside a collage of Gothic Rainbow flyers from old shows, which, I can’t help but notice, aren’t exactly exquisite works of art. Inside the hanging frame, however, is a gleaming, shimmering album.

“Is that—a
gold record
?” I say. “Like, a for-real gold record?”

“Well, I mean, the whole band gets one, but yeah.”

I look more closely at the writing on the small card inset below the record, my jaw slowly dropping. “Wait. Your
dad
was in Ghost of Banquo?” That would explain the T-shirt Mike wore at Damage Control. Which reminds me, who got that last shirt? I hate her.

Mike blinks at me. “Oh … yeah. Did I not mention that part?”

“Uh, no! Do you have any recordings? I’ve looked for the album but can’t ever find it. A lot of old ska bands talk about them, like they inspired a lot of other bands? Man, this is awesome!” My eye catches the abandoned guitar. “But what happened?”

“Well, they had one hit—”

“ ‘Wedding Zoo’! They play it on
Flashback
sometimes.”

Mike smiles. “ ‘Wedding Zoo,’ yeah. They were getting ready for a big tour to support the record and whatever. And then it sorta fell apart.”

“How come?”

“Fight with the label. Who owned what. Contract disputes or whatever. The label won. Which they always do. And that was that. I’ve never seen any copies of the album around.”

“So he never played again?”

“Oh no, he played. Six, seven bands, here and there. But nothing that ever really caught like Ghost did.” Mike gazes at the album, and looks sort of wistful. “He always wanted that next gold, though.”

Ah-proverbial-ha. “So that’s why you want one.”

“Kinda. He doesn’t say much these days, but he supports us. The band. He told me once that if it was what I wanted to do, I shouldn’t let anything stop me. So someday, down the road, you know, I’d love to give him one just like that with my name on it.” He winks at me. “I’ll keep the
platinum
one in my room.”

I smile, and my eyes sting for a sec. Must be nice. There’s nothing I want to give my dad. Except maybe a wheel kick to the face from time to time, when he pushes Mom’s buttons a little too hard. Usually after a drink or five.

“So why’s this in your room? Doesn’t your dad …?”

“He doesn’t like looking at it. Memories and whatever. Bums him out. And he’s bummed enough as it is.”

“Huh.” I take one more look around, fascinated by Mike’s … everything. “Well. Thanks for the tour. Hey, where’re your drums?”

“Eddie’s basement. We rehearse there. No distractions.”

“Oh. Cool.” I take one more lap around the room, memorizing everything. It might be the last time I’m ever here, for all I know, depending on how my
inquiry
as to our status goes.

Passing his bookcase, I spot a photo of a woman, lying faceup on one of the shelves, on top of a paperback of
The Outsiders
. I move for a closer look but don’t touch the picture.

“Who’s this?”

Mike looks over my shoulder. “Mom. Sasha.”

“Sasha … that’s a pretty name. Where is she?”

Mike’s jaw tightens. “San Francisco.”

“Oh. Are they …?”

“Divorced. Yeah. It’s been a while now. Ten years, say.” He shakes his head. “They weren’t a great pair.”

I sit on his bed. Considering Mom and Dad, this might be helpful info. “Yeah?” I say. “How so?”

“Well, I mean, I guess I love her and all, but she was also kind of a groupie,” Mike says. “They met when Ghost was riding high. But back then, my dad was a typical rock star, you know? Drinking, drugs, the whole nine. It’s at least half the reason the band never made it past that one album. They were all acting like they were gonna live forever. And according to Dad, she wanted to be part of that, at first. But she had other things she wanted to do, too, and when Ghost didn’t really happen, she left.”

His jaw is still clenching. I decide to back off. “Wow. I’m sorry.”

“ ’Sokay. Ready to go?”

I nod, and Mike leads me back out of the house. He locks the door behind us, and we walk to my car.

“So where’re we off to?” I say as we climb in.

“Find us a 7-Eleven or something, then we’ll go north.”

I follow Mike’s directions to a convenience store, where he buys us each our own pint of ice cream. I pull out my wallet, all Woman Power, but Mike only shakes his head and says, “Got it.” Do
Just Friends
buy
Just Friends
ice cream?

Back in the car, he directs me to the north end of town. Mike guides us to the bottom of a hill, the street winding through an upscale neighborhood clinging to the south side of Camelback Mountain.

“See that little turnoff?” Mike says, pointing. “Go there.”

We’re past the houses now, climbing steadily up the paved road. Below us, interior lights spilling from the neighborhood create a dim orange glow, but the darkness ahead is pierced only by my headlights. I make a slow right turn, taking us off the street and onto a dirt road.

“You gonna tell me where we’re going?”

“The road’ll dead-end up there a ways. When we get there, you can park.”

The road ends abruptly. I pull the car over, park, and stare at a rocky path beyond, bathed in the glare of the headlights.

Mike climbs gracefully out of the car. “Come on.”

I shut off the lights, scurry around to join him. He begins hiking up the hill.

I do my best to keep my footing on the slippery gravel, wishing I could hold his hand as we climb and feeling adrenaline shoot into my gut as I remember that one way or another, I’m getting an answer tonight.

After we crest the hill, Mike stops and looks around at his feet. He plops down on top of a large rock.