Zero (27 page)

“Hob, I can’t—”

“Too late,” he says, grinning.

I give him a hug. Then I wave at Mike, and he smiles for me.

It’s okay, I say to myself the entire drive home, over and over.

It’s okay
.

I’m still a
little sore in the morning. Correction—midmorning. Quite the reminder, thanks.

God, what did I do?

The entire night’s memory crashes into me. Holy shit, how bad is it? What if Jenn was right, what if I’m—

The smell of coffee creeps under my door and into my room. Mom’s up, of course. Dad’s … wherever unemployed drunks go. To Mass, perhaps? Ha.

I get up, use the bathroom, and take a shower. Long and hot. Insert clever, poorly timed joke here. Even though technically last night ended up more or less okay, now that I’ve had the night to sleep off the pain, guilt, exhilaration, and whatever else, it’s like today is set for my execution.

Despite the summer heat, I get dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and don’t know why. I sulk barefoot into
the kitchen, where Mom
and
Dad, I’m surprised to see, are both sitting at the kitchen table.

It’s not a fight; not yet. But they’re laying the groundwork. I can hear it in their voices as I shuffle in.

“Then you explain it to her,” Mom is saying.

Great. This sounds promising….

“It was a mistake, okay?” Dad says fiercely over a steaming cup of coffee. “I made a mistake, and I’m sorry. What more do you want?”

“I want Amy to have a fair chance, Richard!”

Okay. Enough’s enough. After this weekend, I’m pretty much gassed; this has to stop.

“Fair chance at what?” I say.

They both whip around.

“Hey!” Dad says quickly with a big grin. His eyes are bloodshot. “Mornin’, kiddo!”

I raise a hand. “Dad, don’t,” I say, feeling exhausted all over again. “I really can’t today.”

Dad’s face freezes. He turns back to his coffee and stares into the mug.

“So?” I ask, moving closer and leaning against the fridge. “Fair chance at what? Huh?”

Mom leans back in her chair. Dad spins his mug.

“I really don’t think Amy needs to hear this,” he mumbles. He never calls me that.

“We are a family, Richard,” Mom says, and her voice has this confidence in it I’ve never heard before. “She needs to be involved.”

“This isn’t about her!” Dad explodes. Mom doesn’t even
flinch. “She’s got her own thing going on, and I’ll
handle
it, okay, Miriam? I’ll handle it!”

“Can we not talk about me like I’m not here?” I suggest.

Dad spins. “Oh, that’s great. Yeah, that’s what I need this morning, more of your attitude.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Mom looks nervously at me, then at Dad. Dad looks—well,
shocked
would be a kind word for it. He stands up and races toward me, but like Mom, I just don’t care anymore, and don’t even wince.

“Just what in the hell is that supposed to mean?” he growls.

“It means I can’t do this!” I shout up at him. “You two screaming at each other, wondering if you’re going to get home safe after drinking all night … 
all of it
!”

“Now wait just a damn minute!”

“No! I won’t wait. I’m tired of it, Dad, I’m tired of this whole mess you got yourself into, and it’s killing me inside! I can’t do my work like this!” Because at the end of the day, Mike and Doc S were both right; being here is killing my art.

“Oh, I see!” Dad bellows, pacing in a tight circle. “It’s
my
fault you didn’t get into some damn art school? That’s how it is?”

“I
did
get in. I lost a scholarship because my work wasn’t good enough yet, and it wasn’t good enough because dealing with you made it impossible to do it well.”

I suck in a breath. I’ve never said anything like that out loud. But the reality, the truth of it, I think, hits me harder than it does him.

I got in. I really did. And that
means
something.

“How can you talk to me like this?” Dad says, sounding like a five-year-old. “After everything I’ve done for you!”

My hands crunch into fists. “You’ve given me a place to live, and clothes, and a car, and food, and you know what? Thank you. Thank you for doing that. I appreciate it, I really do. And you’ve never tried to stop me from going after what I wanted, and that’s great. But you’ve never really been behind it, either.”

“Oh, Christ!”

“Well, have you?”

Dad lurches toward me, sticking a finger in my face. “I’ve given you …!” he starts, but can’t seem to figure out how to follow up.

I am so tired. And I still have to talk to Mike. And make some phone calls, but crap, it’s Sunday—those’ll have to wait till tomorrow morning.

“Whatever,” I say, shutting my eyes. “I can’t put up with it anymore, Dad. So just—either get a divorce and call it a day, or get your shit together and get
better
.” And although my stomach is twisted, gotta say, it feels good to just get it out.

Silence.

I open my eyes. Dad’s still angry, sort of, but there’s something else in his face now. Fear, maybe.

Mom clears her throat. “Actually, Amy,” she says softly, “that’s what we were talking about.”

Dad runs his hands through his graying hair and stands by the sink, gripping its edge. I move to stand between them.

“About what, exactly?”

Dad shakes his head and looks out the kitchen window. Mom eyes me carefully.

“I’ve asked your father to get help,” she says, her voice steady. “If he doesn’t, then I will have to leave. And you would be welcome to come with me, though with your birthday coming up, I suppose it would really be up to you.”

I wait for a ton of bricks to crush me. It doesn’t come. I must be too tired. Or just not surprised. It was only a matter of time.

“Dad?”

“We don’t have the money even if—” he says, but cuts himself off.

Money for what? Getting sober somewhere? Money well spent, I’d think.

“We could take a loan out on the house,” Mom says.

“That’s horseshit,” Dad spits.

“Getting
hammered
every night is horseshit,” I shoot back.

Dad’s shoulders slump. Just a bit. No one says anything for a long, long time.

“I’m done talking about this,” he says finally, and heads for the door, jangling the keys in his pocket.

“Off to Scotty’s, then?” I call after him.

His hand freezes on the doorknob. Mom and I watch and wait.

After another uncertain length of time, Dad mumbles, “Fuck this.” He walks out to the carport, slamming the door shut behind him like a cranky adolescent not getting his way. Mom and I don’t even flinch as he squeals his tires on the driveway and takes off down the street.

Slowly, I sit down across from Mom. She looks about as wiped out as I feel, rubbing her index fingers against her temples. After a sec or two, she opens her eyes and says, “So how was your night?”

I actually laugh. It’s a sick, sad sound, but Mom does the same.

For the first time I think
ever
, I want to tell her everything. Jenn, Mike, the band, Dr. Salinger—all of it. I don’t know why; maybe I’m just too drained to fight it. Or maybe it’s the way she just talked to Dad, like she meant business, that she wasn’t going to roll over anymore. I wonder if her talking to that priest guy helped or what.

“Mom,” I say, toying with Dad’s cooling coffee, “last night. I—”

My phone starts ringing. My head automatically turns in the direction of my room.

“Is that Mike?” Mom asks.

“Oh yeah. Um … almost certainly.”

“Amy? Are you all right?”

I stand up. “I will be,” I say. “Look, can we … talk? Sometime? Later? I have to tell you some stuff and I might … need some help.”

Mom blinks. How long has it been since I asked to talk to her? Since I needed help? Long enough that it registers on her face that it’s been some time.

“Of course,” she says right away. “Anytime. About anything. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“At the moment. Thanks,” I say, and walk quickly down the hall to my room. Even before I reach the phone, I’ve decided; I will talk to her, and I will tell her everything.

“Hello?”

“Hey. What’s up.”

“Mike, hi.” My stomach instantly turns in on itself as I try to anticipate where our conversation is going to go, exactly. I need to apologize, I know that much, but—

“So, um, we need to have a chat,” Mike says.

“Yeah, I know, I really—”

“Noooo …,” Mike interrupts, “I don’t think you do. We really need to talk.”

“Um—all right. You want me to come over?”

“How soon?”

What the hell? Why the sudden rush? I don’t like this.

“I need to grab something to eat … about an hour? Maybe less?”

“Sounds good. I’ll be here. See ya.”

He hangs up.

I put the phone down. Eat? Right. After that little introduction? I pick up my keys and wallet and leave my room without shutting my door.

Mom’s washing out Dad’s mug in the sink. “Going to see Mike?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Might be awhile.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be here when you get back.” She shuts off the faucet. “That is, if you still want to talk. Or anything.”

“Probably,” I say. “See you soon.” I hesitate by the door. “Where do you think he went?”

“Daddy? Who knows? But, Amy, you have to understand … I was serious. I meant what I said. If he doesn’t get help …”

“I get it,” I say. “I’m with you.”

Mom smiles sadly, eyes shining. “Thank you.”

And I go to my car. I debate stopping for food somewhere, but by now, there’s no way I’m forcing anything down my throat. I do get an iced coffee. Not at the Hole, though. Not yet. Maybe not ever again.

I race to Mike’s house, my coffee gone by the time I get there. I go to the front door and knock. Mike answers almost right away.

“Hey,” he says. He’s wearing those black shorts I like, and a plain white T-shirt. “Come on in.”

I come on in. Mike shuts the door and leads the way to his room. No hug? No kiss? This can’t end well.

Mike goes to his bed and sits on the edge, heaving a sigh as he does it. I stand near the doorway, like I shouldn’t even come in here anymore.

“Can I start?” I ask.

Mike gestures toward me.

I take a big breath. “Okay,” I say.

“So … it was a mistake. Last night, it was a mistake, and I’m really, really sorry. The one thing that obviously meant a lot to you, and I just destroyed it, and I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, exactly. I mean, well, I did, sorta, but not like that, and not so soon. This weekend’s been like the best and worst of my life, and I don’t even know where to start, there’s so much to tell you about….”

Relieved I’m getting it all out, I step into his room and pace, hardly noticing that all the papers usually scattered around are gone now. The hardwood floor squeaks beneath me. I watch my feet, afraid to look him in the eye, what I might see there.

“… but the main thing is, Friday, I had this
terminally
bad day, because my art teacher was supposed to help me with my portfolio and write me a recommendation letter and all this, and I was really super excited, and then she left, didn’t tell me she was leaving or anything…. And you weren’t home, and I went to Jenn’s, and … god, that’s a whole other thing I never told you about her, but that can wait, it’s just … And then my dad had this major blowout when I got home, and Mom kicked him out, at least for the night, but he came home, and—oh my god, he
lost
his job, and Mom said if he didn’t stop drinking she was going to leave him…. But I’m really talking around this whole thing, I know, it’s just … when I saw you, last night, I just wanted—you know, it’s funny but not like a joke funny, Jenn said this to me once and I thought I understood, but I didn’t, and now I really do, but anyway—I just wanted to feel something other than what I was feeling, and so I, like,
attacked
you last night to try and make it go away, but it didn’t, I just made everything worse, and … and god, I am so sorry, Mike, and I really don’t want us to be over.”

I stop. Take another breath. Force myself to look up.

And notice his black duffel bag on his bed, stuffed full and zipped shut.

“Um—what’s that?” I ask dumbly.

Mike sort of nods to himself for a second, and puts one hand on top of the bag.

“I’m going to L.A. with the band tomorrow. We’re hitting the road.”

“Wh-what?”

Mike takes a breath and looks into my eyes.
God
, his eyes. Then he says:

I can’t wait a second longer. “
What?
What is it, what happened?”

He swallows hard; I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do that before. Nervous-like.

“It’s Black Phantom,” he says. “They were at the show last night.”

That’s it—the guy who bought the GR demo tapes. It was Jason Alfaro, lead guitarist of Black Phantom.

“They’d made plans to come see Nightrage, but, uh … 
well, of course, that’s not what happened, so they saw us instead, and, um …”

He runs his hands over his hair and licks his lips.

“Mike …?”

“And they’re starting that tour next Monday,” Mike goes on. “Which was supposed to be a double bill sorta thing with Nightrage. They got the whole thing mapped out. The label’s even got them into a couple cheap motels, which is pretty impressive. And since Nightrage fell apart … well, they talked to Hob last night and offered us the gig. We had to decide right away, because there were other bands in L.A. they could ask, so. We had to take it.”

“You’re going on tour?” I repeat. “Mike, that’s awesome! God, I thought something was wrong. That’s great!”