Zero (7 page)

Dad sees right through me. He winks, and I want to tear the eyelid off with my teeth.

“Hey, Z,” he goes. “That was an expensive school you wanted to go to, you know.”

And thanks for using the past tense, Daddy-O. He may as well have said,
Since there’s no way in god’s green hell you’ll ever make it there on your own
. I imagine the facade of the main building at SAIC melting in front of me, like it’s part of a Salvador Dalí painting.

I shake my head to dismiss the image. “Well, I signed up for a class yesterday,” I say. “If that’s okay.”

“Summer school? Yeah, sure. Get a head start. Took it outta the school account?”

“Mm-hm.”

Technically, I could write myself a check out of the education expenses account and run off to Chicago, Santa Fe, L.A., wherever, but that feels messed up. Like, unfair. Gotta say, though, on those nights when he and Mom are clawing it out in the living room, it doesn’t seem quite as unfair after all. And after this crap with Jenn, my (ahem)
future
with Mike is about the only thing keeping me here. I guess I just wanna see where it’s all gonna go. That, and I’d run out of money after about a semester in Chicago.

“Math? Science?” Dad asks.

Leave it to my accountant father to be all practical and junk. I’m not convinced he wasn’t sort of relieved I couldn’t go to SAIC.

“Intro to Art.” It’s a mixed-media class, painting and drawing. Good place to start.

Dad squints at me. “You need that?”

“Prerequisite. Well, elective prerequisite, anyway. For my major.” Which, strictly speaking, is undecided, but’ll have something to do with—drumroll!—
art
. Duh.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll do great.” He sits on the bed and pulls on his shoes.

“Going out, huh?” I venture. Obviously he is, but I want to see what he does with it.

“Oh, you know, just for drinks, throw some darts,” Dad says.

“What’s Mom doing?”

He laughs softly. At what, my naïveté? “That’s the million-dollar question, kiddo.”

“Well, don’t drink and drive,” I say.

Dad gives me a mouth click and shoots me with his forefinger and thumb.

With that touching expression, I walk down the hall and through the kitchen. I hear the TV in the living room; Mom’s out there alone. God, couldn’t they just go on a
date
sometime?

I head out to DC without telling either of them where I’m going or when I’ll be back.

Damage Control is this huge box of a building, two stories tall, with this awesome old redbrick exterior. I grab a parking space three rows from the entrance; the lot’s pretty full.

I pay the cover and slide into a dark hallway that opens up into one gigantic room. Onstage, this band Black Dot Society—or BDS, as we
in the know
like to say, because we’re pretentious punk jerks—is setting up their gear, but Nightrage’s trademark red bass drum is at the back of the stage, and their guitarist is fiddling with an amp.

There are no tables or chairs on the ground floor except in back by the bar. A flight of steel stairs climbs along one wall, leading to a balcony surrounding the dance floor in a U-shape.

I don’t see Mike anywhere.

The place is almost at capacity, but the houselights are on and it’s pretty easy to see everyone. If he was here, I’d see him. Bathroom? Not here yet?

Big F’ing joke on me? Discuss.

I mean, he didn’t use the word
date
. Maybe people don’t use that word anymore. I keep telling myself that.

I notice someone waving boa constrictor arms at me from
the balcony. It’s Gothic Rainbow’s singer—Hobbit. (Clever.) He’s sitting at a table with the other two band members. Brook and Eddie? I climb the steps and head over to them.

I run through the list of questions for the band that I meticulously planned for tonight. I figure my best bet is to be chill, not act all groupie. Guys like to talk about themselves, Jenn has advised. And she should know. For one second, I really wish she was going to be here to help me not look like an ass.

“Hey!” Hobbit goes as I reach the table. “You’re Zero, right?”

“Truer words were never spoken,” I say, sitting.

The guys give me a laugh. Well, it’s a start. Brook and Eddie introduce themselves to me, but we don’t shake hands or anything.

There’s a verbal explosion from the stage down below. The guys all grin and lean over the railing to see what’s going on, so I do too.

It’s Nightrage’s drummer and guitarist. The crowd is too noisy to hear exactly what’s being said. Something to do with where Fucking Tony needs to Move His Amp, Dipshit.

“I put ten on Tony!” Brook says, laughing, rubbing a hand across his bleached hair.

“Naw way, man, twenty on Rod!” Eddie says gleefully.

“How about fifty on BDS?” I say.

Brook and Eddie laugh; score! Hobbit, though, says nothing, watching Nightrage intently, eyes narrowed. The members of BDS stand aside, looking impatient; they’re up first tonight, and Nightrage is probably eating into their set time.

The two guys are getting super heated now. When Rod
slams both hands into Tony’s chest, the crowd roars and the two begin wrestling center stage. Some people cheer them on; most shout for them to quit it and let BDS start their show.

“Here’s a thought,” I say. “If you don’t like each other, don’t start a band.”

Brook and Eddie laugh again, while Hobbit snorts like a bull and nods. The match ends when the other two members of Nightrage show up and pull the combatants apart, dragging them backstage.

Eddie and Brook groan and retake their seats. Hobbit shakes his head.

“That’s the dumbest shit I ever seen,” he says.

“Maybe it’s all part of the show,” Brook says. “Get everyone riled up.”

“Whatever it is, it’s stupid,” Hobbit says. “Just play your damn music.” He glances over at me. “You saw the Graveyard show last weekend,” he says. “How was it?”

“Awesome,” I say. “It was the first time I’d seen you guys. It was great.”

“Yeah? Listen, what’d you think of the chorus on—”

“Hob!” Brook says. “She’s not here to pump your ego, man. She’s here to see …” Brook pinwheels his arms and throws two pointy fingers toward the stairs.
“That guy!”

I turn just as Mike approaches the table. He’s in jeans and a distressed T-shirt with a Ghost of Banquo logo pasted across the chest. The shirt fits him nicely. Just sayin’.

“What’s up?” he asks the table, but as he crosses behind me to sit down next to me, his hand touches my shoulder. Just for a second.

I’m a Dalí watch, melting under his hand. Was it by accident? On purpose?

“I don’t suppose anyone offered you something to drink?” Mike asks me.

“Not as of yet, no.” But I’ll need something, stat, because desert dust has mysteriously appeared in my mouth. I need a freaking IV line around this guy.

Mike stands back up. “Gentlemen, I am ashamed of you.” Brook playfully smacks Eddie’s shoulder, like it’s all his fault. To me, Mike asks, “Soda?”

Right then, BDS plays their first chord for their sound check. It underscores the way I feel as Mike looks down at me. Ultra-cinematic. Maybe he timed it somehow.

I can only nod.

“Diet, regular, cola, clear?”

I nod again.

“All four in one,” Mike says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He grazes my shoulder again as he passes by on his way to the bar. Okay, that
had
to be on purpose, right? I twist my head to watch him until my neck cramps.

When Mike comes back and sits down, he’s carrying four sodas. Two dark, two clear.

“Couldn’t find one that satisfied all four requirements,” he shouts over the music.

“Thanks!” I say, and take one of the colas. Mike takes the other. Eddie and Brook elbow each other to get to the remaining two glasses.

It’s too loud to talk easily, so the five of us watch the show. Well, four of us do. One of us watches Mike. That’s all I’m sayin’.

After BDS’s set wraps up, when we can hear each other again, I ask Mike, “Where’d you get that shirt?” The man’s got taste, no doubt about it.

Mike looks surprised. “My dad. Why?”

“It’s really cool. I’d love to find one like it.” Or, you know, share yours. While you’re wearing it. Woo hoo!

Okay, down, girl. Still trying to figure out if this is a date or not, remember?

“They’re hard to come by,” Mike says. “But if he’s got another one lying around, I’ll grab it for you.”

Eddie looks confused. “I thought you gave your last one to—
Ow
!” He shuts up and reaches under the table to rub his shin.

I’m pretty sure I missed something there.

Hobbit gives Eddie a
look
, then leans over the table toward me. “Mike says you’re an artist, huh?”

Note to self:
He talked about me!
That means something, right? I shoot a (mild, ineffectual) glare at Mike. “I never said that!”

Mike smirks back at me. “Didn’t you?”

“No, I …” I spread my hands out toward the other three. “I do some painting and drawing, is all.”

“Yeah?” Hob says. “Like what?”

“Well, um … I don’t know … a lot of different things. Landscapes, lately.”

The guys seem to exchange glances; Hobbit, in particular, looks intrigued. I try another glare at Mike for dragging me into this topic, but
damn
, those eyes of his. What is going
on
in there? I forgive him instantly.

I remember my plan to get Mike talking, so before
anyone else can interrogate me, I say, “So, when are you guys playing here?”

“Hard to say,” Mike says. “Soon, hopefully.”

“When one of the big promoters calls us,” Hob fills in. “Four Eyes, maybe Alecia Ruth.”

“Wait,” I say. “Who what huh?”

Mike tilts back in his chair while Hob looks at me like I must be a complete tool for not understanding him. He’s not a jerk about it; it’s probably the same look I gave Mike when he asked who Dalí was.

“Those are promotion companies,” Mike tells me. “They put lineups together and take them to the venues. Like at The Graveyard, that was an Open Casket show. Open Casket’s the promoter.”

“A lame-ass promoter,” Hob adds. He turns to watch the next band tune up, getting that same narrow look, like he’s searching for flaws. It hits me that the expression on his face is probably the same one I have when I look at some of the photos in
ARTnews
.

I’m better than that
, his face says.
I think
.

“We’ll get Four Eyes, man,” Hob says, rubbing his enormous hands together and glaring at the band down below. “One of these days. It’s comin’.”

“Are they a big deal?” I ask.

Mike wrinkles his nose. “Sort of. They do a lot of shows here.”

Brook says to me, “Yeah, Four Eyes is in here every week. Big-ticket shows, lots of national acts. It’d be a step up.”

“They gotta ask us first,” Eddie says, rather hopelessly.

“They will,” Hobbit states, still watching the band downstairs finish their sound check.

When the houselights dim and the band starts playing, all four guys groan.

“A Black Phantom
cover
?” Eddie whines loud enough to penetrate the steady bass from downstairs. “For
reals
? Why don’t they cover ‘Teen Spirit’ while they’re at it?”

“That’s what happens when you’re famous!” Brook shouts at him. “Everybody covers you!”

“Black Phantom’s not famous yet,” Mike says.

“Hey!” Eddie barks suddenly. “You guys hear? They’re playin’ through here on the last leg of that tour with Nightrage!”

This piques everyone’s interest. BP hasn’t played locally in over a year, since they got that record deal. It’d be cool to see them again. The label, Pharaoh Records, is independent—which is another word for
minuscule
—but does put out some good music.

“When’s that?” I shout at Eddie.

“Dunno!” he says. “November, maybe! But they’re comin’ back before the tour starts, too, for a couple days, so maybe they’ll do a show while they’re at it!”

The next two bands are unremarkable, and by the time Nightrage finally takes the stage, the crowd’s restless. So am I. Not because I’m anxious to see Nightrage implode again, but because every time Mike looks at me, he gets this little smile and, dammit, it’s kick-ass! I wish I could tell Jenn about it.

Nightrage tears up their show. They sound even better than they did at The Graveyard. Hob looks like this fact pisses him off, while Mike just kicks back in his chair, hands
over his stomach. The fourth song ends prematurely when Fucking Tony smashes into Dipshit John. Whatever. Nightrage can kiss my ass. There’s room back there for all four of them.

The guys decide to call it a night after Nightrage’s second
fisticuffs
of the evening. I follow them downstairs and out into the warm June air.

“Where’re you parked?” Mike asks when we reach the sidewalk.

I point. The guys linger nearby, trading glances.

“Gimme a minute,” Mike says to them.

The guys nod and wave us off, heading to the opposite end of the lot, where an enormous orange van is parked. They gather around the back of it, pretending not to watch me and Mike.

Mike walks me to my car. And suddenly I’m about to throw up, wondering if maybe, god, please, he might try to kiss me goodnight.

I won’t say no.

“Did you think any more about that art class at the Hole?” he asks as we walk.

“I looked into it, but there was a weight limit.”

Mike knocks his elbow into mine. My entire arm goes up in flame. “Oh, whatever.” The words are dismissive, and they are golden. I feel (a) awesome that he didn’t rush to agree, and (b) bummed that I sounded like such a self-pitying tub of ass. Must try to curb that.

I have to shake my head to clear it. “Um, I did sign up for summer school, yeah. At a junior college, though.”

“Really? Cool! They got a good art program or something?”

“None that I’m aware of.”

We get to my car, and I make a big show of fumbling around for my keys, giving him plenty of time to make A Move. I mean, if he wants.