Ten Miles Past Normal

Chapter Twelve


The Rock ’n’ Roll Diaries: An Afterschool Special





A week and a half into our gig as library buddies, Verbena and I are actually discussing whether or not we should venture out of the library and into the cafeteria. We discuss this in whispers, as if it’s too scary a subject to give full voice to.

“It’s the only way we’re going to get ourselves out there,” Verbena insists in a hushed tone. “In the public eye. I mean, there are people in this school who are like us, who’ll want to be friends with us, if they just know we’re alive.”

“Or forget what they know,” I add, wishing I could go back to the beginning days of school and start over. You can bet that clump of goat manure wouldn’t have made it past the goat pen, much less onto the bus and into local folkore.

The funny thing is, now that I’m friends with Verbena, I feel like a social success story, with two spots in my day—lunch and Great Girls and Women—where I have someone to talk to. That’s a 100 percent increase from two weeks ago. And if you count Monster—and since I’ve now actually been to his house and eaten from his snack supply, I do—well, hey, I’m practically the prom queen.

Still, I get Verbena’s point. Lunch is supposed to be a time for mixing and mingling among one’s peers. Impossible to do if you’re an island of one, but conceivable when there are two of you.

Verbena, it turns out, is new. “I’m always new,” she complained to me during our second library lunch together, digging out a bag of carrot sticks from her purse, a blue pleather pouch that matched her blue go-go boots. “My mom’s company keeps relocating her every two years. She goes to new divisions, fixes whatever’s wrong with them, rearranges the management, gets the employees a better brand of doughnuts for the break room, and then moves on to the next place. We move on to the next place.”

She held out a carrot stick to me, but I shook my head. For reasons I cannot fathom, Verbena is exempt from Mrs. Welsch’s rules, but every time I do anything remotely suspicious—rummage through my backpack for a pen, walk up to the front desk to grab a Kleenex—Mrs. Welsch narrows her eyes at me as though she expects me to use the pen to scrawl all over her books or tear the tissue into spitwad-size pieces to stick under her tables.

“What does your dad do?” I asked, watching with interest as Verbena took the tiniest bites possible from a carrot stick. At the rate she was going, this one would last her until the weekend.

Verbena rolled her eyes. “He writes murder mysteries. He doesn’t publish them, he just writes them.”

“Does he try to publish them?”

“Of course he tries to publish them. The problem is, they’re not any good. My dad is really squeamish about blood and violence, so all his murders are boring. And his so-called sleuth is an accountant, which is what my dad used to be. But when my mom started making so much money, he quit his job to write.”

She chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Moving so much when I was little didn’t matter. Little kids will make friends with you in a minute. But it gets harder every year. In fact, I’m thinking about divorcing my parents, just so I can stop moving. The damage it’s done to my social life is overwhelming.”

I decided against pointing out that having skulls and crossbones inked up and down her forearms—that day’s particular Sharpie tattoo theme—might also work against the cultivation of a vibrant social life.

Today Verbena’s tattoos are a little more subdued. She’s in a literary mood, apparently, and has been writing words and phrases on her left arm—COWABUNGA! LIFE SUCKS! PEACHY KEEN! YOWZA! BIG BULLY!—in a straight line from her wrist to the inside of her elbow.

“It’s not like I want to be popular,” Verbena insists. “I just want to have a group. I’ve always wanted to be in a group.” She stops, leans back, and gives me a long, assessing look. “Why aren’t you in a group? Is it your clothes?”

I look down at what I’m wearing: a black scoop-neck T-shirt and a vintage A-line yellow skirt I’ve appliquéd with red flannel cowboy boots, a perfectly respectable ensemble. “Is there something wrong with my clothes?”

Verbena crosses her hands over her heart and looks very sincere. “I personally love them, but then I’m the creative type. And I appreciate creativity in other people. But not everyone does, right?”

I suppose this is true. And it’s not like I’ve never gotten snide comments. But for the most part, people either think what I wear is cool or they don’t seem to notice it.

Besides, I remind myself, I have a group of friends. I just never see most of them anymore. “The problem is,” I explain to Verbena, “the group I was in all through middle school got split up this year. The only one I ever get to hang out with at school is my best friend, Sarah.”

Verbena winces at the phrase “best friend.” “You’re so lucky,” she says after being quiet for a minute. “Whenever I get to a new place, all the good best friends are taken.”

I don’t know what to say, so I start telling her about Sarah, what she’s like, what her interests are, her obsession with ethical chocolate. I notice after I’ve gone on a few minutes that Verbena is frowning, and I wonder if I’ve somehow hurt her feelings by describing one of my friends when she doesn’t have any, if you don’t count me.

“Did I say something wrong? Maybe I shouldn’t be talking about my best friend since you don’t exactly—uh—have one, I guess.”

Verbena examines the Lite ’n’ Rite parmesan bread stick she’s pulled out of a box from her purse, then takes a bite before answering. “No, no. It’s just this Sarah person—I don’t know, she sounds kind of . . . something. Like an overachiever type, I guess.”

“Well, she is, sort of,” I admit. “She’s just really smart. She likes to have a lot going on.”

“But you’re not like that.”

For some reason, that stings. I used to be an overachiever, I’m pretty sure, or at the very least part of the smart-girl group, the straight-A team. Is there something about me that suggests I’m no longer living up to my potential? I sniff the air around me, checking for that telltale sour milk smell, but all I get a whiff of is parmesan bread stick and library paste. “You’ve only known me a little while,” I complain to Verbena. “For all you know, I could be writing some major magnum opus, or curing cancer in my basement when I’m done with my homework.”

“You could be,” Verbena replies, pointing her bread stick at me. “But you’re not. This Sarah person, on the other hand, is probably working on a cure for cancer and the common cold and—oh, I don’t know. Rabies or something.”

It’s funny, hearing someone else’s take on Sarah, someone who’s judging her solely on my description. I feel sort of guilty, both for unintentionally painting a picture of Sarah that turned out to be less than flattering, and also for enjoying Verbena’s negative opinion. The fact is, Sarah is an overachiever—and a know-it-all, and, as I told her in no uncertain terms when we were seven, a bossy-boss.

And, if I’m completely honest, she can get on my nerves. Like this Monday, with Monster. She was treating him like a Jeremy Fitch tutorial. Driving to Monster’s house in his truck—red, ancient, frighteningly rusted—she interrogated Monster about everything Jeremy.

“So what kind of girl would you say he likes? Intelligent, athletic, artsy?” Sarah asked, sounding like she was reading from a quiz in a magazine. “Vivacious, quiet, articulate?”

“I think he likes girls, period,” Monster told her, grinning. “I never noticed him being particular about it.”

“But there’s got to be some special kind of girl—his dream girl, right?”

Monster guffawed. “Dream girl? Ain’t such a thing. You walk, you talk, you got mammary glands, well, that’s gonna do it right there for most guys.”

“You’re not very romantic, are you?” Sarah plucked a small purple rubber frog from a collection of rubber frogs on the dashboard and stretched one of its legs so it was pointing accusingly at Monster. “I can’t believe that guys don’t have particular things they want in a girl.”

“They want mammary glands. Pronounced mammary glands.”

“I bet he likes smart girls.” Sarah brightened. “Musicians like smart girls, don’t they? Look at John Lennon and Yoko Ono.”

“Oh, yeah, musicians are known for bird-dogging intelligent women,” Monster mockingly agreed. “I hear Elvis had a big thing for Madame Curie.”

The conversation petered out after that. Sarah fiddled with the radio, which only seemed to receive static, and I examined the menagerie of critters littering Monster’s dash—besides the frogs, there were several tiny cows, apparently glued down, and a passel of three-inch-high dinosaurs in alarming hues, purples, reds, and one striped brontosaurus—wondering what on earth were we doing. Frankly, I was beginning to question Sarah’s sanity. I mean, did she really think Jeremy Fitch was going to fall for her—for her mind? Or because she was nice, or up-to-date on current events?

Or because she played the bass?

The Jam Band idea seemed crazier to me every time I thought about it. I could understand why we’d gotten so excited about it at first. Being in a band is one of those notions that sort of seizes you. It’s like when you’re a kid and decide to put on a play or have a carnival in your backyard. You spend forty-eight to seventy-two crazed hours devoting your every waking minute to making it happen, and then, poof, all of a sudden you run out of steam and your big idea dies a quiet death while you sit in front of the TV watching ancient Saved by the Bell episodes.

I had a feeling Jam Band didn’t have much longer to live either.

Half a mile past the Wal-Mart, Monster pulled the truck into the parking lot of what looked like an old motel, an L-shaped, two-story building, an empty pool in front filled with burger-joint trash and two decrepit beach loungers. “Well, ladies, we’re here,” he announced as the engine grumbled and lurched to a halt.

“You live here?” Sarah sounded shocked. “I mean, for real? With your family?”

Monster pushed open his door (the handle didn’t actually work, but brute strength seemed to do the trick), got out of the truck, then leaned his head back in. “Not with my family, no way. I think I mentioned to you that they’re pretty nuts. Mama and Daddy, anyway. Granny’s all right. End of last summer I said, ‘What do y’all think about me moving out?’ and they said fine. I found this place, and Daddy came over and signed the lease, helped me move my stuff in. I pay the rent, but Granny usually slips me a twenty to help with the utilities.”

He checked his watch. “In fact, I got to be at work by six, so we better get this party started.”

We followed him up the rickety staircase to the second floor. “This used to be a Motel 6,” he explained as he inserted a key into a door with 227-28 scrawled in marker on it. “But then they built a new Motel 6 over by the highway and sold this one to my landlord, Morris.”

Monster opened the door and gallantly stepped back to let us enter. “Ladies, welcome to my den of iniquity. Or at least I’m hoping that’s what it’s gonna be one day. I’m working up to that stage incrementally.”

Monster’s apartment consisted of two hotel rooms connected by a bathroom. He led us quickly through the first room—room 227, I guessed, which consisted mostly of an unmade queen-size bed, a dresser, and a TV with rabbit-ear antennas taped to the top—through the bathroom, where a coffee mug and a cereal bowl were laid out to dry on overlapping brown paper towels next to the sink, and into room 228, where there was a couch instead of a bed and a mini-fridge with a hot plate on top.

“Sleep in one room, live in the other,” he declared, knocking a bunch of magazines off the couch and motioning for us to sit. “Don’t ever mix the two. It cost me a little extra to rent a suite, but it’s worth it. I can’t abide eating in the same room I sleep in.”

Monster’s living room appeared to be a shrine to all things musical. I counted nine different guitars, all types, a trumpet, a violin, and five amps, not to mention a snake’s nest worth of cords slithering over every spare inch of carpet. A humongous boom box was set against the wall across from the couch, and a line of CD cases—there had to be at least two hundred—stretched along the baseboard of another wall.

Monster lifted a red bass from its stand and held it in front of us. “Now, here’s what you got to understand about the bass. It is a rhythm instrument that, unlike the drum kit, its partner in crime, can carry a tune. The bass guitar gets taken for granted outside the world of jazz and funk, but don’t let that fool you. Ain’t no such thing as rock and roll without the bass.”

He handed the bass to Sarah, who took it from him and held it awkwardly in her lap. “Now, I’m gonna find you a strap, and then we’ll get you plugged in and see what kinda stuff you got.”

Rummaging through a box next to the couch, Monster pulled out a thick black strap with neon yellow peace signs running up and down its length. “This oughta do ya,” he said, leaning over Sarah and attaching the strap to the bass. “We’ll adjust it so the bass ain’t hanging too low. Why don’t you go ahead and stand up, give me something to work with here.”

Sarah stood, clutching the neck of the bass in one hand and grabbing onto the body with the other. “Relax,” Monster told her, give the strap a yank. “You can’t be uptight and play bass. Contradiction in terms.”

“It doesn’t feel comfortable,” Sarah complained, tugging at the strap where it crossed her shoulder. “And it’s heavy. How am I supposed to hold it for more than five minutes?”

“You’ll get used to it,” Monster assured her. He stepped back to examine her. “You’re kinda little for a bass player, it’s true. Lotta times you go see a band, the bass player’s the big guy. Even the girl bass players—you guys know Tina Wannamaker, plays bass for Evermore? She’s a pretty tall drink of water.”

Sarah stood in front of the couch, looking miserable, the bass dangling close to her knees. Here it is, I thought. Here’s where the Jam Band dream dies.

As if reading my mind, Sarah turned to me and said, “Maybe I should try out for cross-country.”

“Maybe,” I agreed. Not that I thought running cross-country would win her a place in Jeremy Fitch’s heart either, but you can’t stomp all over a person’s hopes and desires and expect her to stay your best friend.

Sarah shrugged off the bass and held it out to Monster. “I don’t think this is going to work out, but thanks.”

Monster looked confused. “You didn’t even plug it in yet.”

“It’s just too uncomfortable. And you’re right, I’m probably too short to play.”

Monster grabbed the bass by the neck. He turned to me. “Well, you’re on the tall side. Why don’t you give it a try?”

“I don’t know anything about playing bass,” I told him, but even as the words came out of my mouth I was reaching for it. “I mean, I guess I could try, but don’t expect anything great.”

Sarah looked concerned. “I’m not so sure this is a good idea, Janie. You’ve never even played piano.”

I pulled the strap over my head and balanced the bass against my hips. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing, I guess,” Sarah admitted. “I guess I just don’t see you as the musician type.”

“And you are?” I felt my face getting hot. Sarah was just being Sarah, offering her considered if unsolicited opinions, but suddenly Sarah being Sarah was starting to irritate me.

“Maybe I’ll be a great bass player,” I told her as Monster plugged a cord into an amp and led it over to where I was standing. “Maybe I’ll be the—the—Tina Wannamaker of Manneville High.”

“Strictly speaking, Tina Wannamaker is the Tina Wannamaker of Manneville High,” Monster said, plugging the other end of the amp cord into the bass. “She’s a senior. Evermore’s a local band. Don’t you keep up with the local music scene?”

“We’re really not that into music,” Sarah informed him. “We were just trying it out for a little while.”

Before Monster could respond—and I could see that the response forming on his lips wasn’t going to be pretty—I plucked a string. It was the bottom string—the E string, I’d learn in a minute—and it vibrated all the way up my arm.

It sounded—and felt—incredibly cool.

Monster turned away from Sarah. “That’s good. Now put your pointer finger on the second string, first fret, and play that.”

I did as I was told.

It sounded even cooler.

And all of a sudden, I felt larger. Not taller, not heavier, not physically bigger. Larger on the inside. Like suddenly—how do I say this?—I felt like life had possibilities I hadn’t been aware of five seconds before.

All this from playing two notes on Monster’s bass.

♦ ♦ ♦

Sitting in the library across the table from Verbena, I can still feel the reverb running up and down my arms. And I can still see the bored expression on Sarah’s face as Monster taught me to play an easy Ramones song.

Which is just my luck. When I finally get excited about something, Sarah couldn’t be less interested. Standing in the middle of Monster’s apartment, I didn’t know whether to scream or cry. I mean, how many times had I hopped on Sarah’s latest bandwagon? How many times had I helped her get petitions signed and posters hung up?

And she gives up on Jam Band just when I figure out it’s something I really want to do?

“Sarah’s great,” I tell Verbena. “I mean, we’ve been best friends since first grade. She’s totally cool. She just, I don’t know, knows her own mind. She’s got her own opinions. She—”

And then I stop, because it hits me that I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince Verbena of Sarah’s greatness, or if I’m trying to convince myself.