“Half Mexican, half Norwegian. Mexiwegian.”
Novie turned to her brother. “What would that make us? Mom’s Polish, what’s Dad?”
“Mostly German, I think,” said Axl.
“So you’re Germish,” I said.
“I knew it! Keep those scabies and tapeworms to yourselves,” Dylan said, leaning away from the twins.
For the next hour, conversation flowed freely. My initial discomfort melted away as soon as we started trading funny stories about our weird families—we were more alike than I’d expected. I found out that Axl and Novie’s dad had moved to Alaska when they were babies, and they only talked to him once a year at Christmas. Dylan talked about his New Age parents and their large collection of Reiki stones and essential oils. And even though I’d never told anyone else but Rose, I explained how my mom had decided to skip the sperm donor bank and get knocked up for free in Latin America.
Twice.
It felt good to be around people who didn’t judge me, who had stories as strange as my own. And it felt good to laugh about it. What else could we do?
Eventually, we got around to playing music. I helped Axl and Novie drag their equipment in from the pickup truck and navigate it through the house, careful not to put any holes in the drywall. Dylan stayed in the basement, setting up microphones on stands. Duct tape was heavily featured in their assembly.
They kindly asked me what songs I knew, to which I replied that I’d play whatever they wanted. They’d all know soon enough how much I sucked.
Dylan ended up showing us a song he’d recently written. It only had three chords: E minor, C, and D—right in my wheelhouse—so I gently strummed along. I tried to keep up, but I played really soft, afraid I’d mess up. It probably turned out to be a good thing I wasn’t amplified, but I think I held my own. Axl and Novie listened while tapping their feet and bobbing their heads.
“That’s awesome, man,” said Dylan, when we came to the end. “We’ve been needing a rhythm guitarist.”
Rhythm guitarist. Had a nice ring to it.
“Thanks,” I replied. “I kind of screwed up that middle part.”
“No, you didn’t! You were great!” said Novie.
“Yeah, dude. Spot on,” said Axl.
I didn’t know if they were serious, or just being nice.
“Here, try this out.” Dylan opened up a black case and pulled out a dark blue Fender Telecaster.
Like Joe Strummer’s, I thought. Almost.
Dylan plugged it into an amp and handed it to me.
“Um . . .” I said.
“Here’s your volume,” Dylan said, pointing to a knob, “this chooses your pickup, and this adjusts your treble and bass.”
“Got it,” I replied, though I felt out of my league. I strummed a chord and jumped at how loud it was.
Dylan laughed. “Don’t worry, she won’t bite ya.”
I turned the volume knob and strummed again. Much better.
After that, Axl showed us a bass line he’d been working on. I watched in awe as Dylan put his head down and worked his way up and down the neck of his own guitar to find the matching chords. I studied his hands closely. Okay, I recognize that one, I think that’s an F. That’s definitely a C. I think that’s an A minor. No! D minor. Now A minor. I know that’s a G. I followed along the best I could. After about five or six times through the chord progression, I had it down.
Novie tapped out the tempo on the hi-hat, then fell into a groove with the snare and kick drum.
Dylan watched me play, which made me nervous, but soon he nodded at me in approval. Then he clicked a pedal on the floor and launched into a guitar solo.
Holy shit.
I was actually playing with a band.
I could feel the bass, feel the kick drum. My own guitar was part of the music, almost like a conversation. There was a sense of collectivity, a unity. This was what I wanted. This was what I needed.
We finally reached the big ending, accented by heavy cymbal crashes and me breaking a string.
I didn’t care though.
My ears were ringing, my fingers were bleeding, and I couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off my face.
NINETEEN
THE PSYCHIC’S HEAD WHIPPED UP, HER EYES OPEN WIDE. “THAT’S THE old-soul line, right there.”
“It is?” asked Rose.
“Yes. You’ve lived many past lives.”
“I have?”
“Mm-hmm.” Mo the psychic traced a line along Rose’s palm from below her index finger to her wrist. “You will live near a large body of water. Soon. Within the next six months.”
“Really?” said Rose. “Is it the ocean?”
“Hard to say,” replied Mo.
“So it could be any body of water?” I chimed in. “I mean, it could be a river or a lake too, right?”
Mo flashed me a look. “Yes, it could,” she finally said, after staring into my soul for a moment.
Mo owned Moira’s Psychic Healing and Palm Reading, the business located down the strip mall from World Peas Café. The previous night, I’d brought her some leftovers from the café, which apparently my mom had been dropping off for weeks. It was then I’d come up with the idea to surprise Rose with a palm reading on Sunday. I’d half expected—okay, I’d fully expected—to find an old woman in a silk gown and a shiny jewel-encrusted turban speaking in some gypsy accent as she hovered over a crystal ball. It turned out that to be a psychic in Buffalo Falls, all you needed were a pair of tie-dyed shoes, some tarot cards, and a twenty-by-ten-foot office space. Forest green, soul-sucking animal eyes didn’t hurt either.
I decided to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the reading.
Mo continued to stare at Rose’s hands, which rested on the table in front of her, palms up.
“You were an artist in a past life. A painter, perhaps. Possibly a musician.”
“I play piano now, in this life,” Rose replied.
Mo looked Rose in the eyes. “I know.”
“Psychic,” I mouthed, pointing at Mo.
“Oh, right,” said Rose.
Mo stared for a moment, then pointed to a spot on Rose’s right palm. “There. These two lines connect here. Is there someone new in your life?”
Rose gave me a look. Her eyebrows twitched and her lips pursed like she was trying to hold in a smile. “Yes,” she answered.
Mo glanced at me, then looked back to Rose and referenced me with a head tilt, meaning, “That guy there?”
Rose nodded.
Mo scrunched up her face. I think it was a sign of approval, but it could have been “Oh well” or “He’ll do.”
Maybe both.
“All right, that’s all. Next. You’re up.” Mo was looking at me.
“That’s okay. This was just for her—”
“Have a seat.” Mo motioned to where Rose was sitting, with an air of authority that didn’t leave much room for debate.
Long story short, when she told me to sit, I sat.
I rested the backs of my hands on the table and stared down at them, waiting for the process to begin. She said nothing. I flexed my fingers, straightening them, offering her a better look at my palms.
Still nothing.