“John,” I said, using his more serious name, “I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And I hung up.
Saved by the Belle. That’s a joke we use a lot in our house, and this time it felt real.
I separated my sisters, then hung out in the living room, waiting for my father to fall asleep so I could sneak some of his brandy.
HARBINGER JONES
Our first rehearsal after Christmas was just awkward.
Richie had borrowed his dad’s car and picked up Johnny and Chey. I was in my parents’ basement, sitting on my amp, messing around on the guitar, when they came in.
Johnny and Chey were both tight-lipped. That’s really the only word to describe how they looked; their mouths were straight lines pulled taut across their faces. Richie, who trailed them into the room, looked at me and rolled his eyes.
I mumbled hello, not wanting to get caught in the crosshairs of whatever was going on, and turned my attention to Richie.
“How was Christmas?”
“You’re never going to believe it,” he said. “The old geezer got me a bike.” Old geezer sounds like Richie hated his dad, but really it’s a term of affection, though not one his father was at all aware existed.
“A bike?”
“Yeah, dude, a bike! It’s used, but it kicks ass. It’s a 1973 Honda 450cc road bike, and it runs great. My dad and I spent yesterday taking apart the engine and putting it back together. It was awesome. ”
“Did you ride it here?” I was excited. I’d never been on a motorcycle before. “Is it outside?”
“Dude, it’s winter. And, dude”—Richie was in his dude phase then—“I had to pick up these mopes,” he said, pointing at Johnny and Cheyenne.
Neither one was paying any attention to our conversation. Chey had her head down, tuning her bass to an electric tuner, and Johnny was sitting behind the keyboard, playing something with the volume low.
“Right,” I said to Richie. “But when the weather warms up, I want a ride.”
“Definitely,” he answered.
Sensing a lull in the conversation, Cheyenne, without warning, launched into one of the few songs in our set that starts with the bass guitar. It was “Girl in the Band.” It’s an unwritten rule that when one of us starts playing, everyone else jumps on board. So we did. We tore through that song at what felt like twice the normal speed and then just kept playing songs, one after the other—it was kind of like chain-smoking—until an hour had gone by and we were all exhausted. It was pretty incredible.
The mood in the room had softened in the warm glow of good music. That feeling was, unfortunately, short-lived.
“Chey, can I talk to you outside for a minute?”
All three of us looked at Johnny; then Richie and I looked at Chey.
She nodded. They left.
“Did they have a fight or something on the ride over?” I asked Richie after they walked out. I don’t know why I asked; I felt so done with the whole thing. I guess I was like a junkie who couldn’t live without his fix.
“No, dude. Neither one of them said a word. It was like Superman’s secret fortress. Fro-zen.”
CHEYENNE BELLE
It was cold in Harry’s backyard. Witch’s tit cold. I didn’t have a jacket on, so I hugged my arms around my chest.
“Chey,” Johnny started. “I—” And he stopped. “I—” he started again, but didn’t get any further the second time.
For all the world, Johnny looked like he was going to cry again.
I had snifted some of my dad’s brandy before I left the house—snifting is how you drink brandy, did you know that?—and I had a nice little buzz going. I wasn’t drunk, but I wasn’t 100 percent in the moment, you know? I was also a little paranoid. I thought Johnny was going to come after me again for drinking, and I wondered if he could smell it on me. I was chewing gum all the time then, and I’d started wearing perfume to cover the smell, but I was freaked out just the same.
“Chey,” he started again.
“C’mon, Johnny, it’s freezing out here. What is it?” My tone of voice was pure bitch. I sounded like Theresa.
“It’s just that—” He stopped again, and now I was getting mad.
“Jesus Christ, will you just spit it out already?” And then it all came spewing out of me. It was like throwing up on Harry, but so much worse. That was only puke. Disgusting, but harmless. This was daggers, arrows, and bullets. “What is it? Are you going to yell at me for drinking again? Are you going to prove once and for all how uptight you really are? Am I playing the bass wrong again? Am I just not good enough for you? Will I ever be good enough for you? What. The fuck. Is it?!”
I’m sure Johnny thought I was still mad about our blowup at the Bitter End. But I knew the truth. This was about the pregnancy.