“So my friend will go to hell, is that what you’re saying?”
“This is not a sin that a few Hail Marys and Our Fathers will simply erase. It will haunt her for the rest of her days.”
I don’t remember the rest of the conversation, but I know I left pretty soon after his line about being haunted for the rest of my days. I was more confused than ever.
I tried to put it out of my mind, like a homework assignment I knew I was blowing off—I’m pretty good at keeping things in my life separate when I need to—and did the only thing I could think to do. I threw myself back into the band. Back into Johnny.
HARBINGER JONES
Because we were playing music again, all that other crap—my relationship with Johnny, my feelings for Chey—was pushed into the background, like hum, scratches, and static on a record. It’s there, but soft enough that the music drowns it out. You still hear it between tracks, but only for a second.
Have you ever heard of something called signal-to-noise ratio? It’s a term used by audiophiles. The wires that go from your turntable and your stereo to your speakers carry a signal that your speakers convert into sound. But the same wires are also loaded with extra noise generated by all those electrical components working at what they do. Your stereo and speakers filter most of it out. The more noise, the worse the signal and the worse the sound. Your goal in audio electronics is a lot of signal and very little noise.
The signal-to-noise ratio in my life at the end of that summer was really pretty good. The noise was still there, but having made peace with Johnny and having found a way to deal with my own feelings about Cheyenne, it was overwhelmed by signal.
Like I said, we were playing music again, and, really, that was all that mattered.
RICHIE MCGILL
I knew about the whole Harry, Johnny, Cheyenne love-triangle thing. I stayed away from that shit like it was the bubonic plague. I was just glad the band was back together. It was pretty much the only thing I had going for me.
I mean, skateboarding was fun, but it wasn’t the same. The rush I get playing on stage is the reason I’ve never done drugs. From the first time Johnny got us together, way back in the seventh grade, and we played a few holiday parties, I was hooked. Playing music, when it works, is like sex. Just without all the mess. I knew nothing else could ever feel that good, so why bother?
CHEYENNE BELLE
I was able to keep the pregnancy a secret. Other than my nonexistent boobs, which had suddenly started to exist, I wasn’t really showing. I got good at hiding the sickness, too, like I was bulimic or anorexic or something. It’s kind of ironic that I was following in my sister’s footsteps. Hiding a pregnancy, I mean.
Anyway, I thought about the baby all the time when I was alone. And I was so desperate to tell Johnny that I thought my head would explode. I just didn’t know how.
I’d been teaching myself a little guitar—once you know how to play the bass, it’s a lot easier to learn how to the play guitar—so I tried writing a song about it. I thought it would be cool to tell Johnny with a song. Sort of romantic, you know?
It was called “Lullaby.”
Tell me,
What’s that in my belly
Beneath the cat?
I am making us a lullaby.
Tell me,
Can you feel this strange thing in my belly?
Can you feel the change?
I’m too stunned to even cry.
Does it have a name?
Is it a boy or a girl?
Will it be president?
Will it change the world?
Will it be bad
Or will it be good?
Will it be loved
Or misunderstood?
Will it be rich
Or will it be poor?
Whatever it is,
I’m gonna love it forevermore.
Because you’re our little lullaby.
There’s more, but you get the idea.
I wanted so badly to play it for Johnny, but it just never felt like the right time, you know? So the secret stayed with me.
HARBINGER JONES
The other thing going on at the end of that summer was figuring out how to keep my parents at bay. To be fair, they were giving me space, but I knew it wouldn’t last, especially with my dad.
I was already back on Dr. Kenny’s couch at my parents’ insistence—Dr. Kenny had been my shrink ever since I was eight years old, since right after the lightning strike—and it was only a matter of time before they started to push on other things, too. I mean, I was eighteen, I wasn’t enrolled in college, and I didn’t have a job. Johnny’s accident and my reaction to it bought me a little time, but sooner or later they were going to expect something more of me than eating their food, lying on their couch, watching their TV, and using their basement to play music.
But like everything else in my life, I kicked the can down the road. I figured I’d ride it as long as I could.
CHEYENNE BELLE
This was all happening at the same time the band started jamming again.
“Harry,” Johnny said at one of our first rehearsals after Georgia, “you should be singing some of our songs.”