The Red Hunter



The problem, the real problem was that Raven just felt so floaty all the time. Disconnected from the people around her, even her parents. She’d be standing there—at school, or even sometimes with her friends, and she’d feel herself just lift away. She would start thinking about something else, or the ambient noise around her would become distracting. She’d notice a thing about the other person—like how silky was her hair, or how big were her eyes, or how pretty were her clothes. And then she’d think about that person’s parents, and it would get her thinking about her own origins. And then she’d start drifting toward that dark place, that shadowy region. Once she was there, that’s when she did or said the kind of things she regretted later.

Raven never felt like that with Troy. He grounded her somehow, kept her in the moment. He had her tightly by the hand and they were striding—he was striding because he had long legs and an engine inside that caused him to practically run everywhere and she was half-jogging to keep up with him—down Avenue A toward the club where Andrew Cutter’s band Trash and Angels was playing. She was wearing a tight black dress, which she would never be allowed to wear if either of her parents were around. She had taken a pair of thigh-high black boots from Ella’s stash of clothes in her father’s closet, and this kind of distressed denim cropped jacket. She blew her hair flat, made her eyes smoky in shades of brown. In the mirror, the girl she saw was the polar opposite of her mother—dark to light, soft features to fine. There was something in her mouth—its fullness, its upturned corners. Something in the apples of her cheeks that evoked Claudia. But there was nothing of Ayers. Not a shade or a shadow that she could see.

When she came out into the living room, Troy looked at her funny and didn’t look away.

“What?” she asked. She found her bag and crossed the long strap across her body.

“Aren’t you—” he started. He took off his glasses and looked away, wiped the lenses on his shirt. The color had come up in his cheeks. What was his problem? “Aren’t you going to be cold?”

“We’ll take a cab.”

She was cold. The wind had picked up, and she’d opted out of a heavier jacket over her outfit. She didn’t want to disrupt the look and have to worry about a coat all night. But traffic was ridiculous, and they finally just got out of the cab that was crawling and costing them a fortune, deciding to walk the last ten blocks. Trash and Angels went on at eleven, and it was already quarter to the hour.

At the door, the line was stupid long, stretching up the street and wrapping around. It was kind of the “it” indie band venue of the moment, Downtown Beirut, named after an old East Village dive bar that had closed long ago. Now, supposedly there was some burgeoning music scene in Beirut and hence the name of the hole in the wall.

Troy stopped at the end of the line. But Raven kept going, and he followed. They were not going to have to wait in line. They were hot and well-dressed, and young—twenty-two-year-olds that looked like sixteen-year-olds. No one was going to know that they were sixteen-year-olds trying to pass for twenty-two. The bulldozer-sized bouncer at the door—complete with shaved, tattooed head—and his slender, leather-clad hostess, lithe with dark skin and bleached white hair, never said a word. She just lifted the rope and shined that light on their fake IDs. They must have been good—like the kind of IDs that would get you in trouble if you got caught carrying them. They must have been the real deal, illegally obtained, and that was a serious crime. The hostess didn’t look twice at the cards in her hand, there wasn’t that tense moment when you wondered if you were going to get kicked out. She just handed them back to Troy and gave him a hungry smile. Troy flushed again. Raven grabbed his hand and pulled him inside.

“How do you always do that?” he yelled over the din.

“Do what?”

“Just walk in like you own the place.” There was that goofy look again.

“I do own it,” she said. “In my mind.”

They both laughed at that, and he dropped an arm around her. At the bar, they just ordered Cokes, neither of them big drinkers. The crowd was pretty edgy—lots of ear gauges and tattoos, black leather. But it was the usual New York City mix—some people looked like they just got off work—loose ties and jackets hung over seats, silk blouses and pencil skirts. Some people were grunge, hair hanging and dirty looking, jeans ripped. Other people looked like they stopped by on their way home from the gym. One guy could have passed for homeless. In New York City, you fit. Even if you didn’t fit in anywhere else, you could find a place for yourself there. Not like the place her mother had dragged her. There you were one thing—blonde, pretty, tight-bodied, and rich—or you were a freak, an outsider. Not even a freak. You were nothing.

They found a spot by the stage, sipped their Cokes, and looked around. There was a throb, a deep pulse to the music playing over the speakers. Some of the band members were on stage, milling about, setting up equipment. She watched for him, Andrew Cutter, son of a rapist, her possible half brother. But she didn’t see him up there. In his photos he looked like an anime warrior, a mop of black hair, jet eyes, pale skin with an upturned nose and a cupid’s bow mouth. He had a mellow, easy voice and was a master on the guitar. There were some riffs from offstage, the drummer beat out a quick rhythm. The music on the speakers started to stutter, and then the rest of Trash and Angels burst onto the stage and immediately launched into one of their hard-rock jams.

He was standing in the rear, near the drummer, not lead vocal on this one. The blond, the one that called himself Charge, was hammering out lyrics about wanting someone and needing her and what was she doing to him. But Andrew—Raven had seen when she was Twitter stalking him that most people called him Drew, sometimes they called him “Angry” she guessed a riff on his @angryyoungman Twitter tag. He was deep, deep into his thing, head bowed over the strings, not looking up at the crowd, not interested in giving or receiving energy. It was the artist’s space, the one she could never seem to find, where you only care about the work before you, the rest of the world disappearing.

“Is that him?” Troy yelled, pointing.

She nodded. He looked up then, and she watched Troy’s face. Would he see it? How much they looked alike? Sort of. But Troy just shrugged, gave her an easy smile.

“He might look a little like you,” he yelled. “A little.”

They listened to the rest of the set. Drew never sang, never even moved to lead guitar. Once, she thought he looked at her, but it was brief. He could have just been glancing out at the audience.

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