Jon’s eyes suddenly go really wide. Then he says, “Oh. Right. June fifth,” in a tone that might be either a question or an apology.
“How about instead of going easy on me, you all just go?” I wave a hand at the door of the RV. “Seriously, get out of here. I don’t want to talk.”
Arrow shakes his head. “Jace, look—”
“You’re talking,” I snap, cutting him off. “Exactly what I just said I don’t want to do.”
Arrow hesitates, but then he throws his hands up in defeat and walks out the door before things can get any more awkward. Jon is quick to follow, but Killer lingers for a moment longer. Just as I’m about to tell him to leave, he crosses his arms and says, “What’s that saying you’re so obsessed about? Your personal motto, or whatever?”
“Serva me, servabo te. What’s that got to do with anything?”
Killer shakes his head. “Do you even know what that saying means, Jace?”
“Of course,” I say. “‘Save me, and I will save you.’ It’s like karma. When someone bothers to give a shit about me, I give a shit about them. Everyone else isn’t worth my time.”
“Exactly, it’s like karma,” Killer says. “It’s supposed to be a two-way street.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re always so mad at the world for not saving your miserable ass, but you never bother trying to save anyone but yourself.”
“I don’t need the world to save me, and I sure as hell don’t expect it to.” I make a sharp gesture to my guitar propped in the corner of the room. “That saved me. That gave me a career and a ticket out of hell, and I pay my respects by treating my music like an actual craft. You and Arrow and Jon helped save me, and I pay you back by treating you like brothers. Tony helped make us famous, and I pay him hundreds of thousands for it. But no one else has ever helped, and I have no reason to bother with them.”
Killer shakes his head. “Jace, our band had a little bit of talent and a shit-ton of luck. And, someday, we’re going to run out of luck. All bands do.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re failing miserably,” I growl.
“I’m not trying to make you feel better, I’m trying to make you do something better. You built our band to escape your past, but it won’t last forever. So maybe you should start caring more about the world, because you’re not always going to have the band to cower behind.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he shoves out his palm, stopping me. “You can yell at me for being an asshole later,” he says as he heads for the door. “For now, just shut up for once and think about what I said.” He doesn’t give me any chance to respond before slipping out the door and leaving me alone with nothing but silence for company.
4
ALI
I CREEP INSIDE my dad’s house and quietly close the front door. Even after living here for almost seven years, I still can’t kick the habit of thinking of it like that: “my dad’s house.” Not my house. My home is far, far away in a NYC apartment that’s tiny and cramped and absolute heaven. Because it’s where my mom is, and where the air is always filled with the sound of my piano and the smell of oatmeal cookies.
Or at least that’s how it used to be. Last I saw my home, it was covered with white sheets and silence. The air had smelled like a hospital, and even though it was totally morbid, I wanted to stay there forever. My mom may have been far underground in a coffin, but all my memories of her were stuck in that apartment.
Of course, I didn’t get my wish. In a matter of days, I was shipped off to my dad’s house in hot, dusty Los Angeles, California. I’d always wondered why my mom never let me see my dad, why she divorced him before I was even born.
Now I know all too well.
As I turn around, I face my dad. Speak of the devil. He’s Chief Patterson to most people, but he insists I call him “Dad.” He likes to desperately cling to the illusion that we’re some sort of normal family, even if we both know it’s a complete lie.
Seeing him in front of me makes my stomach drop. Usually, he avoids me, and I avoid him, and the careful distance we set between each other keeps things quiet. Until he drinks. Then the alcohol rips away his desire for distance and replaces it with a drive for violence, and all that quietness is shattered.
I force an innocent smile. It hurts my cheek, where the bruise from last week is still healing. “Hey, Dad.”