“Hey, Cass.”
I turned. Paris was poking her beer bottle at the businesses lined up on the street side of the boardwalk. And there was Donato’s, the red-and-white-striped awning, the little tables on the sidewalk that had gotten popular since the smoking ban—but not popular enough to reverse the damage of the crash; people sitting out there and eating pizzas, chatting.
Inside, I knew, was a mural covering one whole wall, the bay of Naples, a sunny day, boats drifting on the blue waves. A donkey in the foreground, pulling a cart, its legs anatomically incorrect. The land of my ancestors.
Also white tiles.
Also blood.
Also the pizza oven, decorated with broken pottery, red and white, the— Also blood.
My stomach contracted like a fist.
“You want to go see your dad?” said Paris. “I mean, we’re here, right?”
“No,” I said. “No.”
“Where’s her dad?” said Julie.
“He owns that pizza restaurant,” said Paris. She turned to me and frowned. “He doesn’t know you’re out?”
“Uh, no, he doesn’t,” I said, grateful for the excuse. My insides were still tight, still clenched.
“You were ******* weak then and you are ******* weak now,” said the voice.
I didn’t have the energy to reply, didn’t have the strength to follow my welcome script. And it was past six, so it was a free-for-all on the voice front anyway.
Paris shrugged. She looked at her watch. “Time to go meet your hot crush anyway,” she said.
“He’s not my—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
We walked away from the restaurant, people moving all around us, molecules in a test tube, walking in all directions, somehow not crashing into one another. As we did, the tightness in my stomach eased, like the restaurant was exerting some kind of gravitational force.
“At some point, you ******* *****, you’re going to have to face up to what you did,” said the voice.
“Please, leave me alone,” I whispered.
“No.”
We made our way down the pier. Pirate Golf where we were meeting you was past all the rides and concessions, right at the end. The voice cursed at me the whole way, kept up a barrage of insults, like: ********* *********** you ********* ******** yourself ******* ****** ********* ******* die ******* ******* ******** such a ******* ******** ***** ******** ********* *********
I tried to concentrate on what I was passing: The basketball stand where I had worked.
The Haunted Hovel.
A Dippin’ Dots concession.
A mom and dad swinging their toddler between them.
The Twister.
A guy smoking a cigarette and talking loudly into a cell phone.
The Hurricane.
You, playing a little old-fashioned electric organ, while a mechanical monkey on top of it danced.
A knock-down-the-tin-cans game.
The entrance to the—
Wait.
I stopped, grabbed Paris’s arm and turned around. People had gathered around you, watching attentively. You were playing that Adele song, I think, the one about finding someone new. A guy in a football jersey called out, “ ‘Hey Jude,’ ” and you nodded, then segued into the Beatles song. Laughing and clapping from the audience.
Someone else, a girl, shouted, “ ‘Roar.’ ”
“What, the Katy Perry song?” you asked.
“Yes!”
You smiled, and your fingers tripped from “Hey Jude” to the opening verse of “Roar” before building up to the big chorus, the song sounding weird in the piped tones of the organ.
I took a step forward. You hadn’t seen me; you were looking down at the keys. Your playing was amazing—you were riffing on the tune, improvising, every note perfect. My mom made me take piano lessons twice a week till I was eleven, and I knew how hard it was to play like that.
“ ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,’ ” I said.
You looked up and grinned. Then you crashed into the opening chords, deliberately abrupt, breaking off the Katy Perry song. You played the whole thing, people swaying and linking arms, then raised your hands. The clockwork monkey stopped dancing instantly. He was dressed in a red suit, a hat on his head, like the one in our hall at home.
“I’m out,” you said. An old guy stepped up behind you. He was dressed in coattails and a bow tie, with a neat vest, a gold watch hanging from his pocket. He looked like a carny from a hundred years ago, totally out of place among the roller coasters and concessions stands. You nodded to him, leaving the organ.
The old guy sat down carefully on the little stool. I could sense the disappointment in the crowd. A couple of people started to shift away.
“Sorry, y’all,” said the old man in a Deep South accent. “Back to the classics now.”
He flexed his fingers above the keyboard. Then he brought them slamming down, the ancient organ blasting out the intro to “Born in the U.S.A.” by Bruce Springsteen. Laughter rippled through the crowd, and those who had been leaving turned around to watch again.
“Hey,” you said, joining us.
“Hey,” said Paris. “This is Julie.”