Don't Blame the Music (6 page)

The table was tiny, because the amount of food they planned to serve was so tiny.
Creamcakes
was not a place for your typical adolescent appetite. It was for people like my mother, on the twenty-fifth year of their diets. However, the arrangement meant I was very very close to Anthony.

He smiled at me happily. Did he have any idea what was passing between me and Shepherd? Sometimes I don't think boys can read anything but words. And maybe not even those.

“I hear your sister is home,” said Anthony. No prying. His voice was its usual light friendly self.

“Yes. She arrived unexpectedly right after you dropped me at home.” I wedged that in to see how Sheppie reacted. She reacted wonderfully, with an almost-glare at Anthony that she instantly disguised as a smile. “How sweet of you to give Beethoven a ride home,” said Shepherd. And if he did anything as sweet as that again, she would put a knife between his ribs. I was beginning to enjoy myself. Me, Susan Hall, a threat to Shepherd Grenville.
Mirabile dictu.

“I imagine life in this little burg will perk up now,” observed Shepherd. “Ashley won't let us all lie around in a stupor.”

“My goodness, Shepherd,” I teased. “All this time you've been lying around in a stupor? And here I thought you led an exciting life. Cheer up. Ashley gives lessons. Drop by sometime for a free demonstration.”

Anthony laughed.

Shepherd pretended to laugh.

Instead of basking in reflected glory, I was getting in a few sharp digs of my own. It made the day I'd endured—and the evening I would face when I got home—a little less awful.

A waitress trundled up with a tiny silvery cart covered with a lace cloth and plates of tiny baked delicacies. We each took one. Shepherd nibbled hers. Anthony swallowed his whole. Shepherd said, “Soo, Beethoven. Any thoughts?” She steepled her fingers in front of her, knowing I had no thoughts at all, especially on innovative yearbook ideas.

“Because if you don't think you're going to be able to come up with something, we have a volunteer to take your place. It wouldn't be any problem, Beethoven. You mustn't worry about it.”

I rarely feel anger. It's just not one of my emotions. Ashley got all that, along with the poise. I had not, after all, intended to be music editor. I certainly had enough to do senior year without that burden. But Shepherd was not talking yearbooks here, nor her entrance into Harvard. No. Dull little Beethoven, whom she had chosen, I now saw, just
because
I would not outshine her—dull little Beethoven apparently had enough luster to make Anthony notice.

So she wanted me out.

And she wanted me to go out the door with my shoulders hunched in shame, admitting I wasn't able to do the job. Admitting it in front of Anthony.

“That's very thoughtful of you, Shepherd,” I said. “Senior year is going to be demanding. It's sweet of you to be concerned with whether I can manage it all.”

Anthony did not detect any sarcasm whatsoever. Boys are quite thick. Even unbelievably cute ones like Anthony. He nodded with me, saying earnestly, “Absolutely. I mean, what's the point if it's no fun? If it's just a burden?”

“Oh, exactly. I totally agree, Anthony. But you know, I think I'm going to have a wonderful time.” I tacked a happy smile on my face. “I'm already deep into stage one.” I took a bite of pastry. No matter how dainty I tried to be, that miniature excuse for food could not be stretched more than four bites. Stage one, I thought desperately. What on earth can stage one be?

I remembered the raised eyebrows of Whit Moroso—the contemptuous amusement he felt at the sight of me with Anthony. My cheeks burned. Words came right out of my mouth, without my considering them at all. “I'm going to interview all the members of the various high school rock bands. Crude Oil, of course. The Slippery Six. The Broken Ankles.”

“What a terrific idea,” said Anthony, meaning it. “I forgot about all those groups. I mean, you always think of marching band, and concert choir, and that kind of thing, but of course, Beethoven! You're right! The really interesting music comes from the kids who organize themselves.” He said seriously to Shepherd, leaning across the table so she would have to lean toward him too, “I think Crude Oil is a great group. Don't you?”

“They're a bunch of semimusical juvenile delinquents,” said Shepherd.

“You're just jealous because Beethoven is the one who gets to hang out with all those skanky dudes,” said Anthony, “while you're stuck with my type.”

Shepherd was not sure she liked this. Anthony had not said she was stuck with
him
—just that she was stuck with his type. She said stiffly, “It is a fairly interesting idea, Beethoven.”

When you're hot, you're hot. Go with it. “You know,” I said, “I'd prefer to be called Susan. After all, we don't want to go on hurting Ludwig's feelings year after year.” I steepled my fingers and leaned to Shepherd. “So from now on, it's Susan, okay?”

I had never asked anyone to stop calling me Beethoven. Not even Cindy. But now it seemed imperative. As long as they could use a silly inappropriate nickname, I was a silly inappropriate person.

“Susan,” repeated Anthony. “Got it. Won't make the mistake again.” He waved at the waitress. In spite of the appalling price we all had a second pastry. I took my first quarter and nearly gagged. What had I done? I had committed myself to interview Crude Oil. Whit Moroso and his scummy friends and their cheap tough girls. Carmine with his gruesome complexion. Tommy, who used to have a Mohawk, but let it grow out a little, so now he looks like a man who cuts his hair with an ax. Probably butters his bread with an angle iron and doesn't write with a pencil—just sprays obscenities on water towers. And Luce, who drums as if his drums are victims and his sticks the instruments of torture.

I pushed the rest of my pastry toward Anthony. “Want this?” I said, and of course he did, and wolfed it down, and thanked me profusely. Shepherd frowned. I thought, I have to round up the Slippery Six? The Broken Ankles? Scary sick kids who straddle their guitars and amplifier wires as if they're going all the way with them?

Shepherd suddenly looked pleased with herself. It was not a good sign. She had something. “A yearbook, Susan,” said Shepherd carefully, “is hardly a newspaper, you know. What are we supposed to do with interviews after you get them? We are not a booking agency for amateur rock groups. We are not doing journalism here either. You need to keep in mind that we are putting together a yearbook, Susan.”

Good point. What would I do with my interviews? Even supposing the Slippery Six didn't laugh me out of the room—then what?

“I think,” she said kindly, “that your sister's return has had an adverse effect on you.”

“It hasn't been too positive so far,” I agreed, and I too smiled. It wasn't easy.
Creamcakes.
I'd like to cream Shepherd all right. “But we agreed on ten days, Shepherd, and you're going to have to remember your commitment. I'll have the game plan for you at the next general meeting of the yearbook staff.”

I smiled into her eyes. She had no retort. Crunched at her own game.

Anthony said how wonderfully it was all working out.

Anthony squeezed my hand to show me how much he liked it when things worked out.

I don't know which impressed me more—the depths of my crush—or the depths of Shepherd's jealousy.

W
HEN I FINALLY ARRIVED
home, my mother was indeed at the kitchen table sipping her herbal tea, but my father, next to her, had opted for Jack Daniels. No sign of Ash. No indication that dinner preparation was underway. Perhaps we were going out to dinner to celebrate Ashley's return. Perhaps Ash had already vanished, as quickly as she had come.

“So how was your day?” I said.

My parents looked at me. Older daughter insane. Younger daughter thick as a brick. “That good, huh?” I said. “What happened?”

“What didn't happen,” said my father. “Your mother had a doctor's appointment this morning, but Ashley wanted the car.” His voice was very grim. “I refused to give Ash the keys, so she took a kitchen knife and went out and sliced through the fan belt.”

I gaped at them. What kind of message was that? Get out of my way, folks, or I'll cut you, too? I shivered. “Really and truly?” I said. “You're not making that up?”

“No, we're not.”

My mother took another sip of tea. My father tilted his glass and glanced down into it.

“What did you do to Ashley?” I said.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”
I stared at them. They seemed so calm. “How can you just sit there?” I demanded. “Ashley couldn't get the car keys so she starts destroying the car? And you didn't do anything?”

“I drove your mother to the doctor's in my truck,” said my father.

“You don't think it was serious? Her doing that?” I cried. It made my skin crawl. I imagined that fragile wrist, flicking sharply under the shadow of the hood, eyes glittering as she—

I shuddered violently. “You can't let her behave like that.”

“What are we going to do?” said my father. “Spank her? Tell her she can't have dessert?”

I thought about it. Eventually I said, “Why were you going to the doctor, Mom? Are you all right?”

My mother brushed it off. “Just another infection,” she said. She's always getting bladder infections and she won't talk about it, she hates them.

I said, “But Ashley—”

My mother interrupted me, setting the teacup down hard, and splashing the contents slightly on her hand. It must have cooled off. She didn't even notice. “Last time she was home we got tough on her,” said my mother, remembering. “She left. For good. Without a word then or ever.
Do you know what I went through, Susan?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was there, remember?”

“You don't know!” she cried. “I'm her mother. And I never knew, one night, one minute, if she was dead or alive, or hurt or safe, or starving or overdosing!” My mother was shuddering almost convulsively. “I can't go through that again. I'd rather see the evil that Ash does than lie awake at night wondering if she's dead.”

The evil that Ash does.

What a thing for a mother to say.

I wanted to call Cindy. Tell her everything, share like best friends. But I didn't. Evil? How could I talk about evil on the phone where we usually talked about clothes and boys and hair and boys?

“And when we came home from the doctor's,” said my father, “Ashley had—how shall I put this—redecorated your bedroom.”

My skin crawled. Had she used a knife there too? Had she sliced something in my room?

My lovely sunlit bedroom under the old sloping ceiling, with its tiny dormer windows and its pair of matching pencil poster beds? The portrait of my great-great-grandmother and the sampler that her daughter finished the month before she died of diphtheria? I didn't want to hear about it yet. Trying to breathe normally, I said, “I thought you were taking her clothes shopping.”

“She didn't want to go. She said she'd wear your clothes instead.”

I am a size ten. Thin as she was, I doubted Ash was more than a five. I could think of nothing I owned that would fit or appeal to her. I didn't like to think of my clothes on her. Immediately I was ashamed. This was my sister, and she had nothing but the clothes she stood in. Of course she could have anything she wanted.

“Brace yourself,” said my mother, her bright cheery front gone.

Ash had been home twenty-four hours, and the bloom was off the flowers.

A rhyme, but I had no urge to set it down in my journal. “Where is she anyhow?” I said.

“It seems she has a boyfriend,” said my mother. She used the word boyfriend as if it meant sewage. “He came for her in a van. Bob is his name. They said they'd be back later.”

Could it be the greasy creature with the layered heads? But he had not driven a van. Nor acted like a friend of any kind. Someone else, then. Or
something
else.

“Go look at your room,” said my father. “I'm sorry, Susan.”

Whatever had happened to my room was bad enough they had not cleaned it up, then. Perhaps it was beyond cleaning. I went upstairs, with absolutely no idea what to expect. I felt like someone in a horror film, stupidly opening the door she knows leads to mutilation and death.

But it was nothing like that.

The portraits and embroidery were gone from the pale flowered walls. Tangled black spiderwebs hung like fouled Christmas tinsel from the hooks, molding, and window frames. The movement of the door made a tiny breeze and the huge black fronds shivered like dying grass. When I took a step into the room my feet crunched on splintered glass.

I forced myself to touch the hideous black tangle. It was cassette tape. Nothing but cassette tape. And the splinters on the floor were the clear plastic containers that had held my collection. She had smashed and ripped apart every single tape I owned. And I owned a lot.

My hands were cold.

And yet, it wasn't as terrible as I had thought. Cassettes were hardly immortal heirlooms. The portraits and embroidery were lying on my bed, undamaged. My clothing still hung in my closet, the old quilts still lay neatly in their sea captain's chest. She had simply made a statement to me, like the one involving the car. This room was hers too, and she was here to stay.

I drew a deep breath. Okay, I told myself, it's okay. It's nasty, but it isn't actually insane. It's a lot of hard-earned money strewn on those walls, but it isn't my life or anything.

I turned to go back downstairs. Thumbtacked to the inside of the door was the jacket of Ashley's one and only record. Her flash-in-the-pan hit. Ashley's face and neck, upside down, her features grotesquely altered, music pouring out of her slit throat like blood.