Don't Blame the Music (10 page)

But impossible, too, to wake a sleeping Ashley and yell at her. Better just to wear something else and shrug.

The radio played a particularly unpleasant selection of rock singers. Not one of my favorites. All of a sudden I hated it. Hated rock, hated rock musicians, because
look what rock music had done to our lives!

Choking on screams of my own rage, I ran downstairs. My mother was listening to the local radio station for the weather, and they, incredibly, were playing Ashley's hit single.

We stared at the radio as if it contained the answers to the mysteries of life. I held up my arms so my mother could see the shredded sleeves. We wept together. “I will never play rock again,” I told her passionately. I turned the radio off so hard the knob broke in my hand. I stared at it. Never in my life had I purposely broken anything. “Look what rock has done to us!” I sobbed, biting the words like an animal ripping flesh from a bone. “Look how horrible it is. You get into rock and it ruins you.”

My mother held me, wrapping me in her arms, rocking me, kissing me everywhere, her tears damp on my cheek and neck. “Oh, Susan. No, no, no. Susan, honey, it isn't rock's fault.”

“Then whose fault is it?” I cried. “Of course it's rock.”

“I grew up on rock music,” she said. “I love it. I always have. The Beatles. Kiss. The Who. Diana Ross. Bruce Springsteen. Donna Summer. Susan, a hundred names are filling my mind and a thousand lyrics are racing through me. I could list forever.” She ran her fingers through my hair, tugging my head back and kissing the stains on my face. “Rock music has brought me endless pleasure.”

“But what about Ashley?”

“Ashley twisted it.”

“No, Mother!” I cried, willing her to understand. “Rock music twisted Ashley!”

The pain in my mother's voice matched Ashley's of last night. “Susan, Ashley was never a musician. She had no real talent. What's more, she had no respect for the music itself. She just wanted fame, and rock was the technique she chose.”

I stared at her.

“If anything,” said my mother gently,
“she
was the one who damaged rock.” She poured orange juice for me, and pushed two slices of cinnamon raisin bread into the toaster.

“We're going to ride this out,” she said to me. “Have faith, honey. Something went terribly wrong with your sister, and maybe it was my fault, and maybe it wasn't, but at least let's not blame music.”

Ashley appeared in the door.

We stared at her. Her hair unbrushed, her face unwashed, her nightgown—mine, actually—crumpled. Her eyes blazing. Filled with the hatred she had told us about. “Then who do we blame?” she said in icy rage. “Who do we blame because Ashley Elizabeth Hall went terribly wrong?”

We shrank from her. “I would rather not lay blame,” said my mother. “I would rather work things out.”

Ashley amazed us by quoting the Bible. She had gone to Sunday school, but who would have thought anything stuck? “You think you can make the rough places plain, Mother, and the crooked straight? Well, you're wrong. Some places don't get straightened, and some don't get smoothed.”

Ashley advanced on us so frighteningly that we pulled together, and virtually hid behind the counter—but she didn't have assault in mind. She was making herself an omelet.

Mom and I nearly laughed with hysteria.

Ashley beat three eggs violently and began chopping peppers and onion. The knife came down frighteningly close to her fingertips.

This is my life, I thought. I'm living here. I, who ought to be worrying about eye makeup and Anthony, college and ski weekends.

Jeffrey's horn blared.

Ash was so startled the knife slipped and she did cut herself. It wasn't much of a cut. A Band-Aid was enough.

But it scared me.

Truly, we were on the edge of violence.

Ashley had cut herself.

But she would rather have cut us.

A
SHLEY HAD BEEN HOME
nine days. We Halls were all roughly nine years older.

In carpool Emily said smugly, “I have a truly brilliant advertising campaign worked up. You got your game plan ready, Beethoven?”

Her voice was amused. She did not believe for one minute that I would be able to come up with a game plan. “Certainly. And call me Susan. I'm tired of Beethoven.”

“It suits you, though,” said Emily.

“It does not. Do I look like an overweight deaf musical genius?”

“Well …” said Emily, and we all laughed.

“However,” she continued, “I think you should know that Shepherd is a little worried.”

“About what?”

“The music section of the yearbook. It would be a shame to have anything ordinary amidst all the creativity that seems to be coming forth from all the other subeditors!”

“What makes you think it won't come forth from me too?” I demanded. So the rest of the staff was talking behind my back! Shepherd had chosen me for the focus of her gossip. Saying to them, “I'm afraid Beethoven won't know how to handle an assignment of such magnitude.” Saying, “For once I showed poor judgment, didn't I?” And the rest of them agreeing: “Beethoven won't produce. At least, nothing to rival what
we're
producing.”

I gripped my books. Their hard ridges bit into my palms.

“But don't worry,” said Emily. “Shepherd has some backup ideas in case you don't have anything by Monday.”

“Faith,” said Swan to me, “don't you love it? The way everyone in this town backs a person up.”

I made a face.

“I, Halsey Dexter,” he said, “I have faith in you, Susan.”

“Halsey?”
repeated Emily incredulously. “Oh, no. Independence is catching. Beethoven has to be Susan and Swan has to be Halsey.”

“Are there any cliffs around here?” said Swan to me.

“I don't know of any. Why?”

“I have this overpowering desire to throw Emily off of one.

“I know the very spot,” said Jeffrey gloatingly.

“Jeffrey, I thought you were on my team,” complained Emily.

“You backbite too much,” said Jeffrey. “Nobody is on your team.”

Emily sank back. We had finally hurt her. I thought it would feel good, but it didn't. I really think being a nice person is a terrible burden. You can never enjoy revenge. You just feel guilty.

Sw—Halsey and I exchanged guilty looks. Jeffrey—was this proof of his not being a nice person?—continued to give driving instructions for how to get to the cliff he had in mind.

And there, striding toward the side entrance of the high school, his head ducked against a fierce wind, was Whit Moroso. Long legs in jeans with unlaced high-ankle sneakers, the usual two or three shirts, with a vest lined in fleece. The vest flapped in the wind. Whit was carrying one thin book. How could he do that, and still get the B average I got? I always carried ten fat books, and Whit managed to get through life on one thin one.

He was so handsome.

So dark and inexplicable and expressionless. Did he cultivate that blank look or had he had it from kindergarten? Would it disappear if I got to know him better? Would I be able to see all kinds of things in the slightest crinkle of the eye or quiver of the lips?

But my only chance to get to know him better I had ruined myself.

It was Friday. Game Plan Day was Monday.

I had to approach Whit today, or it would be too late.

Because the trouble with my record idea was—I didn't have the foggiest idea how to begin on it. I could have asked Ashley, of course, whose world was cutting records. But what would be a simple query in another family could be suicidal in mine. So Whit was my only source.

It was nice that my only source was so handsome and so nice and so mysterious.

Sw—Halsey followed my gaze, I supposed because it lasted so long and involved twisting all the way around in my seat as Jeffrey turned right into the parking lot and Whit walked left into the school. “Jeez, Susan,” he said softly. “I mean, follow up on Anthony. Don't go falling for some druggie.”

“He's not a druggie,” I snapped. But very softly, so Emily wouldn't hear.

Emily heard. “Who?” she said. “Who are we talking about?”

“Nobody,” I said.

“Tell me, Swan,” said Emily.

“I can't be bothered with people who call me Swan,” said Halsey.

Another honorable man! I loved it. I leaned over the seat and hugged him, and he grinned, and I said, “You should gave gotten your braces off years ago, Halsey, it's done wonders for you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, yeah.” But he liked it.

Trig passed in its usual frightening way, with me having a dim sense of what might be going on, but not a sufficiently strong sense actually to do any of the problems.

I had no chance to speak to Whit and when I looked his way he never looked mine.

In Brit lit, we abandoned Chaucer and were steaming toward Shakespeare. Whit sitting silently behind me was almost more than I could bear. Even when I turned in my seat he didn't look my way, and I was only inches from him. It's a real skill to look casual about ignoring somebody that close.

But I took the egotistical way out. I said to myself, He must like me. Otherwise he wouldn't
care
enough to pretend I'm not here.

All I can see is our bodies entwined,

Both our lives entirely redesigned.

I spent Brit lit trying different versions of that in my journal.

When the bell rang I was the only one not poised for the dash. Nothing at our school is sweet, and bells are no exception: raucous, violent, like something in prisons. Two thousand of us leaped simultaneously out of chairs, which scraped the linoleum on dozens of classroom floors, and began yelling and flinging locker doors open and singing our favorite rock songs and turning on the ghetto blasters for the three minutes of precious passing period freedom.

Except me. I slammed my journal shut, slipped it between two other books, gathered my junk and yelled, “Whit!”

He kept going.

I slithered between the desks and leaped for him, catching a scrap of fabric between my fingers. Rough thick wool. Whit stopped to see what he'd caught his shirt on and saw me down there. He said nothing. He simply looked at the place where I was pulling his shirt out of shape, as though this might be
my
idea of a joke, but it was
his
idea of stupid and I'd better let go. Now.

“Hi,” I said.

“I have a class in sixty seconds, Susan.”

“I'll be quick,” I promised. “Incredibly succinct. A model of brevity.”

“Yeah? No sign of it yet.”

He did not seem to be joking. Courage and conviction seeped out of me. I glanced around to be sure no yearbook staffers were in earshot. Already the next class was filtering in; Whit and I were blocking the road. “I've thought of my yearbook idea, Whit.”

He shrugged, removed my fingers and walked out of the room. I trotted along like an unwanted mutt. How broad-shouldered he was. The shirts barely stretched across the solid muscle of his back. “I need your help, Whit. Please? Would you spend a little while with me after school? I won't—I won't fall apart on you like I did before. I promise.”

Whit stopped walking and looked skeptically down at me. As one remembering his mother's lectures on good manners, he said, “What's the idea?”

He has no more faith in me than Shepherd, or Emily, or Jeffrey, I thought, and my face burned with embarrassment. Looking away from him, feeling supremely stupid, caught between my crush and the yearbook, I said, “We could cut a record. Record each rock group, the marching band, the concert choir, and the Madrigals. Bind a slip pocket into the yearbook to hold it. We'd be the only yearbook in the nation with a record in it.”

Whit frowned.

Embarrassment had the effect of making it impossible to look at him anymore. I dropped my chin and stared at the linoleum. If things progressed along their usual route, I would now start to cry.

Great.

Half the Wet Duet performs again in public.

“Susan,” said Whit, “that's a fantastic idea.” He took both my shoulders and shook me a little, excited. A grin spread across his face. It went right into me, like an electrical charge of friendship. Cindy was right. Whit had potential.

“'Course,” he added, frowning again, “it would be expensive. But then, this is a rich town. People can afford an expensive yearbook. And if Emily's all she's cracked up to be, the advertising will carry it anyhow.”

“Then you'll help me?” I said.

He nodded. “Person you have to talk to is Luce. He and Carmine have been looking into making their own record. They want to stay in rock music.”

“You mean you don't?” I said.

“Nah. I don't care about the band.”

I couldn't believe it. He had had a taste of success and he didn't want to follow through?

Whit grinned. From the way he smiled down at me I actually thought he was going to kiss me, and I had time to think that yes, I wanted that, and yes, he was worth kissing—but he rocked back on his heels. “Some people want an audience,” he said. “I guess your sister was like that. That's what she wanted for her birthday and for Christmas and everything else. An audience.”

I stared at him. It explained so much! It wasn't just fame that Ashley craved, it was the audience itself: people applauding her performances. Even an audience of three—us, her family—meant somebody watching her. She didn't care if they liked it. They just had to watch.

I suddenly understood one reason why my parents blocked her way. They didn't think she ought to have an audience. A sweet girl doesn't take center stage. It wasn't the electric guitar or the wild dancing they objected to—it was their daughter before an audience.

But why not? I thought. What's wrong with it? Why couldn't she have that? Out loud I said, “Why don't you want an audience, Whit?”