Authors: Paula Stokes
She reads my mind. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”
“Of course.”
Probably.
Maybe.
Tonight’s the night my dad died.
I try once more to force out the words, but they lodge in my throat.
Apparently not.
“Okay.” Amber nibbles at her lower lip again, anything but convinced. “Love you. Talk to you soon.” She presses a button on her key fob and the doors unlock with an electronic chirp. She slides into the car, contorting herself slightly and holding down the hem of her dress.
“Love you too.” I stare for a minute at the way the fabric hugs her waist and hips and start to second-guess my decision not to drag her into my bedroom. “Bye.”
Amber gives me a finger wiggle and then pulls her door shut. She fires up the ignition and then yanks her phone out of her purse again.
Maybe she’s going to Nate’s house next
, I think. Or maybe I should be less of a jealous asshole.
The Jeep pulls away from the curb and heads for the corner of the street. I hold my hand up to say good-bye again, but Amber isn’t looking at me.
I cut across the wet lawn and go back to the apartment, shutting the door quietly behind me so as not to wake my sister, Trinity. Cruising into my bedroom, I flop down on my bed and start replaying everything that just happened. “You’re an idiot,” I mumble, when I get to the part where Amber practically begs to get naked. I should have just told her what my deal is. Even if we didn’t hook up tonight, she’d still be here with me, making me laugh. Keeping me from doing anything dumb.
Instead it’s just me. Me and my cans of spray paint. Me, my cans of spray paint, and the memories I can’t seem to get out of my head.
I need to go for a drive.
I flip on the lights in my room and search through three pairs of crumpled jeans looking for my car keys. I pat the pocket of my hoodie. No luck. Frowning, I drop to the floor and peer into the dust underneath my bed, coughing from the grime as I snake one arm into the darkness.
My fingers touch something that feels like metal. Ugh, metal covered in snot. I fish out a plate crusted over with nacho cheese from lunch last weekend. No wonder my room has smelled funky all week. I wipe my hand on my jeans and slip my phone out of my pocket. Using the light on it, I check the entire space beneath my bed—no keys.
Muttering to myself, I check the top drawer of my dresser. I overturn my clothes hamper and shake each article of clothing. I must have spaced and put them someplace crazy. Slipping quietly out of my room, I creep down the hallway. I scan the kitchen counter and table.
“Looking for these?” My sister appears in the doorway holding my car keys in her right hand.
“You scared the crap out of me.” I flip on the lights and have to smile at her getup—she’s wearing penguin pajama pants and a Cartoon Mayhem T-shirt. She has her hair fashioned into two buns that look like Mickey Mouse ears. “Why do you have my car keys?”
“So you can’t do anything stupid.”
“Come on, Trin. I was just going for a drive.” I hold out my hand.
She curls her fingers around my skull-and-crossbones key ring. “You promised, Micah. I can’t handle a repeat of last year.” She’s fourteen and dressed like a cartoon character, yet she somehow manages to sound exactly like our mother.
“Give me my keys,” I say softly.
“Tell me where you’re going.” She purses her lips.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I promise you I don’t want a repeat of last year either.”
April 5, last year
T
he night was cold for mid-April. I pulled a sweatshirt over my Black Flag T-shirt and slipped the hood up over my head. Gathering my paint cans into my backpack, I tiptoed down the hallway and paused for a minute outside my sister’s bedroom. If she was awake, she would hear me. She would say something.
Part of me wanted her to say something.
Part of me didn’t.
I needed this. This “outlet for grief,” as the family shrink would have called it. That is, if we could still afford the family shrink.
Besides, it wasn’t like I was hurting anybody.
I leaned my ear close to Trinity’s bedroom door but couldn’t hear her moving around in there.
How could she sleep, tonight of all nights?
Shaking my head, I crossed the living room in a few strides, expertly cutting between the sharp corner of the coffee table and the TV stand. I had oiled the front door’s hinges after school and it opened like a whisper.
I paused on the porch, listening to my harsh breathing, to the drum solo my heart was pounding out in my chest. I was still telling myself that I hadn’t spent all day planning to hit the airport, that my decision was impulsive—something rash brought on by a sudden bout of pain.
But there was nothing sudden about my pain.
I walked halfway down the block to where I had parked my car, yet another piece of evidence that hinted at premeditation. I wondered what I would say if the cops caught me, whether I would lie and tell them it was a sudden impulse.
The drive across town was short and uneventful. It was after midnight on a weekday and the streets were mostly bare. I parked my car behind The Devil’s Doorstep. With trembling fingers, I unclicked my seat belt and glanced around. The lights in the club were off—the parking lot empty except for one rust bucket that had probably broken down after a show.
I slipped out of my car and headed across the gravel toward the strip of trees at the back of the lot. The trees led to a fence. Beyond that, the airport. The giant runways stretching out like so much blank canvas.
It wasn’t like I was a big graffiti artist or anything. I’d tagged only a few things, and always with the same image—an
H
and a
J
with a noose between them—the logo of my dad’s old band, Hangman’s Joke. I had done it on the side of a train, an underpass, and a couple of abandoned buildings.
I’d been thinking about the airport for a while. It was riskier, but tonight needed to be big, bold. Sweeping. Tonight I was going to do the abandoned terminal. And then a runway. Maybe two. There was just something about all that flat concrete that called out to me.
I made quick work of climbing the ten-foot chain-link fence, ignoring the sign about trespassing. Dropping to the ground on the other side, I reached out with one of my hands to keep from face-planting in the wet grass. Then I cut across the nearest runway, dodging the glow of fluorescent overhead lights as I went. I made my way around the edge of the abandoned terminal.
My heart had finished its drum solo. Strangely enough, now that I was in more danger, I felt calm. Tagging did that for me. The hiss of the spray can. The sharp scent of chemicals. In a moment, I would be in the zone. Glancing around, I pulled a bright blue can of paint out of my backpack. I shook it, hesitantly at first, and then harder. I shot a stream of color at the cool metal of the terminal wall, just to make sure the paint was flowing properly. Then I tested the breeze and positioned myself upwind. If my mom caught me sneaking in looking like the victim of a paintball massacre, she would know what I’d been up to.
I left my backpack against the corner of the terminal and picked a spot that was slightly illuminated by the nearest overhead light, but far enough away so that I could hide in the shadows while I worked. I started by outlining the
H
and
J
as always. The paint spewed from the can, and with it some of the feelings that were all twisted up inside me.
I stepped back as I swirled the can in an arc. My dad was dead, and the rest of the band had formed a new group without him. This was the best way I knew how to keep him alive. People would see this and talk. Even if it was only a handful of airport personnel who saw it, they would tell people.
People talk about everything, even the stuff they don’t care about.
Especially
the stuff they don’t care about.
And once the airport came with its solvents and paint and erased my work, I’d wait a couple of weeks and do it again. Or maybe a couple of months. I never quite knew when the urge to tag would hit me.
After outlining the letters, I filled them in with blue and shadowed them with black. I was putting the finishing touches on the noose when the darkness rippled around me. I stopped painting and scanned the area, but I didn’t see anything. No movement. No lights. Still, the air suddenly felt heavy with tension. I turned toward the corner of the terminal.
My backpack was gone.
“This yours?” An airport security guard materialized from the shadows. He wore a bright blue TSA uniform. My backpack dangled from his gloved hand.
Behind him stood two local cops—one guy, one woman. The guy looked only a couple of years older than me. The lady cop was closer to my mom’s age. She had her taser drawn and looked like she might be hoping to use it.
“Down on the ground,” she said.
I knew better than to argue. I lowered myself to my knees and laced my fingers behind my head.
“All the way down, on your stomach,” the guy cop added.
I got down flat, turning my head and pressing one cheek against the cool asphalt runway. My heart started rattling around in my chest again. This was going to be my third arrest. My mom was going to kill me. Worse, she was going to blame herself, as if
she
were the reason I was such a giant screwup.
Parents, always trying to take the credit for everything.
“Look,” I started, trying to sound extra remorseful. “What if I walk away and promise never to come back?”
“It’s a little late for that,” the woman cop said.
“I’ll pay for it. Or clean it myself,” I said. I hated the thought of erasing what I’d done, but I hated the thought of my mom crying behind her closed bedroom door even more.
Off to the side, I could see the boots of the TSA agent pacing back and forth in front of me as he talked to someone on his phone. He was using words like
suspect apprehended
and
terror threat mitigated
.
“I think you mean contained,” I said helpfully. “Mitigated just means lessened.” It was stupid to be smarting off, but I didn’t appreciate the guy talking about me like I’d been skulking around the airport with a backpack full of plastic explosives.
The TSA agent ignored me.
The lady cop bent down on one knee. “I’ll never understand tagging,” she said. “What is it that makes it worth the possibility of getting thrown in jail?”
Maybe if I told her the truth she’d take pity on me and let me off with a warning. “It’s the logo for my dad’s band. He died. This is how I keep him alive.”
“Why here? Why not just go paint on canvas or something?”
“My mom started selling his stuff the other day. His clothes, his amp, even his favorite guitar. Shit we kept around for five years, and suddenly she’s getting rid of it. I guess I needed to do something major to compensate.”
“You should have picked a lower-profile place,” she said.
Handcuffs glimmered in the night. So much for pity. Sighing, I laid my wrists on the small of my back.
“I see you’re familiar with this procedure.”
I didn’t answer. It sounded like a rhetorical question.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Micah Foster.”
The cuffs slid onto my wrists. One more thing I was familiar with. “What are we going to find when we run your information, Micah Foster?” The cop tightened the cuffs, but not so tight that they cut into my skin.
“A couple of counts of vandalism,” I mumbled. “And trespassing.”
The guy cop walked over and hauled me to my feet. I pitched forward and nearly face-planted for the second time that night, but the lady cop reached out and steadied me.
“Repeat offender, huh?” she said. “Don’t expect to get off easy.”
I
didn’t get off easy, either. I ended up spending six weeks in juvie. Every time my mom came to visit, her eyes were red from crying. I’ve never felt like a bigger douchebag. Well, except for maybe right now, when my baby sister is looking at me like I ran over her pet Pokémon.
“Seriously, Trin,” I say. “No repeat of last year.”
“So when I give you these keys, you’re
not
going to go tag something?”
“Well, the part I wasn’t planning on repeating is the part where I got caught,” I joke, trying to lighten the moment.
Trinity crosses her arms and huffs. “You’re not funny, Micah. This night is hard for me too, you know. Being without Dad sucks. Thinking about him dying sucks.” Her eyes water. “But do you have any idea what it did to Mom to see you in handcuffs? How can you even joke about doing that to her again?”
I exhale hard, my shoulders slouching forward like I’m deflating. “Sorry.”
Trinity softens. “I get it, you know. I freak out too sometimes. I want to . . . do whatever it takes to feel better.” She fiddles with a streak of bright green hair that’s coming loose from her left bun. “But isn’t there something that won’t get you arrested? I mean, can’t you just, I don’t know, bake something?”
It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds. I sometimes throw myself into a new recipe when my brain starts to fill up with dark thoughts. Baking from scratch is a lot harder than people realize. When you’re cooking meat, you’ve got a window of “not raw” to “not burned” to work with. In baking, your ratios of flour to liquid to leavening agent have to be just right or your product will fail massively. But tonight’s not the night for activities that require a lot of patience or attention to detail, and my sister knows that.
“Oh, sure. Want to help?” I smirk. “We can call them My Dad’s Still Dead Brownies. Maybe Mom will want to take some to work for sharing.”
“Fine. Bad idea,” Trinity admits. “But there’s got to be another way for you to get through these nights. You want to see what
I’ve
been working on?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
I let Trin lead me into her room. Just inside the door hangs a bulletin board full of quotes she’s printed off the internet. She’s doodled different shapes and flowers around the various passages. A giant collage of pictures—everything from girls in dresses to wild animals to foreign cities—takes up the wall opposite her bed. Her bedroom is so bright and full of life—totally different from mine.
She goes to the closet and pulls out a shimmery black dress that reminds me a little of the one Amber was wearing. But this one has razored slash marks all down the front of it.
“You cut up clothing? I guess that’s better than vandalism.”
Trinity laughs again. “I was thinking maybe this.” She pulls a bright blue shirt from a hanger and positions it beneath the slash marks so that the fabric peeks through. “What do you think?”
It actually looks really cool, like something Amber might wear onstage. “Awesome,” I say. “Not sure if Mom’ll let you wear that to school though.”
“Well, you know, I’m going to be a freshman next year. Never too early to start planning for Homecoming.”
“Homecoming, huh?” Most girls Trinity’s age probably force their mothers to buy them expensive dresses. “Are you going to put a pair of shoes in the garbage disposal so they’ll match?”
“I haven’t decided about shoes yet,” she says completely seriously. “Are you and Amber going to prom?”
“I hope not,” I say, knowing full well that I’ll take her if she wants to go.
“How come she didn’t come inside?” Trinity asks.
So, that feeling of someone watching us
wasn’t
just paranoia. “Jeez. You’ve become a regular little stalker.”
“Whatevz.” Trinity rolls her eyes. “I heard her Jeep pull up. I just wanted to show her my dress.”
“Sorry, she wanted to come in. I just didn’t feel much like company.”
“Does she know what tonight is?”
I shake my head quickly. “She knows how he died, but none of the specifics. I tried, but there’s no easy way to tell someone about your dad’s murder.”
“You never even told
me
,” Trinity says. “I still don’t get why you act like that night was your fault. Like maybe if you’d gone inside the store with him everything might have turned out differently.”
“Maybe it would’ve.”
“Yeah, maybe we would’ve lost both of you.”
I know logically she’s right. I was an eleven-year-old kid. I couldn’t have saved my dad from a robber. Too bad logic goes only so far when you’re blaming yourself for the giant Dad-sized hole in your family’s life. The store clerk told the cops my dad tried to talk the guy into putting down his gun, and that’s when he got shot. Maybe if I had been with him he would’ve gotten down on the floor like everyone else. Or maybe not, because that wasn’t Dad’s style. He was friends with everyone. It never would have occurred to him that someone would shoot him point-blank in the chest just for talking.
If Trinity knew the whole story, she’d say it wasn’t my fault, even if she secretly
did
blame me, because she’s a good sister like that. But I don’t want to put that pain on her. It’s bad enough she lost her dad. “There’s no point in dredging all that up, Trin,” I say finally.
She shrugs. “There is if it would help you. My homeroom teacher says you’re not supposed to keep stuff bottled up. Did you at least tell Dr. Harper?”
Ah, Dr. Harper. The shrink Mom made us go to for a few months. I know Dr. H meant well, but she never really told me anything I didn’t already know. Basically, she was a self-help book in high heels.
“I told the cops,” I say sharply. “They’re the only ones who needed to hear all the gory details.”
“Maybe.” Trinity does a belly flop onto her bed. She twirls her green streak around one finger. “But sometimes it’s like you’ve got that night on infinite repeat, Micah. You keep finding new ways to punish yourself. And you’re not the only one who suffers. Mom. Me. Now Amber.”
I start to tell her she’s wrong, but then bite back the words. Maybe my life
has
been nothing but a series of springtime screwups. Did I go off to the airport last year because I subconsciously wanted to get caught? Did I push Amber away because I
want
her to be mad at me?
It’s too much for my tired brain to handle, but I know one thing for sure. I can’t make any epic mistakes if I don’t leave the house. “I’m going to crash,” I mutter. “I’ll try to be less of a failure at life tomorrow. Good night.” Without waiting for Trinity’s response, I return to my room.
But I can’t sleep. The
if onlys
swirl around me. I grab my phone and check out my favorite app—a recipe-sharing system sponsored by David Dark, a rock musician turned celebrity pastry chef. There are a few new adds, including something that looks cool called Chocolate Mousse Trifecta. It’s a layer of devil’s food cake topped with dark and light chocolate mousse. Too bad I don’t really like chocolate.
I call my friend Leo who lives in an apartment downstairs. He’s more of a sports guy than a music guy, but sometimes we grab a pizza and kick it in front of a movie. He doesn’t answer. Probably because he’s spending Friday night with his girlfriend, like I should be.
I bury my head under my pillow, but the
if onlys
find me there too. I block them out as I count to ten. I count to a hundred. I count halfway to a thousand. Right when I reach number 511, a soft knock jolts me from my reverie. “Yeah?” I say wearily.
Trinity pushes open my door. “Think fast.” She tosses me my keys. “I didn’t mean to keep those. And you’re not a failure at life. Sorry if I came off like a bitch before.”
I yawn. “I’m pretty sure it’s physically impossible for anyone wearing Mickey Mouse ears to come off like a bitch.”
“Mickey Mouse ears?” Trinity raises a hand to her chest in mock horror. “These are Princess Leia buns.” She reaches up to squeeze each of them and then adds, “Like from
Star Wars
,” as if maybe I’m not familiar with Princess Leia.
“You’ve got them up too high. Here, let me help.” I slide off my bed and consider the ball of hair pinned to each side of my sister’s head.
“Don’t wreck them.”
“Whatever, Mickey,” I say in my best Donald Duck voice. It isn’t very good, but Trinity laughs anyway. I carefully adjust her buns so they’re flatter and curl more on top of her ears than above them. “Remember how Dad used to act all obsessed with Princess Leia?”
Trinity snickers. “And then Mom would get all huffy.” She checks out her hair in the mirror on my closet.“Not bad.” She turns to face me, her eyes coming to rest on the car keys in the center of my bed. “You know, we could go to the cemetery . . .” She trails off.
“No,” I bark, my voice harsher than intended. I haven’t been back to my dad’s grave since the funeral. My mom goes every month with flowers. She says it comforts her. I think it’s creepy. I hope when I die someday that I get cremated and dumped in the river or something. I don’t want to lie around in a coffin for all eternity.
Trinity’s face falls slightly. “Okay.”
And that’s two girls I have disappointed tonight.
“Come on, Trin,” I say. “You know that’s not Dad anymore. That’s just bones in a box.”
Trinity sucks in a sharp breath. “Micah! Dad is not just—”
I cut her off. “I know. But Dad’s here in this house way more than he’s buried under a rock. Mom might have sold all his stuff, but she can’t get rid of him completely.”
Trin’s eyes widen at the thought. She looks around my room, slowly, as if maybe she’s expecting to see my dad crawl out from under the bed.
“Hang on.” I bend and paw through my bottom dresser drawer, emerging with a jeweled CD case in my hand. “This.” I hold up the CD. “This is Dad.”
“
Crow Black Dream
,” Trinity says, her voice breathy with reverence. “I’ve got the songs on my computer, but I didn’t know anyone still had the CD.”
Hangman’s Joke played a lot of covers and original material, but they recorded only one CD, at their lead singer’s house, on a four-track he bought online. They sold a few hundred copies on the internet, but they were never picked up by a label. Amber and her band are already more famous than my dad’s band, and their oldest member is nineteen.
It’s funny how the world works sometimes. You can bust your ass your whole life trying to make your dreams come true and never even get close. And then someone else gets your dreams handed to them, almost without even trying. I like to think my dad’s dream was just to be able to play shows with his buddies, that he didn’t care about fame.
“Best CD ever made,” I say. “Good thing I had it in my car when Mom went on her rampage last year or she would have gotten rid of it with the rest of his stuff.”
“Let’s listen in my room,” Trinity says.
I follow her back to her room, where she pulls her old laptop off her dresser. I slide the disc in and we both take seats on the floor. We lean back against the wall. The first song is called “Sea of Rain.” Dad was really into old-school punk music but his band was inspired by the ’90s alternative bands too, so a lot of their songs sound dark and sad.
Trinity’s eyelids flutter shut as the chorus of “Sea of Rain” blares through the speakers. I imagine my dad’s fingers on his guitar, his fingertips flying over the frets. Too soon, the music fades away.
The second song is called “Aberdeen.” “You know what I regret the most?” Trinity says, her voice just above a whisper.
I don’t answer. All I can think about is how crappy it is that my fourteen-year-old sister already has regrets.
“That I never got to see him play live.”
Trinity was only eight when our dad died. Mom used to leave her at home with a babysitter and take me to the shows. “But you’ve seen video clips, right? There’s a few on YouTube,” I say.
“It’s not the same as seeing someone in person.”
It’s true. Nothing is the same as watching a band you love perform live—especially in a decent venue. I love the feel of the bass lines buzzing through the air. It’s like the sound originates within you, like each beat of your heart pulses thick, heavy notes through your blood. Then the music reverberates off the walls and the crowd and the floor, taking over until there is nothing left in the world except you and the song that’s being played.
It’s tragic Trinity never got to experience that with Dad’s band, and I can’t recreate it.
But I can try.
“Lie down,” I tell her. “Keep your eyes closed.”
She stretches out on the floor next to me without even asking why. I tweak the mixer on the computer and max out the volume, but it’s nowhere near good enough.
“Hang on.” I slip out of my sister’s room and into my mom’s bedroom. I grab her old stereo and carry it back to where Trinity is still sprawled out on the floor. I pull the CD out of her laptop and pop it into the stereo, maxing out the bass and turning the volume up as loud as I dare. The floor rumbles slightly below us as the music courses through the speakers. Trinity smiles.
Then I press
PAUSE
. “Imagine the most crowded place you’ve ever been. People in front of you, next to you, behind you. So close they’re touching you on all sides. So close you can hear everything they’re saying—a hundred overlapping conversations. It’s dark. It’s hot. It smells like smoke and beer and perfume. The floor beneath your feet is sticky, but you don’t care because there’s no space to walk anyway.”
Trinity wrinkles her nose. Her brow furrows slightly as she struggles to put herself in the moment.
I snap my fingers. “With a sharp click, the lights above the stage burn to life. And just like that the conversations start to melt away. Everyone turns toward the stage. And they all begin to chant, ‘Hang-man’s-Joke. Hang-man’s-Joke . . .’”
Trinity’s lips twitch. “Hangman’s Joke,” she mumbles, tentatively, and then louder.
“Here they come,” I say, flicking my cell phone light on and off. “Somehow, you’ve made it all the way to the front row. You’re pressed against the stage. There’s a stack of amplifiers off to your side but no one in front to block your view.” I pause, bringing back the memory so I can share it. “Alec comes out first. He’s wearing those shiny basketball shorts he always wore to practice.”