Red Velvet Crush (8 page)

T
here must be a secret romance conspiracy just for boys. A special class they take that teaches them how to lure us in. The forehead kiss, the warm, spicy smell, the lift of the right eyebrow. We are all defenseless.

How else can I explain why I am standing on Ty's front porch, about to meet his parents for the first time?

“Come on,” he says, smiling down at me from the top porch step.

He pulls me by my wrists, leading me inside. “It'll be all right.”

His mom and dad look at me with skeptical eyes. Their recovering son has brought home a girl who has no curfew, no rules, and no boundaries. She is the sister of a supposed pot smoker and serious libertine. She doesn't even own a dress
coat. They might as well just throw him off a cliff.

Tenuous threads of trust stretch across the room, trying to support him, but they bend under the weight of my family history. They've heard of Winston. Somebody always knows somebody that knows Winston. His reputation precedes him.

He is an urban legend. More bark than bite. Somehow Winston makes everything he does seem more exciting and dangerous and illicit than it is, and the stories get out of control. Believe me, I've seen him do nothing more for weeks on end than sit and watch World War II raging on in sepia tone.

Why do boys love watching history on TV so much? It confounds me. Unfortunately Winston is too fast to fight for the remote. He's had years of practice. He can hold Billie or me away from him with a straight arm, no effort or strain showing on his face, as he flicks the channel or turns up the rat-tat-tat of a panzer attack. I can't bitch too much, though, since he did steal cable for us for Christmas a couple of years ago.

Ty's dad shakes my hand. He is a full-time linguistics professor and part-time pyrotechnic.

Winston will love that. One Fourth of July he blew out our streetlight with the biggest Roman candle I have ever seen. It took the city two years to show up and replace that streetlight, but Winston will have a big scar on his thumb forever.

Ty's dad has all his fingers. I checked.

He gives me the once-over. His eyes crinkle in the corners just like Ty's, and his dark hair is shaved short, too. When he looks away, I squint and hold my thumb up over the patch of hair on his forehead, trying to see what Ty will look like thirty years down the road.

I drop my hand when I realize Ty's mom is watching me. She is a pediatrician with brownish hair. Skinny on top, big on the bottom. I don't know. She looks smart.

“We hear that you and Ty are in a band together,” she says as she pulls the handle on the refrigerator door. The fridge matches the cabinets, and the cabinets match her hair. I can hardly tell she is there at all.

I nod, and she goes on, gesturing toward all the art on the walls, the assorted musical instruments shining from every corner of the airy, open rooms. “We believe in self-expression.”

As if that explains it all. Them. Ty. Me. Here in their kitchen.

A lazy spring breeze blows in through their open windows, fluttering the curtain above the sink. The house is so perfect and the three of them so polite it almost makes me forget that Ty has a problem.

His mom makes mashed potatoes and sugar snap peas and roasted chicken for dinner. I didn't know you could do that at home; we only ever get roast chicken from the grocery store for special occasions, already roasted, with the little legs tied together, sweating inside a plastic case.

Ty's mom's chicken has rosemary and lemons stuffed up
its butt. It tastes nothing like the ones from WinCo. It tastes like something Martha or Nigella would make.

Winston has it bad for Nigella. He likes to lie on the sofa on Saturday mornings, all hung over, and watch her bajongas bounce about while she cooks, dreaming of her tea and crumpets.

But thanks to Winston and my local PBS affiliate, at least I know what rosemary is. Otherwise I might think this chicken is choking with weeds.

The dining room is a Norman Rockwell painting. The dishes shine. Candlelight bounces and glows. Classical music drifts in from the other room. The table is set with a tablecloth and a runner. Chargers and dinner plates, scrolled with leaves and gilded boughs. Real napkins wait next to each plate, not just stacked up in the middle of the table or wedged into one of those plastic holder things.

I take the seat next to Ty's at the table, wondering if it was always like this, even before Ty started using, or had they come together in group therapy and this was the result? They all are so careful. The air is full of trying.

When my mom was trying, the house would smell like browning ground beef and cigarette smoke.

Of course, since she was my mom, she went overboard playing happy housewife and wore a ruffled blouse and matching pantsuit with her spatula. All the other moms had ponytails and wore yoga pants and ordered Domino's.

Ty's mom passes the potatoes. It is strange to have so much food in front of me and not have to fight Winston for it.

His dad reaches for the loaf of fresh bread resting inside a basket in the middle of the table. He butters two slices and tears through the first one, leaving the crusts behind on his bread plate.

Billie would bite your fingers off for that, I think as he adds the crusts from the second piece of bread to the pile on his little plate. We don't have a lot of dinner guests.

I remember to put my napkin in my lap. I leave the lemon slice in my water glass, even though it floats against my lips every time I take a drink and I want to fish it out. I smile and chew with my mouth shut and pass the salt as silently as the rest of them.

Ty's mom blinks at her husband over the middle of the table. “When you saw at your chicken that way,” she says, breathing loudly and interrupting the soft sounds of silverware and Chopin that fill the room, “it makes me feel unappreciated.”

She slices into the breast on her plate, her slim hands holding her knife and fork like surgical instruments.

I glance around, my eyes skirting the edge of the fancy white cloth. Ty's dad
is
chowing down, his knife pointing skyward, gripped in his right hand, his chicken sawn in half: guilty. He stops, composes himself, and continues to eat.

Tense and uncomfortable, I kick my legs under the table.
Ty never even looks up. I am more than glad to push back from the table and drop my napkin onto my plate when dinner is done.

“We've got this.” Ty's mom stands and says. His dad starts stacking the dishes and blows out the candles.

Ty reaches for my hand. I think we'll head for the basement, but we cross through the darkened living room instead. A shaft of moonlight streaks into the room, shining across the top of the piano and lighting up a thick orange stripe in the middle of a Persian rug. Ty turns left at the hall, and I follow.

Up the stairs this time, toward his room.

He opens the door and switches on the light. A glowing globe lights up on the far side of the room, slowly spinning, blue and green and oceans and continents.

His room isn't that big. But it is crammed full of books and posters. Books line a wooden shelf behind his bed and are stacked up on the desk next to the window. Some are schoolbooks. I recognize those shiny white covers and spines, but most are fiction. Ty reads for fun.

I run my finger along a tall tower of spines, hoping none of them are science fiction. Another stack, just as tall, sits on the windowsill. I glance at the titles. When does he have time to read?

An acoustic guitar leans against the side of his dresser.

I avoid the bed, even though all I want to do is roll around
on it with him. It has a dark blue comforter and plaid flannel sheets. We could wrinkle them up good, if only his parents weren't right downstairs, doing the dishes and discussing their feelings.

I check out his posters instead—Rage Against, Joy Division, Bowie, the old Bowie with the chiseled cheeks and the makeup—then the top of his dresser. He has three black leather watches and a bracelet with silver spikes.

“I went through a postpunk phase,” he says. “I don't remember a lot of it.”

He slides the bracelet out of my hands and puts it back on top of his dresser.

“And how long will you be paying for that—for the not remembering?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Your parents.” I lift my chin toward the door. “They can act real. I think I can handle it.”

Believe me, I am used to a lot more burping and farting (Winston) and arguing and crying (Billie), on a daily basis.

He takes a deep breath in. “No, they can't.”

“Why not?”

He exhales.

“'Cause then they would have to admit that they have problems and that they have a son who is a druggie and that no matter what they do they can't change that.”

He turns toward me and shrugs.

“They can't undo it,” he adds.

I guess the high expectations and the matching sheet sets and the dreams and wishes of doting parents could be a lot to live with. I don't know for sure. My mom left us in elementary school, and abandonment sets the bar pretty low.

I study Ty's face.

What was I thinking? That because he has a mom and a dad and soft skin that smells like soap, he would be good? Protected? That these things would make him impervious? He had found the most painful way possible to undo a lifetime of planning and promise and expectation.

“Is that why you did it?” I ask.

I step toward him, and he hooks his fingers into my belt loops.

His plaid sleeves slip down and cover his wrists. His eyes drop, too, darker and sadder and more serious than I've seen them before.

When he looks back up, I slide in close. His eyes meet mine, and he says nothing. He doesn't have to. I get it. Sometimes smashing the guitar to bits is more important than the song.

Ty rests two fingers along the back of my chair. We are backstage in the corner of a dank, dark room at Burches Bar, wiping the sweat off, sitting on old folding chairs and a maroon vinyl bench with a tear in it. Worn duct tape holds the stuffing in.
Ginger Baker sits on top of a cardboard box. He is so skinny it doesn't dent or buckle beneath him.

Our bodies steam in this cool, muted space. Broken barstools and cases of industrial paper toweling build a fortress on three sides of us. A janitor's sink with a dripping faucet banks us in on the other. The water drips at a steady pace, shining at me, but I can't hear it over the thump of the headlining band.

The room is still, except for the thumping.

I am wiped out. My hands are raw; my right shoulder is tight; my feet and legs ache. Is all that pain worth it? Hell, yes. I can think of few things better, and all of those can break my heart. Music never does.

Billie is picking at her fingernails. A drip of blood dries along the inside of her middle finger as her gold glitter polish flakes away.

She is only a few feet away from me, but Billie and I have never been this far apart before. The normally tight space between the two of us has become strained because of Ty. Part of me wants to fix that, to pull her close and go back to normal. Part of me is fine with her pulling her fingernails off.

“Do you want me to whip out my hurdy-gurdy?” Jay asks quietly, an odd question that sits, almost like a whisper, filling the dim air.

“I didn't think you had one,” I fire back. We are way too American, and a few members short, for any attempts at a dirty Arcade Fire joke.

“Ha!” Ty's laugh is a quick, loud burst that splits through the muffled room.

Billie glances over at me unsure.

“Is it big?” she asks in a low, serious voice, and Ty and Jay and Ginger start cracking up like crazy. Ginger Baker laughs so hard his skinny shoulders shake.

Ty wipes tears from the corners of his eyes, and I sit back, admiring the strange little world we have created.

Here we are, all five of us together, gigging around town, quickly figuring out how to be a band, and occasionally finding ourselves telling bad jokes while trapped in a bunker built from paper towels. What are the chances?

I don't dare ask. I don't want it any other way.

Because we are finally getting good. Good enough that Ginger doesn't wince anymore when Billie strays, changing up phrasing or adding a run.

Good enough that Billie and Jay don't accidentally run into each other when they both decide to go insane at the same time, dancing and jumping and running like wild dogs penned in by the edges of the stage or the walls of our garage.

So good that the days without the three of them feel sad and long. Quiet.

All this past spring, they've worn out the path from the edge of our gravel driveway to the side door of our garage, the grass flattening and falling out from their trips back and forth unloading gear and showing up for practice.

They bring donuts on Saturday mornings, cinnamon and sugar and the worst one ever, maple. Every Saturday. Winston loves it.

They wave to my dad.

They honk at the end of our street before disappearing around that last corner in a blur of taillights; one quick little blast that says good-bye as they drive away.

They feel like family.

A shaft of light falls on each one of them in turn—the tall one, the fast one, and the perfect one as Winston pushes open the door marked
NOT AN EXIT
and walks in. He has a wad of singles in one hand and a gleam in his eye.

I try to duck, but he ruffles my hair with his hand as he crosses behind me, as if I were a kid or a dog. His fingers leave a cool streak on my sweat-soaked scalp.

He stops at the bottom of the steps that lead back up toward the stage. “How would you like to go on the road?” he says nonchalantly.

There is a moment of complete silence. Then all the air is sucked out of the room in a whoosh. Am I the only one that feels it? I turn and look at Ty and then at Jay and Ginger. Their mouths are open, just like mine.

Billie starts bouncing up and down in her chair. Her half-glittered fingertips are pressed against her mouth, holding in a squeal.