Tags: cigarettes and chocolate milk, eric is well aware that he's made of awesome, fangirling means srs bsns

Riga mi se od ovoga više, al dobro.

Chapter 6

The band plays some song about forgetting yourself for a while.
And the piano’s this melancholy soundtrack to her smile

It was strange – the silence. Kathy didn’t understand how New York could feel so still and silent with all the people filling the sidewalks and all the cars cramming the streets. But it was. Not a sound. Just her and Jack and the snow falling lightly, the kind that melted as soon as it touched the skin of your cheek or the heat of your breath.
Jack had his crumbled Marlboro pack in his hand and she watched absentmindedly as he pulled yet another cigarette out of it. Watching him light it was oddly fascinating, the way the cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth like he was James Dean reincarnated, his shoulders hunched and his mood cool and gloomy. Watching him made her want to smoke, which was utterly ridiculous because she hated it, despised it really. Her one experience smoking resulted in a coughing fit that left her close to puking – not one of her finer moments. But Jack made it look sexy as hell and she imagined herself reaching out, taking the cigarette from between his lips and placing it between her own, sharing it like it was the prelude to a kiss, the promise of something more.
She must have been staring – who was she kidding? Of course she was staring. And of course he noticed, she could tell by the way he was grinning without looking directly at her, but the grin didn’t reach his eyes. They were still sad and haunted, still trapped in that hell he went through a year ago, was probably still going through today. At a loss for what to do next, how to fill the silence, she nudged the guitar case that was propped up on the step below them with the toe of her sneaker, a crooked smile on her face that she hoped didn’t look as forced as it felt. “Mind if I play?”
He raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. “You play?”
“Well, Chopsticks.” She wrinkled her nose, trying not to laugh as his brow furrowed and he got a confused look on his face. “On piano.” She grabbed the guitar case and sat it across her lap. “How hard could it be on guitar?” she asked, taunting him.
His mouth was hanging open and she could practically hear the gears in his brain working to figure out what to say next. While she waited for his comeback, she ran her glove-covered fingers over the beat-up case, tracing the various stickers that were placed all over it haphazardly, a mosaic of bands, bars, and Jack’s dreams. She couldn’t help wondering what each sticker represented, what the story was behind each one. Given time, she could easily make up her own, probably giving him a much more tame and sedate life than he truly led.
“You ain’t playing Chopsticks on my guitar,” he said, his voice whiskey-deep and rough.
He flicked his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk, barely missing a group of giggling women who were clutching bulging bags from some high-end stores, stores Kathy loved to window shop at but never had the nerve to go inside. They were obviously out Christmas shopping and Kathy felt a twinge of loneliness. All her gift giving was through the mail this year – some random toys she’d bought for her stepsister and brother, a polo shirt for her dad, a vase for her step mom, and a card for her mother. The card had even been a stretch, something she’d mulled over at the Hallmark store for far longer than she should have. All the sentiments in those cards seemed so false, like she’d be lying if she tried to pretend she meant any of the flowery, sentimental words in them, but she couldn’t just send a Happy Holidays card – well, she could, but then she’d have to live with the knowledge that she’d disappointed her mother yet again.
Popping the latches on the case, she pulled out the guitar and sat the case on the ground in front of them. She brushed a stray flurry off her cheek as she winked at Jack, who was eyeing her and his guitar warily. “Perfect night to play a song or two,” she said, strumming her fingers over the strings. The thick yarn of her gloves got caught and she saw him wince as he reached out and carefully pried the instrument from her grasp.
“Perfect night, huh?” he asked and she nodded. “Got any requests?” He laughed, shaking his head, a sly grin forming on his lips. “Wait, let me guess, Celine Dion?”
She made a face. “No.”
“Britney Spears?”
“Ew. Give me a little credit here, Jack.”
She chewed on her bottom lip, fidgeting with the ends of her scarf again. “How about one you wrote?”
His grin faded as he pulled the strap of the guitar over his shoulders. His eyes were shuttered and distant again and she wondered what she’d said, how she’d screwed things up. “Um,” he took a deep breath, “I think things are still a bit raw right now for one of those.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said softly and he shrugged.
“It’s not your fault I’ve been wallowing in angst for a year and all my songs are about crying and pain and shit like that. Not exactly Jingle Bells, ya know?”
“I like angst,” she said cheerfully.
“Yeah, you’re very convincing.” He leaned back against the wrought iron railing that led up to the brownstone’s doorway. Squinting up at the streetlight, he looked deep in thought. “Hmm …” he said, running his hand through his hair. “Okay, I got it. Not one I wrote, but it’s a classic.”
He plucked at the strings, fiddling with the tuning pegs like he had to test them even though he’d just finished a set less than an hour ago. Eventually, the first notes started, the tune drifting out over the crowded city block. A young couple who was walking by looked over and the guy snickered and the girl smacked him on the arm, looking back over her shoulder as they continued on their way. The girl had a wistful look on her pretty face and Kathy realized just how it must look – her on the stoop with the cute guitarist who was preparing to serenade the city that never sleeps as she looked on longingly. It felt like something she’d written in her notebooks as a kid – his name scribbled in the margins, decorating the fantasies she jotted down on the lined pages.
She could see the change sweep over him, even just with those few opening chords, how the music settled him and centered him, made him whole. Sighing softly, she leaned forward, not caring how silly and dreamy she looked. He was lost in the music and wouldn’t notice, that she was sure of. And the pull was too much, the need to be close to him so overwhelming that she felt it zing through her nerves like she’d touched an exposed wire by accident. This was like when they were kids, only different. When they were kids, she couldn’t voice what the feelings meant, didn’t know what you called it beyond a crush. Now she knew, and it made things all the more fragile and bittersweet.
He started to sing and her breath caught, just like it did back in the coffee shop. His voice was so raw and heartbreaking and she could listen to it for hours. The lyrics were familiar, the tune one that made her think of holidays and childhoods and loss and the kind of family she longed for. Choosing it told her so much about just where his mind was, where his heart was. It wasn’t on the stoop with her, an audience of strangers strolling by. It was with his family back in Detroit, waiting for that cab to pull up tomorrow, bringing their baby brother home.

I'm sitting in the railway station
Got a ticket for my destination
On a tour of one-night stands, my suitcase and guitar in hand
And every stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one-man band

Her vision grew cloudy and she wanted to blame the stray snowflakes that had landed on her glasses, but she knew it was tears. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, willing them to go away – wanting to cherish the moment, not dredge up self-pity and regret. But when she closed her eyes, all she could see was her empty apartment with the twinkle lights she’d hung up in every window and draped along the ceiling, her cat curled up on the couch, and the free turkey defrosting in the refrigerator.
Alone was her choice. Alone made her happy. Alone made her strong. One silly night couldn’t change all that and she wasn’t going to let it.

I wish I was homeward bound …

XxXxXxXxXx

The music drifted through her open window and her pen stilled on the paper. The drum beat was mainly what she heard, incessant and mildly irritating but only because she noticed it and now couldn’t un-notice it. Rolling her eyes and silently cursing her neighbor’s taste in music, Kathy looked down at her paper and started to reread what she had just written, hoping she could get back into the groove the drums had so rudely interrupted.
Suddenly, she heard the plaintive wail of an out-of-place clarinet and she couldn’t help but smile. She knew exactly who that clarinet belonged to and she’d bet a million dollars the rest of the guys were the ones polluting her Saturday afternoon silence with their rock music. She didn’t recognize the song; it was probably one Jack wrote and that made her stomach flutter as she tried to concentrate on her work. It was impossible and she found herself straining just to hear the guitar underneath the thumping of the drums and the squeaking of the clarinet. “I’m hopeless,” she announced to no one, dropping her pen and laying her head on her desk. “Completely hopeless.”
A cool breeze rustled her lace curtains and she glanced out the window. It was sunny out and here she was, as usual, cooped up in her room, writing and daydreaming about fairytales and princes while everyone else was out living their lives.
She had no excuse for staying inside – none. She’d finished her homework a couple of hours ago, did her chores, and now it was her typical Saturday routine: write a little, read a little, write some more, and read some more. She led what may be the most boring life of any thirteen year old girl in Detroit. And she didn’t have anyone to blame – not a soul. She was the one becoming a hermit. She was going to be a loser for the rest of her life if she didn’t at least try to make some friends. She chewed on her bottom lip, her chest tight at the thought of taking that first step, taking that big leap, but she had to do it. Deciding that she was just going to shut her brain off before she talked herself out of the whole thing, she jumped up from her chair and grabbed her notebook, her Keds and her jacket. She was halfway down the stairs when she sat down to pull on her sneakers. “Mom,” she called out. “Mom, I’m going to go out. I’ll be home later.”
Her mother rounded the corner, a perplexed look on her perfectly made-up face. She even put on make-up on Saturdays, when she didn’t do anything except work in her office and ignore Kathy’s dad as he spent all day watching sports in the family room. She tried to get Kathy to wear make-up, buying her expensive lipstick and eye shadow. But Kathy couldn’t understand why she should bother making her eyes look pretty if she had to hide them behind her stupid glasses anyway. And lipstick made her feel funny, like she was playing dress-up and trying to be popular.
“What do you mean, ‘you’re going out’? Since when do you go anywhere?” her mother asked, her tone clipped and impatient.
Kathy gnawed on her thumbnail, suddenly sure she was making the wrong decision. Her mother was right, she never did anything on the weekend except for homework. Why was she in such a hurry now? “Well,” she started, struggling for the perfect explanation. Her mother was a lawyer and it frustrated her if things weren’t explained in a clear, precise manner. Kathy always had to think for a minute before she spoke to get her words just right or risk getting a long lecture about being a silly kid with her head in the clouds.
“I’m waiting,” her mom said with an annoyed sigh.
“It’s nice out.” Kathy mentally patted herself on the back for that one. There was no way her mother could find fault with that. It was nice out. Sunny and breezy and a great fall day.
Her mother didn’t react, simply stood there in her slacks and blouse and French manicure and looked at her like she’d just said the sky was purple. “It’s nice out,” Kathy repeated slowly, “and Hannah invited me over.” Oh, no, she’d done it now. She lied. Lying never ended well, she thought as she twisted the shoe laces around her index finger.
Something flashed in her mother’s eyes. It looked like a mix of surprise and happiness and Kathy felt guilt twist in her stomach. Her mom really wanted her to find friends and Kathy did, too. It wasn’t her fault no one would talk to her, especially not after Matt Wilcox made her his special target and the laughing stock of bus 26. Kids thought being uncool was like a disease, just being near her would make them catch it. Jack was really the only person who would give her the time of day at school.
“Take the dog with you,” her mother said without further argument. As if on cue, Chaucer walked up and sat down next to the door, an expectant look on his neatly groomed face. Kathy fought the urge to stick her tongue out at him.
Deciding that since she’d already lied once – “Hannah’s allergic,” she blurted out. Of course, it could be true. For all she knew, Hannah could be deathly allergic and taking Chaucer to her house could kill her. She was trying to save someone’s life here; something like that shouldn’t be taken lightly.

“This city is dangerous, even if you’re just walking down the street. You’re taking Chaucer and that’s that.”
Her mother turned on her heel and Kathy groaned, leaning her head against the wall as she eyed the fluffy white menace at the bottom of the stairs. She had a flash of Jack falling out of the tree the last time she had to take Chaucer out for a walk and she groaned. “Please don’t screw this up,” she whispered and the poodle answered with a giant, disinterested yawn.

XxXxXxXxXx

Jack had his back to the open garage door when Kathy walked up, but George saw her and he jumped out of his seat, clutching his clarinet to his chest.
“What the hell, man?” Jack asked and George held out his arm, pointing behind his friend with a look on his face that could only be described as terror. Jack looked behind him and did a bit of a double-take himself, slightly stumbling over his own feet before regaining his composure.
“Oh, uh … hey, Kathy,” he said casually.
“Hi, Jack,” she said as stood awkwardly in the entrance. Chaucer growled and she leaned down, hoping to shush him before he made a scene.
Steve laughed, a high pitch cackle that made Kathy wince. “Look, George, she brought your friend along,” he said, gasping like he was having an asthma attack. No one else laughed and Jack just shook his head.
“It’s not funny,” George said, taking yet another step back.
Jack sighed. “Kath, about the dog …”
“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.” She nodded once, pushing her glasses back up on the bridge of her nose, trying to look authoritative, like her mother when faced with an opposing lawyer, or the clerk at the grocery store. Basically, trying to look like her mother when she dealt with anyone and everyone. Jack didn’t look like he believed her, but he did give a crooked grin that made her think he was maybe hoping Chaucer would make another play for George’s clarinet. She couldn’t help it if her mother’s dog was a music critic in addition to being a menace to cats and cute guitarists.
“George, the dog is fine,” Jack said, rolling his eyes dramatically as he adjusted the microphone, tapping on it a couple of times. “Go have a seat.” He nodded toward the corner, which was currently occupied by three girls she recognized from school. They were flipping through magazines and giggling with one another.
They were all dressed like the rest of the non-loser girls at school – pretty sweaters, cool shoes, designer jeans - and Kathy wasn’t really sure why they were in Steve’s garage, sitting on some overturned milk crates instead of cruising the mall with the rest of their kind. They weren’t popular; it wasn’t like Ashley Parker was sitting there with her perfect smile, perfect clothes, and perfect hair. They were just normal and smart and silly and Kathy felt so out of place standing in the same garage as them. She knew she should have stayed home.
Kathy hesitated, twisting Chaucer’s leash around her wrist. One girl glanced at her from under her blonde fringe of bangs. Her stare was blank as she slowly, methodically chewed her gum, but Kathy couldn’t help feeling like she was being studied and so far she was failing. “Um …” Kathy started, looking at Jack for guidance, hoping he’d back her up and let these girls know she didn’t have the plague. But he was busy, pointing out words on a sheet of paper Steve was holding, complaining about lyric changes Steve kept making.
“Jack,” one of the girls called out. “When are we gonna have a chance to sing? We’re supposed to be your back-up singers, but you never write any songs that need us.”
“That’s the idea,” he said under his breath. The girls couldn’t hear him, but Kathy could and she smiled. He caught it and smiled back, but it was quickly replaced by a look of annoyance as the girl spoke up again.
“This is getting pretty boring, you know? Just sitting here, listening to you guys play.”
“No one invited you,” Trevor, the keyboard player, said a little harsher than he probably needed to.
The blonde who had stared Kathy down stood up and planted her hand on her hip, her jaw jutting out. “Steve did.” Hearing his name, Steve stepped up with a huge grin on his face. Kathy half-expected him to pound on his chest like he was the king of the jungle.
“Well, Steve also has his brother playing clarinet.” Trevor ignored the glare Steve was now shooting his way and continue on. “He ain’t exactly the brains of the operation.”
“But …” the girl started to protest and Jack sighed. Kathy had a feeling his resolve was breaking down, he was going to give in. Weren’t girls like that supposed to know exactly how to get guys to do what they wanted?
“Fine,” Jack said, staring at the ceiling. “The next one will have some stuff for you guys. Happy?”
The squeals the three girls let out startled Chaucer and he yelped and barked at them.
Yep, Kathy thought, girls like that knew exactly how to get what they wanted.
Taking a deep breath, she tightened her hold on Chaucer’s pink leash and guided the dog toward the corner and the waiting trio. She didn’t see an empty crate to sit on, so she opted for the hard cement floor.
“Cute dog,” the blonde said, cracking her gum. As if he knew he was the one being complimented, Chaucer sat down on his haunches and puffed out his chest. He even let her pet him, the traitor.
“Thanks,” Kathy muttered with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

XxXxXxXxXx

Kathy had long since abandoned Chaucer to the fawning attention of his new fans. If dogs could have groupies, he had three of the most devoted.
“What if you moved this line to later in the song?” She was hunched over the workbench that was doubling as Jack’s desk at the moment. He was right next to her, his forehead almost touching hers as he studied the line she was talking about. He hummed a bit under his breath, testing it out. It took all her willpower to stay rooted in that spot and not pass out right then and there. He was so close; she could reach out and run her fingers through his hair if she suddenly had the urge. Not that she would ever do that, not in a million years, but the fact was she could if she wanted to and that was what mattered.
“You don’t think that will change the meaning of the song, the story I’m trying to tell?” he asked, his face screwed up in a serious scowl.
She gnawed on the inside of her cheek. “I guess I can see how it might. But, well, it rhymes better.”
He made a face. “This ain’t all about rhyming and shit like that.”
“I know, but … well … it’s easier to sing along if the words rhyme a little. Don’t you think?”
He shrugged.
“And then Steve might actually remember the words.” She grinned and glanced behind her at his bandmates. They were all sitting on the floor, paging through a Playboy Brad had smuggled out of his house.
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try it, just once,” Jack relented as he picked up his guitar. She knew from their partnership in art class just how stubborn he could be and how much he didn’t like to compromise over his creations. She couldn’t believe it when he called her over to ask her for her opinion in the first place. It actually took her a minute of sitting there with her mouth wide open like a startled fish to process just what he wanted. Jack Mercer wanted her help. Her. With his music. He didn’t have to ask her twice.
The problem was that the lyrics weren’t flowing and Steve kept screwing up and Jack was ready to throw his portable amp at him. Trevor, who seemed to be almost as serious about the band as Jack, suggested help and Kathy guessed that out of all the options open to them at the moment, she was the least likely to giggle and suggest changing it to a song about shopping.
“You know about this stuff, right ?” Jack had asked when she walked over. She had no idea what he meant. “You write poetry,” he said, pointing to the notebook she had in her hand like it was her security blanket, always carrying it with her.
She blushed and held the book behind her, like she could pretend he hadn’t seen it. “Um …”
“Well, it’s like poetry, just with music.” He suddenly groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. “Man, did that sound as dorky as I think it did?”
“Of course, not. It’s just …” Her voice trailed off in mid-protest.
“Normally, I’d figure this out on my own, but I’m stuck and the other guys want to scrap the song unless we get it worked out,” he explained quietly as he fidgeted with the paper, curling the edge between his fingers. He was looking down, like admitting he needed help was the hardest thing in the world for him. There really was no way she could say no to him.
Twenty minutes later and they were finally getting somewhere with it. Jack explained the changes to Steve and everyone got back into their places. Kathy pulled out the stool Steve’s dad had at the work bench, her feet swinging back and forth as she watched separate from everyone else.
They were on the second verse when a phrase suddenly rang out across the room, a phrase that definitely had no part in Jack’s song. “Katherine Ann Price!”
There, framed in the entry to the garage, backlit like some avenging superhero, hell-bent on ruining her life, was the last person she wanted to see at that moment. “M-mom?”
She fell off the stool, the cymbal crash a nice punctuation to her humiliation.

XxXxXxXxXx

She didn’t realize she was crying until the song ended, the tears making icy tracks down her cheeks in the cold New York air. Jack was looking at her, a slightly alarmed expression on his face.
“Kath, you okay?” he asked, his voice hushed.
Wiping her cheeks with her rough wool gloves, she smiled a wobbly smile. “I’m fine. Hormones,” she explained and then immediately wished she could take it back. If there was one thing guys never wanted to talk about it was …
“H-hormones? Um, sure.” He was pale to begin with, but now he looked positively ashen and she bit back a laugh.
“Holidays,” she hastily corrected. “I meant holidays.”
His shoulders slumped a little as look of relief washed over him. “Yeah, they can suck.”
“Yep.” Talk about awkward. Her chest still felt tight and she took a trembling breath. She hated crying, especially over her family. They’d selfishly demanded her undivided attention for far too long and breaking free from them had been the moment she’d finally started living her life, by her rules. She wasn’t going to start regretting that now.
A middle-aged couple stopped at the bottom of the steps and glanced up at them. “Show’s over,” Jack said as he pulled the guitar strap over his head. “Sorry.”
“We live here,” the woman said dryly.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” Jack said in a rush, awkwardly standing up and reaching down to help Kathy up.
“Lovely, um, steps you have here,” she offered lamely. The woman just gave her a confused look and Jack raised an eyebrow.
“Merry Christmas,” Kathy added for good measure. “Or Merry Hanukkah … I mean Happy Hanukkah … you know, if you don’t celebrate Christmas. Doesn’t it bug you when people just assume? I mean, who’s to say everyone celebrates Christmas? Plenty of people don’t. I should actually say holidays instead, then you really don’t have to worry …” Kathy couldn’t stop herself from talking. It was like her mouth had developed some weird case of word diarrhea and she was now scaring these strangers with her stream of consciousness ramblings. She knew she should stop, but that switch was broken. Jack gently grabbed her arm and pulled her to the side, so the poor couple could get inside and away from her. She knew without looking at him that he was trying not to laugh.
The man and woman went inside without a word and, as soon as the door closed behind them, Jack looked at her and grinned. “Lovely steps?”
“Shut up.” She turned on her heel and made her way down the steps.
“Just how much tea did you drink tonight? I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone talk so fast before,” Jack said as he followed her.
“Shut. Up.” She flipped the end of her scarf over her shoulder, catching him in the face. “If you keep at it, I’ll start talking about hormones.”
He was putting his guitar back in the case, after fishing a dollar or two and some coins out of it that passerbys had tossed in, when he stopped and stared up at her, a look of horror on his face. “Now that’s just mean.”


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