The Disenchantments

  The song fades out and she whispers, “That time it was Anne singing, right?”

  Walt points at her. “You got it. They’re speaking to you, aren’t they?”

  “I love it. I completely understand what she’s feeling.”

  I laugh and scoot closer to her so I can read the lyrics.

  “You’re listening to the tick of the clock?” I ask. “You’re waiting to touch some guy’s lips?”

  She laughs and yanks the tape insert from me, wipes away a tear with the back of her hand. Blue smears on her cheek. She looks at her hand, sees what she’s done. Shakes her head and laughs harder. The bells on her headband chime.

  “No,” she says. “But that emotion? I’m going to feel that for someone, someday.”

  “Add it to the list?”

  “Oh, no,” she says. “Matters of the heart don’t go on the list. Strictly professions.”

  She stands up.

  “I love Heart,” she says to everyone in the basement. “Heart is my new favorite girl band. Meg, we should go soon.”

  Meg nods without looking up, and Alexa walks outside to tell Bev we’re leaving. Through the screen door, I can see them. The guy stands and grabs Bev’s arm, pulls her up. She stands fine, but he puts his hands on her hips as if to steady her anyway. I cough away the knot in my throat.

  “Pair of aces!” Meg says, slamming her cards down on the table. The other players sigh, and she hums a victory song as she finds her bag and clicks her bass guitar case shut.

  Alexa’s back now and we start saying our good-byes, Heart, epic in the background, like a sound track to our leaving.

  I grab a stray extension cord, help Alexa with the last parts of her drum kit. We head to the door.

  “Go conquer the world, kid,” Walt says.

  I turn to face him and laugh.

  “Okay,” I say, but Walt doesn’t smile.

  “I’m not joking,” he says.

  The tape ends with a click, leaving the room suddenly quiet. Walt keeps looking at me, tired but insistent, and it feels like everyone here is waiting for us to resolve something.

  I nod, and say, “Okay” again. I look straight at him when I say it, and for a moment I try to believe that the world is something conquerable. Like I could wake up tomorrow morning, and know what I want to do, and do it. Like the anger and defeat could just lift away. Like Bev could change her mind.

  The two guys at the card table with Walt start gathering the cards and shuffling, ready to start a new game. I scan the basement for the last time: tape peels off the floor, the stage area is empty again. Is this what our trip will be like? A long series of endings? Walt nods at me and then turns to his new hand. PBR brushes a strand of hair off the forehead of the passed-out girl. There’s so much tenderness in the gesture that I have to look away. When I look again, PBR lifts his hand to wave good-bye. I lift mine back.

  We walk into the hot room at the Bianchi Motel and Bev heads straight for the windows. She unlocks and pushes them open, one after the next, with breathtaking efficiency. Even though I am wrecked and exhausted and angry, I could still watch her open windows all night. But there are only four, and then she is finished.

  A breeze comes and we all exhale, drop our bags on the worn magenta carpet, survey our options: two twin beds with brown comforters, a mustard yellow couch, the floor. Off to one side, a narrow doorway leads to a small, white kitchen. I’m probably supposed to be chivalrous and take the carpet, but I don’t want to be chivalrous. So I don’t say anything. If they want to claim the beds and the couch, I’ll go sleep outside.

  Bev lets her bag slide off her shoulder onto the couch.

  “I’ll take this,” she says.

  “Meg kicks in her sleep,” Alexa says. “And those beds are really small.”

  She looks at me, concerned.

  “I’ll just sleep in the bus,” I say, a brief fantasy flashing across my mind of waking up at 2:00 A.M. and driving home by myself.

  But then Alexa discovers a sliding door on one side of the room with a tiny balcony.

  “Perfect,” she says, and lays down her sleeping bag. “I can’t sleep when it’s too hot. And listen. It’s so quiet.”

  She smiles at me. It’s supposed to be a casual smile, but I can tell it’s a pity smile, so I look away.

  “Okay, good, but there is no way we’re going to sleep yet,” Meg says. “The night is young, and we are free forever. Not you, Lex. You’re just free for a couple months.”

  Alexa shrugs. “I like high school.”

  “I have plans for us,” Meg says, which is not entirely surprising. Meg is always coming up with plans. She’s the one who, in the middle of a party when everyone is content with their mild boredom, will stand up and declare it time for a game of competitive improv, or pass out copies of song lyrics so we can have a spontaneous sing-along.

  She crosses the room, pulls the knit hat she wore all winter out of her duffel. Next comes a stack of paper, cut into thin strips. After that, perfectly sharpened pencils. We sit on the floor—Bev, leaning against the couch; Alexa, cross-legged, under the open windows. I lean against what has become my bed while Meg distributes the paper and pencils and explains the rules.

  “So this is how it works. Everyone writes down three questions, one for every person here not counting yourself. Write the person’s name and a question that you really want to ask them. It’s kind of like Truth or Dare, but without the daring, and better, because the questions are anonymous.”

  Meg seems really excited about this, so I try not to reveal how terrible an idea I think it is. But really. I would rather drive another hundred miles down cliffs in the dark.

  “Maybe we should just watch TV,” I say.

  But they are already writing questions, covering their slips of paper with cupped hands like fifth-graders taking a test. So I pick up my pencil and write,

  Meg: Is your hair naturally pink?

  Alexa: If you could describe your mood in a color, what color would you choose?

  Bev: I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.

  Once the folded strips are in the hat, Meg feels around for the first strip of paper, and pulls it out with flourish.

  She clears her throat. “Alexa, the first question is for you. Are you ready?”

  Alexa nods. Her expression turns serious and she brushes her long black hair away from her face and looks at Meg.

  Meg reads, “‘If you could go back in time and change your mind about a decision you made in high school, what would you do?’”

  Meg looks like the host from a reality show, head tilted toward Alexa with an expression of mild concern and expectation. Bev absentmindedly runs her hand through her newly short hair. Her gaze is fixed above Alexa, through the open window. I wonder which of them asked the question.

  “I regret not going to prom,” Alexa says. “Which sounds really stupid, because I know that we all decided that we were over high school and over dances, but I regretted it right away.”

  “Oh no, really?” Meg says. The TV host look is gone now, replaced by real concern.

  Alexa shrugs. “It’s not a tragedy or anything. I can go to mine next year. But, yeah. I kind of wanted to get dressed up with you guys and wear a flower on my wrist. I bet the energy would have been great. All these people, together for one of the last times ever.”

  Bev says, “Everyone said the after-party was the best part, and we made it to that.”

  “True.” Alexa nods. “But it would have been nice to see everyone when they still looked all dressed up and pretty. Before all the puking. Don’t you think? Next year I’m going to go. Even if I think I’m over it. Because all there is, is prom and finals and graduation, and then it’s really over.”

  “I don’t know, Lex,” Meg says. “This may be sentimentality talking. We’ll check back in with you a few months from now.”

  She reaches into the hat.

  “Question two is for Bev. ‘Bev, what was the saddest moment of you
r life?’”

  Bev’s position stays the same—her legs extended across the carpet, one arm propped casually on the couch, fingers through hair—but her face darkens. I wonder about these questions, who wrote each and why all of them are so into this game, why they think it’s better than just asking about the things they want to know.

  But okay, yeah: I still want to know what Bev will say.

  She isn’t answering yet. Instead she’s silent, picking at the worn pink carpet, silent for so long I wonder if it’s possible she didn’t hear the question, or heard it but thought it was for someone else.

  “Bev?” Alexa finally says.

  Bev looks up.

  “Pass,” she says.

  “No passing,” Meg says. “Against the rules.”

  “What rules? You made this up.”

  “Wait a second,” I say. “‘Pass’ because you can’t think of anything or ‘pass’ because you don’t want to tell us?”

  “I can think of something,” Bev says.

  “Do I know?” I ask. I can think of a couple moments that would make it onto Bev’s sad list, mostly involving death, but for some reason none of them feel like they would be her single saddest thing.

  Bev turns back to the rug. She shakes her head, no. And I can’t even contain how much this pisses me off. Bev knows everything about me. Everything.

  Meg says, “It’s my game. There’s no passing.”

  Alexa turns to Meg and mouths, Stop it. She scoots over to Bev and puts an arm around her.

  I watch Bev act as though she doesn’t notice Alexa’s gesture, and think, Who is this girl? And at the same time, under that, is the beginning of a memory. I feel like there was something, once, that happened. Something that she tried to tell me, or almost told me, but never did.

  “It’s okay,” Alexa says. “You can pass.”

  Meg stops pushing but cuts the consoling short.

  “Question three is for Colby. ‘Colby, if you could make out with any of us, who would you choose?’”

  She smiles brightly at me. I lock eyes with her and force myself to smile back.

  “You, of course,” I say. “I’m going to go outside now and imagine it.”

  I grab my music and my headphones and go out onto the balcony. I lie down on top of Alexa’s sleeping bag and look at the stars. Even through the closed glass door I can hear them giggling, reading my question, saying, “Bev, it’s pretty clear that one’s from Colby.” I listen for Bev’s voice but I don’t hear it.

  I call Uncle Pete.

  “Hey-it’s-me-everything’s-fine,” I say, which is what I’ve said since I was a kid and my mom’s voice was panicked when I would call her from a friend’s house. I’d be calling to know what time she was getting me or if I should wait to eat dinner, and she’d respond by saying something like, Thank God, I thought you might have been hurt.

  “How’s Melinda?” Pete asks.

  “She’s running great,” I say. “No problems yet.”

  “Don’t say ‘yet.’ Why would you say ‘yet’?”

  “Did I say that? What I meant was she’s running so smoothly that I have no worries at all.”

  “Better,” he says. “Have you been checking her oil?”

  “No, should I be?”

  “Do it in the morning. Just to be safe. There’s extra oil under the driver’s seat if you need it. Fill her up with that, not any other kind.”

  “Okay.”

  He goes on for a while, asking me more questions about the bus and how it’s running, and even though he’s worried over nothing it’s sort of calming to answer his questions and to say yes to all of his requests.

  “What are you doing?” I ask him once he seems less worried.

  “I was looking through some things from the old days. Tour stuff. You’ve got me feeling nostalgic.”

  “What kind of tour stuff?”

  “Some snapshots. Jesus, I was a good-looking kid. I had almost forgotten. Also, business cards from every place we played a show. Sometimes we played at people’s houses. They didn’t have business cards so we’d have them write their names and addresses on scratch paper to go in the tour journal.”

  “I want to see the pictures.”

  “Yeah, there are some great ones. I found one of the night your mom and dad met.”

  He says this and, for a moment, I feel like I’m sinking. There is a question I need to ask, but I don’t know how to ask it. An uneasy feeling that’s been getting stronger the longer Ma has stayed away.

  “Have you heard from her?” I say.

  “We talked a few nights ago. I had to keep reminding her that I don’t know French.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Paris, her classes, your trip.”

  The sinking gives way to nausea.

  “How she’s so proud of you for making your own decisions,” Pete continues. “Living your own life. You know, she was worried at first about you not going straight to college, but we talked about it together. I told her she raised the best kind of person: an independent thinker.”

  Pete, I want to say. Something happened.

  “Because, like me, you’re a traveler. But unlike me, you have a plan. And unlike your mother, you know what it is you really want. You aren’t going to squander your opportunities.”

  “Uh-huh,” I mutter.

  “It’s inspiring, you know that? Knowing you’re out there now and soon you’ll be country-hopping with Bev, spending time on those islands you’re crazy about. Your dad and I were talking last night about hitting the road in Melinda for a couple weeks after you go. Visiting the old haunts, seeing how they’ve changed. You make me want to stir up my life a little.”

  I want to tell Pete everything, but how can I—especially after this? He never had his own kids, so somehow I’ve become the only child to all three of them, and no matter how great they are, even if they hold secret conferences to discuss my choices and praise me, it’s a lot of pressure to carry their hope and admiration and worry all on my own.

  I want to ask Pete to tell me what’s next after all of this. But it’s a question that feels too huge, too impossible. So I let the conversation end, promise a million things about Melinda, and tell Uncle Pete good night.

  It’s still warm outside but a breeze has picked up. I browse through song choices and settle on “Modern Girl,” the track Bev listened to on repeat for the entire summer before ninth grade. I choose this song because it’s connected to what I was trying to remember earlier, after Bev didn’t answer the question, and even though I would rather be thinking about anything else, I can’t stop thinking about what else she’s keeping from me.

  I close my eyes as the guitar starts.

  “Listen to the lyrics,” I remember Bev saying.

  “They’re cool. I like the donut part.”

  “They’re perfect.”

  “Yeah, they’re good,” I said. “They’re simple.”

  Bev started the song over again.

  “Listen,” she said.

  “I know,” I said. “I’ve memorized it.”

  She looked discouraged, and then I got the feeling that this was about more than how good the lyrics were. We were quiet. Carrie was singing, Hunger makes me a modern girl.

  “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  She turned up the volume. My whole life was like a picture of a sunny day.

  In the other room, her mom and dad were watching TV. I could hear them laughing. There was a line between her eyebrows, her mouth curved down. The lines came again.

  I tried to figure out what she meant.

  “Has something changed?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer me.

  I spent the rest of the night trying to get her to tell me what it was, but she didn’t. She just played the song over and over as we talked about other things. I thought about what my mom told me in one of our many awkward conversations about Bev and me now that we were older, about ho
w teenage girls can be complicated and mysterious creatures. My mother had never been so right about anything. Because here was Bev, sitting in the bedroom that was as familiar as my own, looking at me with the same eyes I’d been looking into since we were nine, trying to get me to understand something by just listening to a song. Maybe there was something important that she wanted me to know. But probably Ma was right. Probably all Bev was trying to tell me was that she was now older and therefore complicated and mysterious and so fucking attractive and troubled in the way that all teenagers are troubled.

  So I just listened to the song and watched every gesture she made, and searched for the clues to figure her out, and then the night got later and her dad appeared in the doorway to move me out to the couch, and I said good night and thought so much about what it would feel like to touch her that I forgot about everything else.

  Later, Alexa wakes me with a squeeze of my shoulder. She takes an earbud out of one ear. “Hey,” she says, “we’re going to bed now, okay?”

  It must be at least 3:00 A.M. The air has gotten cooler.

  “Were you talking to your dad earlier? When you first came out here?”

  I shake my head. “Uncle Pete.”

  “I have some questions for them. Research, for the play. Next time you’re going to call them will you let me know?”

  “Sure,” I say. “How was the game?”

  “It was good,” she says. “We left something for you on your pillow.”

  I brush my teeth with Meg. We try not to crowd each other, take turns spitting into the gray, cracked sink. Bev isn’t here, but I don’t ask where she’s gone. She’s probably outside, leaning against a wall and smoking cigarettes like someone in a movie.

  I slip off my jeans by the side of my bed, and see what they’ve left for me. On the other side of the slips of paper, Meg and Alexa have answered my questions. Meg’s says, No, but that’s sweet of you to ask; Alexa has written, the color of melinda.

  Bev didn’t leave an answer. Of course.

  I pull the comforter off the bed and settle under the sheets. Soon after, I hear the door opening and shutting, half a dozen locks being turned or slid into place. I close my eyes and imagine that an hour has passed. Everyone has fallen asleep. I feel a weight on the mattress. Bev’s lips graze my ear. She says, I need to be with you. I turn, and kiss her, and her tongue is soft and cool.