Black Bird of the Gallows

  Deno’s hands make fists, and his lips thin. “Damn it. I knew he was an asshole.”

  “Who’s an asshole?” Lacey asks as she joins us in the hall.

  “No one,” I say quickly, shooting Deno a warning look. Which of course, he doesn’t heed.

  “Reece,” he tells her.

  Lacey’s eyes go wide. “He is? Oh no. What’d he do?”

  Deno interrupts before I even begin. “That asshole broke up with Angie because she wouldn’t put out.”

  “What?” Lacey and I say at the same time.

  Deno blinks at me. “Isn’t that what you meant?”

  “No,” I say, with feeling. “Not at all. I said we wanted different things. Not that he tried to…” I poke him in the chest. “You watch what you say. I don’t want rumors floating around school, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Got it.” Deno rubs his chest. “I should still beat his ass.”

  Oh, this is torture. “No, you should not.”

  My stomach knots up thinking about seeing Reece in PE, physics, history, and lunch. Pretending indifference to my closest friends pushes the limits of my emotional endurance. “Yeah, no ass kicking,” I push out in a light voice. “He’s a hockey player, Deen.”

  “So?” He pushes up his glasses as we stop at my locker. “You think I can’t take a hockey player?”

  I purse my lips and try to find a respectful way to say no, but Lacey does it better. She pats his arm. “Angie can handle this herself.”

  Surprisingly, Deno doesn’t argue with her. Maybe he’s learning, after all.

  Lacey looks past me. Her gaze darkens. “Don’t turn around, Angie.”

  Of course, I do. Reece is passing on the way to his locker. Our eyes meet. His darken to a glower before flickering away.

  I turn sightlessly to the contents of my locker. Blood pounds in my head. This hurts so much worse than I expected. “Like I said, it’s for the best,” I croak out.

  Lacey gives me a hug. “I’m really sorry, Angie.”

  I lean in to her and give myself this one soft moment. “Thank you. Me, too.”

  “Do you want to tell us what really happened?”

  I do. I really do, but I shake my head and give Deno a sharp look. “It’s definitely not what you’re thinking.”

  “Sorry.” Deno shrugs. “It was a reasonable assumption. You know, considering what happened when we…”

  Oh God no, please don’t say we made out. I shift my foot and press the stacked heel of my boot into his foot. He grimaces but gets the message. “I’m uh, sorry things didn’t work out, Ange. I hope you’re okay.”

  “I will be.” It was for the best. If I keep saying that, eventually it’ll be true.

  There’s really no getting away from Reece. He’s there in history class, two rows behind me. He’s there at lunch, at the next table over. In PE, Mrs. Brandt pairs us up for racquetball. It’s not a deliberate act, merely the way of the alphabet. She certainly didn’t know we were dating. I find myself annoyed with a last name that starts with D, because it precedes F, and there are no Es in this annoying class to separate us.

  I take my equipment from the bin and take my place on the court without looking at him. The pair of girls we’re playing next to exchange glances. My face burns. My first serve bounces straight back and whacks me in the thigh. My hand is so sweaty, it’s a miracle I’m still holding the racquet.

  “Hey, just relax.” Reece’s breath brushes my neck, just below my stubby ponytail. He’s so close, I could back up one step and lean against his chest. I don’t know what’s worse—knowing he’s close enough to touch, or denying how much I want to.

  I can’t speak. He wants me to. I can feel it. And I would, if I could trust my words. I step away, letting cool air replace Reece’s heat at my back. I drop my racquet in the bin and walk to the locker room. I don’t care. I’ll take a failing grade for today.

  It doesn’t get any easier the rest of the week. Every time I see Reece, my heart squeezes. My eyes burn. I find myself wishing this disaster or whatever would just come already so he could leave and I could start forgetting him. And then I feel guilty about that, because I don’t want people to die.

  I do get through the week without more embarrassing episodes. Friday afternoon after school, I sit at home with my dad, eating pizza on paper plates. He’s eyeballing the mozzarella cheese with suspicion, making me think the you-only-live-once mood is wearing off. I suspect the dairy-fest we’ve been having is about to expire.

  Dad slants a look at the window. “Read an article that said we’re having record rainfall this month. Warmer than usual, too.” He shrugs. “Better than snow, I guess.”

  I follow his gaze to the rain-smeared window and shiver under a ripple of unease. “Hey, Dad, in that article you read, did they say anything about flooding?”

  He squints up at me. “You’re worried about a flood? We’re too high up for that.”

  We are. Our house is one of many dotting the face of Mt. Franklin. The gentle, sloping mountain was once mined for coal, but now enjoys state park status and fancy neighborhoods like ours. In contrast, there’s Mt. Serenity, sitting across the valley and backing up to the lake also bearing the name. Serenity remains wild and uninhabited since mining was halted in the 1960s. It isn’t considered stable enough to be granted permits for building.

  “I know our house isn’t in a flood zone,” I say, “but the valley is so low. And with all this rainfall, and how warm it’s been, are they worried about…anything else happening?”

  “Well, there’s not much that could happen,” he says. “The dam is inspected regularly. You’re sounding a little paranoid. Honey, if anything catastrophic was going to happen here, it would have happened years ago when the whole area was being blasted with explosives.”

  “Okay.” I shrug and rip a bite out of my pizza. Okay. Then what could it be? Nuclear war? The zombie apocalypse?

  “Some of the valley could see some wet basements,” my dad admits. “They are getting worried about that. Lake Serenity is high, but the dam itself is sound.”

  Wet basements. Hardly catastrophic, unless something did happen to the dam. I shove the last bite of crust into my mouth and push away from the table. “I should go get ready.”

  “You have a show tonight?”

  “Yup. The Strip Mall reopened on Wednesday.” The last one for me, maybe. “Have a few things to finish downstairs.”

  His gaze moves over me. “You’re twitchy. Is Reece going to be there?” He knows we broke up. I told him it was because he said they were moving and I didn’t want a long-distance relationship, and blah, blah. That explanation is technically true. It’s just not the full reason.

  “I don’t know.” Hopefully not. No, that’s a lie. I want to see him so badly it hurts. I want him to be there tonight. Especially tonight.

  “So hey…” It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if I can catch a bus and meet him in Pittsburgh. Maybe bring Deno and Lacey, if I can persuade them to leave. But the words stick in the back of my throat.

  His brows draw together. “What is it?”

  This is ridiculous. If I tell him even a sliver of what Reece has told me, he will worry for my sanity. And I don’t want him to cancel his trip to stay home with me.

  Frankly, I’m beginning to seriously think Reece has blown this thing out of proportion. Cadence is not Afghanistan. It’s southwestern Pennsylvania. And I don’t believe in zombies.

  I shake my head with a smile. “Nothing. Just kind of wish I was going with you on your trip this time.”

  Dad’s frown melts away, replaced with something knowing and annoyingly parental. “Wish you were, too, but you can’t run away because of a breakup. You have midterms next week.” He takes a bite of his pizza. “Frankly, I feel much better about leaving you for a few nights knowing you won’t be inviting the neighbor boy over to an empty house. Sorry, but it’s true.”

  He’s not sorry at all.

  “I know. Okay.??
? A resigned lump settles in my throat. I’m not getting out of Cadence, but my dad is. If Reece’s prediction is right, I’m glad he’s getting out of here. He’ll be safe, either way.

  I throw my paper plate in the garbage and head for the basement to put the finishing touches on my set. “See you in a few days, Dad.”

  I really, really hope I do.

  25- all good things

  Deno picks me up at seven o’clock on the nose. He’s extraordinarily punctual. I open a garage door, and he backs up to it so my equipment doesn’t get rained on.

  He looks me up and down and lets out a low whistle. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes.” I grip my laptop like a shield, feeling as naked as a newborn.

  “You don’t look sure.” He leans against my car. “It’s not too late to get changed, you know. Go dye your hair, or whatever you do.”

  I hand him the laptop. “This is getting ridiculous, Deen. I’m turning eighteen in two months. Graduating in three. This is long overdue.”

  And I may not get another chance to do this. I swallow and hand him my mixer and a microphone case.

  His eyes widen on the microphone. “Seriously?”

  “Did you think I’d change my mind?”

  “Yes.” Deno loads them into his van. “I’m glad you didn’t, even though I just lost another damn bet. Lacey must have hidden psychic abilities. I have to stop betting against her.”

  “How much did you lose this time?”

  “A night of my life.”

  “What?”

  He makes a goofy face. “I have to go with her to her cousin’s wedding.”

  Oh, Lacey, you wily thing. A smile tugs my lips. “Oh, poor you.”

  “Maybe it won’t be so bad.” He shrugs. “She’s making me wear a suit, though.”

  “Men wear suits to weddings,” I say. “It’s the rule.”

  He tugs his floppy beanie to his brows. “I don’t acknowledge the social norms.”

  “Oh yeah, right.” I roll my eyes. “I’ll bet you twenty bucks you have fun at the wedding.”

  He points at me. “You’re on.”

  I smile and tug the blunt ends of my hair. My normal, dyed blond-with-dark-roots hair. The only part of Sparo coming with me tonight is the glasses—my signature giant green sunglasses. The rest is all Angie.

  My instructions for Artie, The Strip Mall’s lighting guy, are quite specific. His wiry gray brows raise as he reads what I typed out in great detail. He listens to me ramble for a while, then, with a nicotine-stained grin, crumples up the paper and chucks it in the circular file.

  I blink at him, a little surprised, but mostly not. Artie sees himself as a lighting artist, far above taking directions from a punk newbie like me. He was once a stagehand for Queen, after all.

  “Don’t worry, kid, I got you covered,” Artie says in his gravelly voice. “It ain’t every day I get to do a ‘coming out’ show. I’ll give ’em something they won’t forget.” He waves me off. “Go kill ’em.”

  I go back to my booth with glasses off. It’s not quite eight o’clock. My set hasn’t begun yet, and so far none of the early arrivals have noticed me. Or, if they have, they think I’m just here to help set up. I think.

  Deno puts on some music, and Artie lowers the lights. Lacey bustles in, hauling her keyboard and a case of stuff—headphones and extra cables and whatnot. We both do a double take. She’s put metallic purple streaks in her black hair and is wearing makeup. She’s so pretty she doesn’t need it, and she’s not wearing much. Just enough blush to give her brown skin an extra glow. Her dark eyes look electric in iridescent blue liner, and her nails are tipped in pewter polish.

  “What?” she snaps at us. “Aren’t we supposed to be setting up?”

  “You look…different,” Deno says.

  She doesn’t really. Her hair and makeup showcase what was always there, but Deno stares at her like he’s never seen her before.

  “I do not,” she mutters. “It’s just a little— Stop staring!” He continues to do just that, earning him a fierce look from Lacey as she gets to work redoing everything Deno has set up. I bite my lip and turn back to my laptop.

  It’s cramped in here, with all the extra equipment, and the three of us, and the suddenly charged energy between Deno and Lacey. I sit off to myself, listening to them argue over what should be plugged into what. They sound faraway, like voices calling through a tunnel.

  I am nervous. My hand shakes so bad, I can barely control the cursor on my laptop.

  I don’t look out there, but I feel the press of energy that tells me the room is filling up. It’s a heady feeling, knowing they’re here for me, for the music I’m going to play for them. The white noise of voices, the shuffle of feet. My heart pounds. Adrenaline spikes. But my euphoria is tainted with pure fear. This is me, tonight. All me.

  I settle my guitar against my ribs and resist the urge to scan the crowd. My eyes search for Reece. Two minutes ago when I looked, he wasn’t here. I try to convince myself that this is good. The distance is necessary to keep Rafette away from both of us. But my heart wishes he were here. It’s an ache I haven’t been able to shake. I can do this. Just a little while longer, then he’ll be gone.

  I put my glasses on my face and signal Artie. I’m ready to begin.

  The room goes black. A thousand tiny white lights play on the ceiling and walls, like fireflies. None of the lights fall on me. I adjust my microphone, a new addition to the booth, and a very unnerving thing to see perched in front of me. “This is a special night, kids,” I say.

  Some guy out there shouts, “I love you, Sparo!” but mostly the room goes silent.

  “We’re doing things a little differently tonight. I’m going to play some completely new tunes for you.”

  Whispered voices roll off the crowd. Ice cold sweat trickles down the valley of my spine. Briefly, frantically, I wonder if anyone has recognized my voice and—oh God, are they going to laugh at me? Boo me off the stage? Deno pokes me in the arm. He reaches past me, and with slow deliberation, hits PLAY. This isn’t a concert, but some music will be performed live. A hypnotic percussion opens up, builds. Other tracks layer on a melodic synth part that Lacey recorded yesterday.

  This is happening. Finally. All the hiding and shame and fear that complicate my past was worth fighting through for this moment. Fear. Excitement. Elation. Fear, again. It all bubbles through me like a boiling pot. No going back.

  I close my eyes. Wait for the right beat. Breathe. Sing.

  Fly with me, baby, there’s nothing to fear.

  Stay with me today, before you have to go.

  Be with me, baby, no need to hide.

  In the light of the new day, the fire’s burning low.

  Can’t stop searching, for some spark of hope.

  Find your way to dry land, the sea will drag me down.

  Swimming to the far shore, to the lonely underground.

  You’ll be gone before I’ve drowned.

  Before I ever make a sound,

  I’ll never make a sound…

  There’s an instrumental bit between the two verses, and I glance at my friends during the break. Lacey plays one keyboard part live. Not easy, considering she has to split the keyboard sounds in order to include a little violin bit she added. Deno’s head is bent over two tablets. He’s manually mixing the tracks of this song we frantically built this week. I’m on the guitar, backing up the track I recorded earlier today.

  This is the most “band-like” of my songs, and the difference between my usual DJ set and this semi-live performance feels so… I can’t describe it. The music flows, moves around me like a living thing. It’s organic, growing. Being created one beat at a time. My voice comes out clear and dreamy, and I don’t have to force it. While I’m singing, there’re no nerves, no fears. We should be on the stage, not in the booth. It shouldn’t surprise me to realize this, but it does.

  I launch into the second verse and chance a glance at the
crowd. Artie’s keeping the lights off me until this song is over. Blue light undulates like water on the ceiling before shifting to purple, then red. Light, made to look like flying birds, plays over the crowd.

  Euphoria rolls through me, filling my head with the glorious sensations. I thought I knew myself. I thought I knew what music did to me, but this beats everything. Playing my own music is triumph, release, freedom. It’s the sun on my face on the first warm day of the year. Cool water in the blistering heat.

  A weight shifts, sloughs off like skin from a shedding snake. And suddenly it doesn’t matter what my classmates think of this. If they laugh, or never come here again, or beat my ass in the parking lot at the end of the night. It doesn’t matter. My throat tightens with emotion at the sight of my two friends up here with me. I wrote the words and much of the music, but I wouldn’t be here without them. I don’t even know how to express how grateful to them I am, for being here, all along.

  Then the song ends. Reality returns.

  Silence. Dead air.

  26- a warning sign

  My heart pounds. My hands start to shake so violently, Deno reaches over and turns off my amp to avoid a discordant mess.

  Then the boom of applause. Whistles. Feet, stamping for more.

  Oh my God.

  They liked it.

  A white spotlight hits me square in the face. It’s hard and honest and renders me completely blind. I push my glasses to the top of my head and try not to squint. “You know me as Sparo, but some of you know my real name.” I turn to Deno and Lacey. “This is the ridiculously talented Lacey Taggert on keys.” Lacey offers a regal nod as more applause and whistles break out. “My musical partner, my friend, Deno Steinway, on everything else.” I turn and bow to them. “Both of you, thank you.”

  Deno’s surprised mouth whips up in a grin. He leans over to the mic. “And let’s hear it for Sparo, aka, Cadence’s own Angie Dovage,” he says, and the crowd erupts again. The energy flows over me, fills me, and none of it feels tainted, contaminated by the darkness of my mother’s mistakes. If anything, my experiences have made music the empowering force in my life. The thing I used to do to forget myself is the thing that has made me more myself.