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“Aren’t you too young for a band?”
I’m eighteen, not twenty-one, and they play bars. “I can play onstage, but I can’t hang in the bar. When we take breaks I’ll have to wait outside.”
“Alone?”
“I can take care of myself.” A convulsion in my chest as I think of how Abby often said the same words yet she still bled when she was shot, proving she’s human.
“You’ll be playing in bars? That’s sort of fancy and fun. I’ll come watch. Maybe your dad will, too.” She pokes Dad in the shoulder, her attempt at killing the negative mood. “Did you ever tell your son we met at a bar and that we had nicknames for each other and that you once smoked pot with me?”
“You smoked pot?” The question rips out of my mouth so fast Mom giggles.
“Once,” she says. “Your father struggles with fun.”
Dad won’t take cough syrup, much less get high. He’s one of those blue-collar, maximum-hours-at-near-minimum-wage guys. Worked third or swing shift on the line his entire life. Drinks an occasional beer, never buys new, fixes what breaks, watches football on Sunday. He’s stu
rdy. Responsible. Unchangeable.
Dad sets his why-did-I-marry-your-mother glare on me. “Don’t even think it.”
I throw my hands up in defeat. Drinking, drugs—off the list. I can’t control my glucose with eating green vegetables. My rushes have to be the nonchemical kind. I’m crazy, but not suicidal.
Mom tsks. “Let him be young. We were young once.”
“And stupid.” Dad shoots Mom that look where it’s obvious he’s trying to remember why he fell for her. I’ve seen pictures. Mom was pretty—still is—and when she moved into Groveton, Dad was swept away by the shiny new girl. “Logan doesn’t need any more stupid.”
“We’ll, I’m fine with Logan doing and trying whatever he wants,” Mom says. “Pot, the band, baseball, a new school, a new girl. He should be free to experiment.”
Her answer for everything. She doesn’t believe in boundaries or rules or the American Academy of Pediatrics. There’s a good reason why I’ve lived mainly with Dad.
Dad stands and tosses his dishes, food and all, into the sink. The dish and fork clank against the metal. “What’s the plan, Logan?”
“It’ll be a couple of nights a week, but they mostly play locally. There will be some travel. Places two, three hours away.” I pause, knowing that this will be Dad’s deal breaker. “They’re playing a few days in Florida toward the end of summer.”
“And then what?” Dad stays near the sink.
I’m drawing blanks. “What?”
“Then what? What call am I getting next? That you were in a bar fight? That your head was split open by some drunk bastard? That next time you’re the one that was shot?”
“Logan’s a free spirit,” Mom interjects. “If you try to shut him into a small pen, he’ll only grow restless and hurt himself trying to break free.”
“He hurts himself anyhow. What he does is crazy.”
“It’s not crazy. It’s Logan figuring out who he is.” Mom offers Dad a patronizing smile and I shove my plate of half-eaten food away. This is why I keep my mouth shut around people.
“Detentions in school for pranks.”
“He was having fun.”
“Car accidents!”
“Speed is normal for boys.”
“Shooting off fireworks from his hands.”
“He was curious.”
“Crashing on an ER table because he didn’t give himself an insulin shot for a week.”
