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Rock F*ck Club series (also available
in audio):
Rock F*ck Club #1
Rock F*ck Club #2, A Postseason One Novella, Book 2
Rock F*ck Club #3, Book 3
Connect with Michelle Mankin on Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/michelle-mankin
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The moving trucks pulled in at about ten this morning. The house at the end of my cul-de-sac has been empty for two years, and even now that the sold sign has finally been plucked from the ground, the weeds have grown so high that the tops have burnt off from dehydration and the hot California sun. Whoever’s moving into that place must not mind ugly houses. That, or they’re desperate.
“Any people yet?”
My best friend Sam flops on the bed next to me, exploding buttery kernels of popcorn into the wrinkled covers beneath us with her bounce.
“You’re making a mess, and no. There hasn’t been anyone but movers so far.”
I work to pick up the pieces she spilled when she brought in the bowl from our snack fest last night. Sam’s parents are out of town for their anniversary, so she’s been staying with me for the fall break. Since there’s no school, we’ve pretty much slept our days away and spent the nights watching classic horror films that make sleeping in the dark impossible. We’re both exhausted now from last night’s second viewing of The Exorcist, but we heard the moving trucks rumble by an hour ago, and we haven’t been able to quit staring out the window since.
“I wonder if you’ll get murderers down the street,” Sam says, shoveling a palmful of popcorn into her mouth. She crunches it loudly, and I internalize a reminder that she’s going home tomorrow.
“Why would I get murderers? That’s not a thing. Maybe we need to switch to comedies.” I take a few pieces of popcorn in my hand and nibble on them one at a time. They’ve gotten stale, but I like the salt and the butter.
“Umm, murder is so a thing. It’s basically the only thing they show on Dateline, and people who commit murder are called…” she leads me.
I roll my eyes.
“Murderers,” I answer, giving her what she wants.
“Exactly.” She crunches down another mouthful of popcorn, which ratchets up my nerves a little more. That crutch—it’s her victory lap.
“Whatever, Sam. I’m not getting a cluster of murders down the street. There’s a ton of furniture, and I saw some things that look like they belong to someone our age, so it’s probably a family.” Specifically, I saw band posters. They were framed, in nice, glass-covered frames, not like the plastic ones I have or the rolls of paper that I pin to my wall. And they were good bands—classics like The Doors, Cream, Bowie, Joy Division.
“I bet it’s a guy,” Sam says, smirking through her words. My friend is terribly boy-crazy. It started at the beginning of our freshman year, and it got worse every single grade until she finally gave up her V-card before our senior year hit. I can’t imagine what she’ll be like in college. I won’t get to see it, I suppose. Sam’s going to Brown. I’ll be lucky to make it north, closer to Seattle—closer to music.
Honestly? I’ll be lucky to make it out of this county.
I scoot closer to my window sill and rest my chin on my folded hands where the window meets my mattress. I like to fall asleep with my blinds raised so I can see the stars. There isn’t much about Orson that I like, but our suburban town is dark, so I can see a lot of the sky when the sun goes down. The cool people get to live closer to LA, on hillsides or by the beach. Our street still has a bunch of empty lots that have been that way for years because of the housing bust. That’s why we got this place so cheap four years ago. And it’s better than the apartment we were in before. We have a yard, even though the circle of grass is small enough to straddle. Almost everything around here is rock. Rocks don’t need water, and this place is short on water. It’s also short life.
There’s Roger’s Convenience Store on the corner, which is where the stoners hang out and deal, then there’s the strip mall with my parents’ shipping store, the place that sells vacuums and the ice shop that sells a little bit of ice but mostly ice cream and weird candies that are always stale. Everything else in Orson is either halfway built and abandoned or private land that people my age trespass on for kicks. Sometimes, late at night, a bunch of us climb to the top of the only real mountain nearby and throw shit at the condemned houses below. There aren’t any windows to break because mostly, construction never got that far.
