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“Yeah, I’ll get there. I got…things.” He pulls his wallet out and removes a joint. I nod, wondering how the hell I became so attracted to a ditching stoner. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s also human, and has the ability to cry when he thinks he’s completely alone. He hasn’t brought it up—this morning. I won’t. I sure as hell won’t now, when things are progressing so…nicely.
“Hey, what do you call that thing you played anyway?” he asks, shouting across the growing distance between us.
It’s my turn to leave him with a little mystery now.
“Oh, you would know.”
I shrug, and his brow pulls in, puzzled.
“What do you call that song you were working on when I showed up Friday? The slow and sweet one that they all kept fucking up?”
“Bury Me Holy.”
He says the title fast, and I wonder if it’s the first thing he ever wrote. It’s clearly his favorite.
I nod once.
“That’s it then. Bury Me Holy.”
His eyes narrow to slits, his faint smile lingering until I have to turn to face the other way. I lift my sticks in the air as I pass, as if I’m Bender at the end of The Breakfast Club, and I walk the rest of the way to the band room with a little bit of swagger.
Swagger, and grass all over my damn feet.
It’s only Jesse in the garage when I walk up. I’m not early. I’m not late, either. I’m precisely on time. I worked it out that way because I’m neurotic about some things, and new me and old me are the same about some of my little ticks. New me doesn’t apologize for it, though. Although…I regret not being able to be late right now because Rag might make things a little more comfortable.
“So let me get a look at this set Chris doesn’t know how to play, huh?” I glance at Jesse as I step into the garage. He’s doing that casual lean-sitting thing guys can pull off. He’s on the side of a motorcycle that doesn’t look like it runs, but I’m okay with the vision of him resting against it. I don’t care if it ever goes anywhere.
I pull my denim jacket off and toss it to the side on top of the shrinking pile of boxes.
“You guys are getting moved in slowly, huh?”
He rolls his eyes and runs his hands through his perfect hair, a little oily and curled at the ends.
“The last place we lived, we had boxes for the first ten months. If I don’t do it, it doesn’t get done. My mom is busy at work and tired when she gets home, and my sister is so self-involved and weak-ass.”
“Hey!” I say, picking up the sticks and pointing them at him as I nestle behind the drums. “Don’t shit on your sister. Girl power.”
I stare him down and he doesn’t flinch, just sneering at me as if I have no idea.
“Whatever. She’s eleven, and a prima donna.”
“I love Madonna,” I say back quickly, ignoring his reaction for a few seconds. When he starts to correct me and explain the definition of the term, I let him off the hook and shake my head at him.
“I know what you said,” I nod. I hold his gaze for a few seconds, both of our lips caught in this strange, hesitant smile. We both like being here. We both like being alone. We’re both nervous, and we’re both fronting. If he’s not, then he’s a better actor than I am, because I can read it in his expression and stilted stance.
“My mom likes to decorate for Christmas, so that stack gets cracked open tonight. It’s the one thing I can get my baby brother and sister to help with.” His focus lingers on the stack of boxes for a long couple of seconds, a fondness coloring his cheeks and curling his mouth.
“It’s my favorite holiday,” I add, regretting it when his smile drops back into that serious, straight line.
“It’s a’right,” he shrugs.
I clear my throat and look down at the drums and reach to my left then right, tapping each head and familiarizing myself with my surroundings. I give them all a few passes, speeding up until I feel like at least I won’t be embarrassed by whatever we do here.
“Already better than Chris,” he says through a smile.
“I feel bad. Chris seems like a nice guy.” I shrug, then tap at the drums and cymbal with a bada-bum-chang.
“He’s a hippie. He’ll be fine.”
