She had her back to me as she spoke, busy checking things off another list. Piled on the counter were all the baked goods she’d gotten at Big Club, the bulk store, for the ceremony: danishes, cookies, cupcakes. The whole room smelled like sugar.
“I really think I can stay alone,” I said. “By the time he gets here, I’ll almost be in bed anyway.”
She picked up a box of mini cupcakes, moving it to the top of another stack. “It’s all set. Now get your cereal together, you’re going to be late.”
End of conversation. Once again, I was an item on a list, crossed off and archived. When I left twenty minutes later, I couldn’t help it: I slammed the door behind me.
Now, in the truck, Mac’s phone buzzed. He shifted behind me, pulling it from his pocket. “Delivery up. Back to work.”
I glanced at my watch. It was five fifteen, and I’d told my mom I’d be home before six, but all I wanted to do was stay in this safe, easy place, with Mac’s arms around me. But he was already starting to sit up as I said, “Five more minutes?”
“Two.” He kissed the top of my head, easing back. A moment passed, and then he said, “You know, we don’t have to record at your place if it’s a problem. Eric will find another way. He always does.”
“It’s not a problem,” I told him. “It’s going to be perfect.”
This was not a word I used much, if ever. But sometimes, lately, I’d allowed myself to think that things actually could work out. After all, I was here now, with him, and who would have ever expected that?
He drove me back to Seaside, pulling up to my car before heading in to grab the delivery. We said our good-byes, the careful way we always did, and I got out, shutting the door behind me. But as I started to walk away, I looked up at that setting sun, the sky blue, dappled with pink. Perfect, I risked thinking again, if only for a moment. I turned around and went up to Mac’s open window.
“Forget something?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I told him. “This.”
I stood on my tiptoes, leaned in, and gave him a kiss. I could feel his surprise, then hesitation, before he eased into it. It was a risk, being public like this, but I was already tired of hiding. Anyway, Layla, my only true concern, was with Spence; it didn’t occur to me to think of anyone else. At least, not then.
* * *
“Wow,” Eric said when I opened the door. “Nice digs.”
“Did you just say ‘digs’?” Irv asked from behind him, where he was filling the rest of the door frame. “Really?”
“What? It’s actually a quite common term.”
“And these are actually quite heavy. So would you enter the digs, please?”
Eric rolled his eyes, and I stepped aside to let him in. He was carrying his guitar, his backpack over one shoulder. Following behind and carrying all the rest of the equipment were Irv, Ford, and finally Mac.
The fact that I’d noticed this inequity must have been obvious, as Mac explained, “Eric’s got a bad back.”
“Eric,” Irv added, huffing slightly as he lifted a black case about half my size over the threshold, “claims he has a bad back. I’ve never seen evidence of it, except when we have something heavy to move.”
“It’s my L3 and L4 disc,” Eric replied in a tired voice. “It’s agitated.”
“I’m agitated. This shit is heavy.” Irv put down the case with a thunk, rattling the glass table beneath my brother’s portrait. “Where are we taking it?”
“Downstairs,” I told him. “Follow me.”
I led them through the door past the kitchen, down the winding stairs (more huffing, more comments about Eric’s disc), and finally, into the workout room and then the studio. As I flipped on the light, Eric stood back, taking an appreciative look around while the others carried in the stuff. “Wow. This was all for your brother?”
“Was supposed to be,” I said. “He kind of got, um, preoccupied before he could use it much.”
“Is that what we’re calling prison now?” Irv asked. “A preoccupation?”
Mac poked him, hard. “Hey. Watch it.”
“What?” Irv looked at him, then at me. “Oh. Sorry, Sydney. I’m just talking, being stupid.”
“It’s fine,” I said, and smiled at him.
Still, Mac came over as Ford and Eric began unpacking instruments. “Sorry about that. Irv’s kind of a straight shooter, especially about certain things.”
“He’s right,” I told him. “My brother is in prison. It’s kind of refreshing, actually, to be around someone who calls it that.”
“Yeah?”
I nodded, and then Ford was calling his name, asking him something. As he went over, then bent down to unpack a case, I watched the Saint Bathilde pendant around his neck slide into sight before he reached up, tucking it back under his collar. Yesterday, I’d held it in my own hand, between my fingers, twisting it in the dappled light at Commons Park. Just remembering made me flush.
“So, Sydney,” Eric said, jerking me abruptly away from this thought, “I hear we’re on a time constraint here. How long do we actually have?”
I looked at my watch. It was six thirty. “About three hours.”
“Not long to get down these songs.” He lifted his guitar and backpack onto the nearby couch—an action that apparently did not require his agitated disc—then rubbed his hands together. “When did you say Layla was coming?”
“Seven at the latest,” Mac told him.
“Okay. Then I’d better get acquainted with this equipment.” Eric walked over to the board of switches and buttons, taking a seat in the rolling chair there. “Man. This is nicer than the setup we had at VAMP.”
“VAMP?”
He sat back, twisting a knob. “Vintage Acoustic Musical Performance Camp. It’s where I spent last summer. Music and production classes during the day, serious jam sessions at night.”
“Wow. Sounds great.”
“Life-changing,” he corrected me. “I mean, it was for me, anyway. Spending eight weeks with people who actually care about the music the way I do? Like an oasis in the ongoing creative desert that is my life here.”
There was a rap on the glass separating us from the booth. When I looked up, Mac was standing there. “We can hear you, you know.”
Eric flipped his hand, hardly bothered. But I noticed he did unpress the only button whose function I knew—the intercom—before saying, “Look, don’t get me wrong. These guys like to play. But they’re not passionate. Once high school is over, they’ll tell stories about how they were once in a band. I want more than that. You know?”
I nodded as Irv helped Ford stack one amp onto another. Mac was back at his drum set, twisting clamps onto cymbals. I was watching his face, so focused, as Eric said, “So, um. There’s been something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.” He smiled at me. “It’s not a secret I think you’re cool, Sydney. I want to take you out. What do you think?”
I honestly did not know what to say. This was such a direct question, there was really no way to circumvent or dodge it. Still, I was trying to think of a way to do just that when I heard the doorbell ring. Saved.
“Shoot,” I said, as if I weren’t insanely grateful for this interruption. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
Although I had the entire way across the workout room, up the stairs, and through the foyer to consider what to say when I returned, I made little progress. When I opened the door to find Layla supporting a red-faced, mud-streaked, damp Spence, though, all thoughts of Eric vanished.
“A little help?” she said, dragging him into the foyer. As they passed, I got a strong whiff of alcohol. And, strangely, fertilizer. “Do you have a towel or something?”
“Hey, Sydney,” Spence slurred at me cheerfully. “What’s up?”
“Stop moving, would y
ou please?” Layla said to him. “Just stay there. And take off your shoes.”
With that, she disappeared into the powder room, leaving us alone. Weaving slightly, Spence kicked off his Nikes, first one, then the other, before reaching into his back pants pocket to pull out a slim glass bottle. He uncapped it, took a big swig, then held it out to me. “Vodka?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “Is it raining or something?”
He shook his head, taking another sip. “Sprinklers. Came on when I was crossing your neighbor’s backyard. Serious water pressure. Apparently. Sure you don’t want a drink?”
“She doesn’t,” Layla replied, emerging from the bathroom. She was holding one of our hand towels, which she held up to me, raising her eyebrows. I nodded, and she tossed it to him. “Dry off and put that away, would you? They’re not going to be happy I brought you in the first place.”
“Nonsense.” Spence slid the bottle back into his pocket, then stepped closer to her, sliding his arms around her waist. “I told you, baby. You won’t even know I’m here.”
While Layla clearly doubted this, she allowed herself to be pulled in for a kiss. To her surprise, not to mention mine, it quickly became openmouthed and full-on tongue. Luckily, just then, the phone rang.
I ducked into the kitchen, grabbing the handset. “Hello?”
“This is a collect call from an inmate at Lincoln Correctional Facility,” began the familiar robotic voice. “Do you accept—”
“Yes,” I said, taking a few steps toward the front window.
“Are they downstairs?” Layla called out from behind me. When I turned to look at her, Spence was nuzzling her neck. I nodded. “Did they start already?”
There was a buzz, then a click. “Sydney?”
“Yeah, one second,” I told my brother. To Layla I said, “Yes and I don’t know. I’ll be there in a sec, okay?”
She nodded, pulling away from Spence, and disappeared down the hallway. He followed, removing the bottle from his pocket again. Great.
“Sorry about that,” I told Peyton. “I have some friends over. How’s everything?”
“Okay,” he said. “Considering that I’ve actually picked a team on that stupid show you like so much.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re Team Ayre.”
“Nope,” he replied. “MD is, though. I’m solidly Rosalie.”
“What?” I said. “That’s crazy. She’s insane.”
“Oh, and Ayre isn’t? Did you not see that dinner party where she pushed Delilah in the pool?”
“She was provoked,” I said defensively.
“Yeah, whatever.” He snorted. “Well, I don’t want to hold you up if you have people over. Is Mom around?”
I blinked, surprised. “No. She’s already headed there.”
“What?”
“She and Dad left this afternoon. For the ceremony?”
“It’s not until tomorrow,” he said.
“Yeah, but I guess she had a lot of stuff to do for it or something?” He said nothing. “They’re staying at a hotel, meeting some of the other families, I think.”
There’s a difference between quiet on a phone line and angry silence. One is light, the other heavy. Right then, I pictured the connection between us sagging, almost to a breaking point.
“I can’t believe this,” he said finally. Behind him, the noise I knew from our few conversations was typical: raised voices, banging, intercoms. Prison was even louder than Jackson. “I told her I didn’t want her to do all that. I didn’t want them here at all, actually. I’m in prison, not school. I don’t get why she can’t understand that.”
Wow, I thought. I’d been waiting so long for someone else to feel this way. I’d just never expected it to be Peyton. As I wondered how to reply, I heard a thump from beneath me in the studio. “I guess . . .” I began, then found myself hesitating. The line buzzed. “She’s just hanging on to anything she can make feel normal.”
“But this isn’t normal,” he replied. “I screwed up, I hurt someone, and I’m doing time for it. When she tries to make it anything else, it just . . . it makes me nuts. This needs to be different, you know? To be hard. Everyone else understands that. But she just doesn’t get it.”
Even with our recent talks, this was the most my brother had said to me in months, if not years. It was so unexpected, not to mention emotional, that I realized I was holding my breath. For so long, I’d seen him and my parents as one unit, sharing the same party line. But Peyton was his own person and carried his own weight. How could I not have understood that?
“I’m sorry,” I said. Two words, but they felt heavy, too.
“Yeah.” A pause. His voice sounded tight. I thought of him walking across that sinkhole: I saw bravery, him something else. “I’m, um . . . I’ll try her on her cell.”
“Okay. Take care, Peyton.”
“Bye, Syd.”
Another click, and he was gone. I hung up the phone, feeling a pang as I remembered my mom organizing her Big Club baked goods the previous morning, not to mention all the other work she’d done. She could tell us and everyone else it was for Peyton, and maybe she really believed that. I wasn’t so sure. I hadn’t thought I could feel more ashamed about the entire situation. Wrong again.
CHAPTER
18
“WAIT,” ERIC said. “I didn’t like that intro. Let’s try it again.”
Ford groaned, while Mac sat back behind the drum kit, rolling his eyes.
“Dude,” Irv said from beside me, “it’s a demo for a showcase, not your first album.”
“That doesn’t mean it has to suck,” Eric said.
“It’s not going to exist if you don’t ease up, though,” Irv replied. “We’ve been here for . . . how long, Sydney?”
“Hour and a half,” I told him.
“Hour and a half,” he repeated, emphasizing the words, “and you’ve got nothing down. It’s time to get serious.”
“I am being serious,” Eric said.
“Then get less serious,” Mac told him. “Let’s just get this done.”
Eric, his expression darkening, turned his back to the glass between us, adjusting something on his guitar. I looked at my watch: Ames would be showing up at ten, at which point they and all their equipment needed to be long gone. At the beginning of the evening, this had seemed entirely doable. Now I was beginning to have my doubts.
Eric’s perfectionism was one problem. Another was Spence, who, after arriving and immediately knocking over two amps (that was the thump I’d heard), had been told by Layla to sit on the couch, out of the way. There he proceeded to drink most of his bottle of vodka, providing a stream of not-helpful commentary (“Are you sure you’re in tune?” “More cowbell!”) as he did so. I had no idea why Layla had brought him.
“I didn’t,” she told me out in the workout room, where we’d slipped away during yet another complicated skirmish about verse transitions. “I told him I was coming here and that your parents were gone. All he heard was ‘party,’ so he grabbed a bottle and headed over. When Rosie dropped me off, he was in the driveway waiting.”
I thought of earlier, when I’d opened the door to see him standing on the porch, slumped against her. “Does he drink like this a lot?”
“No,” she said, her voice clipped. She added, “I mean, some, sure, but it’s not usually like this. Anyway, it’s not his fault they’re not recording. It’s Eric’s.”
I glanced back at the open studio door, where Irv was now sitting back in the chair by the control board, his hands over his face. I could relate.
“Lay-la,” Spence called out, then leaned forward on the couch, peering at us. “Come here. I miss you.”
“One sec,” she said, pulling her phone out of her pocket. She glanced at the screen. “Crap.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“My mom.” She turned, walking back into the studio, leaning over Irv to hit the intercom button. “Mac. Rosie just texted. She thinks Mom might need to go in.”
He was on his feet immediately, coming out the door. “What happened?”
“I don’t know; I’ll call right now.” She put her phone to her ear, walking over to lean against the wall. Spence, on the couch, offered her the now-almost-empty bottle, but she waved him off. “Hey, it’s me. What’s going on?”
As Rosie replied and she listened, we were all silent. I glanced at Mac, but he was watching Layla.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Yeah. Well, keep me posted. If you decide to take her, we’ll meet you there. What? We were planning ten thirty, but we can come now if she wants us to.”
Someone exhaled, frustrated. Eric, I assumed.
“All right. Yeah, do that. Thanks, Ro.” She hung up, then looked at Mac. “Just the usual. Dizzy, shortness of breath. She got super light-headed and Rosie panicked, but Mom says she’s fine now. She’s going to keep an eye on her.”
“Could be those new meds,” he said. It was like the rest of us weren’t there. “They said the side effects could be more pronounced, even with the smaller dosage.”
“Which sucks, because they’re working.” Layla slid her phone back in her pocket. “Whatever, let’s just try to get this done. I want to get home.”
“Seconded,” Mac said, turning back to the recording room. Once inside, he said to Eric, “This take is the last one for this song. Then we move on. Okay?”
Eric did not look happy about this. Still, he nodded, adjusting his guitar strap as Irv got everything on the board set up again. Mac counted them off and they began playing. I held my breath as they passed the intro into the first verse and then the chorus, the farthest they’d gotten so far.
“Sit down and relax. Have a drink,” Spence said to Layla, pulling her down beside him. She sighed, then, to my surprise, reached for the bottle and took a swig. “That’s my girl. Better, right?”