“Good morning, Mr. Sunshine, and how are you today?”
Singing? This has got to be a nightmare. I cover my head with my pillow.
“Who wants a frittata? A frittata for my sleepy Mr. Sunshine.”
Mom? Oh, good God, no. Kill the singing with fire.
“Do I have a hungry Mr. Salem Bear who wants his breakfast in bed?”
Oh, no. No. No. No. I’ve been dreaming about burnt butter for the past half-hour, and now, I know why.
A knock at my door. I know she’s holding a tray filled with overcooked eggs. Italian eggs. It’s a sweet act of parenthood, so I can’t tell her that a starving coyote wouldn’t eat her breakfast. I pry an eye open and look at my phone. Seven-Goddamn-thirty? It’s my day to sleep in!
I yawn and stretch. “Come on in.”
“Good morning, my baby boy. I’m so proud of how hard you worked this week that I wanted to start your weekend off right.”
“You didn’t want to start it off in a couple of hours?”
“Oh, stop it! Early to bed, early to rise, and all that. Now sit up and eat your frittata. It’s a Martha Stewart recipe from last month’s Living Magazine.”
“Oh! Then I’m sure it’s good.” I take a bite. It’s overwhelmingly awful. It tastes worse than it smells. I take a sip of juice to get it down. “This is really good. Thanks, Mom.”
“You take your time and enjoy it. I’m off to work. No rest for the weary! What are your plans today?”
“Band practice all day, I think. Jace will take me over there.”
“Oh, good! You love to make music with your little friends. You were always very musical, like your mother. Where do you think you get your talent?”
She accepts my half-smile for an answer and sings her way out of my room. She’s nuts, but she really is good to me. She’s trying, and I’m grateful for that. The tray gets pushed to the edge of the bed, far away from my nose. I can hear her car warming to life. I sip the juice and think about the Manor. The patients will be getting their breakfasts soon. Did Andy have a mom that took good care of him? If not, could that be why he broke one day? Could the same thing still happen to me? I catch myself thinking down that dark corridor. Fourteen felt like fire. Three years later, and it still feels like I’m putting out flames with a kinked garden hose.
I head to the bathroom, but something pulls me back. I let my hand glide over the polished gold knob and step closer to the closed door at the end of the hallway. I remember the sound of wood splintering when he slammed it. I touch the crack on the door frame. Kyle used to get so pissed when I’d play with his guitar. He would barricade his desk in front of the door to keep me out. I’d always manage to find a way in. When I did, we’d jump on his bed and play WrestleMania. The Undertaker vs. John Cena. When he was done thoroughly beating the crap out of me, he would always take pity and teach me a few chords. I loved playing guitar with him. I miss that so much. Every once in a while, I need to go inside and just let his things surround me. No, I wouldn’t call it a hug. More like a fist bump, followed by a playful punch to my shoulder.
I put my hand on his doorknob and push.
The room is so perfectly still. Like if a fly buzzed in, it could ruin everything. It’s the only space in the house that doesn’t smell like lemon Pledge and burnt eggs.
Everything is pretty much just the way he left it. Minus the acoustic guitar. I didn’t ask—I just took it one day. I needed it for more reasons than practicing chords. I step into the most solemn corner of our house. Every book. Every trophy and record. Every scuff on the wall, even the tiny crack in the bottom corner of his window are reminders of him. The bed sits unmade. My mother, not Kyle, left it that way. For the first month or so after, she slept under his blankets every night, soaking his pillow with tears.
We were both grieving in very different ways. I barely heard a word from her for the longest time. It felt like weeks. Like I had lost them both. I don’t remember the details, but I wound up spending some time at my grandparents’ house. I do remember the smell of mothballs in the bedroom I slept in, how stiff the sheets on the bed were, and how I had to repeat everything I said to them at least twice. Always louder the second time. My grandfather refused to wear his hearing aid at home.
“Can you pass the ketchup?”
“Eh?”
“CAN YOU PASS THE KETCHUP?”
There weren’t a whole lot of meaningful chats happening. I was okay with that. I didn’t want to talk about him with anyone. I don’t think I mentioned Kyle’s name the whole time I was there.
When I did go back home, Mom more or less completely snapped. She wouldn’t let me out of her sight. She hovered over me night and day. She even slept on the floor next to my bed a few times. I just wanted to be left alone, and she made it so I couldn’t breathe. I guess she was scared she was gonna lose me, too. First her husband, then her first son. I guess she realized that I was all she had left. It made sense, because she was all I had left. I wanted her to feel better, so I stayed close and didn’t go out much at all. Looking back, I realize that I wanted to feel better, too. We would watch a lot of movies and just stay safe.
Protected.
When I found the need and courage to start talking about Kyle with her, things changed again. I would have kept my mouth shut and watched a thousand more movies with her if I had known what was coming. She started sleeping in her own bed and invited one asshole after another to join her. The drinking got way more out of hand. It still is. Back then, I don’t think she would have known if I was home or in Juvenile Hall for stealing a car and going on a bank-robbing spree from here to Texas.
Whatever bar she was in would eventually close, and some sloppy guy, usually with a mustache, would bring her home. I fucking hated them all. In the morning, if I waited in my room long enough, the man would be gone. My mother would laugh off my concerns about what I’d seen. What I’d heard. She’d get angry at me and insist there was nothing to be worried about. That we would never discuss it again, and then offer to take me to lunch. How can there be a problem if I’m taking you out for a cheeseburger and buying you a new pair of jeans?
No storm clouds were behind us or on the horizon. Everything was sunny. Perfect, until the sun set again.
Lately, she’s been a combination of drunken party girl and hovering, over-involved mom. I never know which one I’m gonna get.
Neither would like me in Kyle’s room.
I pull a book from the shelf above the bed. I like its cover. A storm cloud resting on a white puffy one. I can relate. I hold the book that I know he’s held and flip through the pages that I know he’s read. I need to read this book. His book. I need to read them all.
I hear a car door slam.
Mom’s back? I slide the book back into its slot and run out of the room. I can hear that she’s upset about something. “Salem! Where is it?”
I hold my breath. The book? I gently pull the door closed and run to the front of the house. “Mom?”
“I forgot my phone. Now, I’m gonna be late. Have you seen it? Did you finish your eggs?”
My shoulders relax. She doesn’t know.
The last flip phone on the planet is on the coffee table. I pick it up and toss it to her. “Just about done with my breakfast. So good! Don’t speed. Drive safe, okay?”
“It’s a mother’s job to worry. Not the other way around. Eat your eggs. There’s thyme and lemon zest mixed in. You love lemon. I bet you barely even touched them!”
After a bowl of cereal, I spend the rest of the morning playing my guitar. I work on something I’ve been writing. I don’t have any lyrics yet. Just a cool chord progression that wants to be a song. The hours fly by, and I start to get kind of excited. This song is pretty good. Really good. I play around a bit with singing a melody over the chords. Band practice is gonna be a blast if I have this ready to play with the guys. I take out my phone to record it. The last thing I want to do is forget this chord progression.
I push record, strum the chords, and mumble a harmony. It sounds . . . strangely familiar. “Shit!” I press stop. “God damn it!” I just wrote “All the Young Dudes” by Mott the Hoople. Or is it David Bowie? What is a Hoople, anyway? I pick up my phone with hopes that Google will provide all the answers. Jace texted me four times. One text from Grey.
A knock at the front door.
Jace is standing outside, hands on his hips, tapping his foot impatiently.
I swing the door open. “Hey. Did David Bowie write ‘All the Young Dudes’? Because I just did, too.”
He takes my phone from my hand and turns the ringer on. “Seriously, Salem!”
We stand there for a moment, Jace still tapping his foot, waiting for me to say something. Lingering in some new gossip or drama that he’s dying to drag me into.
I decide to try to make his head explode. “It could be Mott the Hoople. Do you know what a Hoople is?”
It works. “I will smash that piece of shit guitar over your head! Did you get Grey’s text? Of course, you didn’t! You never look at your phone. They called off band practice! Canceled!”
We’ve had practices in record-breaking blizzards. Once, during a tornado warning with no power. Practice never gets canceled. Ever. “Canceled? Something’s going on.”
Jace throws his hands into the air. “You think, Sherlock? Something shady! That’s what’s going on. Now, go and get ready.”
“For what?”
“We’re about to Hardy Boy this little mystery.”
I consider this, remembering my dusty stack of blue books. “Cool! I hope we get to stop a criminal mastermind from using an atomic bomb to take over the rehearsal studio.”
Jace stares blankly. “You’re giving me a headache. Time to go.”
We make a quick stop at the Circle K for a blue Slurpee and a package of Red Vines to split. We’re gonna need a sugar buzz for our next stop. I finally get to hear the R.E.M. tape—the latest Waldos recording. I’m thinking about asking to be back in their little club. Maybe pick up a cassette player from the thrift store. “Radio Free Europe” is a strange combination of catchy and confusing. I can understand maybe five words coming out of the singer’s mouth. The lyrics that I do recognize make no sense. Usually the markings of a brilliant songwriter. I sing along with the chorus.
This irritates Jace. He turns the volume knob all the way to the left. “You need to get your game face on.”
I frown and growl. “How’s this?” The brain freeze I’m experiencing helps to make the growl sound more genuine.
“I’m serious! They’re up to something.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Grey could be sick, or his parents might be giving him shit. We’ll see soon enough.” I slurp my straw on the bottom of my empty cup. My tongue must be the color of a recycle bin. I turn the volume back up as we turn onto Grey’s street. I’d like to skip whatever depressing song is on now to hear “Orange Crush,” but with a cassette tape, that could take five minutes. Caveman technology.
A strange gasp hisses next to me. “Ladies and gentleman of the jury. I give you Exhibit A.”
I look up. There are a bunch of cars parked in Grey’s driveway. This is getting interesting. I’d still like to give my friends the benefit of the doubt, but as we park on the side of the road, I can hear drums booming from the garage. “Those shits!”
Jace takes a deep breath. He looks broken. “I am not going to cry.”
He’s fighting back tears? This is gonna be really hard on him. I’m not feeling much of anything yet. Maybe just anxious. I guess I can understand where the tears would come from. It’s kind of like getting cheated on. No, it’s exactly like getting cheated on. Our best friends have a musical mistress and we’re getting dumped right before the prom. I wish I knew the best thing to say to my friend. “We don’t have to go in. Fuck those guys. You and I can start a way cooler band. I’ve already got a great name for it. Ready for this? Mud Dragon!” And then I whisper it dramatically. For emphasis. “Mud Dragon. Awesome name, right?” He says nothing, which makes me nervous. “Let’s go get some fries at Shake Shack.”
“Walk away? Oh, hell no!”
He looks in the vanity mirror, applies his favorite Citrus Jelly Bean Chapstick and swings his door open. “Did you say Mud Dragon? That sounds like one of Tom Petty’s bands before the Heartbreakers. I think I actually like it. It’s kind of––stop distracting! I need to focus. Just follow me!”
I follow, thrilled that he likes the name. Wishing we could go and draw a logo for it on the back of a paper placemat. Just sip some sweet tea and forget about whatever’s happening in that garage. I’m not a huge fan of confrontation. The music gets louder, and my feet feel heavier with every step we take closer to the garage. They’re playing “Ain’t Talkin’ ’Bout Love.” Grey’s David Lee Roth sounds more like David Hasselhoff. Maybe I’ll try to sing in our new band. I can’t be any worse.
Jace wraps his hand around the doorknob. A quick turn away from crashing their secret rehearsal. From meeting the mistress, face to face. “You’ve got my back, right?”
A bit melodramatic, but he looks so wounded, I won’t give him any grief about it. “Always.”
He pushes the door open. A haze of skunk smoke escapes past us. The guitars and bass play to an abrupt and messy end. Grey looks like he’s seeing a pair of ghosts. The drums keep pounding for a few beats. Kevin finally notices that we’re in the room and his sticks go tumbling to the floor. He bends over to pick them up. If he’s smart, he’ll stay hidden down there. No surprise that Marty S. Asshole is standing in my spot, playing a very expensive-looking Les Paul and looking very smug. He has his keyboard set up next to him. In Jace’s spot, there’s some guy I’ve never seen before. He wears his bass really high and round, green-tinted glasses low on his nose. Bloodshot eyes peek over them. Douchebag.
Jace smiles and waves a middle finger at Grey. “Well, well, well. Tell us what we have here. We were so worried that you were sick or dying, that we had to rush right over. I mean, why else would our practice be canceled?”
Grey turns off his microphone and sets it on its stand. “Um. We need to talk.”
Jace looks the bass player up and down. “Yes. Let’s talk about why that guy is standing on my magic carpet?”
Jace always decorates his corner of the rehearsal studio to look like a Moroccan opium den. Lanterns, pillows, and incense. He’s got quite a flair for transforming a dusty garage into a cozy space. His cozy space.
The bass player steps off the rug. “Sorry, man.” His voice is even deeper than Jace’s. “I’m just here jamming some rad tunes. I don’t know anything about––”
“Oh, no! You don’t know, so you keep your mouth shut.” Jace bends down and rolls up his rug. “And those are my scarves!” He plucks them off the mic stand. He tucks them under his arm like some kind of hippie wandering toward Woodstock. With his free hand, he unwraps a piece of bubble gum and pops it into his mouth. “Enlighten us, Grey. Why aren’t we rehearsing today?”
Grey cracks his knuckles. “Listen, guys. The four of us have been bumping musical heads lately. I was gonna ask to sit down and meet with you. We want to take the music to a heavier place. Plus, there’s your new work schedule. It’s a problem. I mean, we’ve got a couple of gigs to get ready for, and you’re never around. It’s summer, man. We should be rehearsing all day, every day. It was stressing us out, so we thought we would play the summer shows with these two guys. A new sound. You know, more metal. Less stress.”
He got through his little speech without making eye contact with either of us.
Jace blows a pink bubble and lets it pop. “More metal? Less stress? That’s your story? Grey, this is a really shitty way to treat friends. Is it really such a problem for you to have to wait ’til after four o’clock to practice? Is it such a huge burden to have picked up your phone once this week? We’ve been friends since forever.” He takes a deep breath and looks up. Here come the tears. “Make that forever and a day. And we had to walk in here and see our tacky, John Lennon glasses-wearing replacements dripping sweat on my rug?”
Grey’s shaking his head, like Jace has it all wrong. “It’s not like that.” He turns to me. “Salem, it’s not like he said, bro. The band is just evolving. You understand, right?”
I was gonna keep my mouth shut, but now I’m getting irritated. “Don’t bro me, bro! You talk about problems? You don’t have a clue what a real problem is. The people we’ve been helping all week? Now they have problems. This? This is just little kid bullshit. You’re a coward and a shitty friend. You can have your stress-free band, but you’re not calling it The Dukes of Hazardous Waste.”
Grey shrugs his shoulders. “We don’t want your lame-ass name.”
“It’s a great name.”
“We’ve always hated that name.”
Ouch. “We? You and Kevin?” I look over at my ex-drummer, hiding behind his snare drum. “Wow. Who are you guys?”
Grey gets cockier. “The singer for a band with a killer new name. The Melonheads!”
I think of the urban legend that made the Melonheads a part of our town’s darkest local lore. The half-human creatures with enormous heads creeping through the woods at night, looking for a racoon or plump kid to eat. Damn it! That is a killer band name. “Pfft. Lame name, dude.”
Jace laughs and agrees with me. “Okay, keep smoking your weed, dick bags. That is a terrible name, and it should never leave this garage!”
Marty chimes in. “Now, now. Listen, fellas. No hard feelings. We need to get back to work here, so don’t let the door hit you in the ass. Oh, and Salem? Tell your crazy-ass mom she looked hot in her bathrobe last weekend.”
Jace holds my shoulders and mumbles a near-silent warning in my ear. “Don’t do it! He’s not worth it.”
I’ve never been in a fight with anyone except my brother, but he can’t talk about my mom like that. My blood is boiling. My hands squeeze into fists. Breathe. Calmly respond. I look at the cocky grin on Marty’s face. Staring back at me. Fuck this! I charge the hillbilly. I really want to see my fist cave this kid’s face in, and it’s gonna feel so good. My foot catches a microphone cord. One microphone stand crashes to the floor. I almost do, too. Another stand knocks a bottle of Coke and splashes over Marty’s guitar. He throws his soaking guitar onto a chair and runs at me. “You asshole! That guitar is worth more than your shack you call a house!”
Grey holds him back.
Jace is doing his best to push me out the door.
I scream past him, “I’ve seen that piece of shit Korean knockoff guitar at Walmart for half off!”
Marty fires back, “I’ve seen your mom offering it up to truck drivers for half off in the Walmart parking lot.”
I hate him, but that was funny. I posture like I want to get to him, but I just want to leave. Especially before I laugh.
Kevin leaps over his drum set and stands between us. One of his cymbals smashes on the cement floor. The sound gets our attention. “Stop it! You guys aren’t gonna fight! Salem’s right. This was a shitty way to do this. Marty, that was way out of line. Jace, please just take Salem and go. I’ll call you later, and we can talk. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of this.”
I nod at him. I’m breathing so hard, I’m not sure if I can speak. I look at Grey. He’s nodding, too. Marty is still talking shit, but now Kevin and Grey are both holding him back.
There’s not going to be a fight today. I’d probably just wind up breaking my hand, and then I couldn’t play guitar for the new rock band at the Manor. I walk over to the hand-painted Dukes of Hazardous Waste banner hanging on the wall. I rip it down and roll it into a ball. “This is mine! It goes with us.”
As Jace follows me back into the sunlight, I hear Marty spitting all sorts of threats. “This isn’t over, Salem!”
I take one last look into the rehearsal studio. So many laughs and memories. The space where I started to find my way out of that dark hole. As my heart starts to slow down, I’m left feeling a weird combination of sad and grateful.
Jace is looking, too. “He’s wrong, Salem. This is so over.”