Ghostbusters: Don't Try to Change Me
Part 2
Dana was thinking about sex. A reasonable thing to think about when one is in bed kissing one's husband of nigh on ten years, except that she wasn't thinking about it in a good way. What she was thinking was that she really wasn't in the mood. Sex, she reflected, had actually been easier when they weren't together that much. Whenever Peter came home from New York, they'd look forward to falling into bed and making love. A couple of times he'd arrived home while she was at work and the kids were at school, at which time he'd be tired and crawl into bed, only to be woken a few hours later by Dana's hands and mouth on him. Those times, she thought, were probably the best.
But now. Well. She wasn't feeling it, and she knew that he wasn't either. They both pulled back at the same time, and looked at each other for several log moments, like two stags sizing each other up. And then finally Peter said, "Do we have a problem here?"
"No!" Dana said quickly. "God no. This isn't what happens when you stop wanting to have sex, believe me."
"Did you know your marriage was doomed before or after I was conceived?"
"After."
Was that true? Dana could pinpoint the exact moment in which half of Oscar had entered her body, because in that moment Mrs. Next Door had switched off the TV after watching a rerun of Starsky and Hutch. Dana remembered that neither she nor Andre had particularly wanted to do… that. They'd just felt that they ought to.
Jessica's conception, whichever of the forty-odd times that month it had been, was wonderful. She had been conceived in passion and, more importantly, love. Oscar was conceived in sheer desperation. And now what? Jessica was happier, freer, more secure, stronger than her brother had ever been. The nature of both their conceptions probably had nothing to do with the people they were now, but Dana couldn't help noticing it.
"It's just because we're both worried about Oscar," she said.
Peter nodded. "I thought so."
"I hate seeing him like this, Peter - I really hate it."
"I know, honey."
"I mean, he's always been a bit… I don't know. He feels things very deeply. Everything really affects him. Kylie and I were talking about giving birth today - I told her about when I had Oscar. It was a difficult labour, and while my marriage was on the rocks he never stopped crying, and then there was the whole incident with the mood slime and Vigo and the tub trying to eat him, and you remember what he was like as a little boy - he was very needy, always wanting attention. He's always seemed to find life so difficult - how could we have thought he'd cope with being uprooted?"
"Well," said Peter, "he's such a social chameleon - I thought he'd fit in anywhere. I still think he can. He made friends with that nephew of Eduardo's straightaway, didn't he? When we brought him here before, he seemed to fit as well as he ever did in LA."
Dana sighed. "I worry about him. Not just now - I always have. I don't worry about Jess, though." She looked at him. "Is that terrible?"
"No," said Peter. "Jess is fine. Jess will always be fine."
"I feel bad about the start he got in life."
"Because Andre left? That's not your fault."
"I shouldn't have let him."
"Dana, you've told me how it was. You and Oscar were both happier after he went."
Dana nodded. "You're right." She was forgetting how bad things had been. Sigourney Weaver had really understated it when she said, "We had some problems."
x x x
Dana, Peter and Jessica let out a collective gasp as Oscar walked into the kitchen on Saturday morning. He stopped walking, and turned his gaze on them sharply.
"What?"
"Well," said Jessica, "if you don't know I think you'd rather I didn't tell you."
"Oh," said Oscar. "That."
He had, between then and the night before, cut off his ponytail. Dana refused to believe her own eyes. Jessica put it down to Oscar's obsession with his appearance - he must just have felt like a change. Peter could only imagine him hacking through the ponytail with a kitchen knife, with tears in his eyes, in a mad fury brought on by the trauma of the past few weeks. This image was, of course, followed immediately by guilt. Fortunately it wasn't too obvious that Oscar had done the job himself. It didn't look professional, but Oscar had been careful - his hair just looked like that of an adolescent boy who doesn't care. And that was what was so shocking. Oscar did care about his looks.
"I'm going to get it cleaned up this afternoon," he said, as though reading their minds, though he addressed only Jessica.
"Why did you do it?" she asked, wide-eyed with incredulity.
"Well," said Oscar, "because I don't know what's socially acceptable around here, I start school on Monday and I don't want to be the guy with the ponytail."
"Won't you miss it?"
"Well it's not like I cut off my hand. It'll grow back."
"Oh," said Jessica. "You are going to grow it back, then."
Oscar shrugged. "Probably."
"And you'll have your posse by then, and they'll like you regardless of your hairdo."
"Let's hope so." He looked at Dana then, noticing something in her gaze. "What's the matter with you?"
"Oh, Oscar…"
"What?"
"You look just like Andre."
She seemed to have to squeeze the words out, as though something was holding them back. Peter, sure that the decision to cut his hair had been harder than Oscar was letting on, watched carefully for the reaction. There was, perhaps, a slight tremor in his right eye. Then his expression relaxed; he breathed in and said simply, "Well, he is my father."
That hurt. Peter didn't know whether it showed, but it really hit a nerve. Oscar looked at him, just briefly, and then turned round and started throwing together some breakfast. To upset Peter was, of course, the intention. Perhaps, Peter thought, the sacrifice of the ponytail was another ploy designed to make him feel guilty. Oscar never would have done that if they were still in LA - hell, he had given starting at his new school as the reason. Peter suppressed a sigh of frustration. He was going to be severely punished, day after day, for as long as Oscar wanted him to suffer.
But in the meantime…
"I have to go out," he said. He'd already read the guidebook from the art museum, and thought he had a lead. "I need to work on this portrait thing, and I want to get in touch with a descendent of the artist."
x x x
Eleanor Woodcock had kindly given permission for her name to be printed in the art museum's guidebook because she was asked by a weird little man with a European accent, she couldn't understand a word he was saying and she hoped that saying yes would shut him up. She felt somewhat violated after she learned what she had agreed to - but fortunately she didn't hear very much more about it. Until a phone call from a Doctor Peter Venkman interrupted her Sunday afternoon six years later.
"I know that name," she said, when he announced himself over the phone. "Oh, no, wait, I know - you're a Ghostbuster."
"Yes."
"What do you want?"
"I want to talk to you about this Arthur Woodcock person."
"Right, right," said Eleanor. Of course that was what he wanted - he had found her through the museum guidebook. "Where did you get my number?"
"I called in a few favours."
"You sound like a criminal."
"I'm sorry, I get that from my father," said Peter. "But anyway, Miss Woodcock, can you and I please meet up and discuss your… what was he?"
"Great-uncle. His sister was my father's mother."
"But she wasn't married?"
He must have figured that out from her surname. Eleanor wondered why people didn't spot it more often - they just never seemed to realise. She said, "No, she wasn't married."
"That was a big deal in the nineteen tens, wasn't it? Maybe it has something to do with… whatever happened."
"I don't really know very much about that," said Eleanor. "But you don't want to do this over the phone, do you? I'll come over to your firehouse place next week. How's Thursday?"
"Thursday's…" He paused, and Eleanor guessed from his tone that he'd been hoping to make an appointment a little sooner. But he surely had to realise she was doing him a favour by meeting him at all, and said, "That's great. Do you know your way?"
"I'll find it. See you Thursday."
x x x
Peter drove the kids to school on Monday. Jessica, when she jumped out of the car with a carefree "Bye, Dad", seemed to register no particular emotion - she just didn't care. She didn't like school, and as far as she was concerned she might as well not like it in New York as in Los Angeles.
Oscar was different. He said nothing and, though he refused to let it show in his expression or his body language, Peter could tell he was absolutely terrified. When they pulled up outside the school Oscar just gazed, frozen, out of the car window, up at the looming building - bigger to him in his fear, probably, than it was to most.
"Oscar," said Peter.
Oscar turned his head to look at him, and the expression on his face was just heartbreaking. His eyes registered terror at the prospect of walking in there, anger, even hatred for having to do it, and the resignation of one whose spirit has been utterly crushed. Slouching in the seat, gazing up at Peter like that, he looked about five years old. All Peter wanted to do was hug him, but he restrained himself, knowing that hugging Oscar in front of his new set of peers would destroy whatever relationship they had left.
"It'll be all right," said Peter.
Still Oscar said nothing. He climbed out of the car, slung his backpack onto his shoulder and marched through the school gates with his head held high. He clearly wasn't feeling at all confident, but he hid it well. That was why he was good at making friends - he had a lot of charisma, and didn't find it at all difficult to get people to like him. Oscar was terrified of not being accepted, but Peter knew he would be accepted. He didn't worry about whether or not he would make friends - that was Jessica's problem. She was just too honest. She wore her heart on her sleeve and if people didn't like what they saw, to hell with them. Oscar wasn't like that. He showed strangers what he guessed they wanted to see, and held everything else back until he thought it was safe to let it out.
It was the school work, Peter knew, that was more likely present difficulty for Oscar. That was something Jessica would have no problems with - she had an extraordinary talent for knowing what teachers wanted and being able to give it to them whilst doing the minimum amount of work. Peter himself hadn't been like that - he could do well academically only when he applied himself. Again, Oscar was different. He wasn't stupid, but he had to work just to keep up. The only exception was music. Oscar had never come away from any kind of music assessment with less than an A grade. Dana had already arranged some extra one-to-one music tuition for him on Friday lunchtimes, and Peter hoped fervently that this would help Oscar to find his feet in the new school.
He next drove to the firehouse. He'd tried doing some research, but couldn't find out anything about Arthur Woodcock that Janozs Poha hadn't told him or that wasn't printed in the museum's goddamn guidebook. Dana had spent a lot of time with that book lately - apparently she never got around to reading the guidebook when she was working there.
Peter had got the junior team onto the task as well, and unsurprisingly it was Roland who came up with the goods. Peter found him and Janine looking over an old newspaper at the reception desk. As he approached, Roland handed him a receipt and said, "I hope this is coming out of my expenses."
"Of course," said Peter.
"I got it from the historic newspaper society - it's all about Arthur Woodcock's disappearance. It doesn't tell you very much, though."
"Oh, great, thanks," said Peter, taking the paper. "It's got to be better than nothing. Honestly though, this is so frustrating - it's much easier just to put ghosts in the containment unit than to try and help them."
"How is this going to help the ghost?" asked Janine.
"I don't know. I'm sort of hoping to avenge his death so he can cross over to the other side or something."
"You watch too many movies."
"It's a nice idea," said Roland. "I think it's sweet that you care so much about this boy because his portrait reminded you of Oscar."
"Yeah, well." Peter, running his eye over the worn print on the newspaper, wrinkled his nose. "I don't know why it reminded me - the more I look at it, the more I think he doesn't look anything like Oscar."
"He's starting school today, isn't he?" How like Roland to remember something like that. "Did he seem nervous?"
"Nervous? He looked like he wanted to die, and take me with him. I tell you, I really worry about him. You know what?" He looked at Janine. "He's going through some changes anyway, and now he's had this whole personality transplant - it sort of reminds me of what happened to you, with the Lotsabucks."
Janine scowled. "That's hardly the same."
"I know, but - "
"Oscar isn't under the influence of a demon - he's just unhappy."
"I didn't say it was what happened to you," retorted Peter. "I just said it reminds me of what happened to you."
"You know," said Janine, "when you aren't around he's as sweet as he ever was."
"Well, yeah, but it's the way he looks as well. I mean, he's grown a lot lately and his voice is changing and he cut his hair - "
"He cut his hair?" Janine couldn't have looked more surprised if she'd been told Oscar had cut off is hand.
"Yeah, I know, it's insane. The really weird thing is that he's always looked exactly like Dana, but as soon as he hacks off his ponytail he looks like Andre."
The members of Dana's orchestra would be interested to see that, Peter thought. Dana was reclaiming her position among them at that very moment, and they would be bound to ask after Oscar. They had never really seemed interested in Jessica - the most any of them could manage following the birth announcement were mawkish cards decorated with pink rabbits and scant information they already knew: "It's A Girl!" But they were all interested in Oscar, because Oscar was what happened when two of their number procreated.
"Well," said Peter, "I'm grateful to you for finding this for me, Roland, but at first glance it doesn't seem to be very illuminating on its own. It mentions his sister disappearing earlier in the same year - no mention of this son she's supposed to have had, though. But maybe Eleanor will be able to pick up on something in here."
"Is she your mistress?" Janine deadpanned.
"No, she's a descendant of Arthur Woodcock. She's coming here on Thursday."
"That's a long wait."
"Yes."
"What will you do in the meantime?"
"Well." Peter glanced down at the phone. "I suppose the first thing I should do is call Mrs. Wilson and find out if she's had any more trouble from her ghost."
x x x
Mrs. Wilson hadn't had any more trouble from her ghost. This had a surprising effect on Peter - he felt winded, like he had been smacked in the chest.
"Y'know," said Garrett, when he and the rest of the junior team had gone over every detail of their visit to the Wilson house for the third time that day, which happened to be the much anticipated Thursday; "that kid was probably just bored and made the whole thing up."
"Then why did the baby cry?" demanded Peter.
"Babies cry," Kylie said soothingly. She was nursing her own baby on her lap.
"But his mom says he has a good temperament."
"Well," said Kylie, "so does Chita, but she still cries sometimes."
"If someone advised you to drop it now," said Roland, "how mad would you be at that person?"
Peter shook his head. He had the portrait of the boy in his hands, and was staring at it. "I wouldn't be mad at all. I know this must seem crazy to you. It's just… I know something terrible happened to the kid in this picture, and I really, really, really want to help him."
"Well," said Roland, "whatever happened, it was a long time ago."
"It's because you feel guilty about Oscar, isn't it?" Eduardo said bluntly.
Peter stopped looking at the picture. "Oh God yes, I don't pretend it isn't."
"Dr. Venkman." Janine popped her head around the doorway. "Your… descendent… person. She's here."
Eleanor Woodcock turned out to be young, probably in her mid-twenties, and strikingly pretty. Peter wasn't a bit surprised. Her grandmother had been very beautiful as well, according to her portrait.
"Hello, Miss Woodcock," said Peter, extending his hand with a warm smile as he entered the reception area. "Dr. Peter Venkman. Can I get you anything?"
"No thanks," said Eleanor. "Can we maybe hurry this along? Not to be rude or anything, but you did do something that sounds pretty fishy in order to get my number and then just call me out of the blue."
"I'm sorry," said Peter. "Really sorry." He didn't know what else to say.
Janine said, "He's got a bee in his bonnet about some portrait this Arthur Woodcock painted - it's very good of you to indulge him."
"You'd do better to go to the museum," said Eleanor.
"I already did," said Peter. "Look… come and sit down." He took her over to the nearest vacant desk, and they both sat. "It's not either of the portraits in the museum."
"He never painted any others."
"He did," said Peter. "Probably," and he handed her the portrait. Only then did it occur to him that it might be a bit weird, his carrying it around all the time like that.
"I never knew about this," said Eleanor, looking interested at last. "It's him."
"Who?"
"Arthur."
Peter blinked. "Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. I got a family photo with him in it at home. I mean, it's really old and black-and-white, but this is definitely him. He looks just the same."
"So he's about this age?" asked Peter. "In the photo?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"When was it taken? Do you know?"
"It's dated nineteen oh-four."
Peter raised his eyebrows. "nineteen oh-four? Right, well, let's say he was fifteen in nineteen-oh-four… he disappeared when he was, er, about twenty-six… and he claims to have painted his teenage self four years prior to that. Well that's weird. Why would he do that?"
"He was crazy."
"Was he really?"
"Not officially, but the family stories say he was a pretty nutty kind of guy."
Peter sighed. Ok, so he knew more now, but this wasn't helping at all. Without much hope, he asked, "I don't suppose you have any idea how he and his sister and that rich chick disappeared?"
"Sorry," said Eleanor. "Not a clue."
Silence.
"Is there anything else, Dr. Venkman?"
"Well, I don't have any more questions. Is there anything else you can tell me?"
Eleanor shook her head. "I don't think so." Then she seemed to catch something in his face, and her tone softened as she said, "I'll call you if I think of anything."
"Thank you," said Peter, rising to his feet, and she immediately copied the action. "You've been… very helpful."
x x x
Friday, at last. The week was almost over, and nothing too terrible had happened. Oscar walked into the music room at lunchtime and breathed in the familiar, comforting smell of brass and wood. There was a man sitting at the piano, clearly in his thirties but wearing the jeans and hairstyle of an eighteen year old. This, presumably, was his new music teacher. The man stood up when he saw Oscar, and with a warm smile he extended his right hand. Oscar, faintly surprised, shook it.
"Oscar Venkman, right?"
Oscar blinked. "Who told you my name was Venkman?"
"Um." The man peered over his shoulder, glancing at a pile of paper on top of the piano. A list of his students, presumably. "Your mother. Isn't that correct?"
"It's Wallance."
"Oh, right. So Dr. Venkman is…?"
"My stepfather."
"Oh, I see." The music teacher's expression cleared. "Well, I'm Alan Walton, your teacher. Call me Alan."
Oscar blinked again. "Seriously?"
"Absolutely."
"Ok, well… shall we get started?"
"Sure." Alan nodded to a corner of the room, where a pile of guitar cases sat, and said, "One of those is yours?"
"Yes," said Oscar, and went to retrieve his guitar. He had been told by some teacher or other just to dump it there when he first arrived that morning - students weren't expected to carry their musical instruments around school with them.
"How long have you been playing?"
"Um." Oscar clicked open the case and pulled out his guitar. "About seven-and-a-half years."
"I read all your last music teacher's reports. She seems to have a very high opinion of you. Listen - do you think you could maybe get that in tune with the piano?"
Oscar went over the piano and tested a few keys. "She was a good teacher," he said, plucking the E-string with his thumb as he pulled it into tune. "I got on well with her."
"I'm sure you'll get on fine with me too."
"I'm sure I will."
Oscar moved onto the next string, made a minor adjustment and then tested the next. As he worked through the six strings, Alan continued to make small talk. "It can't be easy, starting with a new teacher in the middle of the school year."
"No," said Oscar, bristling slightly. "Nothing about moving to the other side of the country is easy. Look." He wanted to change the subject, and said, "I really appreciate you fitting me in. Alan."
Alan smiled toothily. "No problem. I'm always willing to help an aspiring musician."
Well good, thought Oscar, because you are a music teacher. "We're in tune now."
"Good - not all of my students can do that so easily. Now I'd like you to play a few chords for me and we'll see what you can do."
A few chords quickly progressed to simple exercises, then some slightly more complex ones, and finally Oscar was asked to sight-read some sheet music that Alan apparently picked at random. He seemed very impressed with what he heard, and almost looked disappointed when the half-hour session came to an end.
"That was remarkable," he said. "There's still work to do, but I have to say you're at a standard that far exceeds your age. You must have a lot of natural talent - are there many musicians in your family?"
"Well," said Oscar, "my mother's a professional cellist and my father plays the violin for the London Symphony Orchestra."
"Oh, that is interesting," said Alan, suddenly looking close to orgasm. "You're from a classical background, then."
"Oh, yeah, I can do classical too," said Oscar, and to demonstrate he tapped out a couple of bars on Carmen on the piano. Alan looked about to faint. "But I generally prefer something a bit more upbeat."
"I can understand that. My parents wanted me to get into jazz."
Oscar smiled politely.
"Listen - how are you settling in?" Alan leaned casually against the piano, obviously with no intention of going anywhere. "Are you having any problems?"
"I'm settling in fine," Oscar lied.
"You can always come to me, you know, if you have any worries or anything."
"Er… thanks, I will."
"Well." He looked faintly disappointed. "I guess I'd better let you get to your next class, then. What is it?"
"Um." He had to think for a moment. "History."
"I hated history - couldn't remember the dates to save my life. Oh, hi Danny!"
Oscar turned round reflexively, and saw a boy he'd already seen in a couple of classes leaning against the doorframe. This kid was instantly recognisable, being almost unnaturally skinny and having short spiked hair bleached with peroxide. He smiled toothily at Alan and said, "Hey there, Alan."
"Was there something you wanted?"
"No, no. Just thought I'd drop in and say hi."
"Oh." Alan looked delighted. "Well, that's really nice, Danny - but I think you'd better be getting to class now, hadn't you?"
Danny glanced at his watch, and his surprise seemed genuine. "Oh, yeah - better had. See you tomorrow, Alan," and he turned to leave.
"Well," Alan said to Oscar, "I shall see you next week."
"Yeah," said Oscar. "See ya," and he exited the music room.
Danny was still out in the corridor, apparently waiting for him. He fixed Oscar with a friendly smile and said, "So what do you think of Call-Me-Alan?"
"I think," said Oscar, "I might be going to find him a bit much."
"You're new here, aren't you? Are you in Mr. Gregg's history class?"
"Yes."
"Great, me too. Come on." Danny started to walk, and Oscar followed. "But anyway, everyone finds Alan a bit much, but he's a good teacher - he knows his stuff. I really think you'll do well with him. I heard you play - it was amazing."
"Um, thanks."
"Are you interested in playing professionally?"
"Oh, God yes," said Oscar. "It's all I've ever wanted to do."
"Really? Like, in a band? On stage?"
"Yes. Well, that's the dream."
Danny stopped walking, and turned a sixty-watt smile on him. "Perfect. Can you sing?"
"Yes," said Oscar. "Well, I'll probably need some coaching because my voice is changing, but… yes."
"Have you ever tried composing?"
"Yes," Oscar said again. This was beginning to feel distinctly like an interview. "I just started - I don't know how good I am."
"Well," said Danny, "I guess we'll see."
"I don't write lyrics."
"Ever tried?"
"No. I'm a musician - I'm not good with words."
"Well, that's ok - I write lyrics. Or I try to. So what do you say?"
"Um." Oscar blinked. "I'm sorry - did you just ask me to join your band?"
"We're not quite a band yet," said Danny. "We just hang out at each other's houses playing old Iron Maiden hits and stuff. We're good, though I say so myself, but what we really need is a front man and you're it. What's your name anyway?"
"Oscar Wallance."
"Danny Hart. I'm the drummer." They shook hands. "Is that really your name?"
Oscar frowned. "Of course it's my name."
"That's a great name."
"I hate it."
"Oh yeah? You got a middle name too?"
"Yes," said Oscar, "and it's even worse."
Danny smiled. "All right, I won't push. Come on - I'll introduce you to Tim and Ella before class."
Oscar was faintly surprised to learn that one of the band members was a girl, though he felt he probably shouldn't be. He was reminded of the addition of guitarist Charlotte Hatherley to the Irish rock band Ash in nineteen ninety-seven; it had caused some controversy, and people had assumed that she must be the lead singer's girlfriend. But Oscar, aged only nine, had reserved judgement, and it became obvious when he heard Charlotte play that she had been chosen solely on the basis of her talent. 'Ninety-seven was also the year Ghostbusters had reformed, of course. In November Peter had jetted off to New York for a birthday party and ended up missing Thanksgiving, and nothing had ever really been the same after that.
Danny's two friends were hanging around outside Mr. Gregg's classroom, probably waiting for Danny. Oscar recognised the girl straightaway. He hadn't picked up before that her name was Ella, but she was not easy to miss. She had a slight build and delicate features that in no way matched her disaffected scowl, heavy combat boots and cobalt blue hair. Her hair had been scarlet when Oscar first saw her, but she had changed it several times since then. Tim, on the other hand, could have been anyone with his light brown hair, grey eyes, lanky build and un-striking features.
"Ok, here we are," said Danny, taking Oscar's wrist and dragging him over to his two friends. "Tim Price, guitar, and Ella Stephens, bass. This," he said, addressing Tim and Ella, "is our new lead guitar and singer."
Ella eyed Oscar suspiciously. "Isn't that the new kid?"
"Yes," said Danny.
"Well, he's handsome - I'll give you that."
"As long as that's not all he is," said Tim.
"Oh, God no," said Danny. "I just heard him having a lesson with Call-Me-Alan - he's at least as good as us."
Ella smiled insincerely at Oscar. "We're pretty good, you know."
"Well," said Oscar, "I'd like to hear you."
She looked at Danny. "Have you heard him sing?"
"You can all hear me sing," said Oscar. "Obviously you'll want to audition me."
Ella looked him up and down once more, and then asked, "Who are your influences?"
"All the guys at the front of the movement," said Oscar. "The Beatles, Iron Maiden, Alice Cooper… and I'm very impressed with what the Chilis have been doing lately."
"Just lately?"
"Yes."
"Meaning they were no good before?"
"No, they were good before. They're better now."
Ella raised her eyebrows. "All right," she said. "You've got yourself an audition, kid."
x x x
Peter spent most of Saturday surfing the net, trying to find out something, anything, about Arthur Woodcock. All he could find was a little something all but identical to what Janozs had told him - all but identical because it was on the museum's website, hidden amongst snippets about other little-known artists. There were also a few old newspaper reports about the three disappearances, including the article Peter had already seen, and the others were no different.
He'd spent an hour trying again on Sunday morning, to the sound of loud angry music pounding through the floor from Oscar's bedroom, when Jessica came up to him and rested her elbows on his knees. He looked down at her and smiled.
"Hey, Jessie."
"Mom sent me to see if you were looking at porn."
"No she didn't."
"No," said Jessica, "she didn't. She just wonders what's so interesting about the computer all of a sudden. And she said that if it's about that picture I have to stop you."
"Really?" Peter raised his eyebrows. "Why?"
"You're getting obsessed."
"Oh." Peter winced. "People have started to notice."
"It's only a picture," said Jessica.
He started to stroke her hair, and smiled. He loved that girl. "I know," he said.
"Can we go to the park and kick a ball around?"
"Sure," said Peter, and told the computer to shut down. Useless thing. "Would it be any good asking Oscar to come, do you think?"
Jessica shook her head. "He's busy making himself deaf."
x x x
Monday lunchtime, and Oscar was waiting patiently while Ella trailed various wires around the school auditorium. He was faintly surprised that he was to be auditioned by three cocky teenagers in a school environment, but he supposed they might all think it a bit early to be taking him to their homes. After all, if the audition didn't go well, they probably couldn't sustain much of a friendship afterwards.
"Nervous?" asked Ella. She seemed to enjoy trying to provoke him, perhaps because she wanted to test his nerve - she wouldn't want a nervy front man in her band.
"No," said Oscar.
"You're confident, aren't you?"
"Fairly." His voice seemed to be behaving itself for the moment, but he didn't say so, as fate had a nasty habit of snatching away luck if one acknowledged it out loud.
"That's good," said Tim. "You have to be confident in this business."
"As long as there's something behind it," Ella said sceptically.
Call-Me-Alan had arranged for the auditorium to be empty for them for the first half of the lunch hour. He was more than prepared to go out of his way to encourage promising young musicians. Ella had a theory, based on the old maxim that those who can't do, teach. Call-Me-Alan had wanted to be a famous musician - any kind of musician - and failed. Now he sought comfort in giving what meagre assistance he could to budding young musicians who were just plain better than him, in the hope that he could one day bask in their reflected glory. Oscar thought that Ella could be very cruel sometimes.
"All right." All that wire, and she'd finally set up an electric guitar and a microphone. "The stage is ready for you."
Oscar ascended the steps to the stage, took the guitar from Ella and lowered the microphone. "How tall do you think I am?" he asked, mainly to test the mic.
"You look good on stage," remarked Ella, taking her seat in the middle of the front row next to Tim, the empty chairs getting gradually smaller behind their heads.
"Thank you," said Oscar, beginning to work his fingers over the guitar strings. Ella had tuned it for him - she didn't want to watch him standing up there tuning. "So I'm told we have some Chilis fans in the audience."
Danny and Tim whooped and cheered, beginning to enjoy themselves. Ella maintained her blank stare. Oscar, unfazed, started to play. He knew he was good, and quite honestly he didn't much care if Ella thought otherwise. Almost unintentionally, he found himself singing "Under the Bridge". It was the first song that came into his head. The opening line was, Sometimes I feel like I don't have a father.
Danny leaned over Tim towards Ella and whispered, "Told you he was good."
"Yeah," murmured Ella. "And doesn't he know it."
"All successful rock stars know they're good," said Tim. "You have to show off if you want to get anywhere."
"Come on, Ella," said Danny. "He's beautiful, he's charismatic, he's confident, he's got a great voice and he hasn't played one wrong note. Tell me what this guy hasn't got."
"'Tude," said Ella.
"Well," said Danny, "he's only just come here from LA. He'll get some 'tude soon enough."
x x x
By mid-week, Peter decided it really was time to give Mrs. Wilson her painting back. He called her on Wednesday morning, and she told him to come over. Her husband was at work and her daughter was at preschool. She answered the door with Harry on her hip, and the first thing she did was ask Peter if she wanted to hold him.
"Let's swap," said Peter, offering her the portrait.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Venkman," she said, feeling terrible, judging by her tone of voice. "I'm afraid I've wasted so much of your time. Laura hasn't claimed to see any more ghosts - she must have been making it up. I never thought she'd…" She tailed off.
"It's ok," said Peter, jigging Harry on his hip. "I could have given up on this a long time ago - it's not your fault. To be honest, I needed the distraction."
Then he noticed Mrs. Wilson looking searchingly at his face, and realised that he was wearing a pretty pained expression. He tried to change it, but too late. Mrs. Wilson said, "Would you like to come in and talk about it?"
"Um." Peter looked at Harry, and thought that he'd like to go on holding him a little bit longer. "Yeah, I would."
x x x
Danny's parents were quite clearly loaded, Oscar surmised when he entered the five-bedroom semi-detached house. Danny's dad wasn't home from work yet, but Oscar was introduced to his stepmother - a pleasant enough woman in her thirties called Jenny. She was younger than Danny's dad, which made Oscar think of his own stepmother, Kate; both she and Jenny were doing it all for the first time, and were younger than their husbands. Jenny, Oscar guessed, was the mother of the two small boys they almost tripped over on the way upstairs. Danny also had another brother of about sixteen, presumably his mother's son, who pointedly ignored them.
"Your family's nice," remarked Oscar.
Danny shrugged. "Yeah, they're ok. Just dump your bag anywhere."
Oscar looked vaguely around Danny's bedroom, which was not unlike his own - bed, desk, computer, television, sound system, posters on the walls and such - and offloaded his school bag in front of the wardrobe. When he turned round Danny was sitting on the bed. Oscar, armed with his acoustic guitar, went to join him.
"I've never really shown anyone this stuff before," Danny said nervously.
"Well," said Oscar, with an encouraging smile, "it couldn't be as bad as something like, say, Bus stop, Wet day, She's there, I say, Please share my umbrella."
Danny winced. "God, I hope not."
"Show me."
Danny leaned over to reach the dresser by the bed, stretching over Oscar so that they were almost touching. Oscar instinctively leaned back slightly as Danny pulled open a drawer, took out a small crumpled notebook and pushed the drawer back into place. He then sprung back to his original position.
"Well, here it all is." He handed the notebook to Oscar. "I hope you can read my handwriting. But some of it might not make a whole lot of sense anyway. Sorry."
"Don't apologise." Oscar flipped open the notebook and ran his eye over the first page. "No one would expect them to be perfect at this stage."
Sensing Danny's discomfort, Oscar read through the scribbled lyrics. The first attempt was an angsty ream of teenage woes that consisted mostly of cliché, but the diction did show promise and by the time Oscar was on page ten the ideas had been polished and refined into sheer poetry.
"It gets better," said Oscar.
"Yes, well, I know there's not much we can do with the earlier stuff," said Danny. "Any part of it that was even a little bit good, I already developed it into something stronger. Well… I think it's stronger."
Oscar nodded vigorously. "It is. Danny, this is…" - the first word to come to mind was "beautiful", but he didn't want to come across as too enthusiastic at this stage - "it's really great stuff. Especially this one: I'm a stain on your past, Couldn't get away fast enough, A blotch on your record - not the first but the last…"
"That's kind of about my mom," said Danny.
Oscar nodded. "I know the feeling. It's angry, but what pisses you off is not so much what happened but more that it bothers you so much. Well, that's what it says to me. It's probably different for you, but anyway" - he hitched up the guitar and played a few chords - "it's got to be fast paced like, like…" He stopped talking - unlike Danny, he wasn't good with words - and strummed out a confused medley of notes until he got into a rhythm he seemed to like. Then, when he felt comfortable with what he was playing, he started singing the lyrics to the first melody that came into his head: "Just draw a line under me, Try to set yourself free, Just leave me be-hiiiind and turn your back, Get your life back on track…"
"Wow." Danny was staring at him, open-mouthed. "Did you just come up with that?"
"Er, yeah," said Oscar.
"That's amazing."
"It's far from perfect."
"Not that far."
"It'll need some work."
"You," said Danny, "are a musical genius."
Oscar laughed. "Hardly!"
"And you got a really good voice."
"Well, don't get too attached - it keeps changing."
"Do you really think you're not that good?"
"No," said Oscar. "I don't like false modesty any more than the next guy. I know how good I am, and I also know I can get better."
"We can all get better," said Danny. "But you're already way above average. You must practise for, like, an hour a day at the very least. How long have you been playing?"
"I started learning the guitar when I was six, but my mother had me learning music before I even started school. There's nothing I love more than music - I hope you know how serious I am about this."
"Look, don't worry - we're all serious." Evidently subtlety was not lost on Danny Hart. "But we needed you to complete us. You can obviously compose, and it sounds like your voice is plenty strong enough to carry a whole song. All we need now is to crack on with the writing, and we're there!"
"Does the band have a name?" asked Oscar.
"Ah," said Danny. "No."
"We'll think of something."
"Well." Danny picked up the notebook and began flicking idly through it "We'll all get together at the weekend and see if we sound as good together as I think we're going to. We can discuss names then."
"You sounded pretty good without me," said Oscar.
"Why thank you," said Danny, smiling. "And with you we'll be sensational."
Oscar felt himself smiling, genuinely happy for the first time in weeks. This wasn't the first time he had been complimented on his talent. He had been truthful with Danny - he did know how good he was - but it was always nice to hear it confirmed. And he was beginning to feel extremely positive about the band. He trusted that he had found the real thing now. Danny, Tim and Ella must all be dedicated to play as well they could; however talented one was, it took a great deal of practice and patience to play that well at their age. And, equally importantly, they had been getting on well. Oscar liked all of them, even Ella, which was essential if they were going to make music together. He was so glad they'd accepted him. He still felt that his home and his life were in LA, but since he was going to have to stay in New York for quite some time he figured he might as well try to make the most of it. And besides, the band could one day be his ticket out of there.
"The music's the important part, of course," Danny added.
"Oh, well," said Oscar, "lyrics are important too."
"The music's more important."
"No it isn't."
"It is," said Danny. "It's the music people remember. It's the melody that makes you feel exactly how you felt the first time you heard it."
"It's both," Oscar insisted. "Like, if I said to you, the Power of Love…"
Danny's face split into a grin. "Back to the Future."
"My point exactly. What would that song be without those words? The lyrics are beautiful - It's strong and it's sudden, and it's cruel sometimes, but it might just save your life… - I'm telling you, a song is nothing without good lyrics."
"I'm so glad you like my lyrics," said Danny.
"I'm so glad I've found a good lyricist to work with," said Oscar.
He saw Danny blush slightly, and his own face felt pretty hot as well. Perhaps, Oscar thought, the exchange of flattery was getting a bit much. But evidently Danny thought they could take it a lot further, for at that moment he leaned over and kissed him.
Oscar didn't react at first. He was surprised, initially only because Danny had kissed him, and then because he realised that he didn't hate it. The obvious thought occurred to him: Am I gay? He held his position, with Danny's lips on his, neither of them moving, neither of them kissing the other like they wouldn't kiss their mothers. As the seconds elapsed, Oscar became increasingly confused. He had kissed a couple of girls before, not because he found them particularly attractive, but rather because they seemed to want him to. He wasn't feeling any more with Danny than he had felt with them, either in the way of enjoyment or repulsion. He wasn't feeling any less either. He wasn't feeling anything, except baffled and slightly afraid. Realising this, Oscar was the first to pull away.
"I'm sorry," said Danny, the look in his pale eyes pretty much reflecting what Oscar felt. "I… I don't know what came over me."
"Are you gay?" asked Oscar, with remarkable bluntness.
"I don't know," said Danny.
"Why did you do that?"
"I guess I felt like it. I'm sorry."
"It's ok," Oscar said uncertainly. "Am… am I gay?"
Danny's mouth twitched slightly, as though he wanted to smile but didn't quite dare. He said, "Only you can answer that one, Oscar."
"I've never thought I might be before."
"I have. A couple of times. A couple of times I've thought I'm not. There's some lyrics about it in here," he added, indicating the notebook that apparently contained his every thought and feeling.
"What do we do now?" asked Oscar.
Danny shook his head, as though trying to shake his thoughts into some semblance of order. "I don't know. I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to confuse you. Look, Oscar, whatever happens… I want us to keep on being friends."
"Well," said Oscar, "good, because I wouldn't let you boot me off the band."
"Oh, don't worry about that - we need you. Look, maybe we'd better come back to the songs another time. I'm feeling a bit…"
"What?"
"Thrown."
"Well," said Oscar. "Yeah. Me too."
"Would you like to stay for dinner?"
"Is that ok with your parents?"
"Yeah - Jenny told me to ask you as soon as I said you were coming over."
There was no more awkwardness in Danny's tone - obviously when he said he still wanted to be Oscar's friend, he meant it. Oscar agreed to stay for dinner, and called Dana to let her know. He knew she'd be glad he was making friends, and he also thought she'd probably be quite appalled if she knew he had kissed one of the ones who happened to be male. Actually, he thought, they would all hate it: Dana, Peter and Andre. It would cause no end of arguments between them. Dana would blame Andre. Andre would blame Peter. As the scenario unfolded in his mind, Oscar began to feel quite indignant. If he was gay - and he was far from sure that this was the case - it was no one's fault. It shouldn't even be a problem. But he knew that it would be.
Danny's family chatted easily to Oscar over dinner, and then Jenny offered to drive him home. Oscar accepted the offer, and she carried on chatting to him in the car all the way. It wasn't until he was back home, lying on his bed with the comforting tones of Def Leppard nurturing his frazzled mind, that he was able to mull over the evening's events. He realised that he had never been that interested in girls in Los Angeles. He had been on a few dates, because that was what his peers were doing and girls seemed to like him, but he had never got much out of them. But that alone didn't mean he was gay.
He hadn't been interested in boys either. Oscar was already beginning to feel a close bond of friendship with Danny, but he didn't think it was in any way sexual. His best friend in LA had been a girl called Rachel Klein. He'd felt close to her, but that wasn't sexual either. It occurred to him that he might be completely asexual; but then he wondered if perhaps he was bi, considering that he had a good sexual relationship with his own body, if no one else's. Masturbatory activities had been put on the backburner just lately, he realised, because he simply hadn't felt like it, but he put that entirely down to stress.
Perhaps what Oscar found most upsetting was the feeling that he couldn't talk to anyone about any of this. He wouldn't take his concerns to Peter now, no matter what they were, but even before all the trouble Oscar wouldn't have felt he could talk to his dad (step-dad, step-dad, he thought frantically) about this one. Peter had always been very open about the changes Oscar's mind and body were going through. It was completely normal to have sexual feelings. It was ok for him to touch himself because it felt good. There was no need to feel ashamed or embarrassed or afraid. It was ok to be interested in girls. But he hadn't said it was ok to be interested in guys. He hadn't said either that it was ok not to be interested in girls. It didn't seem to occur to him that Oscar wouldn't be interested. Well, perhaps he would - there was still time. But what if it never came?
There was no need to be embarrassed about wet dreams - that was another. Not being embarrassed about those was a pretty tall order, but Peter's input had undoubtedly made the whole experience easier than it would otherwise have been. The dreams had been quiet for a while as well, come to think of it. Oscar thought back through the weeks and months and realised that he hadn't experienced a single sexual feeling, either in sleep or in wakefulness, since he was told they were going to leave Los Angeles.
A few weeks ago Oscar would have gone straight to Peter with a problem like that. But he wasn't going to talk to him anymore - not about his body or his mind or his life or anything. So whom could he go to? Andre? He was Oscar's father, technically. Oscar had called Andre as soon as the landline in the new house was set up, and hadn't heard back from him yet. Well, he was probably busy - he had three other kids. But, Oscar thought, he was Andre's kid too. Wasn't he important? Before they left LA, he had seriously thought about getting into the habit of calling Andre "Dad". But that, he realised, probably wasn't going to happen now. He couldn't call the man "Dad" and he couldn't talk to him about embarrassing personal problems. "Hey, Andre - can I call you Dad? Well, Dad, I kissed a guy and I can't get a hard-on." Er, no.
He rolled over onto his front and thought about making love to his pillow, as he used to do fairly frequently back home, but he just didn't feel the desire any longer. Even his own body was letting him down, it seemed. So instead he struggled through his maths homework, wondering as he waded uphill through a worksheet of problems what the hell was happening to everything he had thought he knew about himself.
There's still the music, Oscar desperately tried to reassure himself. The music will always be there.
To be continued…
Disclaimer: "Under the Bridge" © Kiedis, Balzary, Smith and Frusciante, 1991; "Bus Stop" © Clark, Hicks and Nash, 1966; "The Power of Love" © J. Colla, C. Hayes and H. Lewis, 1985
