Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, the song "Point of No Return" and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

CHAPTER 8
SILENCE BREAKER

June 11, 1994

Chicago, Illinois

Brooke and Betsy's Apartment
...

Jackie had flown into Chicago for the weekend, to visit with Brooke and Betsy. She dropped by every six weeks or so, staying in their living room. They'd spent the day at Water Tower Place, a mall with over a hundred stores and eight floors of shopping. Jackie treated Betsy to a new outfit from The Garage, where the fashions were inspired by alternative rock. She would've bought Betsy more, but Brooke wouldn't let Jackie spoil her.

They were back at the apartment now, and bags of groceries dangled from Brooke's arms. She'd refused help carrying them, from Jackie and Betsy both. She also refused Jackie's help in the kitchen, but that was a smart choice. Jackie never learned how to cook. She'd never had to.

"You just sit," Brooke said, waving into the living room. "Relax. You'll make my job easier that way."

Jackie would sit, but she wouldn't relax. Brooke's fold-out couch had been made into a bed. It took up most of the living room, save the dining area. She sat by the pillows and dragged a pile of paper onto her lap. It was full of astrology notes, her obligation to the Wintry Charities.

She'd halfway completed the couples' astrological analysis, but the auction winners weren't compatible, at least where the solar system was concerned. Their combined chart was filled with planets square to each other and in opposition.

"Gemini and Libra..." she muttered to herself. "Virgo moon and Taurus moon? I'm surprised they haven't killed each other."

But writing that comment down, despite the truth of it, could only hurt her reputation in San Mateo County. She tapped her pen against her teeth and glanced around the room. Nature paintings and quotations from classic novels decorated the walls. They were very librarian. Very Brooke.

"And I'm procrastinating," Jackie said to her pile of paper. This task had been forced on her, but having friends always came with a price. She'd learned that in college, where the cost had dismantled her beyond recognition. Fortunately, Ann-Marie didn't demand such a sacrifice. She simply required time and obedience.

Jackie began to write, couching the bad news in optimistic language. It was a feat of interpretive bullshit and a chore. She chewed on the end of her pen, drummed her fingers on the pile of paper, and blurted, "Thank God," when Betsy emerged from her bedroom.

"Write this word down, Aunt Jackie," Betsy said and sat on the fold-out bed. Some kind of video game was in her hands. It had to be for young children with its primary colors and oversized controls. But it also had a typewriter-like keyboard. "You ready?"

Jackie pulled a fresh piece of paper from her pile. "Go for it."

"Looped." Betsy spelled out the word, and Jackie wrote it down. "What animal can those letters be turned into?"

"Animal?"

"It's an anagram."

"Right." Jackie hadn't played a word game like this since middle school. "Oh! Poodle!"

"Awesome," Betsy said, sounding just like Michael, and she typed in Jackie's answer. "You got it!"

Jackie pointed her pen at the video game. "What is that?"

"A prototype my dad helped make." Betsy touched the cartridge stuck into the machine. "He's thinking about switching departments or something." She must have meant switching from toy design to programming. Michael had always been good with computers.

"Can I try it?" Jackie said.

"Sure." Betsy scooted back against the pillows and showed Jackie how to use the gaming system. It was clearly an educational toy. "We'll start a new category," she said and pressed a button.

Several words flashed across the LCD screen. They zoomed by too fast to read until the category landed on COOKING. "Word number one," the screen showed next. "BEAK."

Jackie typed in the word, "BAKE," and a gray smiley-face appeared on the screen.

"Hey, you're good at this," Betsy said.

Jackie shrugged. Four-letter words were easy, and so was the next word the game gave her: DIARY. She blew out a breath. "It's dairy."

Betsy urged her to type it in. Jackie did and was reward with another smiley-face.

"I wonder how many words I could turn Degenerate Matter into," Betsy said. She grabbed the piece of paper Jackie had written LOOPED on and took Jackie's pen. "May I—?"

Jackie nodded, and they both grew absorbed in anagrams—Jackie with the video game and Betsy with the paper—until Brooke called Betsy to set the dining table. Jackie insisted on helping. Brooke rarely let her do any housework because she was the guest. But that was exactly why Jackie wanted to help.

A savory-sweet aroma wafted through the kitchen's cased opening. Brooke appeared moments later with a serving tray, and Jackie said, "Can I—?"

"Just sit," Brooke said and served Jackie and Betsy dinner. It was chicken in a balsamic raspberry sauce. She put a pot of green beans on the table and one of wild rice.

Jackie and Betsy served themselves the sides, and Jackie prayed her gratitude to God. At least she had one safe place in this world to stay.

"Jackie, you've been awfully quiet about yourself," Brooke said once she'd eaten a few bites. "Didn't you go to some charity event last weekend? It must have been something else with all those celebrities."

Jackie chewed and swallowed a green bean. "It was something, all right."

"Stuffy?" Betsy said.

"Very."

Betsy sighed dramatically and slumped her shoulders. "I wish I'd been in Scotland last weekend. I heard on the radio that Degenerate Matter's last show was crazy wild."

"Honey," Brooke said and patted the dining table, "why don't you tell Aunt Jackie about the part you got in the camp musical?" She looked at Jackie. "They're putting on Grease."

Jackie stuffed a bite of chicken into her mouth. She still loved Grease, despite its horrible message of conformity. Some movies were classics.

"Rizzo," Betsy said. "I pretended like I was Ro Skirving, and—"

"Rizzo?" Jackie said.

Betsy clanked her fork on her plate. "That's how all my friends reacted when I got it. They think I should've gotten Sandra Dee." She squinted an eye and stuck out her tongue in obvious disgust. "They assume because I actually care about my grades and can speak without saying like every five seconds that I'm some goody two-shoes."

Brooke's lips formed into a thin, bloodless line. Trapped behind them had to be the question, "What exactly did you do to get the part?" Betsy volunteered no information, and Brooke remained silent, as if that would elicit the truth.

"How did the Degenerate Matter show get 'crazy wild'?" Jackie said, offering them a way out of the standoff. It wasn't an entirely selfless act. She truly wanted to know.

Betsy straightened up in her chair and spoke quickly. "Ro did a stage dive, and the crowd wasn't letting her up. So security had to fish her out, but not before she lost her shirt. And then..." She laughed. "And then a roadie rushed onstage and covered her boobs and stuff while she kept singing!"

She popped a chunk of chicken into her smiling mouth. "Ro is so cool! And I just know that roadie was—"

"Betsy," Brooke said. The warning was clear, and Betsy swallowed a forkful of rice.

Brooke changed the subject, talking about recent renovations to the Chicago Public Library. She steered the conversation until the end of dinner, but suspicion tickled the back of Jackie's neck. Secrets passed in front of her regularly here. During her visits, Brooke often cut Betsy off when she spoke words not meant for Jackie's ears.

But the hush-hush about a rock band made no sense. Jackie wasn't curious enough, though, to confront Brooke about it. She and Betsy were allowed their privacy. They'd always respected Jackie's.

Betsy returned to her room once the table was cleared, but Jackie kept Brooke company in the kitchen. "I can rinse the dishes," Jackie said.

"It's all right. The wonder of modern technology." Brooke opened the dishwasher wide. "How's your mom?"

Jackie laughed once. "How's yours?" She and Brooke had little in common, but they did share mothers who were used to the good life. "Has she found husband number three yet?"

"Well, she has been dating Doctor Dennis Marshall pretty heavily."

"Her plastic surgeon? Oh, God..."

Brooke rinsed their dirty forks in the sink and dropped them into dishwasher. "That's the one. If the tip of her nose gets any sharper, she'll be able to cut meat with it."

Jackie covered her mouth. She shouldn't be giggling. Amusement rarely penetrated her numb shell.

"My mother can date whomever she likes," Brooke said, "but I don't like the message the relationship sends to Betsy. My daughter's perfect as she is." She loaded glasses into the dishwasher's upper rack. "I don't want her thinking she needs to be carved up in order to be loved."

Jackie leaned her back against the kitchen counter, hard enough to hurt. "I wouldn't worry too much. She has you for a mom, not Carolyn. You're teaching her the right things." She grasped a cabinet knob by her thigh and dug her palm into it. "And she comes from gorgeous DNA. She could be a model if she wanted to."

"She doesn't, thank goodness." Brooke attacked a pan with a scouring pad, scraping dried bits of chicken into the sink. "She has a healthy sense of her body. I'd hate for her to lose that, to end up like her aunt—Kim, not you."

"I know."

Brooke scrubbed the pan harder, but her voice grew quiet. "Have you been on any dates yet?"

Jackie put up a hand. "Nooo. I'm am so off men." It was a fact she'd never admit to the Blonde Brigade, who regularly threatened to set her up with someone. "Take a scouring pad to my brain if I ever date again."

"Was the divorce really that ugly?"

"The divorce itself? No. But what caused it wasn't … pleasant." Jackie rubbed the bridge of her nose. It was a bad habit, one that intensified whenever someone brought up her marriage. "And it made me realize I'm not a good judge of men, at least for myself." She pulled her hand from her face and knotted her fingers together. "I should've realized that sooner."

Much sooner, but this discussion had become radioactive. Her thoughts were decaying, emitting anxiety into her chest. She needed to kill this conversation, but Betsy darted into the kitchen, cheeks flushed. "Aunt Jackie? Could you come into my room? I want to show you something."

Jackie unknotted her fingers and inhaled a breath. "Sure."

"Ne parle pas de lui," Brooke said to Betsy, but she should have chosen another language. Jackie was fluent in French. "Don't talk about him," Brooke had said. The him had to be Steven. Brooke had no other reason to raise the level of secrecy.

"I won't, I won't," Betsy said and gestured for Jackie to follow her.

Once they were inside her room, Betsy locked the door. The few times Jackie had been invited here, she'd paid little attention to the décor. The rooms of fourteen-year-old girls tended to look alike. But now she recognized Betsy's for what it was: a shrine to Degenerate Matter.

Pictures of the band plastered the walls. Many were cut from magazines, but some seemed to be from a disassembled calendar. Lyrics were interspersed among them, and above the bed was a poster of Degenerate Matter in concert.

On the opposite wall, however, was a poster Jackie had seen in Grooves. The black-and-white one of just Ro Skirving. It had to be relatively new, and in the white space below the band's name were four inked signatures: Ro Skirving, Lee Turnbull, Sherry Chambers, and Nate Stack. Maybe Betsy had won the poster in a contest. Or Degenerate Matter had held an autograph signing event.

"Did you stand in line all day to get this?" Jackie said, pointing at the poster of Ro.

"Nope." A mound of VHS tapes covered Betsy's bed. She grabbed a tape from the top and shoved it into her TV/VCR combo. "You have to see this. It's freakin' amazing."

Jackie sat on the edge of Betsy's bed, but her pulse ticked in her ears. Mysterious tapes, talking about her divorce, Steven possibly being mentioned—this visit was supposed to be calming. At this rate she'd need Valium to fall asleep.

Betsy pressed play on the VCR, and Degenerate Matter flickered onto the TV. The band was in a TV studio, seated on stools. Their instruments were acoustic, and an audience cheered as Lee Turnbull played the first notes of "Interplanetary Dust".

"Degenerate Matter: Unplugged," Betsy said, and Jackie's pulse ticked louder. "Is it okay if we watch some of it? None of my friends like the band." Betsy hit pause on the VCR. "I want to watch this with someone who'll get it."

"Yes," Jackie said. It was more than okay. Except for the music videos, she hadn't seen the band perform live.

Betsy pressed play again and hurried to the bed. She dropped next to Jackie and said, "Ro totally disappears into the music. It's insane."

Jackie pushed her palm against her throbbing heart. "Can't wait to see it."

June 11, 1994

Saltoun Big Woods

East Lothian, Scotland
…

Hyde caressed Ro's muddy cheek with the back of his fingers. No one in Saltoun Big Woods had discovered them yet. They were standing at the foot of their Slip N' Slide hill, alone except for the surrounding trees, the stars above, and the pond-sized puddles nearby.

"Don't feel like I'm wandering with you," he said quietly. "Finally got a place to rest."

They'd taken a few more tumbles down the mud-slicked hill. His heart hammered from effort, from adrenaline, and mud coated almost every part of him. Only his backpack had been spared. He'd left it on the driest, cleanest patch of ground he could find.

Ro was as mud-covered as him, but she didn't seem to mind. "No time for resting, love," she said and pulled him to the ground. She kissed him with lips smeared in wet earth. Mud entered his mouth as the kiss deepened, and he broke from her.

His first impulse was to spit, but he crawled to a puddle first then spat. "Nothin' personal," he said when he crawled back to her. "You give great tongue."

"Oh, I know." She lay back on the ground with him and nestled into the crook of his arm. Her fingers traced constellations in the sky, and she identified them. "Hercules," she said, as if the word tasted like shit. "Serpens … Libra."

A thrill buzzed through his stomach. She never did this, gazed up at the stars. Her father had smothered it out of her. His constant pressure to follow in his footsteps, to study astrophysics, had driven her from the sky.

"Twinkle, twinkle little star," she sang now, "don't give a fuck what you are."

He improvised the next verse, singing, "Up above the world so high—whatever you're on, I'll take some."

"We should put that on the next album."

"Could win us a GRAMMY."

She slapped his muddy leg. "Don't give a fuck about GRAMMYs either." Her fingers tried to grasp the material of his jeans, but her grip slid off—once, twice—and she rested her hand on her stomach. "Grandparents might, though. My family comes from a line of of miners."

"In Tranent?" That was the East Lothian town they'd stayed in the last week.

"My granda broke the mold, started his own business," she said, barely above a whisper. "He was able to afford to send my da to college, but my da took his education and moved to the States with it—where he met my ma."

His heart beat faster. She never never spoke about her mom. What he did know came from her dad, and that wasn't much. But she was sharing now, and he hoped she couldn't feel his racing pulse.

"She made him spell my name R-O-S-H-E-E-N," she went on, "instead of the more traditional R-Ó-I-S-Í N, to make it easier for me with other kids."

A hundred questions crawled on his tongue, but he chewed them up like ants. If even one got free, it would send her bolting from Scotland. She'd already leapt to her feet was running for the pond-sized puddles. She dived into the closest one, and muddy water splashed into the air.

"Holy crap!" she said. "Things are squirming all over me. Hyde, get your ass in here."

"Don't think so."

"Chicken-shit."

"Chicken-smart."

"You asked for it." She charged at him, managed to grab his shirt collar, and dropped puddle muck down his shirt. Nothing seemed to be alive in it until a wriggling sensation enveloped his chest.

"What the hell is that?"

"Could be leeches," she said, sounding far too calm.

He yanked off his mud-soaked shirt and slapped the muck off himself. The sky wasn't light enough to see much by, and the nearest lamppost was too far away to help. He retrieved the flashlight from his backpack and shone it on the puddle. The watery surface was squirming, just as his skin had. Dozens of tadpoles swam in the puddle—pond. He'd misidentified it.

"Freakin' baby Kermits," he said and flicked a tadpole from his stomach.

Ro laughed, louder than he'd heard in a while. "You're disappointed?" she said and slid her arms around his bare waist. Her lips grazed his neck. "I'll be your leech."

He palmed her muddy, denim-clad butt. "Yeah, love you, too."

Jackie had joined Betsy on the floor of her room, to be closer to the TV set. They sat on a pair of beanbag chairs as Degenerate Matter launched into "Point of No Return". Ro sat on a stool, strumming her guitar, and Jackie's throat tightened as Ro sang the first lyrics: "Arms and legs can't move under the weight of you. Why'd I come? Body out of my control, taken over by friction and your Four Roses."

The music grew in intensity as it transitioned into the first chorus. Ro's face contorted with pain, and Jackie hugged Betsy's watermelon pillow to herself. She'd given it to Betsy for her eighth birthday but felt like a child herself as Ro continued to sing.

"Entered my room with booze and trust. Touched not with love but unnatural lust..."

Jackie mouthed the words along with her. By the second chorus, however, she just stared. Ro was singing with such fervor she seemed possessed. She rocked back and forth on the stool, but her hands maintained total control over her guitar. Her eyes were shut, and her body quaked as she reached the song's last lyrics. They were mumbled on the album, but she enunciated them clearly now.

"I came from you, but you didn't stay. Saw no point in returning. I came for you, but now I'm gone. See no point in returning. Crawled out from the event horizon and found my place in everything."

Ro put down her guitar after the last note. She wiped her brow with her arm, and a roadie dashed onto the stage with a bottle of water. She smiled at him before he ran off, and the camera pulled away to give a bird's-eye view of the band, the audience, and the TV studio.

The show went to commercial, and Jackie rubbed her eyes. She couldn't have seen what—whom—she'd just saw. "Betsy," she said, "rewind the tape a few seconds?"

"Sure." Betsy moved to her dresser, where the TV/VCR combo sat. She rewound the tape, and Ro quaked on the stool again. She wiped her brow once the song ended, and the roadie ran onto the stage.

"Pause it,." Jackie said.

Betsy did, and Jackie studied the image frozen on the TV. The roadie's back was to the camera. His face wasn't visible, but his russet hair went past his shoulders in thick waves.

"Aunt Jackie?" Betsy said beside her, but a vacuum filled Jackie's body, as if everything below her neck had been sucked into space. Before Kimberly Kelso's funeral, that roadie would've skidded in front of her eyes unnoticed.

She pointed at the roadie's back. "Is that Steven?"

Betsy glanced away from the TV.

"I won't tell your mom you told me. I promise."

Betsy lowered her head, hiding her face in her long hair, and she picked at the friendship bracelet on her wrist. "Yeah, that's him."

Jackie's skin went cold. Tingles followed, not unexpectedly. Numbness was setting in, besieging her cheeks, her hands. "He works for Degenerate Matter. Or did?"

"He..." Betsy heaved out a breath. "Better if I show you." She rushed to the CD rack at the corner of her room and brought a CD to Jackie. It was Vagabondage, Degenerate Matter's first album. "See there?" Betsy said and tapped the jewel case's spine. At the bottom of that narrow strip, Grooves/Burnout was printed in a tiny font. "He signed them."

"He signed them? Then why is he giving the lead singer water?"

Betsy's face paled, and her elbows pushed into her sides. "He's also roadies for them. It's Steven. He's just—he's like that, okay? Can we please stop talking about this?"

She shut off the VCR, and Steven's image vanished from the TV screen. The back of Betsy's fingers pressed into her eyes but only for a moment. She cleared her bed of VHS tapes and lined them up in her bookshelf.

"I'm sorry," Jackie said and headed for the bedroom door. She hadn't meant to break Betsy's silence, to break whatever promise Betsy had made to Steven. "I won't bring him up again."