Chapter 16
ANGELS GREET WITH ANTHEMS SWEET
*
For three days straight, Maggie, Eric and I did nothing but play video games. The living room floor became our headquarters. We were marooned on an island of pillows and blankets we barely ventured away from, except for necessities such as bathroom breaks and refrigerator raids. I was almost sick of junk food, we ate so much of it. We consumed more Spaghetti O's and meatballs than I ever would have guessed was humanly possible. Eric's tongue showed signs of being stained a permanent reddish-orange due to licking the sauce out of each bowl. Zombie-eyed, we passed the joystick - which was sticky by now and smelled of tomato - methodically back and forth as if we were lost in a galaxy-defending trance. After so long, my eyes no longer wanted to focus on images from the real world. It was a shock to glance away from the television screen and not find myself in an ambience of fluorescent lines and dots or surrounded by jagged, block-shaped people. My hand automatically gripped items as though they were joysticks that could be manipulated and jabbed at. I was in an Atari induced coma.
"Die, you stupid..." Eric's thumb rapidly punched the red button protruding from the control's tip - like a finishing-touch cherry on a sundae - and he jerked his body sideways, dodging laser beams right along with his onscreen counterpart. "No! No!" His painted tongue darted to and fro behind slightly ajar lips, then poked out at one corner, writhing, striving to win. "Die," he commanded the enemy, whose Final Level rank made it the most dreadful of foes.
"Shoot it," directed Maggie, our designated armchair video gamer. She pointed frantically at Eric's advancing opponent and coldcocked a nearby pillow, knocking it flat, leaving behind an imprint of four dainty knuckles. "Now, shoot it!"
"Shut up!" Eric said absentmindedly. "You're gonna make me-"
Disbelieving, we all three gaped at the confetti and fireworks explosion that splattered across the screen when Eric's battleship got clobbered. Cue the cartoonish music that was almost mocking in its gaiety and GAME OVER flashing in a bold, yellow font. Oh, good God in Heaven. Two and a half hours of nonstop intergalactic warfare had just gone down the tubes. Now I knew how Princess Leia must have felt when they nuked her home-planet. Damn you, Darth Vader.
Eric added some shock value by grumbling "Aww, hell" and chucking the joystick at the game console, jarring loose its cartridge. A curtain of pitch blackness was drawn across the television screen like an unexpected eclipse. "See what you made me do?" my brother whined.
"It wasn't my fault," Maggie said, defensive. "And stop swearing."
"Was too. You wouldn't stop talking. You abstracted me."
"Distracted. And I suppose I knocked the control out of your hands and practically busted the thing" - she stabbed her index finger in the direction of the now cockeyed Atari - "all to pieces too?"
"Wouldn't be surprised," Eric returned saucily.
There wasn't much seriousness in their bickering, but it was giving me major déjà vu. I decided to intervene before we had a repeat of the temper tantrum I'd thrown on Christmas day. Eric had not acted out in any way since his return home, though it was inevitable that he would. Like me, he had his subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) ways of paying Maggie back for the trials she put us through. I'd learned to use guilt and emotional punishment; Eric was almost strictly physical. The meanest instance would be the time he removed the caps from each of Maggie's acrylic paint tubes so every last one dried out. You do what you gotta do to express yourself, I guess.
"Now, children," I raised my hands like a conductor signaling an orchestra, "let's not be petty. We can handle this in a mature fashion, can we not?" With those words, I gathered two pillows, one in each hand, and swung them outwards into the unsuspecting faces of my mom and brother. There was a soft thwack, an indignant "Hey!" I was the picture of innocence when the pillows dropped and Maggie and Eric turned accusing glares at me. "So is it my turn?" I asked, inclining my head towards the Atari.
Maggie brushed back a web of mahogany hair that clung to the left side of her face thanks to my assault and gathered some composure. "Oh, it's your turn, all right," she said cryptically, and then to Eric, "You hold her arms." She lunged forward, flattening me onto my back against the layer of blankets we'd lounged on since morning.
"Wha- Don't you dare!" I could've gotten away from him if I really wanted to, but I only pretended to struggle as Eric obediently restrained my arms, pinning them above my head, causing my pajama top with the kitties on it - yes, I was still wearing my pajamas, and yes, they had kitties on them - to inch up, exposing my abdomen to the world.
"What're we gonna do to her? What're we gonna do to her?" Eric cried gleefully, scooting his rear end across the blanket, trying to find a suitable position for his cast, my lamely squirming arms, and his other socked foot. The latter ended up right beside my face, and I crinkled my nose in disgust. I started to ask him if he'd ever heard of washing his feet, but the air suddenly rushed from my lungs and a paralyzing shudder charged through my body.
"Tickle torture!" Maggie squealed, her fingers tripping lightly over my bare belly, light as ten feathers being stroked against that extra- sensitive patch of skin. I gasped and pulled my stomach in, tightening my muscles and really fighting this time. Eric lost one of my hands, then got it back just as quickly.
"N-No, please," I said breathlessly.
It was too late to reason with them. They both had that look in their eyes, the dancing, We've Got You Now one. I was a goner. "No!" I bucked the lower half of my body, but Maggie put an end to that by straddling me as if I were a wild bull she wasn't about to let throw her off. Eric's strength seemed to have doubled, so I couldn't get away from him, either. Hopelessly trapped. I did the only logical thing... I let loose a mixture of machine gun giggles and maniacal shrieks that egged them on even more. My brother aimed his single-handed revenge at the most obvious of places: my armpit. Maggie was more creative; she knew my ticklish spots as if by instinct, and she focused both hands on them mercilessly, not with a continuous motion that wore out easily, but a fluttering of fingers that paused every couple of seconds to let me breathe and anticipate the next round of torment. She worked me over good, paying special attention to my rib cage, the worst area of all, at least in my case.
"M-m-m-mo-" Mom! I heard it plain as plain in my head, just not from my lips. I thrashed and shrieked louder. Like I've said before, screaming isn't my thing, but I'd lost my inhibitions momentarily. My main concern right now was holding in all that cherry Kool-Aid I'd downed earlier. Tears trickled from the corners of my eyes, sneaked into my ears. I whimpered, gasped, laughed mainly because I was expected to. Their attack had surpassed the pleasant stage of butterfly tingles and turned into an unbearable sensation that could have been the second-cousin to pain. "S-s-s- stoo-"
Maggie's hands relaxed and she sat back, resting her full weight on me - and every bit of that seemed to be concentrated directly on my bladder. She gestured for Eric, who would have tickled till my skin shriveled up and died, to halt. "Come again? You'd like us to stop, you say?"
I nodded, still unable to speak over my asthmatic breathing. Exhausted, I lay there and let my chest heave, a few leftover chuckles mingling with the whoosh of air I exhaled. Eric freed my arms, which I promptly returned to my sides.
"Say it first." Maggie stayed in place, comfortably astride my middle. She wiggled her fingers playfully, warning me there was more in store for me if I didn't obey. "Saaay it..." she sang.
"Maggie is queen of the universe," I wheezed, reciting the mantra she'd made up years ago to replace "Uncle" or "Mercy" in situations such as this. "She is magnificent and beautiful and smart and benevolent."
"You... forgot... one..." Maggie's fingers crept closer until she was walking them up my stomach like a traipsing spider, a devilish grin on her lips.
"The best seamstress-" Being touched again made my breath catch in my throat, and my voice squeaked out, "Best seamstress in the world!"
Eric followed suit and threatened me, his fingers dancing above my eyes, making me blink. "What about me?" he said.
"Eric is que- king of the universe. Magnificent, handsome, smart and benevolent. The best Atari player in the world."
"Say I'm funny too," he whispered.
"And funny."
He withdrew his hands, satisfied. I looked at Maggie imploringly and she blessed me with a sweet smile, kissing a single fingertip and tapping that against my nose. "Good girl," she said and shifted to the side, rolling off of me. Big mistake. When I was certain the Kool-Aid wasn't going anywhere, I shot up and over, quick as a cat, and flopped onto Maggie's stomach. She grunted and tried to push me off, but I had the upper hand. A whole new tickle torture began, accompanied by shouts and laughter that mingled as nicely as three-part harmony in the chorus of a well-loved song. Maggie's guffaws, my snickering, Eric's hearty boy's laughter-- it all came together to create a tune we so desperately needed to hear. Happiness. And we sang it with gusto, almost drowning out the tentative knock at the door.
"Heeeeere's Maggie!" my mother announced when she'd untangled herself from Eric and me and melodramatically threw open the door. She picked the worst times to be clever. Slightly bewildered by the greeting he'd received, Scott looked as if he might turn and flee at any moment. Or maybe that's what I was wishing I could do. Whatever the case, Scott regained his cool as always.
"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," he quoted swiftly, flashing an easy grin.
"Touché." Maggie was making subtle attempts to fluff the hair matted around her head. She hated talking to men when she looked "a fright"; and she certainly did after tussling with me and my brother. I could think that honestly because I knew I must look ten times worse. Why hadn't I at least brushed my hair after I woke up? Or put on decent clothes? I cast a disdainful glance at my sleeve and the fluffy kitten chasing a ball of yarn there. Yuck.
"What are they talking about?" Eric asked, sounding irritated by the riddles Scott and our mother were speaking in. I let the question go unanswered and did my best to blend in with the pillow I was hugging close, hoping Scott wouldn't notice me. But of course he did. And of course he asked to have a word with me. And of course Maggie said yes when I failed to answer.
I shrugged when she ushered Eric out of the room and sneaked a curious gaze at me. I hadn't told her about staying over at Scott's place or about singing with him or the party or the awful way I'd treated him. She didn't even know that Andy was one of Scott's pals, and I planned to keep it so. Those were my problems. My secrets. I liked having my own life apart from hers, even if I wasn't quite sure how to handle all the little bumps in the road. I'd learn to work those out on my own, I figured.
"So..." Scott hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his slouchy jeans and stood awkwardly by the door. It struck me how young he looked then, young and bashful like the guys at school when they were around a pretty teacher who wasn't quite old enough to be their mother. The innocent schoolboy appearance was just an illusion, though. At least with teenaged boys. Their crushes turned into vulgar bragging matches in the lunchroom, stuff that I didn't care too much to listen to. Howie was an exception; he wasn't into tall tales and bluffing about which girl he'd French kissed, or whatever. That's why I liked to sit with him during lunch period. I bet I could have sat with Scott if he were still in middle school, too. Then again, maybe he would have been too busy horsing around with Andy to even know I existed.
"Your mom's home, huh?"
I clutched the pillow tighter, using it as a cushion for my chin, as I moved from the floor to the couch. "Yeah." That's it? Yeah? Why couldn't I think of anything better? "She's been home since Christmas."
"Good."
We both nodded.
"Andy mentioned-- he thought it might have been her that he met the other night."
Met? I wanted to laugh. Bitterly. I kept my eyes on the floor and spoke without emotion. "Yeah, it was."
"He just brought your suitcase in, right? He didn't, uh..." Scott had stepped closer, his hand rested on the side of the couch where Andy'd sat, and his expression was earnest when I stole a look at him. "He didn't bother you or anything, did he?"
Why are you asking me this now? I wondered. Why now instead of checking in when I needed someone to pry Andy off my face? Had he bothered me? Only when he'd shoved his tongue half-way down my throat and forced his cruddy paws places they never should have been. I hadn't thought about it too often since it happened, and I especially didn't like thinking about it with Scott watching me. It made me feel like trash, like each of those names Maggie had called me were true. I was no good. I was cheap. Might as well be a hooker and turn tricks as Christmas gifts. Feliz Navidad to you, Andy.
But the worst part, the thing that felt dirtiest of all, wasn't what Andy had done. It was what I'd LET him do, what I'd coaxed him to do. Meanwhile, I'd been wishing he were someone else. Someone with shaggy brown hair and blue-green eyes. Someone I could never have. Ashamed, I stared at Scott's tattered Converse sneakers and nibbled at the corner of the pillowcase that had found its way to my mouth. I stopped once I realized what I was doing, and I shook my head. "He made sure I got in and everything, is all. I was fine."
"You sure?"
"Yes," I snapped, more for the benefit of seeming annoyed for not being trusted than out of real anger. It would get him off the subject quickly, I hoped. And it did, to an extent.
"Look," he said, dropping onto the cushion beside me, bumping me lightly with his body. "About that night-- everything that happened... it was screwed up, y'know? You've got more sense than most of my friends combined. More than me, too. I shouldn't have let Andy, or any of them, pressure you into getting trashed."
Finally I looked him in the eye and my guard went down. "It wasn't your fault."
"Yeah-"
"I didn't have to drink anything. I could've said no."
A faint smile flitted on his lips. "Not really. Andy doesn't take no for an answer. He could make a nun..." Scott studied me for a second and must have decided that the rest of that statement wasn't appropriate for young ears. "The point is, it was my place and my responsibility. I should have told them to get lost."
"You wouldn't have told Shelly to get lost," I said quietly, despising every pouty word as I spoke them.
Scott's silence was agreement enough.
"Are you still going to California with her?" My voice quavered and I smooshed my chin into the pillow again.
"Yeah." He sounded sad. "But I'm not going because of her. I'm going because it's a good opportunity for me. I've waited a long time for something like this." He lifted his sneaker from the floor and carefully nudged my bare foot. "It'd be a lot easier leaving if I knew you were happy for me."
I didn't want it to be easy for him, I thought stubbornly, sliding my foot away. I was sick of it being so damned easy for people to walk out on me. "Do you love her?" There might have been tears in my eyes, I wasn't certain.
"Well, yeah. I think so." Scott's attention drifted momentarily, like it did when he played guitar. "I mean, she's fun to be with. I doubt she loves me, though. She'll probably end up marrying some big celebrity. Harrison Ford or some shit. Can you imagine?" He came back to reality chuckling, but the noise died when I didn't join in. "Christ," he muttered, then took hold of my arm firmly, startling me. "Abby."
I let go of the pillow and it rolled off my knees and plopped to the floor like a boulder over a cliff. Scott's features were twisted into an expression I'd only seen one other time - that day we sang together and I'd kissed him while we sat on the bench. His eyes were stormy now, but not from rage.
"If things were different," he said, laboring to get it out, "If you were older and we could..." He stopped abruptly and shook my arm for emphasis. "But we can't. I care about you, Toots. I hope you know that? But it wouldn't work. You can do better than me, anyway. I'm just a bonehead musician." He tried to grin. "All I'm good for is writin' songs and playing instruments. One of these days you're gonna fall in love with a filthy-rich lawyer or a doctor, just wait and see."
I tucked my bottom lip between my teeth so he wouldn't see it trembling. The lump in my throat made it impossible to speak up and disagree, to say I'd never love anybody but him. I'd die a kooky old maid, still dreaming of that one true love I had lost. Like Blanche DuBois in "A Streetcar Named Desire" or Amanda Wingfield in "The Glass Menagerie," in constant reverie about her "seventeen gentlemen callers." I'd had to read both of those plays in my advanced English class, and the thing I remembered most about them was how lonely and miserable the majority of the characters were. Tennessee Williams must have been a jilted lover too.
"Whoever he is," Scott continued, releasing my arm and cupping his hand to my cheek for the briefest moment, "he'll be the luckiest guy in the world. And you tell him I said so."
I gazed at him longingly and fancied he might lean in and kiss me if I did it well enough, but he rooted in his pocket instead, producing a white cassette tape with a label that simply read "For Abby."
"What is it?" I asked when he handed the tape to me.
"Normal people just say they're sorry, but I guess this is my version of an apology. It's a song I wrote for you. That's why I didn't come by sooner; I wanted to finish it first. I didn't know I could write anything that fast." Scott mussed my already mussed hair. "Face it, babe, you inspire me. And very few people do."
"Who's going to inspire you when you're in California then?"
Scott thought for a minute and then shrugged. "Maybe no one. Maybe I'll wind up a gnarly recluse who can only write songs about a thirteen-year-old girl with brown hair and brown eyes." He hunched over like an old geezer with the shakes, demonstrating what his future held.
I smiled in spite of myself. "Good."
After Scott left, I drifted aimlessly towards the hallway, replaying our conversation and thinking of a million or so other things I could have said or done that might have made him decide to stay. It was no use - he and Shelly were hitting the road tomorrow - but I did it anyway.
"Hey, Night of the Living Dead," Eric's voice called me back to earth as I wandered past his open bedroom door. He and Maggie were huddled on his bed, poring over a map-size set of instructions, a legion of model airplane parts (third in his trio of gifts from Maggie-translation-me) littered around them like debris from a fatal crash. "Are you helping us or what?"
I inspected the wreckage on his G.I. Joe comforter and declined, "Or what."
"Thanks a lot." Maggie made a face at the instructions before glancing up at me. "What did Scott want?" She almost had that casual act down.
"He just wanted to say goodbye. He's moving to California tomorrow," I said, keeping the cassette behind me and leaning against the doorframe to look natural. Free and easy.
"And he couldn't say that with us in the room?" Maggie raised her eyebrows. "You're not his only neighbor."
"You guys didn't know him as well as I did," I replied, matter-of-fact, calm. "If you want to tell him goodbye, go do it."
Excusing myself, I headed for my room where I could listen to Scott's song in private, but not before making a speedy detour to the bathroom. That Kool-Aid had kicked in again.
*
"You're such a sad girl with your pale blue backdrop. And your face feels heavy, so you let your head drop."
Flat on my back, I gazed at the ceiling and listened as Scott's voice wafted from the stereo, low and smooth, almost as if he would speak the next verse instead of sing it. But not quite. I shut my eyes so I could visualize how he must have looked when he recorded this song for me, seated Indian style somewhere, his fingers gracing the strings of his guitar in a slow, automatic rhythm. For Abby.
"You had a sad dream, so you tore down your curtains and you screamed out your window. Nobody listened." A wave of emotion seemed to wash over him and he belted the chorus, the guitar obeying his change of pace. "Please, somebody notice me. Please, somebody talk to me. Please, somebody comfort me. I'll be waiting up for you. Mmmhmm, up for you."
His voice was gentle again, caressing. He wanted me to pay attention to what came next. "And you love your sad records and the singer who needs to hide in his apartment just to write about you."
And then the intensity returned in full force. He was acquainted with the pain and yearning he was singing about. "Please, somebody notice me. Please, somebody talk to me. Please, somebody comfort me. I'll be waiting - waiting - waiting... Please, somebody notice me. Please, somebody talk to me. Please, somebody comfort me. I'll be waiting, I'll be waiting..."
"You're such a sad girl. You always skip all your birthdays. Always sick with something, just to mess up your sad day."
He wasn't being literal. And though I couldn't describe it for you, I knew exactly what he meant.
"I'll be waiting... waiting... waiting up for you. Mmmm, waiting up for you." His tone wobbled, not because he didn't have control of it, but because he had intended it to. He was being one of those musicians that tore your heart out with his song.
A few last strums on the guitar, and the music faded out as he breathed the remaining lyrics. "You're such a sad girl... Mmmhmm, you're such a sad girl."
I didn't move for quite a while, continued to lounge there with my hands clasped behind my head and my eyes closed, shut off from the world and transported into the one Scott had created in his song. A curious thing happened when the tape reached its end and the Play button popped up by itself, though. That snap, that tiny built-in mechanism which I had no control over, sounded so final and so hopeless that I just rolled right over, squished my face against my arms, and bawled till every last kitty on both my pajama sleeves was soaked to the bone.
*
Why is it that a person never has good stationery when they need it most? I'd spent about twenty fervid minutes searching high and low for something besides the crumpled sheet of notebook paper I'd torn from my Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper with the wide-eyed koala bears on the front. When I had scoured every possible nook and cranny and was absolutely certain nothing better would turn up, I grabbed a pencil - gave that a second thought and exchanged it for a pen - and settled by my nightstand to compose a letter. I could never fully express what I wanted to say to Scott by confessing it out loud, so I thought I'd give writing a try. I would have put the words to music if I'd known how.
It took nearly an hour to finish, the ink was smudged in spots, and there wasn't a trace of the eloquence I'd hoped for, but as I leaned against my pillows and recited the lines over and over to myself, I knew this would be my goodbye to Scott. Whether I slipped it under his door or sneaked it into his mailbox or gathered enough courage to hand it to him face-to-face, he would unfold my letter and read:
Dear Scott,
I'm not too good at telling people about my feelings and letting them know what's on my mind, but there are some things I wanted to say to you. I figured writing it would be easiest, though I'm not great at that, either. But face it, babe, you inspired me. Ha ha.
So here goes. You are the kindest person I have ever met. (And I'm not just saying that because you're moving away and I'm all sentimental and shit.) You really are. I know I'm just a kid and you probably don't think I'm old enough to have met so many people that me saying that would even be considered a compliment, but believe me - it is. Thirteen years (fourteen on January 10) is plenty of time to learn how the world works and about human nature and all that. I've learned, mostly, people really don't care too much who they hurt or who they help. As long as they're happy, then to hell with everyone else. Yeah, it's cynical, but I like to be honest. And honestly, those are the kinds of folks I'm used to. Don't feel sorry for me, though. I figure I'll learn from it or something, maybe "grow" from adversity like my teacher says a lot of artists and writers do. I think that must be what happened with you. You didn't have it so great, either, and you use that in your music and that's why it's so special. It's also probably why you understood me so well and really took the time to get to know me and care about what happened to me. Nobody's done that before, so I had to thank you for it. Don't get a big head in California and forget about the little people like me, okay?
Tell Shelly I'm sorry for being a bitch. She's a really nice person and I had no right to make her feel unwelcome, especially when she was being so friendly to me. I get stupid when I'm jealous; but what girl in her right mind wouldn't be jealous of THAT? Still, it wasn't fair, and I apologize to her and to you. Tell her I hope she hits it big in Hollywood and makes a million dollars. And marries Harrison Ford. (Oh, and tell her I really do know who Sigourney Weaver and Kathleen Turner are, and could she get their autographs for me next time she sees them? You know my address.)
You don't need to worry about me and Eric and my weird family. We'll be all right. Do me a favor, though? If you happen to bump into my mother on the street somewhere in the future, remind her she has two children waiting for her at home. No, I'm kidding. Sort of.
Thank you so much for the song! It's really beautiful and... sad. I'm going to feel sorry for myself every time I listen to that, you know. You will remember that I was happy a lot around you too, right? I wasn't sad all the time, I hope. I didn't mean to be. You made me very, very, very happy. Very. Very, very. And I am glad that you've got this opportunity in California. You deserve it more than anyone. I will be so proud when I hear you on the radio. I'll be the first in line to buy your album. Be sure to put the song you wrote for me on it so I can show it to everyone at school and make them green with envy. Hey, a girl's got to get her kicks somehow.
I'm getting the last word here. It was not your fault that I got drunk and made a fool of myself. Contrary to popular belief, teenagers do have minds of their own, and I could have used mine to tell Andy to go fly a kite. Or something a little less pleasant than that. I'm my own responsibility, and I have been for a long time. I should have known better. I DID know better. If it puts you at ease any, I think beer sucks butt and I never want to drink it again. So, if you still insist on taking the blame, remember you also had a hand in making me want to throw myself off a cliff before drinking alcohol ever again. And, for the love of God, forget every stupid word that came out of my mouth while I was drunk. I don't remember all I said, but I know I didn't mean any of it. I take it all back. Please forgive me.
I know I've said it already, but I feel like being redundant. Thank you. Thank you for staying with me at the hospital. Thank you for helping with the Christmas tree. Thank you for the Christmas carols. Thank you for giving me a love for music. Thank you for making me dance. Thank you for not kissing me even though you wanted to (I hope). Thank you for calling Andy a prick. Thank you for listening to my problems. Thank you for the Sex Pistols tape. Thank you for asking if it was okay to smoke in front of me. Thank you for not laughing at my dorky pajamas. Thank you for making me breakfast. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being the first guy I ever loved.
There. I said it. I love you. That's all I really wanted to say in the first place. That, and I'll miss you. I'm trying to be mature about it and pretend I'll move on, but I won't. I'm going to end up like Willie Nelson, singing, "You were always on my mind..." Aren't you proud of me? I concluded with a song reference.
Love, Nightingale
P.S. Don't you dare call anyone else that or I will hunt you down and kill you.
-----
Author's Note, 6-12-03: The lyrics to the song Scott wrote for Abby were not written by me. Scott Thomas is a real person, with a real band (aptly named The Scott Thomas Band), and he wrote the song. Not for Abby, of course. That only happened in my little dream world. But anyway, they're his and you can find the song on his album entitled "California." It's a great song.
ANGELS GREET WITH ANTHEMS SWEET
*
For three days straight, Maggie, Eric and I did nothing but play video games. The living room floor became our headquarters. We were marooned on an island of pillows and blankets we barely ventured away from, except for necessities such as bathroom breaks and refrigerator raids. I was almost sick of junk food, we ate so much of it. We consumed more Spaghetti O's and meatballs than I ever would have guessed was humanly possible. Eric's tongue showed signs of being stained a permanent reddish-orange due to licking the sauce out of each bowl. Zombie-eyed, we passed the joystick - which was sticky by now and smelled of tomato - methodically back and forth as if we were lost in a galaxy-defending trance. After so long, my eyes no longer wanted to focus on images from the real world. It was a shock to glance away from the television screen and not find myself in an ambience of fluorescent lines and dots or surrounded by jagged, block-shaped people. My hand automatically gripped items as though they were joysticks that could be manipulated and jabbed at. I was in an Atari induced coma.
"Die, you stupid..." Eric's thumb rapidly punched the red button protruding from the control's tip - like a finishing-touch cherry on a sundae - and he jerked his body sideways, dodging laser beams right along with his onscreen counterpart. "No! No!" His painted tongue darted to and fro behind slightly ajar lips, then poked out at one corner, writhing, striving to win. "Die," he commanded the enemy, whose Final Level rank made it the most dreadful of foes.
"Shoot it," directed Maggie, our designated armchair video gamer. She pointed frantically at Eric's advancing opponent and coldcocked a nearby pillow, knocking it flat, leaving behind an imprint of four dainty knuckles. "Now, shoot it!"
"Shut up!" Eric said absentmindedly. "You're gonna make me-"
Disbelieving, we all three gaped at the confetti and fireworks explosion that splattered across the screen when Eric's battleship got clobbered. Cue the cartoonish music that was almost mocking in its gaiety and GAME OVER flashing in a bold, yellow font. Oh, good God in Heaven. Two and a half hours of nonstop intergalactic warfare had just gone down the tubes. Now I knew how Princess Leia must have felt when they nuked her home-planet. Damn you, Darth Vader.
Eric added some shock value by grumbling "Aww, hell" and chucking the joystick at the game console, jarring loose its cartridge. A curtain of pitch blackness was drawn across the television screen like an unexpected eclipse. "See what you made me do?" my brother whined.
"It wasn't my fault," Maggie said, defensive. "And stop swearing."
"Was too. You wouldn't stop talking. You abstracted me."
"Distracted. And I suppose I knocked the control out of your hands and practically busted the thing" - she stabbed her index finger in the direction of the now cockeyed Atari - "all to pieces too?"
"Wouldn't be surprised," Eric returned saucily.
There wasn't much seriousness in their bickering, but it was giving me major déjà vu. I decided to intervene before we had a repeat of the temper tantrum I'd thrown on Christmas day. Eric had not acted out in any way since his return home, though it was inevitable that he would. Like me, he had his subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) ways of paying Maggie back for the trials she put us through. I'd learned to use guilt and emotional punishment; Eric was almost strictly physical. The meanest instance would be the time he removed the caps from each of Maggie's acrylic paint tubes so every last one dried out. You do what you gotta do to express yourself, I guess.
"Now, children," I raised my hands like a conductor signaling an orchestra, "let's not be petty. We can handle this in a mature fashion, can we not?" With those words, I gathered two pillows, one in each hand, and swung them outwards into the unsuspecting faces of my mom and brother. There was a soft thwack, an indignant "Hey!" I was the picture of innocence when the pillows dropped and Maggie and Eric turned accusing glares at me. "So is it my turn?" I asked, inclining my head towards the Atari.
Maggie brushed back a web of mahogany hair that clung to the left side of her face thanks to my assault and gathered some composure. "Oh, it's your turn, all right," she said cryptically, and then to Eric, "You hold her arms." She lunged forward, flattening me onto my back against the layer of blankets we'd lounged on since morning.
"Wha- Don't you dare!" I could've gotten away from him if I really wanted to, but I only pretended to struggle as Eric obediently restrained my arms, pinning them above my head, causing my pajama top with the kitties on it - yes, I was still wearing my pajamas, and yes, they had kitties on them - to inch up, exposing my abdomen to the world.
"What're we gonna do to her? What're we gonna do to her?" Eric cried gleefully, scooting his rear end across the blanket, trying to find a suitable position for his cast, my lamely squirming arms, and his other socked foot. The latter ended up right beside my face, and I crinkled my nose in disgust. I started to ask him if he'd ever heard of washing his feet, but the air suddenly rushed from my lungs and a paralyzing shudder charged through my body.
"Tickle torture!" Maggie squealed, her fingers tripping lightly over my bare belly, light as ten feathers being stroked against that extra- sensitive patch of skin. I gasped and pulled my stomach in, tightening my muscles and really fighting this time. Eric lost one of my hands, then got it back just as quickly.
"N-No, please," I said breathlessly.
It was too late to reason with them. They both had that look in their eyes, the dancing, We've Got You Now one. I was a goner. "No!" I bucked the lower half of my body, but Maggie put an end to that by straddling me as if I were a wild bull she wasn't about to let throw her off. Eric's strength seemed to have doubled, so I couldn't get away from him, either. Hopelessly trapped. I did the only logical thing... I let loose a mixture of machine gun giggles and maniacal shrieks that egged them on even more. My brother aimed his single-handed revenge at the most obvious of places: my armpit. Maggie was more creative; she knew my ticklish spots as if by instinct, and she focused both hands on them mercilessly, not with a continuous motion that wore out easily, but a fluttering of fingers that paused every couple of seconds to let me breathe and anticipate the next round of torment. She worked me over good, paying special attention to my rib cage, the worst area of all, at least in my case.
"M-m-m-mo-" Mom! I heard it plain as plain in my head, just not from my lips. I thrashed and shrieked louder. Like I've said before, screaming isn't my thing, but I'd lost my inhibitions momentarily. My main concern right now was holding in all that cherry Kool-Aid I'd downed earlier. Tears trickled from the corners of my eyes, sneaked into my ears. I whimpered, gasped, laughed mainly because I was expected to. Their attack had surpassed the pleasant stage of butterfly tingles and turned into an unbearable sensation that could have been the second-cousin to pain. "S-s-s- stoo-"
Maggie's hands relaxed and she sat back, resting her full weight on me - and every bit of that seemed to be concentrated directly on my bladder. She gestured for Eric, who would have tickled till my skin shriveled up and died, to halt. "Come again? You'd like us to stop, you say?"
I nodded, still unable to speak over my asthmatic breathing. Exhausted, I lay there and let my chest heave, a few leftover chuckles mingling with the whoosh of air I exhaled. Eric freed my arms, which I promptly returned to my sides.
"Say it first." Maggie stayed in place, comfortably astride my middle. She wiggled her fingers playfully, warning me there was more in store for me if I didn't obey. "Saaay it..." she sang.
"Maggie is queen of the universe," I wheezed, reciting the mantra she'd made up years ago to replace "Uncle" or "Mercy" in situations such as this. "She is magnificent and beautiful and smart and benevolent."
"You... forgot... one..." Maggie's fingers crept closer until she was walking them up my stomach like a traipsing spider, a devilish grin on her lips.
"The best seamstress-" Being touched again made my breath catch in my throat, and my voice squeaked out, "Best seamstress in the world!"
Eric followed suit and threatened me, his fingers dancing above my eyes, making me blink. "What about me?" he said.
"Eric is que- king of the universe. Magnificent, handsome, smart and benevolent. The best Atari player in the world."
"Say I'm funny too," he whispered.
"And funny."
He withdrew his hands, satisfied. I looked at Maggie imploringly and she blessed me with a sweet smile, kissing a single fingertip and tapping that against my nose. "Good girl," she said and shifted to the side, rolling off of me. Big mistake. When I was certain the Kool-Aid wasn't going anywhere, I shot up and over, quick as a cat, and flopped onto Maggie's stomach. She grunted and tried to push me off, but I had the upper hand. A whole new tickle torture began, accompanied by shouts and laughter that mingled as nicely as three-part harmony in the chorus of a well-loved song. Maggie's guffaws, my snickering, Eric's hearty boy's laughter-- it all came together to create a tune we so desperately needed to hear. Happiness. And we sang it with gusto, almost drowning out the tentative knock at the door.
"Heeeeere's Maggie!" my mother announced when she'd untangled herself from Eric and me and melodramatically threw open the door. She picked the worst times to be clever. Slightly bewildered by the greeting he'd received, Scott looked as if he might turn and flee at any moment. Or maybe that's what I was wishing I could do. Whatever the case, Scott regained his cool as always.
"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," he quoted swiftly, flashing an easy grin.
"Touché." Maggie was making subtle attempts to fluff the hair matted around her head. She hated talking to men when she looked "a fright"; and she certainly did after tussling with me and my brother. I could think that honestly because I knew I must look ten times worse. Why hadn't I at least brushed my hair after I woke up? Or put on decent clothes? I cast a disdainful glance at my sleeve and the fluffy kitten chasing a ball of yarn there. Yuck.
"What are they talking about?" Eric asked, sounding irritated by the riddles Scott and our mother were speaking in. I let the question go unanswered and did my best to blend in with the pillow I was hugging close, hoping Scott wouldn't notice me. But of course he did. And of course he asked to have a word with me. And of course Maggie said yes when I failed to answer.
I shrugged when she ushered Eric out of the room and sneaked a curious gaze at me. I hadn't told her about staying over at Scott's place or about singing with him or the party or the awful way I'd treated him. She didn't even know that Andy was one of Scott's pals, and I planned to keep it so. Those were my problems. My secrets. I liked having my own life apart from hers, even if I wasn't quite sure how to handle all the little bumps in the road. I'd learn to work those out on my own, I figured.
"So..." Scott hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his slouchy jeans and stood awkwardly by the door. It struck me how young he looked then, young and bashful like the guys at school when they were around a pretty teacher who wasn't quite old enough to be their mother. The innocent schoolboy appearance was just an illusion, though. At least with teenaged boys. Their crushes turned into vulgar bragging matches in the lunchroom, stuff that I didn't care too much to listen to. Howie was an exception; he wasn't into tall tales and bluffing about which girl he'd French kissed, or whatever. That's why I liked to sit with him during lunch period. I bet I could have sat with Scott if he were still in middle school, too. Then again, maybe he would have been too busy horsing around with Andy to even know I existed.
"Your mom's home, huh?"
I clutched the pillow tighter, using it as a cushion for my chin, as I moved from the floor to the couch. "Yeah." That's it? Yeah? Why couldn't I think of anything better? "She's been home since Christmas."
"Good."
We both nodded.
"Andy mentioned-- he thought it might have been her that he met the other night."
Met? I wanted to laugh. Bitterly. I kept my eyes on the floor and spoke without emotion. "Yeah, it was."
"He just brought your suitcase in, right? He didn't, uh..." Scott had stepped closer, his hand rested on the side of the couch where Andy'd sat, and his expression was earnest when I stole a look at him. "He didn't bother you or anything, did he?"
Why are you asking me this now? I wondered. Why now instead of checking in when I needed someone to pry Andy off my face? Had he bothered me? Only when he'd shoved his tongue half-way down my throat and forced his cruddy paws places they never should have been. I hadn't thought about it too often since it happened, and I especially didn't like thinking about it with Scott watching me. It made me feel like trash, like each of those names Maggie had called me were true. I was no good. I was cheap. Might as well be a hooker and turn tricks as Christmas gifts. Feliz Navidad to you, Andy.
But the worst part, the thing that felt dirtiest of all, wasn't what Andy had done. It was what I'd LET him do, what I'd coaxed him to do. Meanwhile, I'd been wishing he were someone else. Someone with shaggy brown hair and blue-green eyes. Someone I could never have. Ashamed, I stared at Scott's tattered Converse sneakers and nibbled at the corner of the pillowcase that had found its way to my mouth. I stopped once I realized what I was doing, and I shook my head. "He made sure I got in and everything, is all. I was fine."
"You sure?"
"Yes," I snapped, more for the benefit of seeming annoyed for not being trusted than out of real anger. It would get him off the subject quickly, I hoped. And it did, to an extent.
"Look," he said, dropping onto the cushion beside me, bumping me lightly with his body. "About that night-- everything that happened... it was screwed up, y'know? You've got more sense than most of my friends combined. More than me, too. I shouldn't have let Andy, or any of them, pressure you into getting trashed."
Finally I looked him in the eye and my guard went down. "It wasn't your fault."
"Yeah-"
"I didn't have to drink anything. I could've said no."
A faint smile flitted on his lips. "Not really. Andy doesn't take no for an answer. He could make a nun..." Scott studied me for a second and must have decided that the rest of that statement wasn't appropriate for young ears. "The point is, it was my place and my responsibility. I should have told them to get lost."
"You wouldn't have told Shelly to get lost," I said quietly, despising every pouty word as I spoke them.
Scott's silence was agreement enough.
"Are you still going to California with her?" My voice quavered and I smooshed my chin into the pillow again.
"Yeah." He sounded sad. "But I'm not going because of her. I'm going because it's a good opportunity for me. I've waited a long time for something like this." He lifted his sneaker from the floor and carefully nudged my bare foot. "It'd be a lot easier leaving if I knew you were happy for me."
I didn't want it to be easy for him, I thought stubbornly, sliding my foot away. I was sick of it being so damned easy for people to walk out on me. "Do you love her?" There might have been tears in my eyes, I wasn't certain.
"Well, yeah. I think so." Scott's attention drifted momentarily, like it did when he played guitar. "I mean, she's fun to be with. I doubt she loves me, though. She'll probably end up marrying some big celebrity. Harrison Ford or some shit. Can you imagine?" He came back to reality chuckling, but the noise died when I didn't join in. "Christ," he muttered, then took hold of my arm firmly, startling me. "Abby."
I let go of the pillow and it rolled off my knees and plopped to the floor like a boulder over a cliff. Scott's features were twisted into an expression I'd only seen one other time - that day we sang together and I'd kissed him while we sat on the bench. His eyes were stormy now, but not from rage.
"If things were different," he said, laboring to get it out, "If you were older and we could..." He stopped abruptly and shook my arm for emphasis. "But we can't. I care about you, Toots. I hope you know that? But it wouldn't work. You can do better than me, anyway. I'm just a bonehead musician." He tried to grin. "All I'm good for is writin' songs and playing instruments. One of these days you're gonna fall in love with a filthy-rich lawyer or a doctor, just wait and see."
I tucked my bottom lip between my teeth so he wouldn't see it trembling. The lump in my throat made it impossible to speak up and disagree, to say I'd never love anybody but him. I'd die a kooky old maid, still dreaming of that one true love I had lost. Like Blanche DuBois in "A Streetcar Named Desire" or Amanda Wingfield in "The Glass Menagerie," in constant reverie about her "seventeen gentlemen callers." I'd had to read both of those plays in my advanced English class, and the thing I remembered most about them was how lonely and miserable the majority of the characters were. Tennessee Williams must have been a jilted lover too.
"Whoever he is," Scott continued, releasing my arm and cupping his hand to my cheek for the briefest moment, "he'll be the luckiest guy in the world. And you tell him I said so."
I gazed at him longingly and fancied he might lean in and kiss me if I did it well enough, but he rooted in his pocket instead, producing a white cassette tape with a label that simply read "For Abby."
"What is it?" I asked when he handed the tape to me.
"Normal people just say they're sorry, but I guess this is my version of an apology. It's a song I wrote for you. That's why I didn't come by sooner; I wanted to finish it first. I didn't know I could write anything that fast." Scott mussed my already mussed hair. "Face it, babe, you inspire me. And very few people do."
"Who's going to inspire you when you're in California then?"
Scott thought for a minute and then shrugged. "Maybe no one. Maybe I'll wind up a gnarly recluse who can only write songs about a thirteen-year-old girl with brown hair and brown eyes." He hunched over like an old geezer with the shakes, demonstrating what his future held.
I smiled in spite of myself. "Good."
After Scott left, I drifted aimlessly towards the hallway, replaying our conversation and thinking of a million or so other things I could have said or done that might have made him decide to stay. It was no use - he and Shelly were hitting the road tomorrow - but I did it anyway.
"Hey, Night of the Living Dead," Eric's voice called me back to earth as I wandered past his open bedroom door. He and Maggie were huddled on his bed, poring over a map-size set of instructions, a legion of model airplane parts (third in his trio of gifts from Maggie-translation-me) littered around them like debris from a fatal crash. "Are you helping us or what?"
I inspected the wreckage on his G.I. Joe comforter and declined, "Or what."
"Thanks a lot." Maggie made a face at the instructions before glancing up at me. "What did Scott want?" She almost had that casual act down.
"He just wanted to say goodbye. He's moving to California tomorrow," I said, keeping the cassette behind me and leaning against the doorframe to look natural. Free and easy.
"And he couldn't say that with us in the room?" Maggie raised her eyebrows. "You're not his only neighbor."
"You guys didn't know him as well as I did," I replied, matter-of-fact, calm. "If you want to tell him goodbye, go do it."
Excusing myself, I headed for my room where I could listen to Scott's song in private, but not before making a speedy detour to the bathroom. That Kool-Aid had kicked in again.
*
"You're such a sad girl with your pale blue backdrop. And your face feels heavy, so you let your head drop."
Flat on my back, I gazed at the ceiling and listened as Scott's voice wafted from the stereo, low and smooth, almost as if he would speak the next verse instead of sing it. But not quite. I shut my eyes so I could visualize how he must have looked when he recorded this song for me, seated Indian style somewhere, his fingers gracing the strings of his guitar in a slow, automatic rhythm. For Abby.
"You had a sad dream, so you tore down your curtains and you screamed out your window. Nobody listened." A wave of emotion seemed to wash over him and he belted the chorus, the guitar obeying his change of pace. "Please, somebody notice me. Please, somebody talk to me. Please, somebody comfort me. I'll be waiting up for you. Mmmhmm, up for you."
His voice was gentle again, caressing. He wanted me to pay attention to what came next. "And you love your sad records and the singer who needs to hide in his apartment just to write about you."
And then the intensity returned in full force. He was acquainted with the pain and yearning he was singing about. "Please, somebody notice me. Please, somebody talk to me. Please, somebody comfort me. I'll be waiting - waiting - waiting... Please, somebody notice me. Please, somebody talk to me. Please, somebody comfort me. I'll be waiting, I'll be waiting..."
"You're such a sad girl. You always skip all your birthdays. Always sick with something, just to mess up your sad day."
He wasn't being literal. And though I couldn't describe it for you, I knew exactly what he meant.
"I'll be waiting... waiting... waiting up for you. Mmmm, waiting up for you." His tone wobbled, not because he didn't have control of it, but because he had intended it to. He was being one of those musicians that tore your heart out with his song.
A few last strums on the guitar, and the music faded out as he breathed the remaining lyrics. "You're such a sad girl... Mmmhmm, you're such a sad girl."
I didn't move for quite a while, continued to lounge there with my hands clasped behind my head and my eyes closed, shut off from the world and transported into the one Scott had created in his song. A curious thing happened when the tape reached its end and the Play button popped up by itself, though. That snap, that tiny built-in mechanism which I had no control over, sounded so final and so hopeless that I just rolled right over, squished my face against my arms, and bawled till every last kitty on both my pajama sleeves was soaked to the bone.
*
Why is it that a person never has good stationery when they need it most? I'd spent about twenty fervid minutes searching high and low for something besides the crumpled sheet of notebook paper I'd torn from my Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper with the wide-eyed koala bears on the front. When I had scoured every possible nook and cranny and was absolutely certain nothing better would turn up, I grabbed a pencil - gave that a second thought and exchanged it for a pen - and settled by my nightstand to compose a letter. I could never fully express what I wanted to say to Scott by confessing it out loud, so I thought I'd give writing a try. I would have put the words to music if I'd known how.
It took nearly an hour to finish, the ink was smudged in spots, and there wasn't a trace of the eloquence I'd hoped for, but as I leaned against my pillows and recited the lines over and over to myself, I knew this would be my goodbye to Scott. Whether I slipped it under his door or sneaked it into his mailbox or gathered enough courage to hand it to him face-to-face, he would unfold my letter and read:
Dear Scott,
I'm not too good at telling people about my feelings and letting them know what's on my mind, but there are some things I wanted to say to you. I figured writing it would be easiest, though I'm not great at that, either. But face it, babe, you inspired me. Ha ha.
So here goes. You are the kindest person I have ever met. (And I'm not just saying that because you're moving away and I'm all sentimental and shit.) You really are. I know I'm just a kid and you probably don't think I'm old enough to have met so many people that me saying that would even be considered a compliment, but believe me - it is. Thirteen years (fourteen on January 10) is plenty of time to learn how the world works and about human nature and all that. I've learned, mostly, people really don't care too much who they hurt or who they help. As long as they're happy, then to hell with everyone else. Yeah, it's cynical, but I like to be honest. And honestly, those are the kinds of folks I'm used to. Don't feel sorry for me, though. I figure I'll learn from it or something, maybe "grow" from adversity like my teacher says a lot of artists and writers do. I think that must be what happened with you. You didn't have it so great, either, and you use that in your music and that's why it's so special. It's also probably why you understood me so well and really took the time to get to know me and care about what happened to me. Nobody's done that before, so I had to thank you for it. Don't get a big head in California and forget about the little people like me, okay?
Tell Shelly I'm sorry for being a bitch. She's a really nice person and I had no right to make her feel unwelcome, especially when she was being so friendly to me. I get stupid when I'm jealous; but what girl in her right mind wouldn't be jealous of THAT? Still, it wasn't fair, and I apologize to her and to you. Tell her I hope she hits it big in Hollywood and makes a million dollars. And marries Harrison Ford. (Oh, and tell her I really do know who Sigourney Weaver and Kathleen Turner are, and could she get their autographs for me next time she sees them? You know my address.)
You don't need to worry about me and Eric and my weird family. We'll be all right. Do me a favor, though? If you happen to bump into my mother on the street somewhere in the future, remind her she has two children waiting for her at home. No, I'm kidding. Sort of.
Thank you so much for the song! It's really beautiful and... sad. I'm going to feel sorry for myself every time I listen to that, you know. You will remember that I was happy a lot around you too, right? I wasn't sad all the time, I hope. I didn't mean to be. You made me very, very, very happy. Very. Very, very. And I am glad that you've got this opportunity in California. You deserve it more than anyone. I will be so proud when I hear you on the radio. I'll be the first in line to buy your album. Be sure to put the song you wrote for me on it so I can show it to everyone at school and make them green with envy. Hey, a girl's got to get her kicks somehow.
I'm getting the last word here. It was not your fault that I got drunk and made a fool of myself. Contrary to popular belief, teenagers do have minds of their own, and I could have used mine to tell Andy to go fly a kite. Or something a little less pleasant than that. I'm my own responsibility, and I have been for a long time. I should have known better. I DID know better. If it puts you at ease any, I think beer sucks butt and I never want to drink it again. So, if you still insist on taking the blame, remember you also had a hand in making me want to throw myself off a cliff before drinking alcohol ever again. And, for the love of God, forget every stupid word that came out of my mouth while I was drunk. I don't remember all I said, but I know I didn't mean any of it. I take it all back. Please forgive me.
I know I've said it already, but I feel like being redundant. Thank you. Thank you for staying with me at the hospital. Thank you for helping with the Christmas tree. Thank you for the Christmas carols. Thank you for giving me a love for music. Thank you for making me dance. Thank you for not kissing me even though you wanted to (I hope). Thank you for calling Andy a prick. Thank you for listening to my problems. Thank you for the Sex Pistols tape. Thank you for asking if it was okay to smoke in front of me. Thank you for not laughing at my dorky pajamas. Thank you for making me breakfast. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being the first guy I ever loved.
There. I said it. I love you. That's all I really wanted to say in the first place. That, and I'll miss you. I'm trying to be mature about it and pretend I'll move on, but I won't. I'm going to end up like Willie Nelson, singing, "You were always on my mind..." Aren't you proud of me? I concluded with a song reference.
Love, Nightingale
P.S. Don't you dare call anyone else that or I will hunt you down and kill you.
-----
Author's Note, 6-12-03: The lyrics to the song Scott wrote for Abby were not written by me. Scott Thomas is a real person, with a real band (aptly named The Scott Thomas Band), and he wrote the song. Not for Abby, of course. That only happened in my little dream world. But anyway, they're his and you can find the song on his album entitled "California." It's a great song.
