Blue Notes Page 6

  “Butterfly, thank you kindly.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  I smile at their lighthearted words and playful smirks. It’s like they learned a language of snarky expressions from each other. I laugh, but I want in that circle of two—especially if I can’t have him. Can I at least be near them both? Two people so radiant?

  Jude kisses her on the temple again. “You girls play nice. I’ll see you back at the house.”

  He turns away, only to stop and glance over his shoulder. “You were good, sugar. Real good.”

  Eight

  By the time I get back to my dorm, I feel like a cat that’s been run over in the rain. My tank top and shirt and hair are a wreck, all damp with sweat and soaked through from the humidity. I smell like the bar. I’ve lost the echo of Jude’s scent. That’s the worst of it, because I know it’s all I can have of him.

  After hours of flirting and taunting me with that arch smile, he winds up attached lip to temple to the girl I’m supposed to mentor. The girl I’m convinced could be of more help to me than I’ll be to her. I could think things like, I’ve never had a more grueling evening. But that’s not true. Sleeping in a ditch because my parents’ Pontiac caught fire on I-40 outside of Tucumcari, New Mexico—that was grueling.

  Comparing my past to my college present will never be fair. That was some other life. It still claws at me, but I need to tear loose. Maybe it’s time I take another look at my frames of reference. I won’t be sleeping in a ditch tonight, but that doesn’t mean I’m not drained.

  I key the building’s main entrance code and walk past the night duty guy, Brandon Dorne. I think he’s a junior like me, but he’s a few years older. He gets paid to stay up all night and watch South Park reruns between handling pressing dorm crises. Last spring, he apparently stood up to frat jackasses who wouldn’t take no for an answer when it came to rules about the number of guests after hours. A pair of dumb bunnies on the fourth floor had thought inviting six apiece—and having them bring two cases of Heineken—was A okay. The frat pack was hauled away by campus security after Brandon bloodied three faces pretty bad. The dumb bunnies were given official reprimands and a warning that their next brainless stunt would get them kicked out of campus housing. Brandon walked away with a cut to his right cheek from splintered beer bottle glass. He’s practically a legend. Even a transfer like me can recite the tale without having to fake my awe.

  Knowing he busted up three guys makes him intimidating even before I talk to him, but I’m trying to be social. He probably doesn’t know me from anybody. I guess I feel the need to belong by acting chummy with the night duty superhero.

  Plus I’m still buzz, buzz, buzzing. I couldn’t sleep now, even if sunrise depended on it.

  “Hey, Brandon,” I say.

  He looks up from the small boxy television on the left side of the wide front desk. “Hey.”

  He has his feet propped on the scuffed wood. No shoes. Just socks. He’s got a cup of ramen in his hands, which is enough to make me break out in a sweat all over again. That he’s eating soup in September in New Orleans makes me think he was at least raised in the South. Only in the South would seventy-five degrees at two in the morning still entice anyone toward soup.

  Maybe Brandon is a weird superhero. Still, none of the other residence halls can claim him.

  “It’s Keeley, right?” he asks, sitting up, feet back on the ground.

  “Yeah.”

  “Out late.” Before I can decide whether that sounded like a condemnation, he smiles. “I need a report on your evening’s activities.”

  I hesitate. “Serious?”

  “As a heart attack.” He pauses a beat, then flashes his teeth. “It’s because I’m bored crapless. Earning a few bucks for my tuition is fine. Missing out on anything exciting is the tradeoff. Help a guy out.”

  I lean on the desk, happy to engage in a conversation that isn’t complicated and doesn’t have clumps of drama hanging off it. Considering my night, it’s a refreshingly slow change of pace.

  “What about the excitement around here?” I ask.

  His smile is . . . nice. He has nice teeth and nice lips. His eyes shine in the way eyes are supposed to shine when someone’s happy or amused. No taunting to be found. No dares. Just the unspoken invitation to be friendly. I like the simplicity, even though I’m comparing him to Jude, point by point. A buzz of pleasure washes down my whole body at the thought of Jude’s galling, frustrating, gorgeous grin.

  “Would that excitement have to do with frat guys and this?” He taps a finger to the sliver of white that scars his upper cheek.

  “Yeah, that.”

  His smile broadens. “Yeah, that.”

  “Kinda hard to miss. The stories, I mean. Not the scar.”

  Only, that isn’t the only scar on his face. A slash angles up from the left side of his jaw, toward his earlobe. His nose has been broken at least once. That he’s older, that he has this legendary history—it makes me wonder what else hides in his past. Or maybe that’s just me looking for shadows where there aren’t any.

  “No offense,” he says, “but it looks like you’ve had a helluva time.”

  “Could say that.”

  “Just did.” He switches off the TV and sets the ramen aside. Once again, I’m the object of a guy’s unexpected attention. What is it with tonight? Whatever it is, I could bottle it and make millions. “So, spill it.”

  “I played piano at Yamatam’s. I met the girl I’m supposed to mentor, and then I met her boyfriend.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Hm?”

  “You sound disappointed that he and your mentor chick are a thing.” He ducks his head in an aw, shucks way. He’s got sweetly floppy black hair that adds softness to brown eyes that never seem to rest. He’s agitated.

  Suddenly that makes me agitated. I used to watch the world that way. Then again, so do guys high on coke.

  I’m being ridiculous. Brandon is just the night watch guy. He’s supposed to be on the alert, no matter the cartoons and soup. Plus, he’s tall and built and wears his T-shirt like it was modeled to fit his body alone. He’s just plain hot.

  “It was a teensy disappointment,” I say, ducking my head a little. “But there won’t be any avoiding him. The girl, Adelaide, is really good. She’s like Justin Timberlake onstage. Owns it. And I played in public for the first time—well, the first place that wasn’t a recital or audition, you know? No profs or families or whatever.”

  “Just half drunk college kids and rowdy townies who like what they like. Did they like you?”

  “Yeah.”

  He offers a mock salute with an approving nod. “Congrats.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But . . .” he says, prompting.

  “That same guy followed me around all night.”

  “I’m good at dealing with assholes who think they can do whatever they want.” We’ve been joking around, so the severity of his tone is a surprise. Total dissonance.

  I push a hunk of hair behind my ear. Again I fight the urge to follow his eyes as he scans the faces coming and going through the residence hall foyer.

  “It wasn’t like that, though,” I say, feeling the need to defend Jude. He certainly wasn’t some Heineken-swilling frat guy. “All night, it was like a bunch of dares. He sat next to me while she performed. He was the one who goaded me to play. The whole time he skirted this line between sexy stranger and lame player.”

  Brandon shrugs. “Wish I knew where that line is. I’d stay way clear of the lame player side.”

  I find myself toying with the spork sticking out of his pot o’ ramen. “You do just fine.”

  “Does that put me on the really sexy side? I could get used to that.”

  “Pushing it,” I say. “Because, really, soup in September?”

  “Don’t
knock it. I wouldn’t be working this desk if I had money for real food.” Again, he surprises me. There’s genuine bitterness behind his words, and that bitterness has turned his wide smile into something closer to what the Joker would show off. “I mean, who can afford Saltines? Too rich for my blood.”

  I laugh, then chide myself for jumping at threats that aren’t there. My adrenaline is doing my thinking for me, and that means not thinking at all.

  I hold the cup in both hands and push it toward him like an offering. “Then partake of this delicious yet frugal meal. I wouldn’t want your gruel to get cold.”

  He snickers and takes it from me. Our fingers touch in a half dozen places, and he thanks me. “What’s your last name, Keeley? I mean, I could look it up in the resident roster, but . . .”

  “Then you’re back to creepy guy territory.”

  “Back to?”

  I touch my hair again, feeling caught out. “It’s Chambers. Keeley Chambers. Your turn. Where are you from?”

  “Pensacola. You?”

  “Baton Rouge.”

  Maybe I hesitate too long, because he tips his head. “Meaning?”

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  “Army brat?”

  “Just brat.” As he laughs, I stand away from the desk. His brown eyes follow me. “And now I’m going to get some sleep.”

  “That wasn’t much of a report on the evening,” he says, with mock displeasure. He has a sexy voice, sort of . . . messy. It’s the Pensacola in him, I guess. I like it. “I expect better next time.”

  “Yeah. Maybe next time.”

  “Night, Keeley.” His eyes remain fiercely attentive—totally at odds with how he scanned the place during our entire conversation. I take it as interest in me. Has to be, right? He’s not Jude, but after all the games at Yamatam’s, that’s a good thing.

  I finally relax enough to smile back without all my psyched-out head games. It’s nice. It’s a relief. “Night,” I say with a little wave.

  “By the way,” he calls when I’m halfway to the elevator, “who’s the girl you’re mentoring?”

  “Adelaide Deschamps.” A frown darkens his expression and raises the hair on my arms. “Why?”

  “No reason. Just wondered if I knew her.”

  I don’t like deception, and I can spot it a mile away. There’s no place a guy can hide it on his face or in his voice where I won’t find it. Roaming eyes, unexpectedly bitter words—and now this?

  “Sleep well,” he says.

  I must be really tired, because the thought of calling Clair and John to tell them about such an earth-shattering night sounds exhausting. I’ll tell them in the morning. Instead, I remember only snippets of the short ride up the elevator, and barely anything about collapsing onto my narrow bed. What I do remember as I fall asleep is Brandon’s frown and the bad feeling he was keeping a secret from me.

  What has everyone been missing when they look at Brandon Dorne?

  Nine

  We’re just outside Kalamazoo.

  The Buick LeSabre that Dad stole from a long-term parking lot at the Indianapolis airport has broken down. We’re parked at the side of a small highway. Smoke or steam pours out from the edges of the hood.

  I’m . . . nine?

  I’m in the backseat, watching semis pass. Their headlights are so bright. They leave giant whooshes of air in their wakes, shaking the car. Mom and Dad are outside fighting about who did what wrong. That means neither of them care that I really want my favorite teddy bear, Hammie, from out of the trunk. I’d get it myself if that wouldn’t mean attracting their notice.

  It doesn’t matter when they jerk me out of the smoking car.

  “You’re gonna help, Rosie girl,” my dad says. He looks terrible. His shirt is smudged with fast food grease stains. He’s got a goatee that needs cleaning up. Deeper than that, his eyes are wild—not from drugs, but from a lack of them. I know Kalamazoo is where they planned to meet up with some friends. I’m assuming “friends” means dealers or whatever.

  Mom’s halfway to detox as well. She looks frantic, pacing, tugging at the hem of her too short, red, fake leather skirt. Her hair is platinum blonde and curled like a movie starlet. She could’ve looked pretty if not for her smudged eye makeup.

  “Help?” The word is barely a squeak.

  “We’re going to hide in there.” Dad points to a patch of thick trees. It’s summer. The air is humid and full of nighttime bug noises. “Understand? Hide. That means you can’t tell anyone.”

  “Tell who?”

  “Put these on,” she says, half snarling.

  I don’t look at the clothes she’s thrust into my arms and I don’t ask if I can get back in the car to change. I already know the answer. So I do my best to hide against its far side, where the headlights can’t find me, and wiggle into my best dress. It’s my con dress. It’s the dress they make me wear when it’s time for a cute little girl to become living bait. Covered in lace and swirling patterns of roses . . . I hate it.

  Tights.

  Shoes.

  Then Mom does my hair up in ponytails with bows. I don’t complain when she wrenches the rubber bands too tight and snags the tangles. I fight tears. I’m terrified, with a stomach made of cold water.

  “Good girl,” Mom says, her face drawn tight, like a skeleton wearing skin that’s too small. She kneels, with both hands on my upper arms. “Are you hungry, baby?”

  I nod.

  “Then you’ll do this. Stand by the side of the road and wait for someone to stop. Lie your fucking ass off.”

  “Lie how?”

  “Just get them to stop.” She glances back at my dad, who’s loading a pistol. “We’ll take care of the rest.”

  “You hungry, Rosie girl?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Me too. We’ll get some dinner after this is over. When we get to town. You can have anything you want.”

  “Cheeseburger and ice cream,” I say without hesitation.

  “And if you don’t do this proper? What will happen?”

  I shudder. If I make a mistake, there was no telling what would happen. They do a good job of keeping up appearances. They don’t leave bruises people can see.

  “I don’t know.” I’m swallowing the tears now. I heard them say once that I’m a convincing crier. That I pluck heartstrings. I wonder if they think I’m a good con, like them, or if they know how easy it is to wind me up before setting me loose.

  “What’s that bear you like so much?” Dad asks.

  My heart jumps. “Hammie?”

  “Yeah, we’ll have a Hammie bonfire.” He tucks the pistol in the back waistband of his jeans. “And you can forget about dinner.”

  They disappear into the woods. I’m shaking. My shoes are too small—white patent leather with scuffs on the toes. I look at the scuffs as I force my legs to move.

  Standing where headlights will shine on my lace and roses dress, I hop up and down, waving my arms at the traffic. Car after car after semi whizzes past. I couldn’t eat a cheeseburger and ice cream now. I’m too sick with worry.

  Finally a minivan slows down and parks in front of the Buick. There’s a guy driving, and maybe his daughter in the passenger seat. She’s probably a few years older than me. I want to climb in through her open window and hide in the back and tell the guy to floor it.

  Instead, I wipe away what are real tears. “I need help,” I say.

  The man unhooks his seat belt and leans toward the passenger window, angling across the girl. “What happened, honey?”

  “Dad went for a tow truck. It was a long time ago. I was supposed to stay inside the car. But I’m scared something happened to him.”

  “Don’t worry,” the man says. “We’ll get this sorted out. What’s your name?”

  I hesitate. Who am I now? Lila? Sa
ra? I can’t remember. I can’t remember!

  “Um . . .”

  The man takes a good look at me, at the Sunday school dress I’m wearing on a Thursday night. “Where were you going?”

  I hesitate. “Kalamazoo.”

  “Yeah, but where? To see family? Just passing through?”

  I flinch when I hear the cocking of my dad’s gun. He’d crept around the other side of the minivan. The muzzle is flush with the man’s temple. “Out of the van. The girl too.”

  It’s all over in a few minutes. The girl looks as terrified as I feel when my folks make her and her dad lie facedown in the gravel at the side of the road. Dad searches the guy for a cell phone, then steals it and his wallet.

  “Hands behind your back. Don’t move. She’s driving,” Dad says, angling his head toward my mom, “but I’ll have this on you the whole time.”

  Mom transfers our stuff from the LeSabre to the minivan in two trips. She orders me to get in. That’s where I’d imagined taking refuge, but not with my parents at the wheel. My legs are shaking. The toes of my shoes pinch. I want to yank the bows out of my hair.

  Dad backs up slowly, toward the passenger door. He’s got the gun aimed right for the man, whose little girl is crying. I wish I had permission to cry.

  “Where’s that bear?” he calls to Mom.

  “Got it.”

  I’m already strapped in the minivan’s second row of seats. “Did I do good?” I ask tentatively.

  Mom glares back at me. “You forgot your name again. If he’d had sense enough to call the police, we’d be screwed. You should know better.”

  She pulls a lighter from her back pocket and holds it to Hammie’s foot. It’s amazing how fast fake fur can catch fire, and it’s amazing how calm my mom looks when she tosses Hammie on the ground.

  I’m screaming, crying, begging.

  We’re driving within a minute. Dad has the shakes. He puts the pistol in the glove box, and he and Mom start arguing again. I don’t hear them over the sobs I swallow with my fist in my mouth. My stomach rumbles, and my neck hurts as I pull and pull against the seat belt until I can’t see that little bonfire anymore.