All Our Pretty Songs Part 11

"Five or six years ago."

"Jesus, Ca.s.s! She was twelve. Of course she didn't want to come stay with us!"

"I don't always know what to do," Ca.s.s whispers. "I don't always do the right thing."

"Yeah," I say. "No s.h.i.t."

"I loved Maia," she says. "I loved her. You can't imagine how much I loved her."

I think of Ca.s.s, reading her tarot cards every morning. I'm asking about Maia. It never changes much. Not asking if Maia would ever get better. Asking if Maia would ever forgive her. So like Ca.s.s to leave it up to a deck of cards instead of going up to Maia's house and asking herself.

"You have no idea what it was like," Ca.s.s says. "All of those people. When I got sober, they acted like I had died. They stopped talking to me. Like I'd been erased. Maia was my best friend, and she wouldn't even let me in her house."

We're silent after that. I put the knife down. "Dinner's ready," she says finally. "Why don't you set the table?"

"I don't think I'm hungry." Before she can answer, I go into my room and shut the door.

That night I dream about the forest again. The bare trees clack as if a breeze has caught them, but the air is still. I stand in the same place I always stand, the black river inches from my bare feet, its surface sheened with a nacreous glow. I am looking for something, but I don't know what it is. I try to turn away from the river and run back down the path, but my feet are rooted to the earth. In this dream I can see the far bank.

On the other side of the river, Jack steps out of the trees. I can't make out the details of his face. His naked body is gaunt. Even from here I can see the stark lines of his ribs. "You came," he says, and then he repeats it, and this time it's Aurora's voice coming out of his mouth. I try to answer, but my mouth will not move. "You came," he says a third time, and his hair grows longer and turns white, his body changing, softening into Aurora's, and they are moving toward me, toward the river, and I want to warn them not to cross the water, tell them to stop, to stay there where it's safe, but I cannot speak. Blood pools beneath my bare feet. Jack takes one more step toward me, puts one foot in the river, and vanishes without a sound.

I wake up in the dark, gasping, touching my face, putting my fingers in my mouth and working my jaw. I whisper their names aloud in the dark, then reach over and turn on the light. Something in the room has changed, but I don't know what it is. I sit up in my bed, pulling the blanket tight around my shoulders. The curtains stir slightly and then still, as though a breeze has moved across them, but the window's shut tight. My closet door is open, my clothes hanging tidily. The slanted top of my drafting table is clean and bare. Crate of records, stereo, candles, lamp. Everything is where it should be. And then I see it. Aurora's and my map has changed.

It's not possible, but it's true. I get out of bed and walk over to the wall. There, tiny but perfectly rendered, is a tall clean-lined house at the edge of a river, with a forest at its back. The river is as black as it is in my dreams, and I think I can see the shiver of a current running through it. Aurora and Jack are standing in front of the house, their backs to the water and to me, their hands clasped. I touch the drawing. Nothing happens. The wall is cool and smooth. "Aurora," I whisper, and I think for one unreal second that I see the penciled lines of her head move, as though she's tilting one ear to listen. I look for a long time, but the drawing does not change again.

In the morning I dump my textbooks out of my old army backpack and throw in a clean pair of jeans. Socks, underwear. A T-shirt. My toothbrush. My sketchbook. Brushes and ink and pens. My tarot deck. I add my running shoes and then take them out again. Probably won't be jogging much where I'm going. Too bad. I hear they're big on fitness in LA. I tuck one of Ca.s.s's crystals in the front pocket of my jeans for luck. Ca.s.s is gone, but she's made coffee and left me a note. I'm sorry. I love you. Mom. I fold it and put it in my other pocket, next to the poster. I take down the biscuit tin from the shelf in the kitchen where she keeps a baggie of dried-out, ancient weed and a stash of emergency cash. I count the bills. Fifty-six dollars in tens and ones. Enough for a bus ticket. I won't have to hitch. I pick up the phone and dial Raoul, blowing on my coffee to cool it, poking through the refrigerator for something that looks like breakfast. When he answers, his voice is sleepy, and I can hear someone talking in the room behind him.

"Raoul? I need a favor. I was wondering if you could give me a ride to the bus station." He clears his throat, says something to the person who's with him. It's m.u.f.fled, as though he's put one hand over the receiver. Then I hear him sigh.

"Where are you?" he asks.

I wait outside for Raoul's Volvo, smoking cigarettes on the front stoop of my building until he pulls up and I climb in. Rosaries dangle from the rearview mirror and there's a plastic statue of Jesus glued to the dashboard. The Jesus has a head that bobs as you drive and a slight walleye. The car smells like incense and pot, Raoul smells. He's wearing fingerless leather gloves with studs at the knuckles. "Nice," I say, petting them. I sit in his pa.s.senger seat while the engine idles, backpack in my lap, heater blasting in my face, and hand Raoul the poster. He unfolds it and smoothes it against the steering wheel. "Aha. And your mother cannot give you a ride to the bus station because?"

"Because she doesn't know."

"I had a feeling." He steeples his slender fingers and rests his forehead on them. "Will you tell her?"

"When I'm there."

"You're supposed to be in school?"

"Technically, yeah."

"Do you want a ride?"

"To Los Angeles?"

"Isn't that where you're going?" I look at him, his jet fall of hair, his generous mouth, his brown eyes smiling, and think that there is probably no one else in the world who is as blessed as I am. He's totally serious, unblinking. He would do it. He would do it, for me, because he's my friend.

"Oh, Raoul. I think that's technically, like, kidnapping. Transporting a minor across state lines. Like if we got pulled over you would be arrested." He shrugs. "No," I say. "I can take the bus. But thank you."

"Where will you stay? How are you getting them back here?"

"I haven't really thought that far ahead."

His sigh comes from somewhere in his toes. He rubs his forehead with the side of his thumb. "Okay," he says. "You know what? Don't tell me anything else." I take the poster from him and put it back in my pocket.

I try to memorize the streets as they flash by, the broad expanse of the bay, the exact shade of Doug firs in the changing light of late fall, the salt tang of the air. Heavy clouds edged in gold where the sun's creeping through. The far curtain of rain falling over the peninsula. Like if I can carry home with me it will keep me safe. We wind through the damp streets. Mia Zapata's scratchy, gorgeous voice howls from the speakers but it's too early for punk. I pop out the tape without asking, put in another one labeled "Nighttime" in sloppy Sharpied letters. It's Jeff Buckley. Sending me straight back to that night at Jack's when I read his tarot cards. The memory is so strong I push my hands through my hair, look out the window. Not now. "Who was at your apartment?" I ask, and Raoul smiles.

"Those fish-stall boys. Not as straight as you'd think."

"Oh my G.o.d. Which one?"

But he draws two fingers across his mouth like a zipper and shakes his head. "A gentleman never tells."

"I'll put you on the rack. I'll draw and quarter you. The tall one? The one who always wears that red knit hat?" He gives me a smug little smile and refuses to yield for the rest of the ride.

Raoul stops the car in front of the bus station downtown. He reaches over me and rustles around in the glove box, digs out a piece of paper and a pen and writes something down before folding it in half and handing it to me.

"What's this?"

"My phone number."

"Raoul. I call you sixteen times a week. I know your phone number."

"Humor me?"

"Okay." I tuck the paper in my pocket next to the poster. "I owe you," I add, my hand on the door. "Again. Like, forever."

"Wait," he says. He takes off the wooden rosary he always wears, loops it over my head next to Ca.s.s's amulet. "For luck."

"Raoul. I can't take this."

"It's a loan. Keep it safe and bring it back."

He hugs me tight. I hug him back, so fierce I can feel the whoosh of air leaving his lungs, and he makes a surprised noise. I squeeze my eyes shut, hang on for dear life. "I mean it." His voice is m.u.f.fled. "Come back."

"I promise."

"No matter what."

"Okay."

He lets me go and I step out into the cold morning air. He leans across the seat. "No matter what. Call me if you need anything. I'll come get you. Okay?"

"Who will take care of Oscar Wilde if you have to drive to California?"

"Oscar Wilde loves the car. I'll buy him driving goggles. Be safe." I nod and shut the car door, hitch my backpack straps on my shoulders, take a deep breath. Raoul doesn't drive away until I'm inside.

At the counter I buy a ticket on the next bus to LA. When I reach into my coat pocket for my wallet there's a crackle, and I take out a wad of bills. Raoul slipped me nearly fifty dollars when he was hugging me. Fifty dollars he doesn't have to give away. I contemplate running after his car, but he'll be long gone by now. "Are you all right?" asks the lady at the counter. "Miss?" I'm crying again.

"Something in my eye."

"Uh-huh," she says, bored now. She was hoping for histrionics or confessions. A jilting. I'm sorry I can't humor her. "Your bus leaves in an hour and a half."

I take out my sketchbook, but I'm too antsy to draw. I pace around the station, buy a cup of coffee, drink it, buy another one, smoke, pace some more. I think about how long I have until Ca.s.s figures out I'm gone, what she'll do. It was s.h.i.tty of me not to leave her a note, but the longer it takes her to realize what I've done, the more likely it is I'll make it to LA. She'll know where I went as soon as she figures out I'm gone, and all she would have to do is call the bus company to get me taken off at the next stop. I'll call her when I'm there, tell her I'm okay. Tell her I'm coming home. As soon as I have them. I refuse to think about what will happen if I can't find them. If Aurora isn't with Jack. If either of them tells me to go home. I'm not this tough for nothing. I stare down at my booted feet, turn up the collar of my leather jacket. If I tell myself how tough I am enough times, surely it will be at least a little bit true.

At last I shuffle aboard the bus, consoling myself with the thought that I'm far and away the least desperate-looking person boarding. A guy in a dirty white T-shirt, bare-armed despite the cold, sits next to me and asks where I'm from. When he opens his mouth I can see he's missing most of his teeth, and the remnants of a nasty bruise are fading from one cheek. Before I can answer, he tells me he's just gotten out of jail and is on his way home to see his woman. I nod, get out my headphones, hold them where he can see them, but he keeps talking. "You like to get high?" he asks.

"No thanks."

"I got good stuff. The best."

"Really. No thanks." I make a show of putting my headphones on, choosing music.

"You like to f.u.c.k?" I hear him say, and then I turn up the volume and look out the window. I can see his reflection in the gla.s.s. His lips are still moving.

The bus ride is like a fever dream. I can't sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. Sometimes the bus stops and we stumble out, smoke cigarettes by the side of the road in the cold air. Night falls. My seatmate gives up on me and moves on to some poor girl at the back of the bus, with more success. I can hear their soft grunts in the intervals between songs. I'm strung out on no sleep and nerves. I buy a cup of s.h.i.tty gas-station coffee and a package of Pop-Tarts at the next stop. The sugar and caffeine don't make me any calmer. Ca.s.s will have figured out I'm gone by now, and every time the bus stops I chew on my nails, sure it's the cops. But it never is. When the bus rolls into Los Angeles, I can breathe again. It's Halloween morning, and I am going to find them, and everything is going to be fine.

This far south, the ocean seems like a different creature altogether from the moody grey monster I know at home. Gem-colored waves roll across the white-sand beach. Even this late in the year it's full of people sunbathing or playing volleyball. Ponytailed girls rollerblade past me on a boardwalk that stretches as far as I can see in either direction. Condominiums edge the beach, and I can see women basking on their balconies in neon bikinis. I can't remember the last time I ate. I buy a hot dog at a cart and walk down to the edge of the water.

I watch bodysurfers paddle out into the turquoise waves. Down the beach a boy is flying a kite, and a man is anointing his tanned, muscled body with oil.

"Read your palm?" someone says, and I look up. Blue-eyed surfer, straight out of a magazine. Shirtless, bronzed muscles, long blond hair, puka beads.

"Is that your line?"

"Line of work." He sits down next to me. "You look like a girl who needs answers."

What the h.e.l.l. "How much?"

"Five bucks."

"Seriously?"

"Can't make a living selling weed alone."

I roll my eyes, take one of Raoul's bills out of my pocket, and hand it over. He pockets the five and takes my hand. His fingers are calloused and warm.

"Look at you," he says. "Wow."

"You tell that to all the girls?"

"Nope. You see this line?" He traces a long crease that crosses my palm. "This is some gnarly s.h.i.t, girl. Serious destiny."

"Serious destiny," I mutter, mimicking his surfer's drawl.

"Oh, girl. Who did you p.i.s.s off? You doing battle with some dark forces or something? This line says your life is about something way bigger than you." I scowl. Whatever, that's a thing you could say to anyone. Make them feel important. "This one," he continues, touching a different line now, "This is love. You got it bad for someone, right? Follow them to the ends of the earth, that kind of thing? This is a strong palm, sister. A strong, strong palm."

"I'm not your sister."

"You want me to read your palm or not?"

"Sorry."

"You're determined, right? You have a lot of anger. A lot of strength. But maybe too pigheaded. You have to learn to apologize."

"I have to learn to apologize?"

"You get in a fight with someone you love? Maybe it's your fault, maybe it isn't. Is it worth it to lose someone over the details? You are someone who has trouble letting go. You know that thing they say. Love something, set it free, it comes back to you maybe, maybe it goes for a trip. Outside your purview, sister."

I stare at him. He's serious. He's also totally stoned.

"What am I supposed to do?" I ask him.

"Come on, girl. I can't tell you that. I can only tell you what it says here. Something about a dad, right? You looking for a dad?"

"I don't have a dad."

"Doesn't mean you're not looking for one. But I think you'll be fine. Also, this line here? This one means you have stomach problems. You need to eat more yellow vegetables."

"Yellow what?"

"You know. Like squash. b.u.t.ternut. Spaghetti squash is good too. Has to be vegetables, though. Bananas won't work." He gives my hand a squeeze and gets to his feet. "Here," he says. "My compliments." He produces a joint out of nowhere and tucks it behind my ear. "Good luck, sister." I'm still staring as he saunters away down the beach.

The sun is warm on my back. I squirm out of my leather jacket and take out my sketchbook, draw the boy, the kite, the sunbathing man-who's stretched out now on a towel, glistening like a rotisserie chicken-the edges of the waves. Water is hard to draw, like any malleable thing, fickle in its lines and shadows. I think I'm catching it, but when I look at the page I've made it insipid and lifeless. Stupid. High school. It's hardest when what I want to put on the page is so much bigger than what I'm capable of, when I know how it should look but not how to make it that way, because I'm nowhere near as good as I need to be.

I turn the page and draw a beer bottle sticking out of the sand, a dead crab, an empty sh.e.l.l. I draw until for hours, until the sky blazes around the sinking sun in a gory, gorgeous mess like ink blowing out of a tattoo. I remember reading somewhere that pollution makes for better sunsets. I haven't eaten since the hot dog, who knows how many hours earlier. I stand up, my legs creaking in protest. I have to pee, and I'm so hungry I can barely walk. I give the surfer's joint to a homeless guy with a baseball cap upended in front of him on the sidewalk. "Hey, thanks," he says, surprised.

I walk away from the beach, with its fancy gla.s.s-fronted restaurants, elegant people inside sipping wine from goblet-sized gla.s.ses and daintily forking a bite or two of salad into their mouths before pushing their plates away. All the women here look hungry. I see a divey Mexican restaurant wedged between two clothing boutiques. It's well lit and noisy, and even from the sidewalk I can smell the siren scent of c.u.min and fryer grease.

I order cheese enchiladas, and they come on a platter half the size of my table, swimming in mole sauce. The lady at the cash register brings me chips and guacamole and an apple soda in a gla.s.s bottle. I don't think there's any way I can fit all that food in my belly but I do it, scooping up mole and avocado with my chips and wolfing down the enchiladas. I watch the families around me, children running amok between the tables and begging sc.r.a.ps off their parents' plates when they've polished their own clean. No one looks at me. The restaurant is so normal, so cheerful, so full of people and light and chatter. When I finish eating I show the cashier the poster. "Is that near here?" I ask her, pointing to the club's address.

She looks at me for a while before she draws me a map on a paper napkin. "Not too far. Be careful there." I ask her what she means. She touches Raoul's rosary where it peeks out from my collar. "Be sure you take this with you."

Minos's club is near the water. I can't see the ocean, but I can smell it, and the air here is lighter. The club is a big, windowless building at the end of a dead-end block. The other buildings on the street are lifeless and dull: another warehouse, a shabby cinderblock building with a dirty white sign that reads ORTIZ'S MEATS. There's an alleyway cluttered with Dumpsters, next to an empty lot full of scraggly weeds and ringed in chain-link fence topped with razor wire. So this is what rich people go for. Real authentic.

Outside Minos's club, the street is alive. Sleek black cars disgorge sparkling women and men clad in leather and metal, spiked collars at their throats and spurs on their pointy-toed boots. Across the street, I lean against a wall and pull my hood up around my ears, watching as the squat building swallows skinny, sad-eyed girls with their hair spiked into Mohawks, skeleton charms dangling from their tiny wrists. Many of them are in costume: gossamer-wrapped fairies whose naked bodies are clearly outlined underneath yards of sequins and tulle; gore-spattered zombies draped in bandages; ghouls in sleek white, knotty hair hanging to their waists. I catch a glimpse of furred haunch and lean forward. It's the goat-limbed man from the rooftop party, wearing a feathered mask. He stops as if he can feel my eyes on him and turns, searching the darkness. I shrink back into the shadows and turn my face away, hoping the alleyway is enough to hide me. Finally he goes into the club. Some of the girls could be the blood-covered dancers I saw at the penthouse party. I thumb Raoul's rosary and shiver.

I wait until the flood of people slows to a trickle. At first I think there's no sign, but when I get closer I see that EREBUS is painted in neat red letters on the door. There's a bored-looking guy in sungla.s.ses and a knit hat leaning against the wall. He's casual, slouching, but I can tell under the facade he's paying attention.

I knot my fists in the sleeves of my hoodie and walk up to the door. The bouncer looks me over without expression, looks away. "Not your kind of place."

"My friend is playing."

"You don't have friends here."

"I have to go in there," I say. "You don't understand." He's already waving forward the people behind me, holding aside the velvet rope to let them in. I chew the inside of my lip in frustration. He's too big for me to get past him. I take out the wad of Raoul's money and offer it to him. "Look, little girl," he says. "Go back to Kansas." I can feel the lump of Ca.s.s's quartz in my pocket, digging into my thigh.