Screaming Divas Part 2

On a scale of one to ten, the movie was a zero. There were a bunch of men racing around in cars, talking about t.i.ts and a.s.s. Todd laughed. Once in a while he looked over at Ca.s.sie, hoping to catch her eye, but she kept her eyes on the screen.

They didn't go to The Cave after all. Todd knew about some party out on Lake Murray.

"Fine. Whatever." Maybe she'd meet some cool people. Maybe she could ditch Todd and find her own way home. He was turning out to be a brainless bore.

As he drove through the night, ten miles over the speed limit all the way, he did a recap of his favorite scenes from the movie. "Wasn't it awesome the way the Mustang flew off that ramp and landed nose first in the cow pasture?"

"Yeah," Ca.s.sie said, "and then they just drove off into the sunset. In real life they'd all have been crushed."

Todd shook his head. "You're so morbid."

The party house was out in the middle of nowhere. Todd drove through dense forest along a dirt two-track road till they reached the end of a row of cars parked haphazardly along the driveway. Ferns and saplings had been mowed over to make room for sports cars and primer-stained jalopies. There were a couple of sedans that screamed "Daddy's" and Ca.s.sie wondered how the parents would react in the morning to the scratches and dents and puke on the upholstery.

"Whose party is this?" Ca.s.sie asked, before jumping out of the car.

"I don't know. A guy on the team heard about it. He told me it'd be rockin'."

"We'll see," Ca.s.sie murmured. She followed Todd down the last stretch of dirt road to the house.

The place was lit up like a Christmas tree and music was leaking out into the night. Ca.s.sie could hear a guttural voice and the energetic strumming of a ba.s.s guitar.

She recognized some of the kids that she saw from school. A couple of cheerleaders, too drunk to walk alone, were staggering toward the row of cars. Ca.s.sie imagined one of them sticking a key in the ignition and shuddered.

One of Todd's football buddies was making out with some girl on the hood of a car. Todd slapped him on the b.u.t.t and he came up for air for a second. "Yo, Todd! Way to go," he said leering at Ca.s.sie. Then he turned back to the girl, probably someone he wouldn't even talk to on a regular day at school.

Ca.s.sie pushed through the door. The living room was jam-packed with hot bodies. They pogoed and slammed, making the house shake on its foundation. All furniture had been removed. The carpet was wet in spots from spilled beer.

The band was in the corner of the room. A skinhead boy from her physics cla.s.s was wailing on the drums. His timing was off, but n.o.body cared. The lead singer stomped around in a small square of s.p.a.ce, shouting obscenities and cryptic phrases. His hair was shoe-polish black and slicked down against his skull. He wore a ripped white T-shirt, and his skinny tattooed arms flailed around as he screamed. Once in a while he picked up a guitar and thrashed its strings. Scary guy, Ca.s.sie thought. Todd would probably think he was a freak.

Off to the side, a girl with long black hair falling over her face was bent over a ba.s.s guitar. She seemed oblivious to everyone else in the room, her attention centered on her fingers and strings. She was the only one of them, Ca.s.sie realized, who knew what she was doing. The girl, dressed in a baggy housedress like Ca.s.sie's grandmother sometimes wore, didn't look up until the song-or whatever-was finished. When she raised her head, Ca.s.sie saw her delicately boned face, her angry Asian eyes. Harumi Yokoyama. No way. Harumi in a punk band?

Ca.s.sie didn't know Harumi personally, but she knew about her. Everyone did. She was some kind of child prodigy and she was always winning awards. Like Ca.s.sie, she'd spent a lot of her early years performing in front of audiences. Harumi had kept going, though, while Ca.s.sie's singing career had been cut short. There had been rumors about Harumi going to Juilliard and on concert tours. In her newspaper photos, she always looked completely proper in crewneck sweaters and plaid skirts, but Ca.s.sie had always seen something fierce in her eyes. The fire of ambition, she'd thought. But now, looking at her in that lake house living room, she thought that maybe the look was about something else.

"We're going to take a break," the leader screamed. "Let's refuel!" He grabbed a bottle of beer and poured it over his head, then into his mouth.

Ca.s.sie had almost forgotten about Todd, but now she saw him across the room, talking to some girl with big blonde hair. She had her hand on his bicep as she laughed at something that he said. Ca.s.sie saw Todd look through the haze of cigarette and marijuana smoke at her. She realized that he was trying to make her jealous. Ha.

She wove her way through the crowd, pushed open the sliding gla.s.s doors and slipped into the night. She found herself on the deck and stepped to the railing. The wind was moving through the trees. Down a slight incline, waves lapped at the beach.

There was a couple groping each other in a shadowy corner. They weren't making much noise. It was almost like being alone, standing there looking into the dark. Then the sliding gla.s.s door opened again, and music blared out to her.

Ca.s.sie turned to see Harumi stretching her arms toward the moon.

"Hey," Ca.s.sie said. "You were great in there." It was probably a stupid thing to say to a concert musician. Harumi was famous for being good at music. Still, she wanted to say something and she didn't know what else to say.

"Thanks." Harumi moved to the railing, so close that Ca.s.sie could feel her body heat. "Sometimes those guys can be morons, though." She nodded toward the living room where her bandmates were chugging beer.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Ca.s.sie said. "High school boys."

"I saw you come in with Todd. Are you dating him?"

Ca.s.sie glanced at Harumi's face. There was no derision there, only curiosity. It was amazing that Harumi had even noticed, amazing that she knew who Ca.s.sie and Todd were. She'd always thought that Harumi was beyond high school cliques and gossip, off in a world of her own.

"I don't think I'll ever go out with him again."

Harumi laughed.

They both turned and looked through the window. Todd was kissing the girl with the big blonde hair.

"Do you want me to give you a ride home?" Harumi asked.

"What about the band? Aren't you going to play another set?"

Harumi shrugged. "They'll probably be too drunk for that. Or at least too drunk to care whether I'm here or not."

Ca.s.sie waited on the deck while Harumi went inside to get her ba.s.s. No one seemed to be paying attention to her. No one realized that she was leaving. No one, that is, except for Todd. Ca.s.sie saw Harumi tap him on the back. He turned around, the blonde's hands on his chest, and leaned his ear toward Harumi.

Almost as soon as Harumi veered away from him, he shook off the other girl's hands and forced his way through the crowd.

Oh, great. He's going to try to be manly and claim his woman now. Ca.s.sie ducked under the railing and jumped to the ground, then snuck around to the front of the house where the cars were parked. She hunkered down behind a Jeep until she saw Harumi appear.

"Let's get out of here," Harumi said.

4.

"Dear Ca.s.sandra," Esther Shealy wrote. "Have I ever told you how beautiful I think you are?

"The j.a.panese believe that something that is perfect cannot be beautiful. Sometimes a potter will deliberately make a vase lopsided because it's more interesting that way. Or the guy (or woman) will put a scratch in it or chip it after it's finished. My j.a.panese-American friend told me all this and I know it's true.

"I think that your heart is probably beautiful, too, in a damaged kind of way. I hope you don't mind me saying all this. I only write these things because I care about you and think about you all the time.

"As always, I love you."

Esther put down her pen and folded the paper. She closed her eyes and tried to block out the sounds of her brother Mark's stereo coming from the other side of the wall. She was alone in her room, the desk lamp her only source of light. Her clothes were piled on the floor, twisted and wrinkled. Although she had a pile of homework, she had yet to take her textbooks out of her bookbag. It was so much better to sit in her room, close her eyes, and think about Ca.s.sie.

Ca.s.sie didn't seem to have many friends. Sure, she hung out with the cheerleaders and student council members and the other popular kids-they lived in the same neighborhood of Tudors and palatial brick colonials; Esther had driven by a few times-but there was always something aloof about her. Esther doubted that she had a best friend. Some girls said that she was loose. s.l.u.tty. Esther figured those girls were just jealous. In spite of the scar, she was gorgeous. Maybe good looks were isolating. She wanted to be Ca.s.sie's friend, her confidante, her shoulder to cry on. And if anyone said anything bad about Ca.s.sie's scar or her alcoholic mother or her Daddy's skirt-chasing, well, Esther would punch them in the face. Just like she beat up that snot-nosed kid who picked on Harumi.

Esther remembered that day, remembered how the summer sun was frying the gra.s.s. She and Harumi were sitting on Esther's front porch, their feet on the hot concrete steps, waiting for the ice cream truck.

Cicadas buzzed in the bushes and Esther's little brother Mark wailed inside the house. Then, another sound-the tinkle of the big white van as it rounded the corner. Esther and Harumi had their quarters ready. Esther's was all slimy from sweat.

"What are you going to have today?" she asked.

Harumi looked into the sky and squinted at the sun. "I don't know. Maybe a grape Popsicle. But then I've got to go practice my violin."

Harumi was always practicing. Esther thought that her mother was cruel for making her practice all the time. Plus, Harumi was Esther's only friend and when she was busy studying j.a.panese or music or the abacus, there was no one else to play with.

"Here it comes." Harumi stood up and brushed off the back of her skirt. She waited till Esther had stood, and then led the way down the sidewalk.

The music tinkled like a wind-up toy, louder and louder, till the van was in full view. The vehicle came to a halt and a man in a white uniform and matching cap climbed out. All over the neighborhood, doors opened and kids spilled into the street. There were five or six of them pulling on the man's jacket and waving their money in the air.

Harumi and Esther approached slowly and solemnly. When they got to the van, they waited at the fringe until they were noticed.

"What'll it be, ladies?" The man was about the same age as Esther's father and his face was sprinkled with freckles.

The other kids, three boys and two girls, stood off to one side licking their fudge bars. They whispered among themselves and kicked at the pebbles in the road.

When the nice man in the white suit had taken their money, he doffed his cap at them and climbed back into the driver's seat. Soon the van was tinkling its way into another neighborhood.

Esther and Harumi turned and started to go back to the Shealy's yard.

"China girl," a falsetto voice chimed behind them. "Ain't no chop suey ice cream here. Why don't y'all go on home?"

Esther turned to see a boy slightly shorter than herself in a striped T-shirt and yellow shorts. He bit down on his lower lip, making buckteeth.

Harumi didn't look back. She kept her eyes on the ground and her feet in forward motion.

Although her friend didn't respond, Esther knew that she had heard the barbs and that they had lodged deep within her. But Harumi wasn't the type to scream and shout. She needed someone like Esther to defend her.

"She's not from China, you idiot," Esther shouted. "She's American."

"Then why do her mama and daddy talk so funny?"

"They came from j.a.pan," Esther said. "They came here to be free."

He picked up a stone and tossed it at Harumi. It hit the back of her leg, but she didn't turn around. By now she was halfway to the Shealys' yard. She'd probably keep on going and run off to her own house. Then Esther would be alone for the rest of the day.

"I'll get you for that," Esther shrieked. She dropped her ice cream bar onto the pavement and ran straight for the little boy. When she got to him, she began pummeling him with her fists.

He fell onto the pavement, his fudge bar flying into the air. The other kids went running off in different directions.

Esther climbed onto the boy, pinning him to the ground, and yanked at his hair. Clumps of white-blond hair stuck to her sticky, sweaty hands. She tried to claw his hands away so she could spit on his face, but he kept his eyes and mouth shielded. By the time Esther's mother arrived, the boy was a sniveling mess.

Esther had gotten into big trouble, but she was still proud of her ferocity. Even now, she and Harumi would sometimes laugh about that day. Not that she saw Harumi much anymore.

Sometimes she invited Esther to go along to a party where she'd be playing with her new band, but Esther thought that she was just using her as an alibi. If her parents knew what she was doing on those Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights (Not shopping at the mall! Not going to see movies at the Cineplex!) they'd probably chain her to her bedpost.

Harumi's life had changed. She and Esther were in different orbits.

5.

Trudy's dad had once been in a band. He had photos and demo tapes to prove it. On one wall of his apartment there was a framed flyer advertising a riverside gig. They'd called themselves Swamp, after the mushy lowlands of South Carolina.

Trudy spent hours listening to Jack's tapes. Swamp's sound made her think of dusty roads and moonshine and cats in heat. They were a blues band, but sometimes they got happy, rollicking through their songs with the kick of rock and roll. Sometimes she grabbed a wooden spoon, held it like a mic, and sang along. One day, that would be her voice on tape.

Sarah had never told Trudy about the band. Maybe she didn't care or hadn't thought it was important. Sarah liked '60s Motown, after all, the s.e.xy croon of Marvin Gaye, the bubbly optimism of the girl groups. Swamp's sound was something else.

Trudy tried to get to know Jack through his music while he was away at the university where he taught anthropology. Sometimes he brought his textbooks home and tried to interest her in the peoples of the world. She'd officially dropped out of school (she'd be coming into her trust fund in a couple of years and had no need of a diploma anyway), but he thought that he could teach her things. One night he prepared a slide show, there in the living room. They sat on the secondhand sofa with c.o.kes while Jack narrated.

Trudy looked at the images on the white wall and saw instead her father, holding a camera in a country far from her. Where had she been at that time? Curled up in the corner of her bedroom, evading Sarah's hysteria? Trying to keep her mother's boyfriend's hands out of her pants? She would have been happier in West Africa with her father, drums beating her to sleep at night.

Jack kept beer in the fridge and sometimes she'd crack open a can while watching the soaps. One afternoon she got carried away-two beers during All My Children, a couple more during General Hospital. Her dad found her still in her pajamas amid crumpled empties. He wasn't as mad as she'd expected. Sarah would have been furious. She'd have shipped Trudy off to a foster home like she had once before. That had been for slapping her little brother Joey. She didn't remember why she'd hit him, only a sense of never-ending fury that had finally made its way to her hand. Joey hadn't been injured, but he'd wailed like a banshee. Trudy had been sorry about it later, but she got sent away anyhow.

The foster family, the Andersons, had lived in an old house with a rotting porch. There were three other foster children as well. Trudy figured they were getting paid to take in the unwashed and unwanted because they hadn't seemed enthusiastic about parenting.

Mrs. Anderson sat in the den all day, a bowl of potato chips in her lap, watching game shows. Sometimes she asked Trudy to change the baby's diapers or run to the store for a pack of cigarettes. She was like their maid. She ran away five times.

Jack didn't send her to the Andersons or anywhere else. He had this liberal parent act going. Or maybe he didn't know that he was supposed to be strict.

"Trudy," he said calmly. He picked up one accordioned can and examined it. "First I'm going to go make us a pot of coffee. Then we're going to have a talk."

Trudy sat on the sofa, mute, too stunned for defiance. She grabbed a cushion and held it to her chest, rocked back and forth. He was probably going to beat her. Didn't Sarah say he'd given her a black eye once? But no. Trudy listened to him pulverize the beans in a hand-crank grinder. Then she heard the whistle of the kettle as the water came to a boil. Jack made coffee in a French press he'd gotten on one of his trips.

When he came back, he set down two mugs, opened the curtains, and sat on a stool in front of Trudy so they could talk face to face.

"I think you need something interesting to do," he said. "I'll give you a choice. You can help me at the university, or maybe we could find a job for you somewhere."

"I'll help you," she said, "at the university."

She went with him the next day even though she had a slight hangover. She wasn't used to drinking. The reform school had been dry, although some girls had managed to smuggle in some weed.

Trudy followed her father across campus, into the Humanities building where he had his office. She tried to keep her distance, not wanting to look like a kid tagging along. She wore lipstick and bright blue eye shadow.

Students were everywhere. Blankets decorated the lawn, and young men and women in cutoffs and tank tops sunned themselves. Frisbees sliced through the air. Music blasted from portable radios.

Jack led her to the elevator, then along a hallway to his office. She waited while he opened the door, looked both ways down the corridor as if planning her escape.

Jack's office was small and walled with books. His desk faced away from the window. There were a couple of straight-back chairs near the door for students. A beanbag chair took up one corner.

He showed her where the bathroom was and where she could get a drink of water. Then he led her back to the office. "Why don't you hang out here for a while? Read some books. Get a feel for the place." He left her there to go teach a cla.s.s.

Trudy sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk. She pushed off against the desk and gave it a spin. When the chair came to a stop, she started looking in the drawers. Lots of pens, paper clips, a scattering of business cards. In the bottom drawer there were stacks of papers-drafts of an article Jack was working on. Something about Gullah coming-of-age rituals. And under that, last month's Playboy.