Chapter 24
I stare at the display on my phone, willing it to light up with an incoming call. Not just any call. Peace’s call. Disappointment stews in my gut when it remains dark.
“Call me, dammit,” I curse under my breath. It’s been two weeks since I heard her voice. That’s the longest we’ve gone without talking. The last time I spoke to her, I told her we were trying out “Wish On” in front of the other kids in the group home. That song feels like our song, hers and mine. She feels like a part of this band, though I refuse to call it that. For one thing, we’ve never performed in front of a real audience. For another, I know that once we give ourselves a name, there will be expectations. Ones I’m not so confident I can fulfill without Peace.
“Give the glaring at your phone a rest.” Carson drops down onto the old, ratty basement sofa beside me. “Have a drink.” He offers me the bottle of Jack Daniel’s that’s already half consumed. The older chicks give him booze and other shit that’s illegal all the time.
“Nah, man.” I push the bottle away. I need to be clearheaded if I’m going to make it through this legit debut. “I’m good.”
“You’re not okay.” He narrows his blue eyes. “You’ve been moping around for two fucking weeks. Peace isn’t gonna call you, man. Take the hint. It’s over. She’s moved on. You should too.” He shakes the bottle like a tambourine. “Now have a swig.”
I stare at the alcohol for a beat. I know the pitfalls of booze and drugs. My mom has a history, and she’s been cautioning me about addiction since I hit my teens. She’s clean now, but that wasn’t always the case. Bottom line, I know it isn’t just expectations that come with naming a band. There’s a spotlight on everyone that will reveal our actions very publicly, good or bad.
“Not asking you to get wasted.” Carson tips the bottle back, swallows, and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “But, bro, you’re tense as fuck. You need to loosen up.”
Do I? Across the basement, I catch Stevie watching us. His brother Levi is nearby and already seated behind his kit. Both brothers are wearing matching worried expressions.
Fuck it. “Give me the damn thing.” I take the bottle from Carson. The alcohol sloshes into my mouth. I make a face when the Tennessee whiskey hits my tongue. It’s bitter like my life is without Peace to sweeten it. I swallow a big gulp and start coughing. Carson claps me on the back. “That stuff is awful.” I pass the bottle back to him.
“You’ll get used to it.”
A cold shadow like a premonition slides over my skin before the heat of the alcohol kicks in. “Tastes like gasoline.” But I can’t argue with the warmth that spreads inside my chest.
“It’s an acquired taste.” He drinks some more. “Have another swig.” He puts the bottle back in my hand.
“Sure.” I take it, already feeling a little less edgy, and swallow another mouthful. It’s not as bad the second time. I start to tilt the bottle back for another swallow, but Carson snatches it away.
“Ease up, Jacks.” He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Need my lead guitarist loose but sober.” He stands and my cell rings. Hope rises within me until I glance at the display and see the caller ID.
Bryan Jackson calling.
“Fuck. It’s my old man.” I cringe.
“Shit.” Carson’s black brows rise. He knows that unless I’m in trouble, Bryan never calls me.
“Hello,” I answer.
“Do you ever fucking study?”
“Hello to you too, Dad,” I say. My gut knotting, I reach for the packet of cigarettes in the front pocket of my shirt. “How’s Mom?”
“She’s great.” His tone softens. “Working night and day on a new summer line she’s really excited about.”
“Good for her.” My mom is happiest when she’s working.
“She’d be better if she knew you were applying yourself.”
I pull in a sharp breath after he sucker punches me with that criticism. “Don’t give me grief,” I manage to punch back. “You’re both better off with me out of the house.”
“We want you to succeed, to have an easier path to making a living than we had.”
“Keep telling yourself whatever you want to believe,” I mutter. That tired stuff just sounds like an excuse to treat me like shit.
“Bo.” He expels my name. Nothing has changed.
“I’ll pass on your fatherly concern.”
“I scheduled you a tutor. Talked to your teacher. Told them about your dyslexia.”
“You had no right to do that.” A muscle in my jaw spasms as I grind my molars together.
“I’m your father.”
“You made me a fucking target.” Being different is a weakness, especially at military school. The rule is to conform. Be like everybody else. On the outside with our uniforms and inside with our obedient, “yes, sir, no, sir.” It’s drilled into us day and night to fall in line. “I’m gonna get the shit beat out of me.”
“You need to pass your classes.” Translation, he doesn’t care. He’s totally deaf when it comes to my desires or well-being.
“You don’t care if I pass so long as your life is easy.” I tap out a cigarette and put it in my mouth. His expression concerned, Carson lights it for me.
“That’s not true,” Bryan begins, but I’m done.
“Listen, old man, and listen well.” I fill my lungs with a kick of nicotine. “I can take care of my own shit.”
“That’s far from true.”
I think about Peace and how much I lean on her, but that’s none of his business.
“I gotta go.” I blow out a cloud of smoke. “I’m busy.”
“Busy doing what?” He scoffs. “’Cause I know for damn sure you’re not studying.”
“Hanging with a group of my friends,” I reply vaguely. “Not that you really care.”
“What friends?” he asks.
“Just a couple of guys with guitars and shit. We jam together when we get a chance.” I shrug. “I’ll tell you about it when I come up for the Tempest BS concert.”
“You’re not coming. Not with those grades. You need to stay put and study for your finals.”
“I so the fuck am coming,” I disagree. Peace will be there. I must see her.
“I forbid it.”
“I don’t give a fuck.” Ending the call, I throw my phone on the couch and stand. I drop my cigarette on the dirty floor and crush it under the heel of my Dr. Martens.
“Old men are assholes.” Carson summarizes from a place of experience. His parents dumped him in the foster care system, like mine dumped me at school. His preferred meth over taking care of their son. Mine got rid of me because I’m an inconvenience.
“Fuck ’em,” I declare, my gaze locking with his. Shared understanding passing between us, he squeezes my shoulder.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Let’s play some motherfucking music.”
I pluck my guitar out of its stand. After throwing the strap over my shoulder, I strum a few test chords that make me feel marginally better. With the aftereffects of my dad’s call lingering, I have to force myself not to grip the neck of my guitar too hard.
I really fucking wish Peace were here.