3. ROXANNE
Chapter three
The reflection of my Lee Aaron poster behind me is my silent friend as I sort through the same three solid back eyeliners I own, all worn down to nubs. Grabbing the blackest one, I apply a thick line on my top lid, and part my lips as I comb through my lashes with mascara, finishing the look with a subtle brown lipstick.
It took me years of trial and error to figure out even this basic routine. Mom was never conscious enough to teach me about makeup or fashion, so I learned everything from magazine tutorials and lots and lots of practice.
At least I’m not living in the days where my wardrobe consisted of cut-up versions of my dad’s old jeans anymore, held up with a belt around my waist, and whatever hand-me-downs I could scrounge up. It wasn’t until I started working that I could afford to hit the second-hand stores and cultivate my own style.
I crank up the music and move to my closet. I already picked out my outfit the night before—a long-sleeve faded Metallica T-shirt, black Doc Martens, and light-wash shorts.
When I finish changing, my eyes jump over to the poster of Lee above my bed again. She has wild long hair, bold red lips, and a black studded bra with leather pants. Even the way she looks at the camera is powerful, like she's daring the world to underestimate her.
Everything I aspire to be.
I crawl across my blue duvet and plant myself in the center on my knees, clasping my hands together and squeezing my eyes shut.
“Alright, Lee,” I whisper, “this is it. We're seniors now. We’re going to be the best metal queens out there. And it’s going to be a great fucking year.”
And then I do the all-hail-mary or whatever people do whenever they try to speak out to the universe. Except my god— goddess —is Lee Aaron.
I’ll never forget the day my dad showed me her. I was instantly hooked and her music became the soundtrack to my life. This badass woman became a rock icon and destroyed the music scene as the lead singer of her own metal band. It was all I listened to for months. I’d tape a hairbrush to a broomstick and dance around my room while singing Metal Queen , or I’d take my show out into the backyard and pretend I was performing a concert.
I stopped doing that the day I caught my dad looking through the blinds. He had to be wondering where he went wrong in raising me.
Even though I may have never picked up my hairbrush mic again, Lee stayed with me forever.
Smiling at the memory, I kiss my fingers before I smack my palm against the center of the poster a few times for good luck. A little superstitious ritual I’d started a long time ago when I’d aced my first algebra test after accidentally brushing my hand against Lee’s face. Then I hop off my bed, grab my black backpack, and head out the door.
On the first day of school, I have another ritual that I religiously follow. It begins at the corner store down the street from my house, where I head straight for the glass case full of round halos. I point my finger at my one true love—a strawberry iced donut smothered in colorful sprinkles, then grab a bag of Funyuns. Both are guilty pleasures.
With the snacks in hand, that’s when I make my way to Stephanie’s house.
Stephanie might be the Nancy Wilson to my Ann, and we’ve been tight since the seventh grade. I met her in science class on the first day of school while I was wearing a T-shirt with Gizmo on it. She stomped right up to me in her mismatched socks and crazy curly hair, and tapped me on my shoulder.
“Hey. I like your Gremlins T-shirt,” she said. Then she sat next to me with no questions asked. The rest was history.
Donut stuffed in my mouth, I fail to keep my eyes on the road as I whip my head along to the car stereo, Rebel Angel piercing my eardrums. My thumbs tap to the beat as I grip the wheel, which I have basically been using as a makeshift drum since the song began.
I scream the lyrics out loud while speeding down the familiar roads, my smile turning demonic as the notes run through my body. The guitar solo hits me like a brick, making me feel so good that I almost forget about the shit that went down last night.
Almost.
I’m reminded when I glance to my right on the main road, out past the bell-shaped pond and beyond the park to the tall mansions in the distance. I wrinkle my nose and look back toward the pond that separates us, at all the kids playing around it. I’d heard stories about creatures lurking beneath its murky depths, but I’ve never seen any proof. I’m convinced it’s how they try to get more tourism to this town, but still, I give the pond a wide berth as I crank up the music even louder.
My right hand turns white as I hastily grip the wheel and turn left onto Steph’s street, my other hand clinging on to my donut for dear life. As I pull into her driveway, I honk the horn and switch the radio to the local station.
Stephanie has never been as much of a metalhead as me, so I try to keep the peace between us and find common ground. That usually results in listening to Heart, Madonna, or The Cure.
I honk the horn again and look out over her neighborhood, slowly bringing the donut back to my lips and taking a bite. Steph lives on the wrong side of the pond as I do, but further north, closer to the bustling metropolis we laughingly call downtown. The houses are dilapidated and the streets are mostly empty, save for a few stray cats and the occasional person walking without purpose. Despite the ugly atmosphere, I feel warm when I look at it.
It was home. And at least I didn’t live by Lake Lickrage on the far opposite side of town.
The lake that got its name because Chris Heath tried to drink the water with a piece of licorice he turned into a straw.
Yes. This is the town I live in. “Where the ponds look like bells and the lakes get licked.
I scarf down the rest of my donut, then I honk the horn again and tap my fingers on the wheel, waiting, waiting, and waiting.
It’s only 8:09 AM, a full twenty minutes before the first bell tolls our doom, but time seems to be ticking slower than usual and I'm dying to tell Steph all about last night.
Just when I start to wonder what the hell is taking her so long and contemplate storming in there, I finally see her emerging and I motion for her to hurry up.
“Sorry, sorry!” She smiles and waves, slinging her backpack over her black denim jacket. Stephanie, with her blonde ponytail bobbing in the wind and big brown eyes, always had that innocent vibe to her that was so pure I often felt like a hardened criminal next to her, even if she was the one with her hand down the back of her pants, vigorously attempting to extract a wedgie as she hops down the steps leading from her front door.
I throw the car in reverse and drive us both to school in two minutes flat, my white and blue metal machine zipping down the streets as we sing along to Wilson Phillips.
The second I hit the brakes in the parking lot, I ripped open the bag of Funyuns and went on to recount the events of last night. My voice is halting and loud in between onion-flavored gasps as I try to explain how it feels to be dumped by a band, still trying to process the news, and Stephanie listens sympathetically. I feel bad for anyone who has been dumped by Riley.
“What bitches,” she says, scrunching her nose up and shaking her head.
The radio starts playing Love Shack and I lurch forward with a groan to jab my finger on the off switch. I swivel my head to glance at Steph, who slowly turns to meet my gaze. I catch a glimpse of her glossy pink-tinted lips widening as her hand comes up to hide her small grin, then we both burst out laughing like a couple of hyenas.
Even with the frustration and horror of my circumstances, the universe's impeccable timing is too fucking perfect. If I hear that song four years from now, it’ll still be too soon.
I groan as I root around for another Funyun in the bag between us.
“I wish you’d learn how to play an instrument so we could start a band,” I lament, shifting to sit cross-legged and leaning my elbows on my knees. “But that would require you to stop being a couch potato and watching Saved By The Bell reruns”
“Hey, I can play one instrument!” Stephanie shouts. “The clarinet .”
I bark out a laugh, licking the oniony residue off my black-painted nails. “Really? The most vanilla instrument in the history of sound? Please tell me a second instrument that you know how to play.” I throw a Funyun at her head, biting back another laugh when it gets stuck in her pink scrunchie.
“I’m sorry, is the clarinet not special enough for you, Miss Queen of Music? Gonna trash talk the triangle next or something?” She pouts, dramatically flopping her head onto my shoulder. “Or, instead of rock bands, you could spend your precious time with the losers who actually love you?”
I smile, laying my cheek against her curls. “Steph, Steph, Steph. I love you and Tyler with all my heart, but I’d never trade in my dreams of becoming a rock goddess for all the time in the world with you two. Barf.” I make a gagging sound. “Duh, we're totally hanging out. There's a stack of cassettes with our names on them, a jumbo bag of Pop Rocks…”
Trailing off, I lean forward to look directly into her eyes.
“The new Johnny Depp movie will be out in a couple of months too.”
“Oh god, now you’re gonna make me blush.” She fans herself like a Southern belle, laughing. “Rock goddess is quite a title, you know. But I know you can do it.” She lifts her head off my shoulder, punching me none too gently. “And yeah, I’m totally game for sneaking out and smoking pot—whatever, I am so down .”
“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” I scoff, my grin giving way to my answer.
I glance at my backpack in the backseat, perking up instantly as Steph wrinkles her brow. I uncross my legs and reach for it.
“Oh shit! I need to give you your birthday gift today.” I dig around in my bag before pulling out a small wrapped present in polka-dotted paper. “Here, open it now.”
“A gift? For me ?” She snatches the box, her fingers diving into it with a lightning speed that never fails to amaze me.
One of the many things that solidified our friendship was the incredible coincidence that we share the same birthday. August 17, 1972. A date that bound us together in a way that feels almost like destiny. How much more meant to be can you get?
Once she opens the gift, she tosses the wrapping paper and small box down to the floorboard, rubbing the two ticket stubs with her thumb.
“You have to come with me to this. Pulvertongue is playing in Chicago on January 2nd,” I blurt out, my words tripping over. “We need to go and you need to see what real music is like.”
She looks over the tickets multiple times before glancing up at me, smiling goofily while doing a little exaggerated shake with her fists close to her body. The tickets nearly crush in her hands.
After a throaty laugh, she seals her lips, pointing the tickets out to me. “Wait! Are you sure you don’t want to take Harley to this?” she asks, and the name hits me like a splash of cold water. “Not that I haven’t been more excited for anything in my entire life! Pulvertongue! January 2nd! Hell! Yes! I will definitely be there!”
I pluck the tickets out of her fingers and tuck them up into the strap on my sun visor.
I love Stephanie to death, but I don’t trust her to keep these babies safe. Leaving her in charge of anything with physical importance is asking for trouble. I learned that the day we were in her bedroom in the middle of a laughing fit, one that sent her dry heaving and gasping for her inhaler. Five years of friendship and I never knew she had asthma. It took me three well panicked minutes to rummage through the mountains of clothes around her bedroom to find that small blue container.
Now I help clean her room every weekend to make sure she doesn’t die on me.
“No way. I have to corrupt you,” I answer, pushing thoughts of Harley aside. “Not Harley.”
Ah, Harley. My boyfriend . Currently the word feels as ill-fitting as Riley's idea of good music.
We’ve been together for several months now, but there’s something about the last few weeks where I haven’t quite felt the... spark. It feels more like a cold chill whenever he’s around now instead of a warm summer’s day.
I don’t know why there’s this weird mutual distance between us like even he knows something’s off. I tried to broach the subject once and he blamed it on my band practice, but I struggle to believe him considering it’s been no different from when we first started dating. He’s the one who’s always out with his new friends.
Sometimes I indulge in these fantasies where I tell him we’re through, in hopes he’d show me that he still wants me, wants to fight for whatever we have. Or he would swoop in with a glorious white horse and take me out of this place like in every romantic film.
Only this is reality, and reality bites. Hard.
“Harley wouldn’t like Pulvertongue,” I tell Steph, thinking about those crazy bastards who crawled out of L.A.’s gutter in '79 and redefined what it means to be hardcore.
During an outdoor gig, their lead singer Mick Vickers got fanged by a fucking snake mid-set. Did he wimp out? Hell no. Hopped up on God-knows-what, that guy kept wailing like nothing happened.
Some genius caught it all on tape, and bootlegs of Venom’s Kiss were spreading through the music scene.
“If he went with me, he’d stand there, all frowny and refusing to dance, which would make it miserable for me. But you?” I grab onto her shoulders, grinning maniacally. “We would actually dance and shout until we lost our voices. Much more fun. So, no, Harley’s not going. Will you come with me to this? Please ?”
My lips form their most dramatic pout, knowing she can never resist my sad face.
“Aw, shucks,” she sniffles. “Of course, I’ll go with you.”
“If we’re going to be the real fans that we’ll claim to be, then we need to get there super early to stand in line for a good spot in front.” My cheeks lift as my lips part way for an uncontrollable smile. “First, we need to get through the next 134 school days.”
“It’s the first day,” she groans, thumping her head against the headrest. “Surely we can skip and nobody will notice. If I get stuck with Jonathan in my class again, I will lose my mind.”
“Just ignore him. He’s a douche and you aren’t going to let him affect you, got it?”
We both snort, thinking of what happened last year. Jonathan kept kicking the back of Tyler’s chair and calling him “pixie stick” under his breath, and Stephanie told me she could feel that heat clawing up her chest, until Tyler turned around and said, loud enough for the whole class to hear, “Why are you so obsessed with me, Jonathan? Is it because you want to kiss me?”
They both said Jonathan’s face went so red while the class laughed their asses off. I really wish I could have seen Tyler stand up for himself like that. He’s usually so relaxed, but when he does speak up, it’s always pure fucking gold.
Once the parking lot sounds like a graveyard, we drag ourselves out of the car, huffing as we slouch through those blue double doors for the first—and thank fuck, last—time. The giant Bellpond Sharks logo stares up at us from the floor as we both zombie-walk to our lockers.
The final bell for first period rings and I rub the ends of my hair between my fingers as a dirt bike pulls into the parking lot, the loud engine reverberating through the glass window beside me.
I slouch further in my seat, my single fingertip flipping open the cover of my marble notebook as Mrs. Taylor calls roll. Her voice carries through the classroom, all the way to the back left corner where I’m sitting, but I’m not paying attention.
I’m too busy angrily etching tiny little stars around the border of the blank page. I know it's him outside without having to look. I bet he is always late and somehow never gets in trouble for it.
Just one more thing about him that gets under my skin like a fucking splinter.
I shake my head and roll my eyes, trying to block out the mental image of Noah strutting through the halls, but all I can hear is the sound of his engine.
My pencil digs in harder as I draw a tiny motorcycle beside my stars, then scratch it out.
I scowl and cave, lolling my head to the left.
Noah Jackson twists his lips as he puts the keys inside the pocket of his black denim jeans that are—still—far too tight and barely reaching the top of his black and white high tops. I huff when I catch sight of the black t-shirt tucked into his pants, underneath his bright red nylon snap-button jacket.
Does he think this is Miami Vice?
Leave it to him to dress like he’s operating a fashion show for the first day even though I know he probably gets dressed in 10 seconds with his eyes closed. I bet he rolls out of bed in the morning, runs his fingers through his hair, and calls it a day.
It’s not fair. Nothing about Noah Jackson is fair.
I tear my gaze away when he makes it halfway across the grass, the minute Mrs. Taylor calls out my name for attendance. It was either a blessing or a curse to have W as the first letter of my last name. On one hand, it meant that I was always last in line, which gave me the advantage of knowing exactly when my turn would come, giving me more time to panic or to zone out until then.
Mrs. Taylor clears her throat, capturing the attention of the class. “Now that the attendance business is finished, let’s discuss our reading list for the semester,” she declares, clasping her hands together. “I’ve selected a diverse array of literary classics guaranteed to expand your minds and touch your souls!”
Taylor is cut off when the door to the classroom clicks open, and I raise an eyebrow, darting a glance up to the right front corner of the room when Noah Jackson walks in. Of course, he’s in my first period class.
I should have prayed harder to Lee Aaron.
My head falls down at my notebook as all eyes in the room turn on him. No doubt he’s relishing the attention, that little smirk always glued in place. I refuse to satisfy him by gawking too.
“Welcome Mr. Jackson,” Mrs. Taylor says, her tone implying this is a regular thing she’s tired of addressing. “We’re glad you could finally join us.”
“Always a pleasure, Teach,” he drawls back.
“And on the first day? Some things never change I see.” Hushed snickers fill the room until Mrs. Taylor huffs, quickly jumping back in. “Please take your seat. There’s an empty one over...”
I look back up immediately, glancing around for empty desks so I can calculate how far he’ll be, how far away I’ll have to feel his energy radiating near me, and which direction I’ll need to avoid.
It’s to my complete horror that the only open seat is near me.
The one right next to me.
To my immediate right.
Damn you, Lee Aaron.
“Please take your seat by Ms. Roxanne Wishmore,” Mrs. Taylor says, squashing my dreams permanently.
I start to mentally prepare myself for the challenge of maintaining my composure throughout the class, but my cheeks start to burn a lovely shade of red as everyone in the room turns to look at me and watch him move toward me.
My hand cramps as I gouge an angry star next to his dirt bike drawing, and if I could sink any further into my chair I would be a puddle on the damn floor.
I lean my head forward so my hair falls past my ear and covers the side of my face, hoping he won’t notice me, but I hear his high tops squeak loudly across the tile, mimicking the scream inside my head. Time to send one last desperate prayer up to the gods of rock above.
The heat of my cheeks only deepen as I keep my focus fixed on my desk, bouncing my knee and feeling too much like the scribbles I keep circling against my paper as his skateboard bounces against his back the closer he gets. There’s the telltale sound of his chain on his neck swaying as his desk grinds against the floor when he pushes it back, sitting down heavily and sliding his backpack behind his seat.
I peek through my hair, watching Noah’s long legs extend out beneath the small desk, sticking out far enough to reach underneath the chair of the poor soul in front of him. His sleeves are rolled up, his bare arms crossed against his chest as his head falls back loosely, his wavy hair barely covering his closed eyes.
Is he for real? My anxiety is running rampant to ignore him and he’s going to sleep?
As if he can sense it, Noah cracks open one eye, sliding it over to look right at me. He hits me with a blank stare for two heartbeats before he slides his feet back towards him and leans forward, his jeans stretching as his legs widen.
And he turns to me.
Fuck . He’s going to talk to me, isn’t he?
This is my luck. Fate has assigned him the seat next to me, a person who has effortless confidence that sometimes makes me question my own worth, the guy who still pisses me off because he’s taken so many wins from me, and sitting in class next to him is only going to amplify those feelings.
Suppressing the urge to let out a frustrated sigh, I turn to my notebook, determined to ignore his presence and get my shit done. In the midst of doodling a heart with devil horns, I still feel his gaze all over me from across the aisle. At this point, I have to look back at it to see if my hunch is right.
I was.
My heart clenches.
Maybe I should have skipped school after all.