Ballads of Suburbia (11 page)

Before my parents split, I got high sometimes, partied a little
bit, but was still basically a good kid. After my family disintegrated, I lived my life as loud, fast, and angry as the music I listened to. The songs I adored warned me about addiction and love that was no good. But I didn't care about what happened in the long run. I focused on escaping the pain one night at a time.

Back then, I didn't tell anyone what I was running from, but now I want to make it clear: my self-destruction started with the divorce, not with Adrian Matthews like everyone thought.

JUNE-SEPTEMBER 1994
[SUMMER BEFORE JUNIOR YEAR]

I
HADN'T EXPECTED
A
DRIAN TO REMEMBER ME,
since he'd been so wasted the first time we met. A week after that incident, we'd crossed paths at one of Shelly's parties.

It was a warm May night, about a month before my parents split. Adrian sat on the back porch with Quentin and Craig. I went out there looking for Liam, but when Adrian called out to me-even getting my name right-I immediately forgot about everything else.

“Kara, want to smoke with us?” He offered me a joint.

My insides did somersaults as I lowered myself into a cross-legged position beside him, trying to maintain a facade of cool. The long inhale I took from the joint helped. After passing it to Quentin, I pointed to an open notebook resting on Adrian's lap. “What's that?”

“Oh, this?” Adrian grinned lazily and detangled the top of the notebook's spiral binding from the strings surrounding the hole in the knee of his jeans. He looked particularly good that night in a faded Operation Ivy T-shirt, his free-flowing dark waves hanging down his back. “Quentin and I have been working on this since junior high. It's kind of like a scrapbook.”

He plunked the heavy five-subject onto my lap. I traced the ransom-note-style lettering on the cover; it was the “Stories
of Suburbia” notebook Cass had been writing in. I opened it, skimming the contents in the weak light that shone through the kitchen window onto the porch. The pages were filled with newspaper clippings about crimes and unsavory incidents from suburbs around the country. Prominent doctors murdered their wives, prominent attorneys were killed by their children, suicides were committed by seemingly happy high school seniors, and then there were a few lighthearted things in between.

Adrian indicated a police blotter from our local paper, the
Oak Leaves.
It reported sightings of three teenage boys vandalizing cars with rotten fruit. “Drive-by fruitings,” he said, laughing. “That's me, Quentin, and Wes.”

Adrian's fingers graced mine as he flipped through the articles, and I reached for the joint again to keep from visibly swooning at his electric touch. He flicked past a handwritten page that had “The Confession of a Ritalin Zombie: Quentin Hawthorne” written in tiny print in the margin. Quentin cited Bad Religion lyrics before launching into his tale. Several pages beyond that I recognized Cass's meticulous writing beneath a Tori Amos quote. I started to read it, but finished only the first sentence—
Crazy runs in my family, matrilineally at least
—before Adrian turned the page.

“I don't like rules, but I did make one for this book,” he informed me, face uncharacteristically stern. “You have to write your confession before you can read anyone else's.”

“What do you have to confess to?”

Adrian tapped one of the doctor-turned-wife-killer stories. “In these articles, they act like people just go crazy, do terrible shit, and it's a big anomaly, but everybody in suburbia has a fucked-up secret, an event or series of events that made you who you are. That's what you're confessing to here.”

“So, it's like your ballad,” I murmured.

“What, like a Whitney Houston song or some crap?” Adrian snorted.

“No,” I said quickly, not wanting him to think I was an idiot. I was well versed in this subject thanks to Liam, the Johnny Cash fanatic. I quoted my brother: “AA true ballad tells a story about real life.'” Then I elaborated, giving it my own spin: “I'm sure you know the Rancid song ‘The Ballad of Jimmy and Johnny,' about two friends who fight because they have different ideas about what being a skinhead means.”

Adrian nodded. His wary expression vanished and he leaned in, interested.

“It's stupid for them to fight, but they do anyway,” I continued. “A lot of ballads are about the mistakes we inevitably make while trying to figure out how to live our lives. Some of those newspaper articles remind me of ‘Cocaine Blues' by Johnny Cash. You know, ‘I took a shot of cocaine and I shot my woman down,'” I sung softly, watching Adrian's lips curl into a smile. Blushing, I shook my finger at him. “Don't make fun of my singing.”

“I'm not! You're good. And I know the song.” Adrian had a voice deep enough to mimic Johnny's baritone, but he made no attempt to sing. He recited the rest of the first verse and concluded, “Gotta love songs about outlaws.”

“Yeah,” I said with a grin. “There's something more genuine about Johnny Cash singing about going to prison than those articles, though. Those are so sensationalized. They don't get inside people's heads like Johnny does. Tim Armstrong, Mike Ness, all those punk singers, they do that.
You guys
are doing that by writing firsthand accounts of the things that changed you and the mistakes you made.” My voice rose, growing more passionate with each example, but then my insecurity returned. Even though the three boys listened intently, not laughing or looking at me like I was nuts, I concluded quietly, “That's why I instantly thought of them as ballads. Sorry if it's totally stupid…”

But Adrian shook his head in awe. “That's not stupid. It's fucking brilliant.” He paged through the notebook and crossed out
“confession” wherever it was written, replacing it with “ballad.” When he finished, he offered the notebook to me. “Since you understand this so well, you wanna write one?”

I shook my head, mumbling, “I don't know what mine is about yet.”

“Really?” I could tell Adrian was preparing to interrogate me, but fortunately Liam poked his head outside, shouting, “Kara, we should get going.”

“My brother.” I shrugged sheepishly, though secretly I was relieved to exit while everyone still thought I was cool.

As I walked away, I heard Adrian declare, “We gotta hang out with Kara more often.”

A hopeless crush had never made me feel so good before.

 

Of course, it never made me feel so miserable either. Things with Adrian did not go nearly as well a month later.

The weekend my father moved out, Christian made it his mission to get me and Liam wasted. He'd filled a two-liter with a concoction of everything in his dad's liquor cabinet plus some 7UP and lemonade. It looked like piss and tasted like cough syrup, but he, Maya, Liam, and I sat at the booth in the farthest corner of Shelly's basement, gulping it down like water.

I got drunker than I'd ever been before and even though depressing thoughts about my parents still nagged at me, I tried to push them away, focusing on more pleasant things. “Where's Adrian?” I slurred. “I like him a lot. We should offer him a drink.”

My friends shrugged, but Jessica, who stood nearby, irritated that we wouldn't relinquish her usual table or share our booze, rolled her eyes and laughed. “Adrian's rather busy.” She gestured to a couch across the room where Adrian lay, stretched out on top of some purple-haired girl and doing extremely vampiric things to her neck.

My stomach turned. I swallowed the rest of my drink and stumbled up, announcing, “I have to pee.”

Actually, I went out on Shelly's back porch and puked over the railing. I puked and cried, hating myself for thinking that when Adrian called me brilliant, it meant something. When I heard footsteps on the porch, I assumed it was Liam coming to check on me. Without turning around, I whimpered, “I want to go home.”

Adrian's husky voice replied, “Oh? Jessica said you wanted to talk to me.”

“That stupid bitch,” I muttered, spinning to face Adrian. It looked like there were five of him standing in front of me.

“What?”

“Nothing. You should go back to your girlfriend.”

“Viv's not my girlfriend. She's just…a girl.”

This statement confused me and I wobbled slightly.

“You look like you need to sit down.” Adrian took my hand and led me over to the steps. He put his arms around my shoulders and carefully lowered me into a seated position. His touch still felt electric even though the thought of him touching that Viv girl made my stomach churn again.

“Can you get my brother?” I pleaded.

“Sure, but tell me what you wanted to talk about first.” He sat down on the step beside me, his knee brushing mine.

Damn Jessica. I'm sure she'd hoped that I would drunkenly confess to Adrian that I had a huge crush on him and he'd laugh at me and I'd puke on him. I was determined not to embarrass myself that way.

“Uhh…” I stalled before remembering the last time I'd talked to him on the porch. “I was thinking about writing my ballad. My parents announced they're getting divorced this week. That's why I'm drunk. Too drunk to write about it like I was going to. Besides, I'm not really sure if that's my ballad.”

Adrian chuckled. “Yeah, you're definitely too drunk. And I think you're right. You're an interesting girl. I'm sure there's more to your story. Now I'll go get Liam.”

And then he did it. As he rose to leave he kissed the top of my head. But he kissed it with those lips that had just kissed another girl. I dropped my face into my hands, not sure if I should smile or cry or puke some more.

I really, really hated liking Adrian.

I
SPENT
S
ATURDAY NURSING MY HANGOVER AND
anguishing about Adrian. I'd mentally replay him kissing Viv and grow queasy. Then I'd relive him kissing me on the head and get butterflies in my stomach. By Sunday, I just wanted to blot it out with more booze. Fortunately, Maya invited me over for an afternoon of wine drinking while Liam and Christian skated at Scoville. Christian had a stockpile of wine from a party his dad had thrown and he'd given it to Maya.

Maya still lived at the hotel. Her father had finally found a house, but now he was remodeling it and their move-in date kept getting pushed back. I enjoyed the novelty of her living situation, though. We pretended to be on vacation whenever we hung out in her room, a mind-set that lent itself nicely to our wine buzz.

Even after we'd knocked back a bottle apiece, I still hadn't managed to get Adrian out of my mind. I gave in and decided to share my dilemma with Maya.

“Adrian's definitely cute,” Maya said through gritted teeth as she struggled to open a fresh bottle of wine. “Yes!” She held the cork aloft and took a celebratory swig. Passing it to me, she warned, “But Adrian doesn't do serious.”

“How do you know?”

“He and Cass have been good friends for years. They decided to lose their virginity together at a party during her freshman year 'cause they were bored. He's been sleeping around ever since.”

“What?” I exclaimed, choking on the wine.

“You didn't know that? I thought everyone knew thanks to Jessica and Mary. It wasn't a big deal or anything. There's never been anything serious between them.”

“Sex kind of is a big deal, though. Maybe I'm totally old-fashioned,” I mumbled, staring uncomfortably at the floor.

Maya squeezed my hand, forcing me to look into her solemn gray eyes. “I feel that way, too. Cass has this whole thing about growing up and getting things over with. I think that was her mentality. I can't speak for Adrian. All I can say is if you just want to make out with him, go for it. But if you want a boyfriend or something…”

“Honestly, I have no clue what I want.”

We sat in silence until she snatched the wine and hopped to her feet. “Boys are buzzkills,” she declared. “Fuck love, let's dance!”

She ran to the stereo, cranking the Ramones, and we danced drunkenly around the room. Maya grabbed me by the arms so we could bounce up and down and shriek to each other that we wanted to be sedated, but she caught me right as I was bringing the bottle to my lips. Wine sloshed out, splashing across my face, temporarily coloring my pale blue bangs purple. We both cackled hysterically and Maya stumbled to the stereo to stop the music. I wiped wine out of my eyes, smearing my makeup. Then I looked down at my drenched T-shirt.

“Shit, you're soaked. We have to find you something else to wear,” Maya exclaimed, hurrying to her closet. She began throwing shirts and skirts and dresses on the bed. “Hey, let's get dressed up! We could be twins,” she suggested, indicating
a vintage black velvet dress with a frilly lace collar and a nearly identical red one. “Or do you want something that goes with that?” She pointed at a shrug made of black and silver netting that I was eyeing. “Here, try it on!”

She tugged at the thin flannel I wore over my T-shirt even though it was summer, freeing my left arm before I could stop her. Talk about a buzzkill.

“Oh, Kara!” Maya moaned pitifully. “What are you doing to yourself?”

She gaped at the red welts and scabs that stood out against my pale skin like the imposing bars of a jail cell. I scrambled to cover up, but Maya gripped my shirt in her fist. She stared a moment longer, asking, “Why?” before she let it fall like a curtain on the body-strewn stage after the last scene of a Shakespeare tragedy.

I sighed, fumbling for an answer. “It sounds stupid, but when I'm really upset I need the pain to remind me I'm alive. I have to let the hurt out or I can't even breathe.”

Maya nodded and lowered herself onto her bed, seeming satisfied with my response, but she questioned meekly, “How?”

“How?” I repeated, pushing clothing aside and sinking beside her. “With a knife.”

“No.” Maya took a deep swig of wine, her intense, smoky eyes zeroing in on mine. “How do you make yourself stop? I wanted to bleed so bad when my mom killed herself, but I was afraid I'd never stop.”

She ripped her gaze away and hugged her knees to her chest.

My jaw dropped. “Your mom…” I couldn't even repeat her sentence, it was so heartbreaking. She'd never mentioned her mother before except to say that she was Cass's mom's sister. I thought it a little strange, but always assumed there'd been an ugly divorce that no one wanted to talk about.

But suicide?

Maya clutched the neck of the wine bottle with two hands, like she wanted to strangle it for loosening her up enough to confess such a secret. “Yeah, I don't like to talk about it. But that's why we moved here. My dad thought that maybe my mom would have been happier before she died if she'd been closer to her family. So here we are, closer to her family without her. Don't ask me how that works.”

“It's probably about as logical as my cutting.” I forced an awkward laugh.

Maya echoed the hollow sound and said, “You know what's weird? That I just told you that and you didn't even ask. Christian's been hounding me about it for weeks. One day he told me that his mom died of cancer when he was two and asked me where my mom was. I said my story was a little different and I didn't want to talk about it. But he keeps bringing it up. Says if I ever want an ‘actual relationship' with him that I'll have to tell him because he can't handle secrets.”

“Do you want a relationship with him?”

“I want a friendship. I don't think I can fall in love. I loved my mom and trusted that she would always be there and then one morning…” Maya sniffed back tears and I put my arm around her. “I love my dad and my grandma, because I did before I learned how bad it hurts to lose someone you love, but I can't intentionally fall in love. I'm damaged goods, as my grandma would say. Christian deserves someone who's open and trusting. I can't open up to him about this. I don't want everyone knowing. I mean, look how long it took me to tell you and you're my best friend.”

“I am?” I asked, surprised.

Maya laughed a true laugh that cleared the tears from her throat. “Of course you are, silly!” She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, smudging eyeliner everywhere. “Oops,” she
said as soon as she realized what she'd done. “I guess we both have to fix our makeup now.”

I hugged her again, reassuring, “It's just us here. We can look like fools.”

Maya smiled and slid out of my embrace. “You're right. It's just us and we have wine. We should be dancing and singing like fools, not crying.” She walked over to the stereo, flipped through her records, and retrieved a forty-five in a yellowing sleeve. “My grandma's Peggy Lee record. I promised I'd play it for you someday, didn't I?”

She'd taught me the lyrics to “Is That All There Is?” in chemistry class. It was a song from the late sixties that her grandmother once taught her. Maya would randomly sing it while we were doing lab or at Scoville or drunk in the corner booth in Shelly's basement. I was eager to hear the original.

Maya carefully put the needle to the record. The speakers crackled and a piano played. She sat down in front of the stereo, facing me as she began to recite the first verse in a husky voice.

The verses were spoken word. They told the story of a girl's life through experiences that were supposed to be momentous: a house fire, going to the circus, falling in love. But the girl was always disappointed by her experiences. The chorus, which Maya had me sing with her, basically said that if all there is to life is disappointment, we should just dance and drink and have a ball.

Maya and I both liked that philosophy. We swayed dramatically as we sang the choruses, waving our empty bottles of wine. But when Maya reached the last verse, the part she always recited with the most gusto, my whole body grew cold. What Maya'd shared about her mother put a whole new spin on the end of the song.

Maya closed her eyes as she murmured, “I know what you
must be saying to yourselves. If that's the way she feels about it, why doesn't she just end it all?”

Her eyelids snapped up as she broke into the final chorus, belting it out like Janis Joplin. Maya's voice filled the room and she didn't seem to notice that I'd stopped singing. I expected her to burst into tears when she finished, and I prepared to leap up and hug her.

Instead, Maya just laughed. “I love that song,” she proclaimed with a grin before putting the Ramones back on.