Catherine (22 page)

Less than an hour after that non-conversation, he emerged from his room, grabbed his
parka, and hurried out of the apartment without even saying good-bye, locking his
bedroom door behind him. I pressed my forehead to the window to watch him disappear
down the street and around a corner.

The questions I longed to ask him crowded my brain:
What’s wrong with you? What are you doing in there? Where do you go when you’re out
of the house? When are you going to reopen the club? What happens next?

Meanwhile, The Underground stayed closed. I had more than enough money for food and
subway fare, and it seemed Q was paying the bills for the phone, heat, and electricity
because so far at least we still had all three. One thing was certain: Q had stopped
paying Hence’s salary. In fact, he hadn’t so much as mentioned Hence, hadn’t said
a word about whether he expected him to stay on in case we reopened the club.

Before we lost Dad, Hence’s presence in the house was a constant annoyance to Q. Afterward,
it was like he had completely forgotten Hence was living in our basement. And, in
fact, he wasn’t. With Q away for days at a time, Hence started spending every night
up in my room. I would fall asleep in his arms and wake up beside him, and he was
the only good thing in my sorry life.

Around that time, Hence’s portion of Riptide’s record advance came in, and he threw
himself into his music with a vengeance. In late January, the band went into the studio
and rarely came out. We had even less time together than before, and I couldn’t help
feeling lonely those long winter evenings when night fell early and I ate dinner by
myself in front of the TV, waiting for him to come home.

But it was all for the best, of course; Hence had important work to do. Two of his
songs were slated for inclusion on the album, and, in my opinion, they were the best
material Riptide had. Meanwhile, the band had been booking stray gigs here and there,
and I’d been going with Hence to the shows. Because I was with the band it hardly
ever mattered that I was underage, and I didn’t drink, anyway. I was there to pay
attention, to hang on to the side of the stage as Hence sang his heart out or played
a blistering solo on his new Telecaster.

And I wasn’t the only one gaping adoringly up at him. There were always groupies—sometimes
new ones, but always a familiar few that showed up wherever Riptide played. One in
particular drove me crazy because she was so fixated on Hence, screaming his name
whenever he did anything, flipping her straggly fuchsia hair if he looked in her direction,
and bouncing around to the beat. And I do mean bouncing. No matter that it was the
dead of winter; she showed up every night in a teensy tube top and a short skirt over
ripped tights. She’d seen Hence and me together after the shows, so she must have
known he had a girlfriend, but it didn’t seem to matter to her. I guess she hoped
one day he would take a good long look at her and realize how sexy and available she
was, and go home with her instead.

Not that I was worried. One night after a show, I asked Hence if he’d noticed her.
She’d retreated to the bar but was still watching him from across the room, her eyes
burning like cigarettes through the smoky air.

“Who? Oh, that one with the pink hair? She’s a trip, isn’t she?” He slid his guitar
into its case and snapped it shut. “She slipped me her phone number. More than once.
She’s persistent.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Hence shrugged. “What does it matter? She’s nothing to me. Less than nothing.” He
grabbed my hands, pulled me close, and wrapped my arms around his waist. “I don’t
even see anyone who isn’t you.”

I laughed. “Oh, please. Like anyone could not notice her jiggling and shrieking.”

“I notice. I just don’t care.”

“Well, maybe you should care.” It was a strange argument to be making, but I didn’t
seem to be able to stop myself. “After all, she’s your biggest fan.”

“We’ll have plenty of fans soon enough. We can stand to lose one here and there.”

“Maybe you should tell her to quit stalking you. Tell her you’ve got a girlfriend,
and that you’re not interested.”

“I could do that,” he said. “But I’d rather do this.” He tipped my face up toward
his and kissed me deeply, lingeringly, his hands tangled in my hair, for so long that
I almost forgot about the pink-haired girl and the rest of the groupies. But when
we finally pulled apart, I did remember to check and see if she was still watching.
I was happy to find her gone.

With every passing day, Hence’s dreams came a little more true. When school let out,
we would meet on the corner, and he would tell me how that day’s recording had gone.
He was always excited and happy, full of news—the band was about to meet with its
new publicist, or they’d decided what “look” they wanted for an upcoming photo shoot,
or that day’s recording session had gone better than usual. On weekends, I would tag
along with him to the studio and sit in a corner, watching and listening. Sitting
in was exciting at first, but the sessions got repetitive after a while. Sometimes,
when I’d been listening to an hour’s worth of solemn debate about how far forward
the voices should be in the mix, I was tempted to plug my ears and scream.

But screaming was out: I had to be every inch the supportive girlfriend. Eventually
I began bringing along a book to distract myself. Sometimes I would be deep in my
reading and get the feeling that I was being watched. I’d look up to find Hence’s
eyes on me as he played a solo or sang, and when our eyes met, no matter what he was
doing, he would smile, giving off the happy vibe of someone on the brink of having
everything he’d ever wished for. I’d remember how rare his smiles were when we first
met, how he’d almost seemed incapable of smiling, and my heart would twist in my chest.
It was as if he’d been running up a hill, struggling like mad, and was about to reach
the crest, and everything from there would be a wild downhill plunge. And of course
I was happy for him. More than happy. Thrilled. Just like anyone would expect me to
be.

And yet.

I had news, too, and I’d been keeping it secret from him. When I’d thought I couldn’t
wait a second longer, the envelopes had started trickling in. The first to arrive
was a rejection from Columbia, but the very next day, NYU sent me a fat acceptance
letter. The day after that, I heard from Fordham—another yes. I knew I would have
to tell Hence sometime soon, of course. And I planned to. But the memory of our big
blowout made me cautious. I figured I might as well wait till I’d chosen my school.
And though I spent most of every study hall agonizing over the college catalogs, I
still couldn’t seem to make up my mind.

In the meantime, there was one college I still hadn’t heard from—the one I shouldn’t
even have applied to, given that I couldn’t go there. When the rejection from Columbia
arrived, I wasn’t all that disappointed. My only thought was that if Columbia didn’t
take me, Harvard wouldn’t, either, which actually was a good thing… wasn’t it? As
soon as the letter came, I told myself, I’d put all my Harvard fantasies behind me
and take a giant step into the future. I would pick one of those other schools—Not-Harvard
A or Not-Harvard B—and start imagining a future that wouldn’t involve quaint redbrick
buildings, leafy pathways, and the bustle of Harvard Square.

Whatever school I chose, it would work out all right. I was so lucky, really, to be
going to college at all. That’s what I kept telling myself whenever I started to feel
sad about the whole Harvard thing. I would be fine wherever I went. What felt like
the end of the world to me would be the kind of future most girls only dream of.

At least it would all be settled soon.

It was waiting for me in the mailbox on a Friday afternoon: the envelope with the
Harvard seal. I had been expecting it to be thin—a rejection. When I saw that it was
plump, full of information and documents to be filled out and sent in, my hands started
shaking so badly I could hardly open it.
Dear Catherine Eversole
, the letter said,
We are pleased to inform you…

I couldn’t read any further. I felt on the verge of exploding. It felt like joy, but
how could it be? It didn’t matter that Harvard wanted me. I was going to turn them
down, wasn’t I? Tremors shook my legs so hard I had to sit down on the bottom step,
the half-read letter in my lap. My applying, and the long, anxious wait—those things
had been pointless. Hadn’t they?

I sat on the step a long time, listening to the ticking of the hallway grandfather
clock, willing myself to think clearly. Willing all that pointless joy and hope to
fade away. After a while, I stopped trembling. I was able to pick the letter up and
read the whole thing from start to finish.

When I got to the end, I burst into tears.

Days passed, and I still hadn’t thought of a way to bring up the dreaded subject of
college. What’s more, Hence hadn’t so much as asked me if I’d heard from any schools.
Annoyed that he was too preoccupied with his own future to have even a shred of curiosity
about mine, I told myself,
I’ll wait till he asks. Till then, he doesn’t need to know.

One night in late March, a hard rain swept in and rattled the windowpanes. Before
I fell asleep that night, I spared a thought for Q. He hadn’t been home for more than
a week, and I still had no idea where he went when he wasn’t at The Underground, whether
he’d found a new girlfriend or was sleeping on the couch of one of his party-animal
friends. For all I knew, he could be passed out on a park bench, soaked to the skin.
Almost four months had passed since my dad died, I was nobody’s kid anymore,
and with Q gone, I felt like I was nobody’s sister. I had all but forgotten there
was anyone in the world who might care where I slept, and with whom. As I drifted
off to sleep in Hence’s arms, I thought of Q wandering alone through the dark and
rainy streets, and felt only pity.

When the lights switched on, slicing into my dreams, I blinked awake. Over the bed
loomed my brother, as though my thoughts had summoned him. “Q?” I mumbled, reaching
in his direction. “Is that you?” Beside me, Hence stirred, then tensed.

“I knew you were up to something….” The edge to my brother’s voice and his cast-iron
expression put me on alert.

“What are you doing in here?”

“I guess I don’t have to ask you what
you’re
doing in here.” His voice radiated scorn. “With our busboy.”

“This is
my
room.”

“So you’ll bring whoever you want up here?” Quentin laughed unpleasantly. “I don’t
think so. I own this building. Dad left me in charge.”

“He left you in charge of The Underground—not of me. If you care what I do, why are
you never here?”

“I can see I should have been here, keeping you in line. I didn’t know what a slut
you were, spreading your legs for the first guy who came sniffing around.”

Hence drew himself up in bed, clutching the sheet tight to his chest. “Are you insane,
talking to her like that? She’s your sister….”

That’s when Quentin called Hence a word I’d never use myself, a word Dad would have
been shocked to hear him say. He spat it into our faces, commanding Hence to shut
up. A change
came over his face. He fumbled in the pocket of his army surplus jacket, pulling out
a handgun—small, silver, and deadly looking. He held it up in both hands and aimed
it right into Hence’s face. With that weapon in his hands, his voice came out different:
cold and quiet. “You watch how you talk to me,” he said. “Be respectful.”

Before I could think, I was clambering out from under the covers, throwing myself
between Quentin’s gun and Hence. I needed to stop my brother’s craziness before someone
got hurt. In my panic, I forgot I didn’t have much of anything on—just my underwear
and a gauzy tank top. At the sight of me, a violent blush spread across Quentin’s
face and he looked away, the gun pointing askew—thank God—toward the corner of the
room, and not into Hence’s face. I exhaled.

“For God’s sake, Cathy!” Q shouted, sounding more like his old self. “Put some clothes
on.”

“Not until you put that thing away,” I said, seeing my chance. “I’m not moving while
you’re waving a gun around.”

Quentin glared down at the carpet. “He has five minutes to get dressed and out of
here. If he isn’t gone by then, I’ll shoot.”

“I’m leaving, too,” I told him.

“The hell you are. If you leave with him, I’ll hunt the two of you down and blow his
head off.”

“You’ll have to shoot me first.”

“Don’t think I won’t.” And he was gone, slamming the apartment door behind him. Hence
and I barely had time to throw on our clothes. I packed a duffel bag with my journal,
my bankbook, some clothes, and the jewelry Mom had left me, but most of
Hence’s stuff was still in the basement, and neither of us wanted to pass Quentin
in order to get it.