How to Kill a Rock Star (30 page)

“Anyway,” he mumbled, turning nervously toward the stove as if he could read my mind, “I thought you didn’t care about Paul anymore. I thought he was a big fake.”

“He is. And I don’t. The bastard.”

I made a resolution to banish Paul from my mind. Paul was the past and evoking the past was a worthless human ability that had evolved for the sole purpose of reminding mortals of their mistakes. Forget the noose. Forget the Iron Maiden. Forget the electric chair or the guil otine. The mind was mankind’s most painful torture chamber, the blessed liberty to cogitate offering either doom or salvation, depending on one’s disposition.

Even in my feeble mental state, I knew that any hope for survival hinged upon my ability to break free from the win-dowless cubicle inside my head.

But breaking free meant letting go—a skil that required guts—and guts were viscer-al assets of which I believed I was 99 percent void.

For this reason, exactly two weeks after I learned of Jil y Bean’s existence, when Loring asked me to reserve a couple hours of my Saturday afternoon so he could take me somewhere, my only question was, “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Loring was in the middle of recording a song for the soundtrack of an upcoming feature film. He was on his way to the studio when he scribbled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Come by around four, and we’l go from there.”

Loring wrote like a scientist, with tiny lines and quick strokes al slanted to the left. It looked like he’d drawn a How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00

PM Page 262

26fence, not an address.

“Am I supposed to be able to read this?” He rol ed his eyes and reprinted it more careful y.

“Can you give me a hint?” I asked.

“A hint?” He thought about it, then said, “Don’t eat beforehand.”

At four o’clock I was standing in Chinatown with nary a cab in sight and only a vague idea of the quickest way to get to the Chelsea studio where Loring was waiting for me.

I cal ed him, not only to ask for directions, but to apologize for my tardiness.

“Don’t laugh. I’m sort of lost.”

He laughed anyway. “Where are you?”

“On the corner of Mott and Bayard.”

“I thought you were going to look at apartments today.”

“I did.”

“Eliza, in Chinatown?”

I’d visited eight apartments in three hours, and every one was a step farther into hel . The vacancies in my ideal neighborhoods were too expensive, too dark and depressing, or, worst of al , would have to be shared with a roommate, and there was no way I was going to welcome someone new into my life. Besides, Paul had started out as a roommate, and look where that ended up.

Loring wanted to know which side of the street I was on and I said, “Left side.”

“I mean north, south, east, or west?”

“If I knew that I probably wouldn’t be lost.” He laughed again. “Tel me what you’re standing near.”

“A restaurant. Mr. Tang’s. There’s roasted animals hanging in the window, you can’t miss it.” He told me not to move and arrived twenty minutes later in the chauffeured sedan he’d reserved for wherever he was taking me. When I got in the car I asked him for the sec-How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00 PM Page 263

ond time that day where we were going, but he acted like he hadn’t heard the question. He took a drink of water from the bottle in his lap, looked out the window, and mumbled,

“You’re not moving to this neighborhood. I’l cal Vera. We’l have an intervention.”

I told him about the last apartment I’d seen. “It was four-hundred square feet, the Bunsen burner from my high school science class was bigger than the stove, the water that came out of the tap was brown, and the whole building smel ed like the inside of an egg rol . But hey, it’s affordable.”

“Eliza, imagine the mice in a place like that. And take a look at this street. Al the people, the cars, the tchotchkes, and the noise. You can’t live here.

You’d go insane.”

“Easy for you to say, money bags.”

“Seriously, I don’t want you to move into some shithole just because you think you’ve worn out your welcome with me.”

“I can’t stay with you forever. It’s not right.”

“Just don’t rush into anything, okay? At least, not on my account.” With obvious reluctance he added, “I like having you around.”

We drove across town, went north for a bit, and headed into the Lincoln tunnel.

“Okay, please tel me where we’re going.” He rotated his whole body to face me and said, “Promise you’l keep an open mind.”

I had no clue how to interpret that, but Loring’s winsome smile deluded me into thinking we were going someplace fun, so I took the vow.

“Think of this as the first step in a long line of steps,” he said. “You only have to go as far as you can. But it’s time you start trying, otherwise you’re going to be trapped for the rest of your life.”

That made me slightly uneasy. But it wasn’t until we passed Giants Stadium and I saw a sign for Teterboro How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00

PM Page 264

26Airport that I unbuckled my seatbelt and tried to climb into the shelf below the rear window. “Turn this car around or I’m jumping out!”

Loring locked the doors and pul ed me back down.

“Relax. My dad just leased a Lear jet from this airport, and he wants me to see it. I thought maybe it would be good for you to come along.”

“And do what?”

“Visit the plane.”

“I don’t want to visit a plane!”

“It’s al locked up in the hanger. It won’t even be turned on. We’l just sit in it, that’s al .”

“You don’t understand,” I whimpered. “I
can’t
.” Loring took my hands and said, “Eliza, yes you can.” My body trembled as the car arrived at the gated entrance to the smal New Jersey airport and I listened as the driver rattled off a tail number into a cal box.

The gate opened and we drove until we were directly in front of what looked like a giant turtle shel made of metal; I wondered if Loring could feel me shaking.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said. “I’l be right beside you the whole time.”

He practical y lifted me out of the car and tugged me gently toward the hanger, where we were greeted at the door by a husky man who introduced himself as “Tom Martsch, the plane’s captain.”

I liked that the man said captain instead of pilot. Captain sounded nautical and boats didn’t frighten me at al . I shook Tom’s hand.

“If you have any questions about the aircraft, just ask,” Tom said. He led us inside the hanger and I was glad Loring had told me not to eat.

“You’re safe,” Loring assured me. “None of theses planes are going anywhere.”

There were three planes inside the hanger. One was a tiny deathtrap of a machine, painted taxicab yel ow, and looked like the stunt planes that flew above state fairs in the Midwest. It had a big propel er on its nose, a glass roof, and held only two people, one directly in front of the other. The second plane was what Tom cal ed a “Falcon,” which I thought was a comforting name for a machine that had to propel itself through air. He told me it was “a hel of a bird,” sat twelve people, had satel ite television, two bathrooms, and belonged to a bil ion-aire hotel baron who only used it on holidays.

The plane we were supposed to board, the Lear, was smal er than the Falcon. It sat six and was white with a silver and black stripe down the side.

Tom said the Lear had powerful engines, climbed fast, and that under the right conditions could even break the speed of sound.

I told myself I was al right. But when Tom opened the jet’s door I stopped walking, pul ed on Loring’s arm, and sobbed, “Please don’t make me do this.” Loring took me aside and put his hands on my shoulders. “I’m not making you do anything. Just say the word and we’l turn around and walk out of here right now.” Staring at the aircraft made me want to bolt. It was Loring’s compassion, coupled with the colossal silence inside the building that enabled me to stay. The hanger looked big enough to fit a whole city block, but it was completely quiet, making it seem as though al the planes were fast asleep.

Loring said, “Walk on board for a minute. Walk on, sit down, and then we’l go.”

I stared at the plane, and Loring said, “It’s just a tour bus with wings.”

“Tel him to keep the door open.”

“You have my word.”

“Can I close my eyes?”

“You can do whatever you want.”

26My mouth felt like it was fil ed with breadcrumbs, my palms were damp and cold. “You go first,” I said. “And please don’t let go of me, not for one second, or I’l kick you so hard you’l never walk again.”

He looked more amused than threatened. “I’m not going to let go.”

Loring walked slowly up the steps of the plane, crouch-ing down so as not to break contact with me. I squeezed my eyes shut, began to ascend, and he guided me up the steps, making sure I didn’t bump my head on the low ceiling.

“Okay,” he final y said. “You’re in.” It was stuffy inside the plane, and I didn’t like the way it smel ed—like stale air—but Loring continued to navigate me, he kept tel ing me everything was fine and I managed— albeit barely—to hold it together.

He turned me around. “You can sit now, if you want.” The seats were made of leather. I imagined they were beige. Right after I sat, Loring sat. The left side of his body was touching mine, like we were on a couch.

“What color are the chairs?” I whispered.

“Gray,” he whispered back.

I was having a hard time comprehending the fact that I was sitting on an airplane, but I figured this was a good thing. I reached my hand up and touched the ceiling. It felt like a firm pil ow upholstered in suede. Then I reached around and tapped on the oval-shaped window. “Plastic,” I said, horrified. My heart was beating so fast I thought it might pop. “I’m going to try and look.” Loring squeezed my hand and I lifted my left lid a fraction, but the shadowy images I glimpsed with half an eye open seemed creepier than if I opened it al the way, and so I did.

Tom Martsch was squatting in front of me, blocking much of my view. He scooted back into a chair and smiled. His face was too round and corpulent, like an overstuffed jel y donut,
and his teeth had a yel owish, caffeinated cast to them.

I cracked open the other eye and saw that the carpet was gray too, with little maroon and black specks forming a haphazard pattern, like a handful of confetti had been thrown into the air and left to freckle the floor. I noticed a red emergency exit sign next to Tom Martsch’s head.

“You okay?” Loring asked.

I nodded, but my eyes veered toward the cockpit—the gages, controls, and the throttle were al visible from my vantage point.

I had visions of my parents, of what their last moments must have been like. The fear. The helplessness. It was too much.

I tore out of my seat, down the steps, and out of the hanger. The chil y April wind was like a splash of ice water in my face and I was certain it’s what saved me from throwing up.

Hands on my knees, head down, and breathing heavily, I felt Loring’s arm reach across my back.

“I’m sorry, Loring. I tried.”

But when I stood up I saw that he was smiling.

“You did great,” he said.

“I did?”

He nodded. “Truthful y, I didn’t think I was going to get you out of the car.”

On our way back to the city, Loring asked me if I felt like stopping to eat. He said he knew a great Middle Eastern place on MacDougal where, for $3, we could get the best falafels in town.

“I can’t,” I said, actual y disappointed that I wouldn’t be spending the rest of the day with him. “Vera and I are going to Queenie’s to make ice cream tonight.” He told me he’d drop me off at Queenie’s, then he shifted toward the window, and while he watched New Jersey How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00 PM Page 268

26turn back into New York, I studied his face in profile—the sculptural line of his nose, the way his eyelashes looked as if they’d been curled, the tawny-rose color of his lips.

I reached up, ran my fingers through the shiny locks that hung behind his ear, and saw goose bumps rise up on his neck.

“Why are you so nice to me?” I said.

It had been a rhetorical question. I couldn’t understand how or why a man like Loring would have so much patience for a girl like me. But Loring set out to answer me anyway, wheeling his head slowly to look my way, seemingly torn between giving me a candid answer or a self-depreciating one and, in my estimation, decided on the only response that fit into both categories.

“I’m a fool.”

I pelted him with a quick but potent kiss on the mouth.

Then I turned to look out the window, and for the rest of the drive neither of us said another word.

The ice cream was dripping al over everything. My fingers were covered in chocolaty, milky goo, and the first thing I did when I got back to Loring’s was put the container in the freezer before it got too soupy to eat.

I washed my hands and then tip-toed down the hal .

Loring had to be back in the studio early and I didn’t want to wake him if he was already asleep. As I got closer to his room, I could see the greenish glow of the TV emanating from his slightly ajar door, and I heard him talking on the phone.

Peeking in, I caught a glimpse of him lying on the bed wearing nothing but a pair of faded sweat pants with YALE

written on the left thigh. One hand held the phone to his ear, the other rested on his stomach.

I stepped into the room just far enough for Loring to notice me.

“Leith,” he said into the phone. “Hold on.” He covered the mouthpiece and sat up a little. “I didn’t hear you come in.” His voice was awkward, like he didn’t know how to act after what had happened in the car.

“I made you some ice cream.”

Scratching his temple, he smiled and told me he’d meet me in the kitchen in five minutes, and then he picked up where he’d left off with Leith. But I didn’t want to meet him in the kitchen, nor did I want to wait five minutes. I wanted
27to curl up next to him and fal asleep on his chest. And the ice cream needed to stay in the freezer for at least an hour.