Screaming Divas (16 page)

Harumi shrugged, then shivered.

Chip was staring at her. He caught that look of fear and quickly opened the passenger side door of his Saab. “Are you cold?”

His voice was gentle, soft as a pillow. She wanted to lean against him, but got into the car instead.

During a break at band practice the next afternoon, Harumi spoke up. “Hey, y'all?”

Esther put down her drumsticks, and Cassie laid her guitar on the sofa. Suddenly all eyes were on Harumi. They looked eager, like hungry puppies, and she knew that they expected her to say something about their music, like they were waiting for some genius suggestion to come out of her mouth. But she surprised them.

“I need your advice.”

Esther's eyes bugged out. Cassie's jaw dropped, and Trudy leaned in closer. “On what?”

“I met this guy at Goatfeathers,” Harumi started. Her eyes met Esther's. Of all people, Esther knew what a sheltered life she'd led up till now. “And I'm going out with him for the first time on Friday night.”

“That's great!” Cassie said.

“Yeah,” Trudy chimed in. “We weren't going to have practice that day, anyway.”

Harumi could feel her skin burning. “No, I mean, I've never gone out with a guy before. This is my
first time.
I don't even know what to wear. And should I, you know, let him
kiss me
?”

For a moment, they were all stunned into silence.

Finally, Cassie said, “I've got a dress that would look great on you.”

Today, Cassie was wearing a black T-shirt with a shredded hem over a white tank top. Gaps in her jeans were held together with safety pins.

“He's not punk,” Harumi clarified. “He's older, in his twenties. He has a job ….”

“What does he do?” Trudy asked.

At first, Harumi considered lying. She worried that these friends of hers, with their artists and musicians, wouldn't understand the appeal of a guy like Chip who wore a new Armani suit to work, as opposed to something from the Salvation Army. But she had no one else to turn to.

“He's a stockbroker.”

Again, they were rendered speechless. It was as if, with her words, she'd cut off their tongues. Then she heard Esther clear her throat. “He'll probably take you someplace nice, then. So you'll want to dress up.”

Cassie sat on the edge of Esther's mind like an angel, a muse, and when she got home from band practice, she often found herself feeling around for a pen and scribbling down poetry. She would write a song, she decided. She would prove to them that she was worthy of being in the band, that she was willing to work hard at every aspect of being a musician.

Even though she couldn't read music and could barely tap out a beat with her drumsticks, she could hum. While she was driving to work she would sometimes turn down the radio and sing out one of her own creations. She wasn't sure how she'd ever get up the courage to present her lyrics to the group. Cassie wrote lots of songs, but Trudy was quick to shoot them down when she was in a bad mood.

One afternoon, after they'd played their standards for what seemed to be the millionth time, Trudy grabbed her hair in clumps and bared her teeth. “Grrr. I'm so sick of these same damn songs. If we don't come up with something new, I think I'm gonna shoot myself.”

For a few seconds, the others froze. Cassie set her mouth in a hard line. Harumi's eyes dropped to the soiled carpet. Esther watched Trudy's face, trying to work up some nerve.

Finally, she took a deep breath and cleared her throat. “Um, as a matter of fact, I've written a few songs myself.”

Trudy looked at her. “Really?”

“Um, yeah.” Esther put down her drumsticks and pulled a notebook out of her backpack. She flicked past the notes from her Southern Lit class and tore a page from the notebook. “Here.” Her heart was trying to get out of her chest.

Trudy snatched the paper and read out loud:

When Trudy had finished she glanced over at Harumi, whose neck still drooped, then Cassie, who was watching Esther. Finally she aimed her eyes at Esther and sneered, “This is Hallmark crap. We can't sing this.” She thrust the paper back at Esther. “We're
bitches
. Don't you get it?” She snorted and tossed her head.

“It could be a ballad,” Cassie said. “I think it's kind of pretty, especially the part about dancing in the moonlight.”

Trudy glared at her. “We don't do ballads. We're punk.”

Cassie shrugged. It was obvious that Trudy was in one of her moods and there weren't going to be any drastic changes in her point of view in the next few minutes.

Esther crumpled the paper and stuffed it into her pocket. Later she'd burn the whole notebook. She kept her face turned away from the others while she packed up her equipment. She'd suffered enough humiliation for one day; she didn't want anyone to see her tears. She felt a gentle hand on her back.

“Hey.” It was Cassie.

Esther looked up and sniffled.

“Hey, don't let her get to you. Trudy's mad at the world, not you. She's got all these unresolved issues with her parents. You know, her dad kicked her out of the house and her mama doesn't want to have anything to do with her. Sometimes the anger just jumps out of her.”

Esther nodded, but it was hard not to take rejection personally.

“By the way, I think it's a beautiful song.”

Esther tried to twist her lips into a smile. Cassie had never been so nice to her before. She knew she'd play this moment over and over while she stared at the ceiling that night.

“If you wait a sec, I'll walk out with you,” Cassie whispered.

Esther rubbed the tears out of her eyes and nodded. She wanted to burst out of the house and never go back, but Cassie's sweetness made everything else worthwhile. She lingered by the door while Cassie gathered up her guitar and exchanged a few final wisecracks with Trudy. Then Cassie winked at her, and they left the house together.

Cassie's Beetle was parked right in front, but she walked with Esther to her car across the street.

Esther didn't know why Cassie was walking to her car and she didn't know what to say. They were silent until she slipped the key into the lock.

“It was you, wasn't it?” Cassie's voice was calm and clear.

Esther turned to look at her, a sudden panic tightening her chest. “What?”

“You're the one who wrote me all those letters.”

For a second, Esther thought about throwing herself into her car and peeling out of there. Would there be no end to her shame on this awful night? But then she looked into Cassie's eyes and saw nothing but wonder and curiosity. “Yes,” she confessed, in a strange, high voice.

Cassie stepped back. “I thought so.” She smiled then, as if solving the mystery had given her great joy. “I still have them, you know. They're in a shoebox under my bed.” Then Cassie put a finger to her lips and Esther knew that she wouldn't tell anyone. It would be their secret.

Esther watched her retreat. She watched until Cassie had gotten into her car and started the engine. She saw Cassie's hand lift from the steering wheel.

Esther waved back, then sank against the vinyl seats, trying to still her trembling limbs.

Cassie knew about Adam's habit, but she'd never seen him shoot up before. She wasn't even sure she'd ever seen him when the junk was coursing through his veins, though there had been afternoons when his eyes were unnaturally bright, his movements a little too slow.

One afternoon when Cassie was sitting cross-legged on his floor, he reached under the tattered sofa for the wooden box that held his kit.

“Can I watch?” she asked, before he had a chance to ask her to leave.

Adam looked at her face for a long moment. Then he dropped his eyes and lifted the lid. “I don't care.”

She was silent and still, like a hiker in the presence of wildlife. She watched his ritual—the careful measuring of white powder, the spoon over the flame, the belt tightened over his bicep—with fascination. And then she observed the needle sliding into his vein, the backwash of blood in the syringe, the relaxation of his face. He moaned, then fell back against the sofa, forgetting she was there.

It scared her as much as it attracted her. She knew how easily things could go wrong, yet she craved that instant relief. She'd thought all this time that she wanted only to be loved, but what she really wanted was to get out of her body.

The next time she went to him, she asked if she could try, too.

He grinned crookedly, his unwashed hair falling in his eyes. “What? You want me to corrupt you?”

“It's too late for that,” she said.

He stared at her for a long time and she was afraid that he'd see the desperation there. She should try to be more casual about it. Make it seem like it didn't matter to her at all.

Finally his gaze dropped. “All right.”

Cassie smiled.

“You have to be careful,” he told her, as he tapped out the powder. “You shouldn't do this alone. And never when drunk. People pass out and choke on their own vomit. Got it?”

She nodded, flipped her hair back. She hated being babied. She probably knew more about the world than Adam, with his ordinary middle class parents and interior trips. Heroin didn't make you wise. Or at least she didn't expect it to.

She held out her arm, the way she did for nurses, and waited while he tied a silk scarf around her. The veins popped out, blue and fat. He pressed down on one with his finger, then kissed it. Cassie thought it was the most erotic thing he'd ever done.

She closed her eyes, heard him tapping the ampoule with a fingernail, then felt the needle's prick.

She waited for something to happen.

At first, there was nothing, and then gradually, she felt a calm enter her body. It was like being in the warm bath water with Mama, having her head stroked as she drifted off to sleep, or being rocked, maybe. It was lovely, like a Monet watercolor, blurry and soft.

But that first afternoon, she wound up cramped and retching over the toilet. Adam, seemingly unaffected, held her torso and smoothed back her hair.

“The first time can be rough,” he said. He kissed her clammy cheek. “Believe me, it gets better.”

She vowed she would try again.

Friday evening, Harumi stood in front of the mirror in Cassie's leopard print sheath. It looked odd on her, like a costume, but there was nothing in her own closet that seemed right. She'd changed three times already—from a red silk dress (too Chinese) to a Laura Ashley floral ensemble (too prim) to a tunic and black tights (too Goatfeathers; he'd already seen it twenty times). Cassie was the daughter of a beauty queen. She knew more about dressing up than anyone. Harumi decided to trust her judgment.

She closed her eyes and thought of Tiffany Hart, heroine of Mrs. H.'s latest romance novel.
Tiffany's voluptuous breasts threatened to spill out of her red silk gown.

“Harumi?” Mrs. Harris was calling her. She probably wanted ice cream or a bedtime story, and there was no time for that.

She latched a thrift shop rhinestone bracelet onto her wrist and hurried to the bedroom. “What is it, Mrs. Harris?” she asked from the doorway.

Regal as ever, the woman leaned against her pillows. She reached for Harumi. “Come here, my dear.”

Harumi's gaze slipped to the clock. Chip was due any minute. She hoped he'd be late.

The woman's grip was surprisingly strong. Her skin felt like washed paper, all soft and wrinkled. “Enjoy yourself, my dear,” she said in her quavery voice. “But be home by midnight.”

“What?” Harumi couldn't help herself. Mrs. Harris was probably lost in the long ago, confusing her with a daughter, and Harumi was usually cheerful about playing along. But if she wasn't, if she was indeed imposing a curfew on her home helper, Harumi would have to set her straight.

“Mrs. Harris, I am an adult. I am old enough to vote or join the army, and I'm not your child.”

The woman's eyes widened at this sudden outburst, but then disappeared in the crinkles of a smile. “There, there. No need to get all worked up.” She patted Harumi's hand with her liver-spotted one. “I'm doing you a favor. This is your first date with the young man, is it not?”

Harumi nodded, slightly wary.

“And you have never had a boyfriend.”

Harumi opened her mouth to protest. Was it so plain to see? Were words tattooed on her forehead?
Virgin. Never been kissed.
Then she remembered that interview with the old woman's daughter.

“If things get too steamy and you're feeling uncomfortable, just tell him that you have to be home by twelve. And that if you're late, I'll fire you.” She winked. “And another thing. Be sure to hold back. These modern girls on TV tell their life stories on the first date, but I'm telling you, men like a little mystery. You know those Godiva chocolates I like so much?”

Harumi nodded, not sure where this was going. Mrs. Harris limited herself to one a day.