The Replacement (16 page)

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Authors: Brenna Yovanoff

BOOK: The Replacement
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The piano wasn't miked, but it didn't matter. The notes scaled up, shrill, cracking. The whole place was absolutely silent as Carlina ran through the intro and into the first verse. The sound of her voice was painful. She screamed, sobbed, whispered
hallelujah
, but she never sang it.
Down in the audience, people were reaching for each other, hugging, holding hands. Near the front, a girl with crazy chopped-up hair and too many piercings was crying so hard that her nose was running. Her eye makeup looked mysterious and scary, but her mouth was crumpled like a little kid's.
Carlina slammed down on the chords, plodded over the keys, but her voice was high and clear, talking about more than being used, being rejected. How when you love someone, sometimes it means that they strip you down, peel you open, and you have to
let
them and not worry about how much it's going to hurt.
I was holding the neck of the Gibson too, too tightly as she came to the end. My fingers felt cramped and sticky.
"Hallelujah." She said it flatly, coming down hard on the last note, and then she let it fade.
There was nothing.
Luther and the drummer were already breaking things down, but I stood at the edge of the stage, staring out at the crowd. No one was dressed like themselves, but they were all suddenly illuminated, lit with something real, their own private versions of the song. It had gotten inside them. I stood above the packed floor, looking down at all of them, shining like lanterns with their love stories and their tragedies.
I just stood looking until Carlina caught me by the arm and dragged me back into the little dressing room. She was breathless and smiling, but her face was pale and she looked tired. "Did you have fun?"
I nodded and unhooked my suspenders. The room was cold and the rush was already starting to trickle away. I yanked off the button-down shirt and reached for my T-shirt and my hoodie.
Carlina stood by the door, politely keeping her back to me. "There's going to be some festivities down in the pit tonight. Kind of like . . . an after party. You should come."
I laughed and shook my head. "Thanks, but I think I'll skip it."
"Are you sure? You haven't had a chance to see us when we're wild. It's called Mayhem for a reason, you know."
I knew that she was just being friendly, and when it came to my survival, being friendly with people like Carlina was probably my best option. Still, that didn't mean I was a fan of the Morrigan's house or of anyplace where dead girls huddled and whispered behind their hands and mutilated women floated in pools. I wasn't sure I wanted to see their version of wild.
"I'll pass this time."
Carlina shrugged. "Suit yourself, but don't be a stranger. Our house is yours."
And in a bizarre way, I didn't doubt that.
When I was back in my own clothes, I sat at the dresser, staring at the strange reflection that was just starting to look like me again. "That was magic, right, what just happened out there?"
Carlina smiled and shrugged. "I guess. As much as music is ever magic. Or always, I mean. Music is our best language. It's just what we do."
"You could take over the world with what you do."
She laughed, much softer, much shyer than I ever would have pictured her a week ago. "Gentry's enough."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CRASHING
W
hen I went back out into the crowd, no one really noticed me. I was carrying my bass, and my hair was sticky with pomade, but everything else was ordinary.
I realized I was smiling, which was strange, and stranger to realize that I meant it. Usually, I only smiled when other people were there to see. When it was what they expected from me.
Someone touched my arm and when I turned, Tate Stewart was standing very close.
"It
is
you." Her voice was low. "I wasn't sure."
My heart was beating hard but steady. A good beat, and not a faltering one. I felt different and new, like I could be someone else.
Over the top of her head, I could see Drew and Danny at the farthest pool table. Drew glanced up and grinned at me. Then he waved me over.
I didn't go right away. Instead, I stood in the middle of the floor, looking down at Tate. She stared so hard that I got an idea she was seeing through layers of pointless, ordinary things, all the way down to how I felt about her--whatever I was feeling--like it was there in my eyes if I forgot to blink.
Her face was close to mine. "I don't get you," she said. "You spend every day at school trying to disappear and now you're dancing around onstage like a fucking rock star, like you don't have anything holding you down? I mean, who
are
you?"
There was nothing to say to that. I didn't know what performance she'd been watching, but I hadn't felt carefree up there--not anywhere close.
She shook her head and turned away, and even with the ferocious scowl, even looking disgusted with me, I kind of wanted to follow her.
In an unprecedented display of good judgment, I made my way over to where Danny was bent over the table, lining up a combo.
"You did good," he said without looking up. The shot was eight ball to two ball to corner pocket. He made an open bridge on the top of his hand and sank it.
I stared down at his bent head and smiled wider. "You recognized me?"
Danny straightened up and gave me a bored, incredulous look. "Well,
yeah
."
"Jesus," Drew said. "We just saw you at that party last night. We're not
senile
."
"I don't look different?"
Danny butted his cue on the floor. "You do, but it's a good kind of different. You're
happy
, Mackie. I can't even remember the last time you were happy."
"I just--I feel better lately."
Drew was fidgeting with the chalk, making blue slashes on the back of one hand with his fingertip. "That's good," he said, but he said it without looking at me.
"What? What's wrong?"
Danny shook his head. "Nothing. Just be careful. You know?"
I nodded and waited for him to tell me what I was being careful of or why, but he didn't say anything else and they both went back to studying the table.
After a minute, Drew looked up again. He glanced in the direction of Tate and the arcade, then raised his eyebrows. "What the hell is up with you two? I keep expecting someone to break out the grenades."
I didn't answer. There wasn't really a word for what we were doing, except that it was stupid and confusing, and Tate had a way of sticking her chin out that made me want to stand much closer than necessary.
Out on the floor, I pushed through the crowd, avoiding the kids from school and the strangers.
Tate was in the arcade, playing Earthshaker pinball, dropping quarters in with icy precision.
"Hey," I said when I came up beside her.
She pulled back the spring-loaded plunger and shot the first ball out into a sea of flashing lights and bright plastic sirens.
I leaned on the top of the machine. "So, did you like the show?"
She was hunched over the game, watching the ball as it clanged through a minefield of bumpers and bells. "It was pretty good, if you're into that kind of thing."
"What kind of music do you like?"
"Whatever. A lot of stuff. Would you please get off the glass?"
The sound of her voice made shivers race up the back of my neck and it was hard to tell if it was all from nerves, because I kind of liked it. I stood next to the pinball machine and watched the ball careen through obstacles and pitfalls.
The Morrigan's tonic was just starting to wear off, and the feeling was disorienting but not unpleasant. It felt leisurely and free, like being just a little drunk. I was at that perfect point where the world is manageable and nothing seems too overwhelming or too bad. I stood in the arcade, watching Tate. She worked the flippers like it was serious business. She didn't say anything else.
When the last ball had disappeared down into the machine, she sighed and turned to face me. "
What?
What do you
want
?"
"Will you give me a ride home?" The words were out before I'd had time to consider them.
Her face was unreadable, turned up to stare at me, and her chin was so obstinate I wanted to grab her by the shoulders just so she would stop looking at me like that.
After a long pause, filled with pinball sirens and flashing lights, she nodded.
We were only a block from the Starlight when it occurred to me that I might have made a bad decision. The hawthorn was wearing off much faster than it had the night before and so was the euphoria of playing for a crowd. Every uneven section of the road, every pothole rattled the car and jolted through my bones.
Tate didn't seem to notice. She stared straight ahead, peering through the rain on the windshield, talking about school and various independent movies. Her voice was light, like she was in no hurry, waiting for the perfect time. That moment when she would spring some critical question and I would have no choice but to answer her. The air was thick with the smell of iron. I swallowed it down and cracked the window.
We were six blocks from my house when regret hit, sickening and official. I closed my eyes and counted backward, trying to get the shaking under control, get the bad air out of my lungs. Something lurched in my stomach and I tried to ignore it, taking slow, deep breaths. I was sweating.
When the warm, squirming thing lurched again, I cleared my throat. "Tate, could you pull over?"
"Hey--hey, what's wrong?"
"I feel pretty sick." Which was a massive understatement. The feeling I had wasn't like any reaction I'd ever had, even to blood iron or stainless steel, even on my worst days.
The dizziness came in waves, making everything slide. It was radio static in my ears, a rain of black dots that swept in and covered everything. The smell of metal filled my mouth and nose. It was under my skin, in my blood, pounding away in my joints, my bones.
Tate pulled onto the shoulder and slammed the transmission into park. "Is this--"
But I was already yanking at the door.
I made it out but could barely stand. In the dark, the ground pitched up at me. I got down on my knees and held very still until the worst of it passed and I was steady enough to lie down. I needed to be someplace quiet and alone. I needed to curl up in a dark room, with no movement and no sound.
I pressed my face into the grass and breathed the green smells of leaves and stems and roots. The rain felt light and cool against my face. I needed the Morrigan.
"Mackie, are you okay?"
Tate was kneeling over me, reaching like she wanted to put her hand on my shoulder but was scared to touch me. I was shaking in huge wrenching spasms.
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to stay very still. Every time I took a breath, it touched off a storm of throbbing in my chest.
"Mackie, tell me if you're okay." Her voice sounded tight.
The pain in my knees and elbows was getting worse, going from low and throbbing to something more like being hit with a hammer. I looked up at her and tried to find something to say that would make her stop talking. I was afraid of what my voice would sound like.
She reached for my hand, her fingers sliding over my knuckles, my palm. Her touch wasn't rough, but the pressure made pain shoot up my arm and I jerked away, biting down on the inside of my lip.
"Your hands are cold," she said.
The concern in her voice made my throat hurt worse. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for her to go away, to leave me so I could get myself together and figure out what to do. Her worry made me too aware of how bad the reaction was. It knocked the breath out of me. I needed her to leave, but nothing would make her do that. Even if I hurt her feelings, called her the worst things I could think of, she wouldn't just go because I told her to. Her face was a white oval floating above me. The only place for help was the House of Mayhem.
"You have to go," I said, making my voice as steady as I could.
"Excuse me? I can't just leave you on the side of the road. Jesus, I think you're going into
shock
. If you're hurt or sick, you need someone to stay with you."
"Tate, listen to me. I need you to find Roswell and bring him here, okay?"
"Mackie, you're scaring me."
"Please, just go get Roswell."
She didn't like it, but she stood up, looking more frightened than I'd ever seen her, and started for her car.
When the Buick pulled away from the curb, I closed my eyes. I breathed out, this miserable, rattling sigh that sounded nothing like relief. It was thin, which made it easier to pretend that it was coming from someplace else than that I'd made it myself. Easier to pretend that everything was coming from someplace else and I was asleep, maybe at home, dreaming the way my chest seemed to tighten and seize. The air was too thick to breathe, almost like water, and the ground had stopped feeling cold.

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