The Half-Life of Planets (16 page)

“See?” He pats my back. “You know the band, at least.”

“I want you to meet someone,” I tell him. There are my past kisses. Past hookups. But they have nothing on me now. When I see the lips, the boys, it's like flipping through a photo album—memories mingled with moments, but not what I need now. The strength builds inside me as I bring Hank into the group.

“Hank, this is Pren. Stevens,” I add as though his last name matters.

“Right, we were talking before.” Hank nods but goes back to his fixation. “This was really the end of the hippie version of Sly and the Family Stone. After this comes the ‘Thank You Falletin Me Be Mice Elf Again' single, and then, of course, ‘There's a Riot Going On,' which was titled that as an answer to Marvin Gaye's ‘What's Going On.'”

What's going on is Hank being ostentatiously weird. I wish he would stop the music trivia. Nicola looks at him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. “Nice to meet you, Hank. I'm Nicola.” She takes his hand and lets it linger in hers, giving me a look that explains it all. I am the bad girl. The one who got to Pren before she did. The one who should leave. But it wasn't like that. I want to explain to her that it wasn't a big deal. That Pren didn't—doesn't—mean enough to fight over.

Pren pops down from the counter, shaking Hank's hand and adding, “Hey, I guess you know your stuff. But here's the fifty thousand dollar question.” Hank waits. “Ice Cube sampled ‘Sing a Simple Song' four different times—betcha didn't know that.”

For all of one minute, everything's fine. We are two girls with their musically inclined guys all swarming in a summer kitchen. Pren sings in his overly dramatic way—the way that only seemed overly dramatic after we'd kissed and I realized how little there was to support his exterior. “I'm going for another round o' sponging. You game?” He asks Nicola or me or both, but she demurely declines, and I pretend not to have heard the invite.

Hank squeezes my hand. I feel good about introducing him. As if this solidifies where I am now. With Hank. With my pact. Chase eats his burger and watches us—protectively, maybe. Everything is fine. “I'll be right back,” I say to Hank, and go to try and convince the DJ to give it up already and play Hank's song. I watch Hank while I'm across the room—smiling as he successfully converses with Nicola and her group of girls, managing to enthrall them with music trivia or whatever else springs to mind.

When I walk back over, I say, “Well, he's going to play your song.”

And before Hank can respond, Nicola busts out laughing. “And we know all about yours.”

Claire laughs too. I'm confused, and I look at Hank for an explanation. Claire tilts her head, leaning in toward me, “What is your song, exactly?”

“She doesn't have a song,” Nicola says, and giggles. “At least not this summer, right?”

Blush overtakes my face. “What do you mean?”

Hank waves Nicola's comments off as though the words are swattable—mere mosquitoes. “She's just meaning the kissing thing.” I stare at Hank, dread rising up my legs, fear and embarrassment filling my insides.

“Hank?” My voice comes out warbled as “Hot Fun in the Summertime” starts up in the background.

Nicola blurts out, “It's quite a pact you have going with yourself.”

“Yeah,” Claire agrees. “Talk about rules and regulations. Did you have to run the no-kissing thing by a board of directors?”

Nicola guffaws. “No. It's popular vote.”

The room seems to come to a complete standstill. Hank's eyes wander as soon as he hears the music, his body registering it. I poke him on the arm. “Hank?”

Hank finally responds. “I figured it's okay. You know, they're your friends. The girls?” I stand there, so exposed I feel I could melt. Pren Stevens stands at the sliding-glass door. I grip Hank's forearm, willing him to shut up, but he adds his final remark, sealing me in a pit of embarrassment. “Look, Liana, it's no big thing. I told them that the note that said you're a slut doesn't mean anything, okay?”

Hank's words bring the room to a full stop. Pren flinches and turns away, shaking his head. Nicola stares so hard at me it feels like I've been hit with the sponge again, but this time it's not water dripping down my face, it's shame.

“Nice.” Chase elbows his brother and looks at me to make sure I'm okay.

Which I am, but I'm not sure what to do. So I'm only kind of okay. Which means I'm not. I glare at Hank. I wish for something to say. Something funny, self-deprecating, to gloss over it, so the girls with yearbook-worthy nicknames let all of this go.

“Dude,” Chase says to Hank.

Hank looks at the wreckage in front of us—the scowls from me, the crossed-arm defiance from Nicola, Claire's wicked grin, a bit of disgust from a few onlookers—and shakes his head. “I don't get it.”

Finally I know what to say. I glance at Chase and the rest of the room, and tell Hank, “Neither do I,” before I bolt.

Liana storms away from the party.
I guess I won't be getting a good-night kiss, ha-ha.

Chase is at my elbow, the booze reeking from his breath. “Dude,” he says, “you are such a tool. How could you do that to her?”

“Chase, you'll forgive me if I don't take your advice on how to treat girls seriously. Run along and do something you're good at. There are probably two or three girls with tramp stamps at this party who you haven't slept with yet. Oh, wait, I think you did sleep with that girl in the red bikini. Was she the one you called butterface? What's a butterface anyway?”

I know what a butterface is because I made Chase explain it to me after he'd dumped the girl in the red bikini. “Her body's smokin' hot,” he'd said, “but her
face
…” I also know that taunting Chase when he is drunk may lead to fisticuffs. I feel that I need to get back on familiar ground, socially speaking, after having just navigated the rock-fouled waters of a high school party and not only running aground, but possibly sinking the ship. I make fun of Chase in ways he's not smart enough to counter. He hits me. Cause and effect. It's like Mother with the yelling, the apology, and the sweet boy. It's a comfortable, familiar pattern. And maybe I deserve it. Maybe I just want him to punish me for making Liana cry.

Three things happen in quick succession: 1.) As expected, Chase punches me in the face. He hits me hard, just below the eye. 2.) Butterface runs from the party in tears. I wonder if I should have said that. It never occurred to me that I might hurt an innocent bystander in my effort to hurt Chase. 3.) One of the guys Liana kissed—I honestly can't remember their names or tell them apart, as they all seem to be only slightly different versions of the same person, but this one had Butterface on his arm until she ran from the party—hits Chase.

One of the other kiss boys—if they would at least wear makeup like the members of the band KISS, I would be able to tell them apart—yells, “Hell, yeah! Now it's a party!” and jumps into the fray.

Some girl screams. I hear glass breaking. Someone else punches me in the side of the head. Is it Chase? One of the members of KISS? I don't know, but as I hit the ground, I look for platform boots and see none. I begin crawling away from the mêlée. The mêlée I caused. Someone appears to have spilled beer on my head. I put my hand up to my head and wonder when they started making beer red.

I keep crawling until I reach a point where I believe it will be possible for me to stand. I see flip-flop-clad feet, toes with rings on them, and the beginnings of tanned, shiny, smooth female legs.

“Nice job, dork!” one of the girls yells down at me. “Way to wreck the party!”

I pick myself up and find myself a little unsteady. “Thank you,” I say. “I am available to ruin any party for a small fee.” It occurs to me that this might be a valuable service to offer. Perhaps I will put an ad on Craigslist. It might allow me to earn enough for a Jazzmaster. Anything is possible.

After a few steps I start feeling slightly better. Then I stop and vomit. This has the surprising effect of clearing my head somewhat. I am walking alone down the streets of Melville. After five minutes or so, a Melville police cruiser passes me, doubtless on the way to the party. I wonder idly if Chase will get arrested and whether I care.

I want to go home, but I can't. Mother will surely be there, and in a house the size of ours, it is very unlikely I will be able to get to the basement and the guitars, to the world I understand, without another stop in the world I don't understand: Mother will see my wounds, clean me up, coax the story from me, and lecture me about how one must behave in a relationship.

This is not a conversation I am eager to have.

I walk to Planet Guitar, hoping I can at least use the employee bathroom to wash the blood from my hair. I open the door, jingling the bell attached to it. I hear Stan's voice from the back.

“We're just closing up,” he says.

“It's me!” I call out.

“Hank?” Stan says, and he emerges from the back and says, “Jesus Christ! What happened to you?”

“I suppose I was in a fight,” I say. This has a more macho sound to it than, “I was punched twice.”

“I guess so,” he says. “Let me guess. Something to do with the hottie who was in here the other day.”

“Something to do with her, yes,” I say.

“Welcome to the fun-filled world of relationships. Here,” Stan says, reaching behind the counter. He tosses me the first-aid kit, a white plastic lunchbox with a red cross on it. “You might need some stitches on that head, but I think there are some butterfly closures in there. Just, you know, just because you're getting first aid here doesn't mean you can file for workers' comp, though,” Stan says.

“I have no intention of filing for workers' comp,” I say.

“It was a joke, kid. Go to the bathroom, will you? I don't want you bleeding on the merchandise.”

I take the first-aid kit to the bathroom and examine myself. My face is starting to swell, and there is blood in my hair. I wash the blood off and examine the wound. It's a long scratch. My guess is that my second assailant was wearing a watch, and the buckle or some other feature of the timepiece scraped my scalp as the blow glanced off what Chase refers to as my “rock-hard skull.” It will not require stitches.

I dry my hair with paper towels, grab the instant cold pack, squeeze it to activate it, and put it on my face. I rip open a condom-wrapper-sized packet of ibuprofen and pop the contents into my mouth. I emerge from the bathroom and hand the first-aid kit to Stan, who's standing in front of a stack of amps, holding a very nice Les Paul.

“Trade you,” he says, handing me the Jazzmaster as he takes the first-aid kit. “You're gonna have a hell of a shiner there. Pretty rock and roll. What do you want to play, killer?”

“KISS,” I say.

“The Prince song or the band?” he asks.

“The band,” I say, handing him back the Jazzmaster. It's not right for the songs, and anyway, playing it feels too sad now, since the last time I played it was for Liana. Now it's like a relationship with Liana—something I wanted so bad I could scream, and something that is now out of my reach. “I think I'm gonna need a Les Paul for the Ace Frehley parts.”

Stan laughs. “Dude, you are totally taking me back to my misspent youth.” He pauses for a moment. “You know what? I'm gonna call a couple of the guys I misspent it with. Tune up a Washburn for me, will you?”

I tune the Washburn—it was actually designed by Paul Stanley and looks very metal.

Stan comes back. “All right, Ace. I got Gene and Peter on the way. They're actually Al and Mike. I'm afraid we're gonna have to let Al sing, though.”

“Lead-singer syndrome,” I say, not really knowing what it means. I feel a twinge—it's Liana's phrase.

“Totally,” Stan says.

I call Mother and tell her Stan will drop me off after I'm done jamming with him and some friends. There is a long silence. “Are you doing drugs?” Mother says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I have taken four hundred milligrams of ibuprofen. Stan actually gave it to me. Would you like to verify my story with him?”

“No, smart-ass,” Mother says. “Just tell me you're not playing country music.”

“It's not country, Mother.”

“Okay. Just remember you're not named after Hank Williams, damn it.”

“I will, Mother.” Sometimes on weekend nights when she's not working, Mother sits up late, with a big goblet of Merlot, and looks at old photo albums and cries. I wonder if I've interrupted this activity and whether that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Stan busies himself setting up a drum kit, and I find myself with a few minutes in which to think. This does not please me.

I wonder if people can change. Chase is the same as he's ever been. Mother has been in mourning for five years. Liana wanted me to reinvent myself, as did Chase. They cajoled me into attending a party where I knew I wouldn't have any fun, and sure enough, apart from hearing “Hot Fun in the Summertime,” I didn't have any fun and spoiled everyone else's fun to boot. Now Liana is mad at me for having a disability. Which is what her anger amounts to. It's as though she brought a guy in a wheelchair to a party and got mad that he couldn't dance. Or if she got angry at the fish out of water for being unable to breathe. I don't think I will ever be able to successfully negotiate a party like that. I don't think I will ever want to be able to do that.

Which of course brings up the question of whether Liana will be able to change. It seems important to her to be able to stop kissing boys and to run away from them. Well, so far so good, I suppose; she's run away from me without kissing me. Perhaps there's hope after all.

Al arrives, quickly followed by Mike. They are Stan's age, have gray hair, and are thick around the middle. It occurs to me that they are younger than the actual members of KISS.

“We played all KISS covers at the tenth grade Harvest Fair. Makeup and everything,” Stan says.

“Who was Ace?” I say.

“The guy who stole Stan's girlfriend and made her his wife,” Mike says from behind the drum kit.

“We're no longer close,” Stan says, smiling.

“So kid,” Al says. “What songs do you know?”

“I know every song from
Double Platinum
,” I say sheepishly. “But if you gentlemen are big
Music from ‘The Elder'
fans, I suppose I can fake my way through.”

“
Music from ‘The
—” Al sputters. I laugh.
Music from “The Elder”
is considered to be the worst of a bad bunch of post-1978 KISS albums, even by the band itself.

“Less talk, more rock,” Mike calls. “‘Rock and Roll All Nite.'”

I look at the middle-aged men around me. I doubt they would be able to do anything all nite, much less rock and roll. Nevertheless, I come in on cue as Mike pounds out the intro. I am the only one who comes in on cue. Al actually forgets the words. To “Rock and Roll All Nite.” There can't be more than twenty-five of them.

We stagger through “Black Diamond,” “She,” and “Detroit Rock City” before Al announces that he has to get home or his wife will kill him.

“This was awesome,” Mike says. While I'm more than a little frustrated at how little this band sounds like the record, all of the old men are glowing.

“This is so much fun. Why the hell did we ever stop?” Stan says.

“Did it have to do with Ace stealing your girlfriend?” I offer.

“Shut up, Hank. You know what?” Stan says. “We should totally play Beachfest. Makeup and everything.”

“People might mistake us for the actual band. You gentlemen are only slightly more portly than Gene Simmons himself!” I say.

They stare at me for a moment before cracking up. “Portly!” Al says. “That's good.”

“We can practice here,” Stan says. “Hank, are you game?”

“Only if we can call the band Music from The Elders,” I say. Again my geriatric bandmates crack up.

“I like this kid, Stan,” Mike says. “You're okay, kid. I like the fact that you're not afraid to bust our balls.”

“Well, I got my own head busted earlier, so perhaps I have some residual anger,” I say. This remark is completely serious, and it also cracks up The Elders.

Stan and I tidy up, and he drops me at home. I sneak in the door. Chase is not at home.

Mother is on the couch, asleep, with her wedding album open on her chest. An empty goblet of wine sits next to a two-thirds empty bottle of Merlot on the coffee table. I put the goblet in the sink, gingerly remove the wedding album, close it without looking, and replace it on the shelf. Even though it's summer, I find a blanket and cover Mother with it before going to my room.