I point at the sort-of hallway, a six-foot length of hall with a bedroom door on either side and a single bathroom in between. The toilet is dirty, the shower is hard-water stained, and the sink is covered in Mom’s stuff: makeup, curling irons, brushes, hair ties, a box of tampons.
“My room is on the right.” I lead her there, leaving the door open. More for Kylie’s sake than anything else. Mom won’t get home before three in the morning, and she wouldn’t give a shit even if she did.
It’s messy, of course. Clothes cover the floor, heaped in piles of dirty laundry, the clean clothes in a basket. There’s an ashtray on the windowsill, and it has cigarette butts in it, as well as a couple of roaches. The room stinks of dirty clothes and smoke. I can’t believe I brought her here. Jesus, what was I thinking?
I back away. “This was dumb. I shouldn’t’ve brought you. It’s gross in here. Let’s just go.” I grab her arm gently, and tug.
She moves away from me to sit on the bed, the only place to sit. “It’s fine, Oz. It’s just a bedroom. My room is just as messy.”
I snort. “Right.”
She laughs. “It is! It looks just like this!” She glances at the ashtray. “I mean, it’s a little bigger, and it smells better, but…other than that, it’s just like this.”
I lunge at the ashtray and take it into the kitchen, dump it, and grab the Febreze on my way past the bathroom. I spray liberally, until we’re both coughing.
“I think that’s good, Oz.” She laughs, waving her hand in front her face, and then looks at me with a curious expression. “I didn’t know you smoke.” I just shrug, and she frowns. “There was more than just cigarettes in there, wasn’t there?”
“Don’t wanna know, remember?”
Kylie frowns. “Maybe I do. Maybe I’m curious.”
I groan and flop on the bed beside her, not too close, not touching. “No f**king way, Kylie. We’re not even having this conversation. Be curious with someone else. Ben already hates me.”
“Ben’s not my keeper.”
I don’t respond to that. Maybe he should be is what I’m thinking, but don’t say. I know I should stay away from someone as good and innocent as Kylie, but I’m just ass**le enough that I know I won’t. It doesn’t mean I’m going to go out of my way to actively taint her lightness with my darkness.
Instead of responding, I lean over, grab my guitar, unplug the headphones, and turn the volume on the amp down. I lean back against the wall, feet kicked out to hang over the side of the bed. I glance at Kylie, grin. “Ready?”
She nods. “Let me have it.”
I hit a power chord, just to test the volume. Twist the knob a little, hit the chord again, and this time it’s just loud enough that I’ll probably get some complaints, but not enough to cause any real trouble. Loud enough, essentially, to shock her. I pin my finger to the string, hit it with my pick, then slide my finger down the neck, toward the bridge. An ascending, discordant note fills the air, and when I get halfway to the bridge I send my fingers dancing across the fret board, picking the strings as fast as I can, eliciting a shrieking riff that hits hard and keeps on going. I turn it into a chugging low chord riff, close my eyes, and ascend the bridge, strumming and picking, the whining, wailing notes getting higher and faster with every fret I pass. This is a solo I’ve been working on for a while, adding notes and chords here and there over the past few weeks, sections of finger work.
With my eyes closed, I can almost see the numbers on my eyelids like silver light, halving and halving again with every note, fractions upon fractions with each shredded, twisted flight of chords. I lose myself in it momentarily. Let the music take over, let it slice through me and push away the knowledge of my impending fight with Ben, my bitterness and my sadness and my loneliness, even my burgeoning and star-crossed attraction to Kylie. For as long as my eyes are closed and my hands work music from my guitar, nothing else matters. I don’t even want to burn when I’m playing. It’s just for me. I let the solo go, turn to improv, hitting half-notes and staccato power chords, crossing from power metal style solo to metalcore-style crashing and grinding.
Eventually, I remember that Kylie is here with me, and I let a shuddering note hang in the air, open my eyes to see Kylie staring at me. Her expression is unreadable. Horrified? Awed? A little of both, maybe. I’m not sure. I just sit and wait, fiddle with my pick.
“Jesus, Oz!” Kylie breathes. “That was amazing. I had no idea you were so talented!”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not. It’s just a hobby.”
“A hobby?” She shakes her head and leans toward me. “Oz, that was crazy. I’ve never heard anything like it. You could totally be a professional musician with talent like that.”
I’m uncomfortable. I set my guitar on the floor beside the bed and switch the amp off. This seems to have backfired. I dig through the front pocket of my backpack, find my pack of smokes. I ignore the tin that holds my stash, even though I’d like a toke or four right now. I light a cigarette, slide open the window, and stand beside it. Maybe she’ll be so grossed out by the fact that I smoke that she’ll leave me alone. I mean, I don’t want her to leave me completely alone, just to forget this idea that I could ever play some stupid country music for her.
“No way, sweetness. I just do it for fun. For myself. You’re the only person who’s ever heard me play. Like, not even my mom. I don’t know why I played for you, really. My point is, that’s what I play. Not some twangy country bullshit. I’m not the guy for what you want. Sorry.” I blow a long stream of smoke out of my nostrils, and Kylie backs away from the cloud, waving her hand at the smoke.
She moves off the bed, watching me. “Why do you smoke?”
I shrug. “I dunno. I just do. I like it.”
“Does it taste good? Or does it make you, like, high? I’ve never understood why people smoke cigarettes.”
I laugh. “Clearly. No one you know smokes, huh?”
“I think my dad used to, but he quit a long time ago. I think he still does, actually, every once in a while when he’s in the garage, but never when I’m around.” She sniffs the air, and I can tell she’s fighting her curiosity. “Let me try.” She reaches for my cigarette.
I hold it away from her. “No way. No f**king way, Kylie.”