Beige (4 page)

I keep my gaze steady. I smile instead of rolling my eyes. I remain neutral. I nod enthusiastically, feigning interest as The Rat tells me that his friends are all in really big bands. But I don’t know who the guys are, and even though some of them look vaguely familiar, I’m unimpressed.

The Rat and the cool-looking crowd gather to one spot by the grill as one of the guys occupies himself by flipping the meat. They immediately get into an intense discussion. Then I think The Rat forgets I’m there with him. He’s probably not used to having someone tag along. He’s probably used to being a loner.

I don’t care. I zone out and just watch them talk. It’s as intense as the academic discussions between Mom and her colleagues, only The Rat and these guys are no intellectuals. They are not trying to solve existential questions. They are not debating the meaning of life, or the origins of the universe.

They are talking about golf.

“Well, my slice was back in full force, so I couldn’t get a par to save my life,” someone says.

“Why don’t you just admit that you suck?”

They laugh.

“I just got this new sixty-degree wedge that I think should finally help my short game.”

“Have you played the Beverly Hills course?”

“No. We should go there.”

“I’m a member of that club, so I can get us a tee time.”

“Great, next Thursday.”

“I’m in,” The Rat says.

“Me, too,” someone else chimes in.

Unbelievable. The Rat plays golf? I try to picture it, but I just can’t.

“Rat,” I say. “Rat.”

“Oh, hey. Katy.” Like he’s suddenly remembering that I’m there. Clearly I should be wearing a T-shirt that says I’
M WITH
C
LUELESS
.

“See, your Pops doesn’t just play drums well,” one of the guys says. “He plays a mean game of golf, too.”

Everyone laughs.

It’s not that funny. Or, maybe the conversation is funny for aging punk rock people, but not for me. It’s boring. I can’t even follow the conversations they are having around me. I have no
in.
No common ground. There is no thread for me to hang on to, which makes me zone out. Instead, I make up conversations I’d be having with Leticia if she were here with me. We’d maybe talk about their clothes. Leticia is really into clothes.

I think they look normal
ish.
Their jeans look expensive. Their shirts are pressed. Their shorts are stylish. And their sneakers are hip. Next to them, The Rat just looks like Pigpen. He looks wrinkled and faded and threadbare. They look money, and he looks poor.

“Man, what I wouldn’t give for one of your careers,” The Rat says.

Everybody laughs. Even The Rat is trying to pass it off as funny now, though it’s obvious he was being truthful.

“But Suck is legendary,” one of the guys says.

“Well, ‘legendary’ didn’t buy me a house,” The Rat says. “I’m still stuck in the Rat Hole at Grunge Estates.”

“Aw, Rat. We just had better bands,” one of them says jokingly.

“Bigger hits.”

“Better luck.”

“Sober sooner,” The Rat adds.

They all laugh again. They laugh easily. Move easily. I notice that out of the six of them, only two are drinking beer.

“We’d better go,” The Rat says. “See you guys at the Punk House.”

“Yeah,” one of them says. “I can’t wait to see Suck live again. You guys always put on the best shows.”

“Yeah, we destroyed,” The Rat says. “Literally.”

The Punk House looks relatively tame from the outside, but as I help carry The Rat’s drum kit inside, I almost throw up. The inside of the house is even worse than the Rat Hole.

The carpet is stained. Crusted, even — possibly with puke. There are bottles and cans and overflowing ashtrays everywhere. The pizza boxes on the table in the dining area are swarming with ants. The kitchen sink is filled with unwashed dishes. I don’t know where to look. So I look up.

There is mold on the ceiling.

“Oh my God. This is disgusting,” I say. I can’t help it. It’s too awful to keep to myself.

“Beware,” The Rat says. “Punk rock bachelors live here.”

“That’s what you are,” I say.

“I was never this bad.” He laughs. “Besides, you don’t need a penicillin shot after you go to the bathroom at my house.”

“I hope you’re kidding,” I say. I don’t want to have to hold my bladder all day.

“Of course I’m kidding,” The Rat says.

“I don’t even know where to put my feet,” I say. “I might break something. Or catch something.”

“Screw it. Step on anything,” The Rat says.

The Rat just walks over stuff, but I still can’t help it; I try to watch where my feet are going.

We exit with the drum kit to the huge backyard. On a makeshift stage, there is an all-girl band playing surf music. The freaky slides and sounds complement the visual assault I’m experiencing. American flags hang everywhere, but the colors people wear are not confined to a patriotic red, white, and blue, and the colors are not just on their clothes. Everyone’s hair is dyed in a rainbow of shades, and they all have tattoos, tattoos, TATTOOS! I suspect that The Rat is the oldest person here because they all look like teenagers, but when I get a closer look, I realize that almost everyone here is old. Everyone got older but forgot to grow up.

The scene is completely surreal, like a Dali painting or something. I imagine this is what tripping feels like.

I’m not freaked out by the amount of inked skin or the colors in people’s hair or the clothes that they wear. Montréal is one of the most tattooed cities in North America. I just haven’t seen so many people like The Rat all crowded together into one place. I’ve never been surrounded by so many people not like me.

I’m the odd girl out.

The Rat just kind of leaves me to my own devices as he checks in with people and says his hellos. I don’t see how I can fit in here. I
can’t
fit in here. I make my escape and find myself blissfully alone by the guacamole. But not for long.

“So, you’re Katy,” one guy says, rounding up a plate of chips at the other end of the table. “I’m Sam.”

For a punk rock legend, he’s quiet. Uncrazy. Unlike the guy in the Mohawk in the photo that I know by heart. Unlike the Suck poster I saw at The Rat’s house, where he is scary sweat and blood and holding his guitar like a weapon. Unlike the screaming face on that reissued CD. Sam Suck has shaggy brown hair peppered with gray that falls long onto his shoulders. His eyes are pale icy blue, one of his teeth is kind of grayish, and the lines on his face are deep, like scars. His eyebrows are bushy and meet in the middle. He doesn’t look punk to me. He just looks like just another old guy.

He sticks his hand out. He’s the only one who’s offered me his hand.

I take it. We shake.

He nods.

“You look like your mom,” he says.

I know I don’t look anything like my mom. I never have. My skin isn’t olive; it’s pale. My hair isn’t blond and curly; it’s flat and dark and useless, the kind that only looks good in a ponytail. I got my hair from The Rat, even though now he shaves his head because he’s going bald. I have a plain face. Normal. Uninteresting. Average. Unremarkable. My mom’s features are startling. They are wide and almost too large for her face. Her ears stick out. Her nose is bent. Her teeth are crooked. Even with her mainstream look she can never hide her unusual features, so I know he is lying when he says I look like her.

The way he looks at me makes me want to be honest. His ice-blue eyes don’t take any bullshit. So I speak. I say it. I call him on it. I tell him what’s what.

“I don’t look like my mom at all.”

“You do,” he says. “It’s those eyes. Different color. Same eyes.”

No one has ever said that to me before. My mom may have goofy features, but she has the kind of eyes that you want focused on you because they really seem to see things.

I want her eyes on me now. I want her looking at me now, not Sam Suck.

“How’s she doing?” he asks, smoothing out the potentially awkward moment.

“She’s in Peru, studying the Incas.” I won’t choke up in front of a stranger. I won’t.

“She cleaned up good,” Sam says. He nods in approval.

“I see you’ve met Sam,” The Rat says, joining us with a beer in one hand and a plate of food in the other. I’m actually kind of hungry and glad that The Rat has brought me a burger. I am about to reach for the plate when he sets down his beer and takes a bite of the burger. I see. It’s
his
plate. He didn’t get me anything to eat at all.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” I say.

“Nothing like a near-beer on a hot summer day,” he says.

The Rat and Sam laugh, like it’s a private joke. They clink near-beer bottles.

A girl with stringy thin dyed-black hair, black jeans, and a black T-shirt that says
BUST
on it comes up to Sam. She hands him a bunch of colorful little plastic triangles.

“Dad, here are your picks,” she says.

I have to bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing. Her voice is impossibly high, like a cartoon, like she’s been sucking on helium or like there is not enough room in her throat. I almost think her voice is a joke, except for the dirty look she gives me, which tells me she gets that reaction all the time.

“Lake, this is Katy, Rat’s kid. She’s staying here for a couple of weeks,” Sam says.

“Fourteen more days. Then I go home to Montréal,” I say. Just to be clear that I’m not sticking around.

Lake looks me over. I can tell she doesn’t approve of my khaki shorts and pale pink T-shirt. I know I don’t fit in. She doesn’t have to remind me.

“Hi,” she says.

Then The Rat and Sam Suck exchange knowing looks. Lake rolls her eyes like we’re all stupid.

I know what’s coming. We’re going to be forced on each other. I don’t want to have to be The Rat’s sidekick all day. Lake will have to do.

“Lake,” The Rat says. “Remember our agreement?”

She sighs.

“Come on,” Lake says in her squeaky voice. She jerks her head toward the party, indicating for me to follow. I do. I’d rather go than stay.

“Have fun, Katy,” The Rat says. “But not too much fun. You know, be cool, but not too cool.”

Could I
be
more humiliated?

I have to walk fast to keep up with Lake because she’s already split. Mom says when you’re in a new environment, ask questions. So I do. I ask. But getting answers from Lake is like pulling teeth.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” she says.

“What grade are you in?” I ask.

“Junior.”

“Oh, I’m going to be in Secondary Four,” I say.

“What?”

“Secondary Four,” I say. “It’s like grade ten in American high school.”

“
Listen,
” she says, tugging on her ear.

“To what?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes and gestures toward the band taking the stage.

“No talking while there is rocking,” she says.

Here we go again. The band starts and it is too loud. I put my fingers in my ears.

“I think you are right:
ils sont trop
loud to talk,” I say, yelling Franglais above the music.

Lake laughs at me, almost doing a spit take with her soda.

“You speak French? Won’t do you any good here. You gotta learn to
habla español.
”

We stop talking because at this point the music gets out of control and no one can talk. I try covering my ears even more as the volume seems to go from a level eight to a level twelve. After a few minutes, Lake taps me on the shoulder and hands me a little plastic package with two foamy pieces inside.

“Here,” she yells. “Don’t leave home without them.”

“What are they?” I ask.

“Ear condoms,” Lake says.

I open up the package and shove the little foamy plugs in my ears. Looking around, I notice that everyone has them stuck in their ears and that there are bowls of earplugs and real condoms scattered around the party. The little signs above the bowls say:
BE SAFE
!
PLAY SAFE
!
ROCK SAFE
!

When the band stops playing, everyone hoots and hollers.

Lake points to my ears, and I pull the earplugs out.

“So what’s your deal?” she says. Is she just making conversation until the next band takes the stage? Or is she really interested in me?

I shrug. My ears are still ringing. I bet I get tinnitus.

In my head, I tell her I have a lot of friends in Montréal and she doesn’t have to babysit me. I don’t mind being alone for two more weeks. I
like
being alone. In my head, I tell her I am technically going to be a year behind her, but the education system is better in Canada than in the United States, so I’m probably more advanced than she is. I tell her that I walk everywhere in Montréal. And I like it. I tell her she smells like BO. I tell her that I think I see lice in her hair.

But in reality, I keep my mouth shut. I shrug for a second time. I put the earplugs back in my ears. It drowns out the
babble babble babble
of the party.

Lake doesn’t care. I can tell by the way her body is turned away from me. The time for talking is now over. A new band has taken the stage. She is at complete attention. She is transfixed by the music. She is devouring the stage with her eyes. It’s not like we’re together; it’s more like we’re just standing next to each other. It’s merely out of convenience or proximity.

She’s clapping. I can’t believe she actually wants to be here. She wants to mingle with these kinds of adultescents. She wants to be listening to this stuff, this
noise.
It’s not anything I have ever heard on the radio. It’s not easy to listen to. It’s scary. I like music to be in the background. Not in my face.

I do not want to be here. I don’t bother looking around for The Rat, because I don’t want to be with him either. I just can’t wait for this day to be over. I pretend the noise and the crazy adults and the stupid American barbecue food aren’t here. I pretend I’m not here.

I am far away. I am back home. I am in Montréal. I am at the
piscine.
I am eating
poutine.
I am at the
dépanneur
with Leticia buying an ice-cream sandwich. We’re going to go hang out at Parc Lafontaine.