Blues for Zoey (18 page)

55

My Shain
Cope Phase

That night, when I closed my e
yes, the darkness was tinged the same piss-yellow
color of the bruise on Zoey's arm.
I woke up in a shitty mood.

Work didn't start
until three, so most of the morning, I lay ar
ound listening to
Freudian Slap
. The soft melody
of the piano; the carnival wheeze of the accordion; the skeleton clink of the drums; the keen of the cellos; and of course the apocalyptic drawl of Shain Cope's voice—all the perfect soundtrack to how I felt.

“
Is that what I think it is?”

I looked up and there was Mom, standing in my doorway.

“Sorry. Too loud?”

“No, I just ha
ven't heard this in a long time. Shain Cope, right?”

“You know him?”

“Who doesn't?”

I shrugged. “Me.”

“When I was young, he was almost a household name. He probably would've
been, eventually.” The scuffed jewel
case was lying on my desk. She tapped the cover with two fingers. “It upset a lot of people when he killed himself.”

“He did? Oh, wait. Somebody told me, I think.” That music geek from Topher's party. It was only then I remembered him.

“He shot himself in the head,” Mom told me.

“
H
arsh
.
”

“
It was how I first heard about him.
On the news. After that, everyone I
knew went through a little Shain Cope
phase.”

“Guess I'm going through mine right
now.” I sat up and slid the case off my desk, staring at the creepy cover ar
t. “Are we going to Beauhaven today?”

“Not yet.” Mom wav
ed her hand in front of her face. “I'm still a little fuzzy.”

I reached over and turned the sound down on my stereo.

“I
nstead of worrying about me, you just keep saving
and worry about
those grades
.” She came around behind me and massaged my shoulders. Her
fingers had hardly any grip. It was like a back rub fr
om a marionette. “You'll get into a good school somewhere, a million miles from here. Everything is going to turn out fine. I p
romise.”

She must have thought I was depressed about school. “But what if I don't get in anywhere?”

“You will,” she said, and then drifted out the doo
r, down the hall, and into her room. I reset the CD, playing it again from the beginning.

56

My Mantra

When I went down for my shift, Mr. Rodolfo was talking loudly to an old Asian
guy in Terminator shades about how hot it was and how a big summer storm was coming. He was standing near the front windo
w with his arms folded, as if he was waiting for me to show up.

“I pay you enough, right?”

“Sure,” I said, stepping behind the counter. “I'm doing good.”

“You're saving enough?”

“I'll be good by the end of summer. Then I'll talk to my mom. It'll work out.”

“Good. So you're happy.”

“Yep.”

“Because if you need some extra cash, I might be able to help out.”

“Um … ”

“Maybe we'll talk about this later.”

Then
he was gone. It was an odd way of saying
goodbye. I had never known him to worry about paying me enough. I couldn't help wondering if
it had something to do with what happened to B-Man. Mr. Rodolfo had been acting w
eird ever since that morning I found the die. Did he suspect what I suspected? Was this his way of offering to pay me off?

In my head, I kept repeating the same things, over and over:
Make your goal. Make it to the end
of summer
.
B-Man's fine
.
Nothing happened to him
.
He
's fine
.

I kept repeating the words all through my shift, as the DIYers came and went, as the sun set on Steinway. At some point, maybe simply out of mental fatigue, my thoughts shifted.
They leapt from B-Man to Zoey. W
ould I ever see her again? I didn't think
so. When someone says, “Next time you see me, promise y
ou'll tell me to screw off,” you don't expect them to show up on your doorstep the next day
.

But that night, just before closing, that's what she did.

57

The Import
ance of Being Honest

She stopped on
the threshold of the laundromat, the rattler slung ov
er her shoulder.

“Is your boss here?” she whispered.

“No.”

I didn'
t feel like talking, but I couldn't take my
eyes off her. Her dreads were pulled back in a tight ponytail. It ga
ve the edges of her face an added sharpness.

“I can trust you, right?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, you're an honest person.”

I nodded. She looked back over her shoulder. The light was fading by the second. The summer storm was coming.

“Seriously,” she said, “you've always been
honest
with me, yeah?”

I threw out this deep, theatrical sigh. “I have no idea why you're asking me this, but
yes
.”

“And you're honest with everyone, right?”

“I just told you—
yes
. I have always been honest with you. I'm honest with everyone.
Okay?
”

“I'm serious, Kaz.
It's important.” She looked back ov
er her shoulder again. “I need someone I can trust right now.”

“Are you in trouble?”

She
ran her thumb and forefinger up and down
one of the instrument's strings. It made a noise like a whine, like the whimper of an animal before it died. “I need you to stash this for me.”

“Where am I supposed to put it?”

She pointed at the dry-cleaning booth. “In there. Like before.”

“What if my boss comes back? I would definitely lose my job.”

“Is that all y
ou care about? Your job?”

“That's not true.”

She came inside, leaning the rattler against the counter. “Just for a couple hours. I don't have anyone else.”

“Wait, you never answered me. Are you in trouble?”

“They're gonna take it,” she said.

“
Who's
gonna take it?”

She looked out the window again. I noticed another bruise on the side of her neck. She was wearing a white, gauzy, long-sleeved shirt, and I thought I could see the bruise spreading down her back.

“What happened to your neck?”

“It's from carrying the rattler all the time.” She pulled the elastic out of her hair. Her d
reads tumbled down to cover the bruise. “Probably looks worse cuz
I had to run with it just now.
”

“
Run?
Why? What's going on?”

“You're right. I'm kind of in trouble.”

“With who?”

“If I tell you, will you let me stash it here? Just a couple hours, I promise.”

“Fine. Who are you in trouble with?”

“The police.”

“The cops?” Now I was the one peering anxiously out the window. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” she said. “They said I needed a permit to perform, which is total
bullshit. It's like five hundred bucks for a buske
r's license, but the fine's even worse. So I hoofed it. If they arrest me, they'll impound the rattler.
Who kn
ows
when I'll get it back.”

“Okay, just a couple hours.”

“
Great!
” Her face brightened and she leaned acr
oss the counter, pecking me on the cheek. It happened so
fast, I didn't have a chance to turn my head and make it a real kiss. Even so, it felt good.

“We close at ten,
” I told her. “You gotta be back by then.”

“I will. I promise.”

58

No
t All Promises Are Created Equal

The rain started just after eight. First, that humid, earthy, before-the-rain smell wafted through
the open door. Then, all at once, the whole sky thundered and flashed and fell down in sheets. Water rushed
through the gutters of Steinway, carrying pop cans and candy wrappers like bits of a ship
wreck.

Maybe Zoey was caught in the rain somewhere. I pictured her in my head,
her dreads sopping down the sides of her
face. I texted her:

U ok?

No answer.

For an hour, the rain came and went before finally letting up. The streets were soaked and Zoey's “couple hours” were up, but there was no sign of her. I sent another text:

Gotta
close
in
1
h
r
. Txt
me,
pls.

No reply.

At ten, I locked up the laundromat and flipped the
OPEN
sign to
CLOSED
. I didn't switch off the lights. I slumped on the bench by the front window and moped at the drying pavement. Zoey would show up any minute, I figured, appearing like magic, like she always did.

Only she did
n't. I waited for an hour with the lights on.

Whe
r
e
ARE
you?

Nothing.

The rattler was tucked away in the same place as before, deep in the back of the dry-cleaning booth. O
nly the bottom was visible, the base extending down below the
clothes. I began to worry. Either she'd been arrested or she'd lied to me. Otherwise, she would be here. Around ele
ven-thirty, I texted one last rant.

I
hope
ur
ok,
but
u need
to
tell
me
if
u cant
get
back.
I'll
keep the
rattler
til
noon
2mr
r
ow
…
after
that,
I
might
hafta
trash
it.
OK?

I waited. I kept hearing her promise
in my head. Why did she have to promise? I waited and waited for a reply but there was …

Nothing.

59

S.C.

I put a crate of detergent in the dry-cleaning booth. From the counter, you could
n't see the rattler. I had the morning
shift the next day, so it should be all right in there. But I remembered how Mr.
Rodolfo and the Brothers had shown up unexpectedly on the morning I found B-
Man's die. If that happened again, I'd be in trouble.

It was hard
sleeping again; I was too worried. If Zoey didn't come in the morning, what would I do with the rattler? Thankfull
y, the Sit 'n' Spin was dark and empty when I finally went down the next day. I texted Zoey again:

Still
have
your
instrument.
WHERE
ARE
YOU?

No answer.

I started to wonder if I could truly follow through on my threat to trash the instr
ument. A part of me wanted to. After
all that stuff about being “an honest person,” Zoey had basically lied to me. She promised she'd be back and never showed.

I
t was a slow morning. The street felt
deserted. I folded towels; I stacked the little b
oxes of detergent; I swept the floor.

Mostly, I stood behind the counter like a zombie, staring out the window, waiting for Zoey to walk in.

Instead of Zoey,
a crimson convertible pulled up across the str
eet, the one that belonged to the TV producer
, Andrew Myers. He got out, looking even more glamorous than I remember
ed. As he came across the street, the sun glinted off his car like flashbulbs along a red carpet.

“You got those suits for me?”
he asked, breezing in the door.

“Oh, yeah
,” I said, like a complete kiss-up. “Totally
done!”

In my head, an impossible fantasy went spinning
out of control: Andrew Myers telling me he
liked my “look”; Andrew Myers casting me in his next big flick; Andrew M
yers asking me to direct the sequel. There was e
ven room in there for Zoey. (I would hire her to sco
re the soundtrack.) A whole, sparkling lifetime unfolded behind my eyes, all in the few steps Andrew Myers took from the door to the counter.

“How's the shoot going?” I asked him, stifling my excitement. “Sorry, it's Andrew, right?”

“Y
ou remembered. Cool.” He smiled and his
teeth glittered as brightly as the hood of his car
. “It's going pretty good. Like I said, right no
w it's mostly second unit stuff, no biggie.”

Inside the dry-cleaning booth, I had to move the crate of detergent to get
to where I'd hung his suits. I plucked
them off the bar and they crackled in their plastic sheaths.

“Here you go.”

“Great, how much do I owe you?” His wallet was thick as a brick of butter.

Each suit cost fifteen, but he paid me
twenty. “Call it a tip, for getting it done on time—and for remembering my name.”

“Thanks!” I popped open the register, slid in the price
of the suits, and pocketed the rest. When I looked
up again, Myers was staring into the dry-cleaning booth.
I'd left the door open.

“What's that?” he asked me.

“It's where we keep the dry cleaning.”

“No.” He came around the counter and pushed the door open all the wa
y. “I mean
that
, right there.” He
was pointing at the rattler, partly exposed by the gap left by Myers's clothes.

“Just some old junk,” I told him.

He stepped fully inside the booth, shoving the hanging clothes aside. “No way,” he said, speaking quietly, more to himself than me. “It can't be.”

“Can't be what?”

“Oh my god. How did it get here?”

“I told you, it's just some old junk. A friend of mine made it.”

He shook his head. “I don't think so.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whoever your friend is, there's no way he made this.”

“
S
he
.
”

Myers ignored me. He went inside and crouched down in front of the instrument. He ran the pad of his thumb along one of the strings. It gave off an eerie, faraway whine, a sour version of a sound I recognized.

“She wouldn't like you touching it,” I told him.

Very gently, Myers lifted his fingers from the string. He stood up and faced me. “Did you
see
her make it?”

“No, but I've seen her play it. She's really good.”

He bit his lip. “So she's had it a long time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I guarantee, your friend didn't make this.”

“How do you know that?”

“I think
I can prove it. Help me get it
onto the counter.”

I didn't move. It was the middle of the morning. What if Mr. Rodolfo came in early? I couldn't have that thing splayed out on the counter.

“I'll do it myself.” He r
eached past the clothes and picked up the instrument. “You're gonna want to see this.”

I just stood there,
too stunned to speak. When Myers came out of the booth, a puff of stale air came with him. It smelled of chemicals and plastic. I felt dizzy.

M
yers eased the rattler onto the counter. “
See?
C'mere and look.” He tapped the bottom of the base. “I can't believe it!”

The cent
er strut of the rattler was made of polished wood, but the bottom was capped with dull gray metal, pocked and pitted from countless thumps against pavement.

“See that?”

Myers had found
two scratches that were deeper than the rest. That's
because they weren't scratches. They had been carv
ed there deliberately. Two letters, underlined with a
little flourish:

S.C.

“What's it mean?”

“It means your friend lied to you.”

“
A
bout what?
”

“Did she ever tell you where she got this?”

“She said she made it herself.” I explained as much as I knew, which suddenly seemed like very little: that Zoey had constructed it out of scraps of junk; that it was her own design for a musical instrument; that although she was good at all kinds of instruments, she preferred to play her own. “So it
has
to be hers—because she can play it. Look at it! Who else could play something like this?”

“Only one person I know.” Myers tapped the letters. “S.C.,” he said. “Shain Cope.”

If I felt dizzy before, now I was close to passing out. I had that same feeling I got whenever I saw blood, like my insides were floating away. I gripped the edge of the counter to stop it from happening.

“I don't … I don't get it.”

“It's simple,” said Myers. “This instr
ument doesn't belong to your friend.”

“It doesn't?”

“She
certainly
did
n't make it, because
Shain Cope
did.” H
e pursed his lips at me. “Kid, this instrument was stolen.”

“No. You've never heard her play it. If you had, you'd know.” I pointed out the window. “She stands right over there and she plays it.
S
he kills it
. Every time. I've seen her. She's amazing!”

Myers
stared into my face. Suddenly, he smiled.
“Oh, I get it. She's cute, isn't
she? She's not just ‘a friend.'”
He leaned a bit closer. “Just cuz she's cute doesn't mean she'
s honest.”

There was that word again.
Honest
. If Zoey had been lying to me since the beginning, how could she have grilled me like that, asking all those questions?

“I've seen her,” I whispered. “She kills it.”

Andrew Myers shrugged. “Maybe. B
ut so did Shain Cope.
And
it's a well-known fact he made his own instruments. It'
s what he was famous for. He used to joke
in interviews, say that someday he was gonna make the world's ‘greatest instrument
.' One time, he said that if he ever
finished the thing, he'd have nothing left to li
ve for. That was one reason it was
such a big deal when he killed himself. Nobody kn
ew what it meant. They all wanted to know: H
ad he done it? Had he succeeded?”

We both stared at the inst
rument. It suddenly looked different to me, like something in a morgue. A rotten body on a slab.

“How do you know all this?”

“I was a fan,” he said. “I still am. Also, in case
you hadn't noticed, I'm a little older than you. For some people of my generation, Shain Cope was a
god. Plus, I live in LA. Eve
rybody out there knows the story.” H
e nodded, remembering. “After he killed himself, after the news got out, some people broke into his house
in the Hills. They stole the usual stuff: electronics, jew
elry, anything that looked valuable. It was only after a complete inventory that they disc
overed there were other things missing. Inst
ruments.
Homemade instruments
. Eventually, nearly all of it was
recovered. All except
one thing
.”
He placed a hand on the rattler. “They said it was the last instrument he made before he died, and there was a rumor about it.”

“What rumor?”

“That it was shaped like a cross.”

My head was swimming again (drowning, more like). “Are you saying my, um, my friend ...
She stole this?
”

“I'm saying she's gonna
have to do some serious explaining, maybe to some very serious people.”

I
thought about the night before. Was this what Zoey
was running from? Was this the
real reason
the cops were after her?

“So now what? Are you going to call the police?”

He laughed, a few short
blasts, almost like he was choking. “That's the
last
thing I need.
”

“So you're
not
going to call them?”

He leaned even closer, his head hovering over the strings. “Listen,” he said, lowering his voice. “Maybe this is your lucky day. Not everyone would recognize what this is. And maybe—yeah—some people would call the cops. But here's the thing: I'm a collector.”

“So … ?”

He
took a deep breath. “I know this thing
isn't yours, but I also know it's
definitely not
your friend's.
So what would you say if I asked you to sell it to me?”

“
What?
”

“If you're worried about your friend, you can split the money with her.”

“I don't know. I'd have to ask her first.”

The gleam in Myers
's eyes had shifted from a movie-star twinkle to something else, something more like the glint of a blade. “What if I wanted
to buy it right now? I'm willing to
pay a lot of money.”

“It's not mine.”

He cleared his throat and stood up straight. He could probably tell he was making me nervous. He was.

“Look, I'm only in town a few more days, and I'd really like to take this off your hands. You see what I mean?”

“I don't know.”

“Let me put it another way, because I don't think you understand. Whoev
er your friend is, I'd be doing her
a
big favor
.” He pointed to the instrument.
“This is stolen property. Now, I don'
t know if she's the one who stole it, but somehow she got it and she's been lying about where it came from.” He thr
ew a glance into the dry-cleaning booth. “And it looks to me like you've been stashing it for her. So all I'm saying is that you
could both be in a lot of trouble.”
He turned back to me, a sympathetic expression on his
face. “Sell it to me right now and all that goes away.
”

This must be how you got movies made, by saying the right thing at just the right time. I could feel how badly Myers wanted it. Something
about the intensity of his need made me want to keep
it—at least for now. What it made me want
most of all was to talk to Zoey, to hear her tell me the truth.

“No. I can't. I need to talk to her.”

Myers touched the rattler again. “O
kay, well, you tell your friend there's a guy who knows what this thing is, and you tell her he
doesn't care where she got it but
he wants it.
Very badly
.” He took another
business card out of his wallet. “This one
's for her. You tell her I'll be in town until Sunday.”