Deathskull Bombshell (9 page)

After his Confirmation, he only attended
services when his parents were home.

They didn’t notice that he was Buddhist, of
course. They didn’t notice anything. Work was always more
important. Nick and Brooke were about as much a priority as the
cute ceramic dishware they got in China. They joked about it with
each other, calling themselves Housekeeper 1 and Housekeeper 2.

“Hey, cupcake Wolverine, why you gotta always
fuck with my shit. Big Jesus face. What do you do all day? What
what what what do you do.”

He wondered if his parents’ neglect was why
he’d grown so close with Parker, needing a replacement family. Most
guys didn’t form such close friendships. The Beloit family was
pretty good to him. They never asked any questions, just accepted
him into their circle. Best friend, brother maybe, heart-match.

It didn’t mean he was gay.

“Cupcake Wolverine, like your life is so
hard. Desert Jesus, deserting me. You’re a big pastry!” they
sang.

Maybe he was lonely. But he didn’t really
feel like dating girls. They just weren’t that interesting. Even
the girls who were into music and had good manners and cared about
school, they weren’t anyone he could sleep with.

But he wasn’t sleeping with Parker,
either.

Maybe he would never sleep with anybody.

It wasn’t guilt. He never felt guilty about
being gay. He wasn’t gay. Loving another guy didn’t mean anything.
That was just love.

Sex was different. Sort of like pepperoni and
sausage on a pizza – not bad in theory, but largely unnecessary.
Pizza was fine with just cheese.

His friend Vanessa, who knew everything, said
that made him asexual. He didn’t tell her about Parker. Vanessa was
cool. She probably would have understood. But he didn’t feel like
telling anyone. Some people guessed, but he never answered one way
or the other. It wasn’t their business.

Deathskull Bombshell finished up, and the
audience yelled at them for an encore.

“We’re taking donations,” Elizabeth shouted
to the audience. “To show some appreciation for us and for
Ȼørpseflowerź and Zombie Bratwurst and Aborted Dreams of a Better
Catharsis. Jars are located on the counter upstairs by the toaster,
and the other one is on the coffee table in the living room. How
about it?”

“You suck!” yelled the audience. “Fuck you!
Play more music!”

“I LOVE YOU!” some drunk guy shouted.

“Let’s just play some shit,” Trevor muttered,
and they started on their original song “Annoying Vapid Wormhole
Whore,” then “Make Me Puke (Your Love)”. They moved on to a cover
of Jefferson Airplane “Somebody To Love”. The Ȼørpseflowerź joined
in, providing growling metal vocals and scary synthesizers. When
they shouted along with the chorus they sounded just like Black
Sabbath. Bjorn-Trevor looked ready to pass out next to them; with
their face makeup and Marilyn Manson eye contacts they were scarier
than he was, and much taller.

Nick didn’t care one way or the other if
Trevor fainted on stage. Trevor Ericksen was not a conscientious
sort of guy. Playing guitar had gone to his head. Brooke followed
him around like she needed him, like she wouldn’t know her ass from
her elbow if he wasn’t around to point it out.

It was depressing.

Trevor still made his mother fold his clothes
during band practice. The idea of Brooke being someone’s laundry
bitch was sad. She was a feminist. She could do better for
herself.

Some things had to be learned, Parker said
once. He had to let her make mistakes or she’d never learn
anything.

“Of all the mistakes,” Nick said that day,
“why that one.”

Parker shrugged. “You can’t choose it. It
just happens.”

Like herpes, Nick thought. “I guess.”

The band was really done now. Elizabeth threw
her sticks into the audience. A hyperactive fan caught both of
them, jumping over several concert attendees in her rush. She
squealed and jumped up and down, clutching her prize.

Elizabeth hunched down, leaning into her drum
set. Her face was very pale. She had anxiety issues that liked to
creep up every once in a while. Brooke grabbed her hand, and they
snuck offstage while the remaining members of Deathskull Bombshell
and the Ȼørpseflowerź attempted to tame the raging beast of an
audience. They started playing another song, but nobody knew what
they were supposed to be playing so they just did a bunch of
solos.

Nick followed them to the kitchen. Brooke
pulled out a folding chair from behind the fridge for Elizabeth to
sit on, and Nick grabbed her an empty beer can, filling it with
water. He grabbed another folding chair for his sister.

Elizabeth chugged the water down and leaned
her head on Brooke’s shoulder. “Dear Christ,” she said.

Brooke laughed. “Yeah.”

“What a concert. I’m fucking exhausted.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, trying to collect her thoughts. “I
wonder where that guy ran off to.”

“What guy?”

Covering her mouth, Elizabeth yawned.

“We drove some guy here after his car broke
down,” Nick explained. He grabbed the donation jar from the counter
and shook it, trying to weigh the profits in his mind. The coins
jingled quiet, muffled by the dollars. He told himself not to get
too optimistic about it. They were going to have to split it all up
anyway.

“Oh, cool,” Brooke said. She grinned. “Was he
cute?”

“What?” Nick said, crossing his arms. “I
don’t know. God.” He glared at her.

“Way-ooooooooooooooh!” Parker yelled then,
running up from downstairs, and they stared at him. “That was
amazing! Fuckin’ Ȼørpseflowerź! Right there!”

Nick nodded.

“They were so tall!” Parker said, drunk,
slurring his speech. He wobbled slightly, then leaned against the
counter to steady himself. “And they had a real synthesizer! And
the bassist let me touch his Fender!”

Nick stared at him, mortified.

“How was it?” Brooke said, suppressing a
giggle. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Awesome!” Parker said. He jumped around,
exclaiming over everything.

A few other people wandered upstairs. They
all chatted for a while about the show and about other shows that
were going on later that week. Some guy was throwing a party. Nick
didn’t know him, but it felt nice to be invited. One guy wore an
Anti-Flag shirt, prompting a discussion about their new album.

Parker found someone with rolling papers and
gradually calmed down. Brooke smoked a few cigarettes with him and
some guys she didn’t know very well. She was getting really into
this whole thing, the attention. It worried him.

Nick wondered if this was his future, sitting
around like a nerd and fetching water while everyone else got drunk
and high. It almost made him want to get high too. He tried to
remember some Buddhist quotes about heedlessness and sobriety.
Thinking helped.

Trevor came upstairs a while later, a leggy
drunk girl on his arm. He blinked, looking dazed, surprised to see
everyone still there.

“Yo, bro,” Elizabeth said.

He nodded at her. “Brooke,” he said to
Brooke.

“Bjorn,” Brooke said, hooking her fingers
through the belt loops of her jeans. She was the only one who put
up with his stupid rock star nicknames.

Trevor smirked. “I was pretty good up there,
huh?” He ran a hand through his crunchy gelled hair, and the girl
giggled at him. He winked at her.

“We were all pretty good,” Elizabeth
said.

“Gotta go,” Parker said, jumping up. He ran
off, out of the house.

Nick followed him. He sucked at running, and
he had to reach into his pocket for his inhaler once they were
outside. Parker waited next to him as he huffed and puffed,
pressing the inhaler to his mouth and breathing in the medicinal
vapors.

“Was that really necessary?” he
complained.

Parker looked at the sky. “Yes.”

Nick took another puff on his inhaler.
“Why?”

“All that sleazy post-show bullshit,” Parker
said. “I can’t stand it.”

“Yeah.”

They stood there, quiet, while Nick’s panting
subsided. Whoever heard of a punk with chronic obstructive
pulmonary disease? Lame.

His breathing slowed after a few minutes.
Cool and dark, the sky was littered with a bunch of stars, and
there weren’t any people outside. If it wasn’t for the light
glinting off their glasses, they could both be invisible.

They stared at each other in the inky
dark.

Parker grabbed Nick’s wrist, inspecting his
hand for no real reason. “I can read palms,” he bragged. Drinking
made him bold.

“It’s a little dark for that.”

Parker said nothing. He studied Nick’s hand.
He tapped Nick’s fingertips, touched his fingernails, traced a line
over his palm. He was very gentle. Then he turned Nick’s hand over.
He ran a hand over Nick’s bracelets for a second, then traced a
line up his arm, feather-light, with his fingertips.

“Hm,” he said, touching Nick’s knuckles.

“What?” Nick asked.

“Says here you’re gonna get married.”

Nick retracted his hand. “Shut up.”

Parker laughed. “Who is she? Is she
cute?”

“Argh.” Nick covered his ears. “Stop.”

“Woooooooooo!” screamed the squirrely punk
girl from earlier, running out of the house. She still had
Elizabeth’s drumsticks in her hands, running, careening into the
blustery night.

“Doing alright?” Parker shouted after
her.

“Fantastic! Thank you!” She ran away then, to
wherever girls like that run off to.

The guys looked at each other, as if sensing
the other’s thoughts. After three years of best friendship, it
wasn’t hard. Trevor was the type to obsess over his hair for hours,
but he didn’t give a damn about car security.

The Toyota was messy, but in a comfortable
way. Familiar. Mardi Gras beads and fuzzy dice dangling from the
mirror, a Kurt Cobain Has A Posse sticker on the back bumper, beer
cans on the floor, and a rather spacious backseat. It smelled like
weed and Chinese food. The beer cans crunched beneath their feet as
they climbed in, being careful not to slam the door.

They looked at each other, alone in the
backseat.

“So,” Parker said, breathing funny.

“Hi,” Nick said. He could hardly breathe at
all.

Parker leaned in and kissed him, putting his
hands on Nick’s face. Nick ran a hand through Parker’s hair, damp
with sweat from the concert. It curled up when it was wet, which
was kind of cute. He put his hand on Parker’s ear, tracing a line
down his chin, and they kissed further. Nick wondered if he’d get
arrested for breaking and entering an unlocked vehicle.

Parker kissed and bit at his neck. Was this
foreplay? Were they going to have sex? He wondered if gay guys got
sent to jail for sex. He was sixteen. If he got sent to jail for
statutory rape, he’d be on a list. They’d fire him from his job.
He’d never wash dishes again.

Parker nibbled on his ear, trying different
things, and he felt his body respond.

Maybe someone would kill him. Probably
Parker’s dad. Mr. Beloit fought in the military a long time ago. He
felt his heart slam up against his ribcage. With any luck he’d pass
out from shock. That way, at least, he wouldn’t have to worry about
getting killed.

Parker covered his chest with kisses,
caressing his stomach. He brought his lips back to Nick’s mouth. He
tasted like beer and cigarettes.

Nick pushed a hand against Parker’s chest,
gently pushing him back. “You guys played good tonight,” he
said.

“Thanks,” Parker said. He pushed his hair out
of his face and went back to kissing him.

Nick put a hand up. “Like, really good,” he
said. “I think you guys could make it to Mopeapalooza this year, if
you practiced enough.”

Parker sighed. “Shut up.” He kissed Nick
again, a bit more forcefully.

They heard someone just then, in the gravel
of the driveway. Scratching feet. They sounded pretty close.

“Fuck!” Nick said, and Parker hit his head on
the car ceiling. They both ducked. Then they sat up.

Parker climbed off of him. He pointed at the
windows of the Toyota, fogged up. Nick snickered. Before long, they
were both laughing, manic. It freaked him out. Sixteen was too
young for prison, for solitary confinement. Too young to be
murdered by Parker’s dad.

He took another drag on his inhaler, trying
to calm his fragmented nerves.

“Dude,” Parker said. He pinched his nose,
scratched his eyebrow. “Inhalers aren’t cigarettes. Don’t confuse
it.”

“You’re one to talk,” Nick said.

Parker squinted at Nick. He put his glasses
on. “Excuse me?” he asked.

“You’re acting like a fucking homo.”

“So?” Parker asked.

“I’m not gay,” Nick said. And there it was,
the god honest truth. As soon as he said it, he knew it was untrue.
He broke into a cold sweat.

He was gay. He’d never be anything else.

“Well, then you should probably stop making
out with me,” Parker said.

“Screw you,” Nick said, shoving him.

“Yeah, whatever.” Parker shoved him back.
“You’re boring anyway.”

“At least I don’t jerk off to Green Day
posters,” Nick said. “Fucking pervert.”

Parker pushed Nick then, hard enough that he
got backed up against the car door.

Nick punched him in the nose, smashing his
glasses. It hurt his hand, and he shouted in surprise, jerking his
hand back. He never punched anybody before. “Ow! Fuck!” He looked
at Parker. “Holy shit. Are you okay, man?”

Parker reached a hand to his nose. It was
bleeding, bright stripes of red. His glasses were twisted out of
shape from the impact. He stared at the blood on his hand, then at
Nick. “Get out,” he said. His voice cracked. “We’re not friends
anymore.”

“But—“

Parker shoved past him and opened the door of
the Toyota. “Out.”