Saving June (19 page)

“Anti-every thing?”

“Practically,” he laughs.

He leans against the grimy brick, and the light slashes across his face in a way that illuminates the large white bandage plastered over his right temple.

“You’re that guy,” I realize. “The singer. From Robot Suicide Squad.”

“Quentin Williams, at your service.” He pushes himself off the wall and does this little bow thing that makes me grin, before sticking out his hand.

I shake it; his palm is hot and dry. “Harper Scott.”

“As in
To Kill A Mockingbird-writing,
friend of Truman Capote, reclusive author Harper?” he asks.

“The one and only.” I’m surprised. It isn’t often people recognize my namesake.

“So if you’re not local, where are you from?”

“Michigan, born and bred. It’s a lot cooler there. Weather-wise, I mean.”

“You traveled all the way here for our show?”

“Not exactly. This was sort of an unplanned detour. We’re on our way to California.” His face falls a little. “But you guys were great,” I assure him. “Really.”

“Overinflated ego. It’s an occupational hazard,” he says, recovering with a self-effacing grin. “So, who is this ‘we’?”

“Harper!”

Footsteps pound on the pavement, and I turn to see Laney and Jake running down the alley. They stop a few feet short of us, out of breath.

“Are you guys okay?” I ask.

Laney’s bent with her hands on her knees as she pants. “Us? You’re the one who punched a dude in the face!”

“Nice,” Quentin says appreciatively.

“I’ve got a few scrapes, but I’ll live,” I tell her. “So, this is—”

“Quentin Williams. I know.” Jake looks to me, then to Quentin, and then to my hand, which Quentin is still holding. I drop it quickly. “You were great tonight, man,” he adds.

“And my wounded pride makes a resounding comeback,” Quentin says with a smirk shot my way. “You know, the band’s chilling in the bus right now. You guys wanna come check it out?”

It turns out a tour bus looks a lot like a Moroccan opium den: clouds of pot smoke and strange decor. Who knew punks were into tasseled throw pillows?

“This place is awesome,” Laney says, shouldering past me and farther into the bus. “You guys must have a blast touring.”

Quentin tosses his head to the side, flipping his shaggy hair out of his eyes. “Touring’s cool. Flagstaff is too hot for me, though. At least the turnout was good,” he says. “Let me introduce you to the band. The guy with the neck tat is our drummer, Dom, and next to him is our bassist, Shane—” “Wait,” Laney says, “you mean
them?
“ I peer over her shoulder to see what she’s gawking at. The drop-dead gorgeous drummer with high cheekbones is on one of the couch benches, making out with the bassist.

The very male bassist.

“Oh,” I say, out loud.

Laney stifles a laugh into her hand, leans into my ear and hisses, “That is
so
hot.”

It really is. I stare, transfixed.

“So,” Quentin says, “what’d you think of the set?”

“It was amazing,” Jake says. “I mean, the bass line alone in ‘Revolution Is an Excuse to Party’ kills me every time. And the crazy chord progression after the second verse—that took forever for me to learn.” His cheeks go red, much to my amusement. He’s such a fanboy.

“Hey, Dom!” Quentin calls to the drummer. “You should hear this. Someone is actually complimenting your boy’s skills. Maybe you oughta document this occasion with a picture or something, you know, since it happens so rarely.”

“Fucker.” Shane, the bassist, extracts himself from Dom, the drummer, and punches Quentin in the shoulder. Then he nods at Jake. “I heard that, man. Thanks. So you play, too?”

“Not really. I mean, I mess around a little, that’s all. The bass isn’t even mine. It’s my brother’s.”

“He’s really good,” I insist, overly defensive. Jake
does
have talent. Why’s he trying to brush it off like it’s nothing?

Shane glances at me and then back at Jake. “You write any original stuff?”

“No,” he says quickly with a shake of his head. “Definitely not.”

“Too bad.”

I remember then that I have my camera on me. I grabbed it from the van before we went to the bus.

“Hey,” I say, pulling off my pack and reaching for it, “would you mind if I—?” I hold up the Polaroid tentatively.

Dom pauses from rolling a blunt between his fingers to frown. “Wait a minute. Are these going to wind up on the internet?”

“Uh…” I pause. “No?”

“Fair enough.”

I snap away as everyone else sits down, getting comfortable. At first Quentin, Shane and Dom make faces at the camera, alternately growling and sneering and leering lewdly, but after a few minutes they drop the poses. That’s when I get the best shots—Jake, in intense conversation with Shane about chord progressions; Laney laughing at some elaborate story Quentin is telling about getting pulled over by the cops in San Antonio; Dom, beating out a rhythm on his thighs and nuzzling at Shane’s shoulder.

I feel part of it all and completely separate at the same time.

I turn to Quentin, who is closest to me, and tell him I’m going to go get some air.

“I’ll come with you,” he says.

He follows me down the bus steps and out into the dark
and empty parking lot. The feeling in the night air is weird, like it’s at a standstill. No breeze.

“So what’s in California?” he asks, bumping his shoulder into mine.

I look down at the camera in my hands and shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Aw, don’t hold out on me. You’ve gotta have a reason for going.”

I don’t really want to explain it to him in detail, so I keep my eyes down as I fiddle with the camera strap. “Some people think that a place can save them,” I say. “Like if they could just be somewhere else, their lives would be totally different. They could finally be the people they always wanted to be. But to me, a place is just a place. If you really want things to change, you can make them change no matter where you are.” I look up at him. “Does that make sense?”

Quentin stares at me, his face schooled in a pensive expression, and for a second I think maybe he understands. Maybe someone does.

But then he cracks a bemused smile and says, “Wow. That shit is too deep for me.”

Well, it was a long shot. My thoughts don’t make sense even to me most of the time.

Suddenly Quentin lunges forward and steals the camera from my hands. He lifts it up, pointing the lens at me, and I instinctively cover my face with my arms.

“Come on,” he cajoles. “No fair. You take everyone else’s picture, but no one can take yours? That’s how it is?”

“That’s
exactly
how it is. I hate having my picture taken.”

I peek at him cautiously through my fingers as he lowers the camera. I rush forward to dive for it, but he quickly raises it over his head again. Since he’s at least half a foot taller than me, no matter how high I try to jump, I don’t come close. Finally I stop, huffing, and cross my arms over my chest.

“Give it back,” I demand.

“I will,” he says, “if you let me take your picture.”

“Fine.” I toss my hands up in defeat. “Go ahead.”

He holds the camera to his face and peers through the viewfinder as I glower. A second later he pulls it away, head shaking. “Nah, it’s no good unless you’re smiling.”

“I don’t smile unless I have a reason.”

“All right. Then I’ll give you one.”

Quentin ambushes me, his hands grabbing at my rib cage, tickling my sides. I jerk backward and stumble so hard my back rams up against the side of the bus.

“Stop,” I gasp, trying to bat his hands away. “Seriously, Quentin, don’t—”

He does stop. He slides his hands down from my ribs to circle my waist. I try to remember, through wheezes, how to breathe normally as he leans down, his breath hot against my face. I know that he’ll kiss me if I don’t stop him. Part of me doesn’t want to stop him, because Quentin doesn’t know who I am, doesn’t know about June—he just sees
a girl with a camera who rambles nonsensically. Maybe that’s the same reason he wants to kiss me; before tonight I’d never even heard of the legendary Quentin Williams, I don’t own any Robot Suicide Squad albums, I just see a guy with black hair and pale skin and a killer smile.

Too bad that at this range, all I can focus on is how he reeks of pot and stale beer and sweat.

“Dammit. Shitty piece of—”

I glance to my left to see Jake, cigarette dangling between his lips. He shakes out his malfunctioning lighter and curses a few times. And then he looks up, and I’m looking at him, and Quentin has his hands around my waist, and—

Jake stops dead in his tracks. He stares at us for a few seconds, frozen, before whirling around and rushing off, all without a word.

“Get off me,” I choke out through gritted teeth. I shove Quentin back a few steps and snatch my camera from his hands.

He fixes me with a bewildered look and says, “It was just a joke. I didn’t mean to—”

“Well, it wasn’t funny,” I snap hotly.

My legs won’t stop shaking. God, Jake’s face—

“Is that guy your boyfriend or something?” Quentin asks, more curious than anything.

“No! God, he’s not—” I stop and take a breath.
“No.”

He raises one eyebrow at me like he thinks I’m full of shit.

“I’m not anyone’s anything,” I insist. “Believe me.”

I tug down my shirt from where Quentin’s hands rucked it up, angry, embarrassed. At least my camera didn’t break in our scuffle. There’s a picture sticking out of the bottom—I yank it out to see a reflection of myself, hands blocking my face from view. I rip the photo down the middle and drop the remnants.

He watches both halves flutter to the ground. “You’re pissed,” he observes.

“You think?” I sigh, running my hands through my hair. I hate that I’m so flustered. “I just didn’t expect to get jumped on. It freaked me out.”

“Some girls like the element of surprise.”

“I’m not
some girl,”
I shoot back.

A half smile curves Quentin’s lips as he looks at me. “You’re really, really not, are you?”

I expect Jake to act all weird and annoying when we get back. But he doesn’t. He acts totally normal, even when Quentin and I board the bus together, my face still flushed. Not long after that, Quentin announces they have to hit the road.

I’m halfway out the bus when he puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “Hey.”

I glance once at Jake, his arms crossed, eyes on the ground like the cigarette butts littered there are fascinating, before I turn to face Quentin.

He flashes me that sparkling smile. “You should Facebook me or something,” he says.

Facebook. How very punk rock.

I don’t know what else to do but nod. Quentin waves and heads back into the bus, and Jake, Laney and I walk to Joplin, parked on the other side of the lot.

Jake continues to act like nothing is wrong as we pore over the atlas and navigate toward the main westbound route. I feel guilty, and even more than that, irritated with myself for feeling guilty when I have no reason to.

Before getting onto the highway, Jake pulls into the parking lot of a drugstore. “We should stock up on supplies,” he explains.

Laney has been quiet since we left the bus. After picking myself up a wrapped turkey sandwich, some Skittles and a water bottle, I find her in front of the pop coolers, considering the different brands.

“What’s up?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer for a moment, then snaps out of whatever daze she’s in and looks at me. “Oh. Just the eternal debate. Trying to decide between cherry and diet.”

“Ah, yes.” I nod gravely. “A question for the ages.”

“Exactly,” she says. She glances over her shoulder toward the door. “Why don’t you pay and wait in the van? I might be a minute.”

I shrug. “Okay.”

As soon as I’ve checked out and pushed through the
door, I nearly barrel smack-dab into Jake. He has a coffee in one hand, a lit cigarette in his mouth (big shock there) and two white plastic bags hanging off the other arm.

I falter for a second before deciding the best approach is to adopt his: act totally normal. “Hey,” I say carefully. “What did you buy?”

“Stuff,” he replies. He doesn’t elaborate.

“Thanks for the clarification.” I roll my eyes.

He doesn’t even look at me. Apparently staring at the pavement is more interesting than engaging in conversation with me.

Suddenly I blurt out, “Quentin and I—we didn’t do anything.”

Ahhhhhhh! Why, why,
why
does my mouth never listen to my brain? So much for playing it cool. So much for maintaining my dignity.

Jake taps the ash off his cigarette and regards me impassively. “Okay.”

“And even if we did, which we didn’t, it’s none of your business.”

“Okay.”

“I just wanted you to know.”

“Okay.”

“If you say okay one more time, I’m going to punch you in the solar plexus.”

His eyebrows jump. “The solar plexus, huh?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m not exactly sure where that is, but I will find out. And then I will punch you there. Hard.”

“Look,” he says. He inhales sharply. “You’re right. It’s not my business. You are free to do whatever you want with whomever you want. It really doesn’t matter to me.”

I wonder if he believes me. I wonder why I care so much that he does. Jesus, it’s
Jake.

I study him for a long beat and say, “Good.”

Except it isn’t, because somehow what he’s said only makes me feel worse.

“So, how far is California from here?” Laney joins us outside, a piece of licorice stuck in her mouth. She tears a big bite out of the strand and chomps on it loudly.

“I talked to the guy inside, and he said it’s about five hours to L.A.,” Jake says. “I’m thinking we drive past and hit up a motel in Huntington Beach near the shore, since we’re going to take the highway up the coast anyway. We can spend tomorrow chilling out before driving to San Fran.”

“Finally!” She pumps one fist in the air. “All of this driving is making me crazy.”

I have to admit I’m getting stir-crazy, too. Not so much that I’m ready to go home yet, but I am starting to long for the comfort of a warm bed instead of a stiff car seat. It feels like we’ve been on the road forever.

“Are you going to be able to stay awake for the drive?” I ask Jake.

He holds up the coffee cup, jiggles it with a grin. “Isn’t that why they invented caffeine?”

* * *

The moshing experience combined with getting pounced on by a certain overeager Robot Suicide Squad band member has taken its toll on me; I try to stay awake for Jake’s benefit, but about an hour into the drive I nod off to the strains of some Nirvana jam. The closer we get to California, the more willing Jake is to play recent music. This means R.E.M., Soundgarden, the Pixies, even Courtney Love’s old band—a lot of grunge and punk and alternative. Jake says that’s because the only good music made during the nineties fits into those genres.

When he said that, Laney made an indignant noise from the back. “You’re ignoring rap,” she complained. “If you think you’re too indie or alternative or whatever to appreciate Tupac and KRS-One and Tribe Called Quest, then you can eat shit, because you’re missing out on something amazing.”

I lean my head against the window and close my eyes. I’m so not in the mood for more arguments. Sleep comes easy, dreamless and deep, until Jake rouses me a while later. The first thing I see is his hand on my thigh, shaking me awake. When he notices my open eyes, he quickly draws his hand back.

“Hey,” he says softly as I push myself up. “We’re in California.”

My heart speeds up. I push myself straight in the seat and catch the spreading smile on Jake’s face as he senses my
growing excitement. Outside in the night, things look the same, mostly. The same endless stretch of highway. Still, knowing that we’ve made it, finally, makes me want to sit up and drink in everything.

“California?” Laney’s leaning forward from the back, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “We’re here?”

Jake looks sheepish. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have woken you up. I know it’s not the most exciting thing ever.”