Saving June (9 page)

I squint out the window as he turns onto the exit leading to the highway. “So what, exactly, is the game plan?”

“I have to make a stop in White Haven,” he says. He switches on his blinker and merges into the highway lane. “One of my friends has something I need to pick up. He said we could spend the night if we want. I haven’t been there but he said it’s not out of the way, so don’t worry.”

White Haven is a beach town by Lake Michigan, less than an hour away. I’ve only been a few times. Laney’s grandparents have a vacation cottage there. The water isn’t as pretty as it gets up north, but it’s a nice beach with some big dunes. Peaceful.

“Hey, maybe we can go to my grandparents’ place later this summer,” Laney says to me from the back. She must be thinking the same thing.

I nod. “Yeah, maybe.” Too bad when I get back home, I’m going to be grounded for life.

I really don’t want to think about it right now. Jake, probably bored by our conversation, flips the radio volume up a few notches. The song that blasts out is one I recognize.

“This is ‘Thunder Road,’ right?” I ask after a moment.

He looks at me. “You like Bruce Springsteen?” I like the note of surprise in his voice. The fact that there’s something about me he, the eternal enigma, doesn’t have all figured out.

“My father loves the Boss,” I say. “He likes to delude himself into thinking he grew up in a mining town in Jersey instead of the Michigan suburbs.”

“Your dad’s got good taste then.”

“Obviously you haven’t met his girlfriend.”

Jake’s mouth quirks into a half grin. In the back, Laney wrestles with the seat belt, grunting as she yanks at the stubborn strap.

“What is with this thing?” she grouses.

“I’ve been meaning to get that fixed,” says Jake. “You’ll have to sit on the other side.”

“Joplin’s not so infallible after all, huh?” I smirk at him. “What’s with that name, anyway?”

“She’s named after—”

“Janis Joplin,” Laney pipes up from the other seat. She’s busy buckling herself in. “Right? Though I don’t know why you’d name your van after
her.
Wasn’t she ugly?”

“But she had the
music,”
Jake says fervently, fist clenched and pumping the air. He sees my and Laney’s matching bemused expressions and sighs. “Never mind. Harper, grab that CD off the floor. The one on top.”

I double over and snatch the first CD case from the top of the pile—another mix. I hand it to Jake, who takes one hand off the steering wheel, ejects Bruce and slides in the new disc. Almost immediately I hear a woman’s scratchy voice, caterwauling on and on about a man named Bobby McGee. It isn’t pleasant, per se, but it’s raw and growling and full of conviction.

I love it.

“That’s Janis,” he explains.

“Oh,” is all I can say.

We drive on, and Janis’s song fades to make way for another. I realize each song has a name in it: Bobby, Eileen, John, Stephanie, Daniel, Layla, even one about a boy named Sue. Johnny Cash, Jake tells me when I ask who the singer is. I like it and tell him as much.

“You’d have to have no soul to not like Johnny Cash,” he says.

The next song is about a girl named Ruby Tuesday. At first all I can think about is the chain restaurant, but then a lightbulb goes on in my head. That voice—it’s the same swaggering male voice from June’s CD, the first track with that startling guitar riff.

“Who is this?” I ask.

Jake stares at me like I’m the stupidest person he’s ever had the misfortune of coming into contact with. “The Rolling Stones. Mick Jagger. Only one of the most legendary front men ever. You seriously don’t know who he is?”

Laney leans up from the back, propping her elbow against my headrest. “Some of us like to live in the now.”

“Yeah, okay, Ms. Monroe.”

“That’s totally different. This stuff is, like, ancient. Don’t you have
any
music from the past decade? Jay-Z? Snow Patrol? Kelly Clarkson? Something relevant?”

“Everything on the radio is crap,” snaps Jake. “It’s fast food for your ears. It doesn’t make you think. It isn’t even
about
anything—not anything real. Don’t you think music should
say
something?”

“So people have different tastes. So what? You don’t have to be a jackass about it. Just because pop music doesn’t say what you want to hear doesn’t mean it doesn’t say anything,” Laney says. She falls back against her seat with a groan. “God, you’re like a douche-baggy hipster music snob with the tastes of a forty-year-old white guy.”

“Douche-baggy? Is that even a word?”

“See!” Laney gesticulates emphatically toward Jake with one hand. “Snob!”

“Look,” I interrupt, trying for my most diplomatic tone, “if we have to listen to your classic rock, can we at least listen to the Beatles?”

Jake relaxes his hands on the wheel. “You’re in luck.”

He flips a few tracks ahead, and a second later, “Hey Jude” comes pouring out of the speakers. Finally, something I know and love. I grew up with this music. My mom’s a big fan of the Fab Four, owns all of the albums. She used to sing “Yellow Submarine” as a lullaby when I was a baby. I wonder what she’s doing now, if she’s come home yet, how she’ll react when she discovers my note. The thought of it brings on a pang of guilt, heavy in my chest. I try my best to ignore it.

It’s easier to do when I have music to fill the silence. Jake sings along around his cigarette, his voice surprisingly on-key, and after a little while, I join in too, unsurprisingly off-key. Even Laney quits pouting long enough to chime in with the
nah-nah-nah-nahs
at the end.

Joplin hurtles down the highway, each mile taking us farther from Grand Lake and carrying us closer and closer to California—and to my sister’s last chance at salvation. Maybe it’s my last chance, too.

The bungalow in White Haven is nestled on the side of a high dune, only two flights of wooden stairs away from the beach bordering Lake Michigan. Overgrown bushes in the small yard shroud the front of the house, and Jake drives past it twice before I point out the numbers on the mailbox and he realizes it’s the right address. There are two cars parked in the narrow drive, another right on the curb.

“It’s a sweet pad, isn’t it?” boasts the boy who answers the door. He’s young, not far from our age, with long, ratty dreads and a T-shirt that reads Free Palestine. “My grandpa left it to us when he kicked it a few months back. My dad’s itching to sell the place, but I convinced him to let me have it for the summer. Better than having me around his house.” He directs an affable grin at Laney and me. “I’m Seth, by the way.”

“Harper,” I reply, then motion to our bags. “Is there somewhere we should—?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure. I’ll show you the room.”

Seth hefts two of Laney’s suitcases and leads us down a hall to a guest room. It’s more of a glorified closet, with only enough space for one frumpy twin bed to be squeezed in. That alone takes up three quarters of the room.

“Sorry it’s kinda tight,” Seth says.

Unfazed, Laney drops her suitcase and plops onto the bed, testing the mattress. “It’s cool.”

“I’d give you the bigger room, but Gwen’s taken it over—”

“Gwen?” Jake snaps to attention. “Gwen is here?”

I look over at him quizzically. Who is Gwen? Obviously someone he knows, seeing as the muscles in his neck have gone rigid, his hands fisted at his sides.

“Yeah, man, I thought I told you,” says Seth. “She’s been here for a week. Danny and Anna are, too. I swear I said something—”

“I think I would’ve remembered that detail.” Jake tosses his bag onto the floor and pushes a hand through his hair.

“Dude, chill,” Seth says, clapping him on the shoulder heartily. His smile widens. “I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up.”

“I told you, I don’t smoke pot anymore.”

“Not that! Hang on, let me go get it.”

Seth disappears from the room. As soon as he does, Laney grins at Jake and says, “So, pot, huh?”

“You handled the peer pressure well,” I chime in. “Your DARE officers would be proud.”

Jake scowls. “Shut up.”

Before I can think of more ribbing, Seth reappears with a plastic crate. He leafs through it and removes a slim vinyl record.

“This,” he says, presenting it with a flourish, “is for you.”

Jake takes the record and glances down at it. When he looks up at Seth again, his eyes are wide with disbelief. “No way.”

“Yes way,” Seth says.

I peer over Jake’s shoulder at the album cover. It’s a Jimi Hendrix LP—and the cover is signed in black pen.
Love Always, Jimi.
A real autograph. The record itself is in pristine condition.

“Holy shit!” Laney says. “That is too awesome! Is it for real?”

“One hundred percent authentic. My grandpa left it to me,” Seth explains. “He was cool. All about the Hendrix. I guess he went to this festival in Germany in ‘67, and one of his friends was an organizer, so he got backstage and met the man himself. I know you’re a fan, so—”

Jake shakes his head and tries to shove the album back into Seth’s hands. “Seth. No. I can’t take this.”

“Yeah, you can. I owe you.” Seth turns to Laney and I. “Three months ago, I’m in Detroit protesting a free trade conference, right? Some pig shoves me, I go flying into another, next thing I know I’m on the ground with a Taser in my back. I get thrown in city jail, no money and one phone call. So I call Jake. You know what this fucker did? He dropped everything, drove up and bailed me out, no questions.”

“Like I could just leave you,” Jake says. “You’re too pretty. You’re a delicate flower. They would’ve ripped you apart in there.”

“You were in
jail?
“ Laney sounds both curious and titillated. “What was it like?”

“Boring. Dirty. Smelled like ass,” Seth tells her, shuddering at the memory. He looks to Jake. “Keep it, man. My gift to you. Besides, it’s not like it’s Marley. In that case, it might be different.”

Jake gazes down at the album in his hands reverently, like it’s a rare religious relic. “Thanks.”

Everyone else, Seth tells us, is down at the beach, having a bonfire.

“You might want to grab a jacket,” he says. “It’s windier by the lake.”

He’s right; it’s cool outside, with the sun almost set and the stars coming out from behind the clouds. I hear the waves the moment we step onto the back deck. There are plastic fold-up chairs leaned against the side of the house,
so we each pick one and make our way down the stairs, through the grassy weeds and onto the sloping beach. An orange fire roars from a pit a couple yards down. As we get closer, I overhear several people in the midst of a spirited debate.

“It’s about privilege. You can’t erase that.”

“No, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be an ally to the oppressed. If the majority is incapable of empathy—or of support—then the whole world is screwed.”

“But so many people don’t admit their own privilege! You can’t fight what isn’t even acknowledged. We have to check ourselves, and then maybe—” A tiny Asian girl with a pixie haircut suddenly notices our approach and stops mid-sentence, bounding to her feet. “Jake! You made it!”

She all but leaps into his arms as Laney and I stand back, amused. Jake does not seem remotely like the affectionate type, so to see him on the receiving end of a giant bear hug from a pint-size girl is pretty amusing. He sees us biting back laughter and glares, patting the girl’s back and awkwardly maneuvering away from her hold.

“Hey, Anna,” he says. “How’s it going?”

“Discussions of cultural appropriation aside, it’s all good!” She spins to face Laney and me, and, without warning, throws both arms around us in a suffocating squeeze. Considering her size, her upper-body strength is impressive.

“Hi! I’m Anna! It’s so great to meet you!” Everything she says sounds like an exclamation point.

This time it’s Jake trying not to laugh. I shoot him daggers over Anna’s shoulder.

“Long time, no see.” Danny and Jake exchange some complicated handshake thing, the way guys do. He has on a pair of ultraskinny jeans that look a lot like the ones Laney is always buying, and his bangs are long and swept to one side. “When was the last time? That sit-in in March?”

The voice that answers isn’t Jake’s. “And look how much was accomplished on behalf of immigrant rights.”

Another girl sits on Danny’s other side. Her long legs are crossed, arms folded across her chest, and she has dark hair cut severely at the chin, emphasizing her strong jaw and thin mouth. That’s Gwen—which I realize, not due to my amazing intuition, but because she straightens in her chair and says, “I’m Gwen.” I assume that information is for the benefit of Laney and me, but it’s hard to tell since she isn’t even looking at us. Her gaze is solely focused on Jake.

“Hi,” I say, opening my mouth to make the obligatory introduction when Jake sets down his chair, its metal legs striking the sand sharply.

“You look good,” he says. The words come out through gritted teeth. “I see college is treating you well. Too bad you didn’t get into Pratt, though. I hear their art program is top-notch.”

The antagonism in his tone doesn’t escape me. Neither does the way Gwen looks from him to me and back again. That is definitely the look of a possessive ex. After Laney dumped Dustin and started dating one of his friends, he had that same look all of the time.

“It’s too bad you’ve decided not to pursue secondary education at all, Jay.” Gwen has that affected, high-pitched baby voice that some girls at my high school like to adopt, thinking it’s cutesy and endearing when it of course has the opposite effect. It makes me want to stab my eardrums. “It’s really expanded my horizons. But I guess you’re happy at the Oleo.”

She bares her teeth in a smile that is anything but friendly. Jake makes a noncommittal noise in his throat, unfolding his chair and flopping down on it. I follow suit and search for Laney. She’s across the circle, lounging comfortably on Seth’s lap, laughing at something he’s said.

Typical Laney, already making fast friends. She has a knack for effortlessly fitting into any crowd—the kind of girl who walks into a room and leaves an hour later with fifteen new people added to her cell phone’s contact list. Usually half of them are potential make-out partners. Funny how we can be best friends, when she’s so magnetic and outgoing, and I’m—well. Not.

“Did you go to the Diego Lopez show?” Jake is saying. “I heard he played on campus.”

Gwen snorts. “Like I would listen to that dreck.”

“I haven’t seen him live, but I’ve heard his stuff. It’s pretty good.”

“Yeah, but you like crap music. I mean, you like the
Doors,”
Gwen says with a hint of disgust, like this name drop explains everything. She loops her arm through his and looks at him pityingly. “You poor, unenlightened soul.”

“Uh—” I clear my throat. “What’s wrong with the Doors?”

She stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. “Only
everything!
Jim Morrison was nothing but a junkie with an overblown sense of superiority. The only reason anyone still gives a crap about him at all is because he died young. Bee-eff-dee.” Her arm untangles from Jake’s, and she shakes her head at him. “Really, Jay, for as much as you claim to be so dedicated to worthwhile music, you do hold some seriously blasphemous opinions.”

I make a sound, the start of a laugh, and she jerks her head around to look at me. I quickly shut my mouth. This girl is too ridiculous. How does she even exist? Maybe she’s thinking the same thing about me, because when she rises from her chair, she shoots a parting dirty look my way before sauntering off to the other side of the circle, hips swinging. I wait until she’s out of earshot before turning to Jake.

“Really,
Jay,
what are you
thinking,”
I mimic. “You poor soul!”

“‘Unenlightened,’ my ass!” he mutters under his breath. “She’s the one who never stops verbally fellating the Smiths.”

“’Bee-eff-dee.’”
I stretch each syllable out so they sound even more ridiculous and cringe. “Who talks like that?”

“Gwen, apparently,” he says. He stares after her as she leans on Danny’s chair. “Forget her. She thinks everything and everyone is overrated.”

“So, how long did you two date?” I ask casually.

Startled, he tears his gaze off of Gwen and turns it to me. “What? Who said—”

“Please, I’m not blind. The unnecessary touching, the excessive nickname usage, the death glare imposed on any female in your two-mile radius. All classic signs.”

Gwen is certainly…interesting. Is that the kind of girl Jake is attracted to? Petulant and pretentious? She’s pretty, I’ll give her that, but none of her outer beauty could really be worth putting up with the constant bitchitude and baby voice. Unless Jake is ruled entirely by his dick—which is totally possible. Most guys are.

If that’s the case, well, good for him. He probably deserves someone of her caliber.

“Six months, junior year,” he admits. “She ends up dumping me for some guy in her art class at the community college. Says I’m not ‘mature’ enough for her, but she hopes we can still be friends. Woe is me, right?”

“She still dating the guy?”

“I think that relationship lasted all of three seconds.” Jake grins like he can’t help himself. “No, she goes to school in Ann Arbor now. She’s just on break.”

“That’s a shame. Here I thought we were on a fast track to bee-eff-eff-dom.”

He snickers, scoops a stick off the ground and pokes idly at a log in the embers. “Yeah, the two of you really hit it off.”

I’m not surprised she doesn’t like me. Most people don’t. I guess because I don’t hide the fact that I can’t stand people like Gwen, who take themselves too seriously, or people who don’t take themselves seriously enough. I’m not like Laney, the chameleon, fitting herself into every social situation seamlessly.

Like right now—Laney’s already deep in conversation, perched on the arm of Seth’s chair as she compares favorite current fashion trends with Anna and Danny. I suspect from Danny’s passion for eyeliner and scarves that as far as make- out partners go, he would be as likely a candidate for me as, say, Gwen. Hell, even Anna would probably be more interested, if her constant giggling and hooded looks sent in Laney’s direction are any indication. Seth keeps mostly to himself. After a while of observing the ongoing discussion, he slides a beat-up black case out from beside his chair, withdrawing an acoustic guitar. He sits back and strums it a few times clumsily.

“Jay, you should play something,” Gwen suggests from
across the crackling fire. Somehow from the way she says it, and the dark look Jake gives her in response, I can tell a gauntlet has been thrown. Maybe some
You Got Served-
style dance-off shenanigans will ensue. That would be—well, that would be pretty awesome, actually.

Jake frowns and shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“No, man, you should.” Seth comes over to hand him the guitar. “You’re way better than I am.”

Jake accepts it hesitantly. I watch as he draws it into his lap, shifts the strap over his head and slides his fingers down the neck of the guitar. His expression is oddly subdued when he bends his head down, hair falling across his eyes.

Everyone goes quiet as he begins to play. His singing is strong and clear, fingers finding the right chords with ease, eyes fixed on his hands. Shadows thrown from the fire play across his face while he sings about the day the music died in this plaintive, striking voice. Watching him, I can see how connected to the music he is. The guitar is like an extension of himself.

As he launches into the livelier chorus, Laney springs off of Seth’s lap, grabs his hand and starts skipping in a circle around the campfire, one arm waving over her head. Anna joins in, and Danny, too, all of them twirling and dancing and belting out the lyrics in a hilariously off-key chorus. Only Gwen, Jake and I remain seated. Jake watches the
commotion with a big grin while Gwen stares at her nails, bored, a liquor bottle dangling in one hand.