I’m not sure if it’s because Jacob had mention high school earlier, but that’s where my dream took me. It wasn’t even a dream in a sense because I merely relived a moment that had already happened. I was in grade eight, during Mrs. Hoolahan’s gym class. Normally I loved gym—I was very athletic and was ace at most sports, except for badminton since I had a reputation for breaking birdies and throwing rackets. It was after a game of soccer where I had scored the winning goal. It wasn’t a big deal since most of the girls didn’t give a shit about sports, but it made me happy and the popular set hated to lose. They taunted me as usual afterward, calling me flat, a surfboard, and a boy. One of them asked me if I had a secret penis and if that’s why none of the boys liked me. I guess I was tired after the game and just plain sick of the same girls always bullying me and calling me names. So, I punched the girl—Tiffany, of course her name was Tiffany—right in the face. It shocked me and I immediately regretted it, especially when I saw the blood pour out of Tiffany’s fair nose and I was consequently suspended for a few days. My parents didn’t really care, and because my mother, at this point, was beginning her downward spiral, my dad was grateful for the extra help on the farm. I couldn’t tell if they were even disappointed in me, but it didn’t matter. I was appalled by my violence and growing short temper, and I made a vow to myself to keep my anger under control.
Maybe last night’s altercation with the GTFOs triggered repressed feelings of injustice or something, but I woke up from the dream feeling angry, grumpy, and ready to lash out.
Robbie leaned back in his seat and lit up a cigarette. The blue smoke drifted through the hazy air of the bus and I absently followed it as it curled around Graham and Mickey sitting at the couch. Mickey was scribbling into a notebook. Graham was staring right at me in some sort of unfeeling gaze. When his eyes finally came into focus and recognized mine, he flinched. Then a cold, cold smile spread across his lips. His dark eyes sparkled like shiny buttons and I quickly averted my eyes before I asked him what the hell he was looking at. Like I said, I was grumpy.
Luckily by the time we got to St. Paul, Robbie was hell bent on getting me out of my mood. Once we parked at the venue, he grabbed my hand and my purse and pulled me off the bus.
“Where are we going?” I asked him, trying to hide the excitement in my voice. Day three with Hybrid and the fact that Robbie Oliver wanted me to go with him somewhere still lit up my insides.
He let go of my hand, much to my dismay, and gestured off in the distance. The city of St. Paul looked bigger than I had expected, with a charm that reminded me a bit of Ellensburg. “I don’t know, man. I’m just sick of the bus. Let’s go get fucked up and throw stones across the Mississippi.”
I could have done without the fucked up part, but the famous river at least piqued my interest. We walked away from the venue for a good ten minutes, Robbie babbling about how much he disliked Mick Jagger and how he thought Page had been better off with the Yardbirds. None of it was very good interview material, unless Robbie wanted to start a pissing contest with Jagger, who was clearly such a big enough star that he wouldn’t care, but I let him talk anyway. The boy was a bundle of energy and obviously one night of jumping around like a rabid dog on stage didn’t do much to dissipate it.
We seemed to be getting away from the river, and the afternoon heat was stifling like a thick, wet blanket that coated my arms and made my hair frizz out like a porcupine. Robbie told me he knew a person in the area and that he had to say hello for a couple of seconds. We stopped outside of a modest walk-up and he quickly disappeared up the stairs. I stood on the sidewalk, watching the normalcy of a town I’d never been to. Kids down the corner sat at a lemonade stand, while young moms pushed strollers down the cracked asphalt, waving a fan at their faces. The sun beamed down on me with such intensity that I knew I’d have a new crop of freckles on my nose by the end of the day.
Minutes later, Robbie came skipping down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He clapped his hands together and his hair shone in shades of amber and mahogany in the sunlight. “Well, shall we head back?”
“What about the river?”
He did a little jig. “Oh right, to the river!”
“Unless you think we’ll miss soundcheck.”
“Those fuckers can soundcheck without me. Sage usually fills in.” He shot me an artful glance as we started down the street. “Have you ever heard him sing?”
I shook my head, wondering why he was looking at me like that. “No, just in backup.”
“He’s good. I mean, he’s not me.”
“Of course not. You’re Robbie Oliver, a Golden God.”
“No, that’s Robert Plant. I’m a Silver God. Almost as precious and not as bright. But Sage, he’s good. Very low. Bassy. Gets you here.” He reached over and squeezed my stomach.
I squealed and ran away from him a few steps, nervous laughter at my lips. I watched him shyly, keeping more than an arm’s length away.
“You sound fond of him, even though you guys argue.”
“Like I said yesterday, Rusty. He’s the head honcho. He calls the shots and you hate him for it but you’re stuck with him. He’s like my dad in a twisted way, and he’s only twenty-seven. Well, actually twenty-eight. His birthday is in a couple of weeks.”
‘That’s cute that you remember his birthday.”
“You’re cute,” Robbie said. He made another grab for me, holding me by the arm, and brought me to his chest.
And that’s how I first found myself in the arms of a famous singer, his eyes sparkling playfully in the heavy sunlight, his sweat-tinged hands on my skin. For a second I wasn’t sure if he was just going to stare at me with that smile on his face or if he was going to kiss me.
He didn’t do either. He dropped my arm and whispered, “You’re a college student, right?”
I nodded, holding my breath.
He bit his lip and his eyes looked up as he dug his hand into his pocket and fished around. He brought out his hand, opened his palm, and my eyes followed to a few pills marked Lemon 714.
“You’re used to ducking out, right?” he asked.
I didn’t understand. “You mean from class?”
That made him pause, his eyes searching mine in wonder before he let out a hearty guffaw.
“You’re kidding. Oh, Rusty, Rusty, Rusty. Ducking out, man? You know, with ludes? Soapers? Motherfucking Lemon Sevens?”
“Yeah, I get it,” I snapped.