Tangled Up in Blue Page 5

  “Yeah, I did.” I give him a look. I can tell he thinks I overreacted. Of course, so does Megz. “Thanks again for running yesterday’s meeting. It really helped me, not having that on my plate.” It doesn’t look good for the editor-in-chief to skip the weekly editorial meetings, but I just had not been up to it. I can’t let it happen again, though.

  Jason runs his fingers along the bookshelf that holds bound copies of the campus newspaper all the way back to its founding in the 1960s. “No problem at all,” he says. “Anytime.” There’s an awkward pause. Megz is convinced Jason has a crush on me. But he’s not my type. Not that I have enough experience to actually have a type.

  I look down at my laptop; today’s editorial is only partially done. I stare at the blinking cursor for a moment and feel the familiar, skin-crawling anxiety that makes me want to scream. I haven’t even started on my history paper yet, and I have a million other things to do. I force myself to take a deep breath. Jason and I start talking over each other.

  “Well, anyway, I’ve got to. . .”

  “So, where’d you move?”

  We both let out phony laughs, then start talking at the same time again.

  “So, you moved off campus?” Jason asks.

  “Yeah, I moved into this house that has three other people living there; the fourth roommate moved out all of sudden and left them in the lurch, so it worked out.” I keep it short, hoping he’ll take the hint. The fluorescent lights in my office and the background hum of the newsroom computers—only noticeable when the room isn’t filled with Daily staff talking, typing, laughing and, occasionally, snoring—have given me a headache. Jason’s still fiddling with the bound copies. He turns to look at me. I am trying to be polite, but I don't really care if my face reveals just how much I want to be left alone.

  “So, this crazy guy—I’m assuming it’s a guy—who is sending you all these messages. . .” he frowns, “. . .you really have no idea who it is?”

  “No, I really don’t.” I hear the edge in my voice and take another deep breath, trying to control it. “Megz. . .you remember Megan, my roommate? She thinks it’s this guy I kind of dated in high school. I guess it could be. But I just don’t think so. And the detective assigned to my case thinks it’s some nut job who’s pissed over my editorials or maybe obsessed with me because of the blog and all the publicity it got.”

  Jason snorts, looking down at my desk, where a copy of last Friday’s paper lies open to the editorial page. “Yeah, I can see that,” he says. “You’re pretty liberal for this state. And a lot of people just don’t like your grandma.”

  I shake my head, feeling a ridiculous prick of tears behind my eyelids. Even though I know it’s true, his comment still stings for some reason. “It’s so absolutely unbelievable.” The frayed-nerves, little-girl-falling-apart tone is back in my voice. So not how I need to sound. “I know everyone thinks I’m crazy to have moved,” I go on, “but the messages I’ve been getting are really scary, getting more violent, just like in one of those movies. The guy knows what dorm I live in—lived in—he knows not just the building, but the room number. He knows other stuff about me, personal stuff. And, to tell you the truth, I don’t think the police are going to do much about it.”

  “You haven’t changed your number or email or anything?”

  I shake my head. Jason frowns again. “That just seems weird they would tell you not to change that stuff,” he says. “Why make you have to keep hearing from this asshole?”

  “I know, right? I want to change everything so much, but the detective told me it might really set the guy off, push him into doing something even worse. And he said leaving everything as it is would help the cops to find the guy faster.” I force myself to speak in a stronger, more commanding way. “So anyway, I’ve moved, and we’ll see if that helps the situation. I've got other things to worry about right now than this whack job.” I place my hands on the keyboard. “I really have to get back to work now, Jason.”

  “Yeah, me too.” He brandishes his red pen, turns toward the door. “Hang in there, Chief.”

  “Thanks,” I give him a weak smile. “Really, Jason, thanks for everything.”

  I reach for my old dorm room key and turn it in the lock before I realize I don’t really have the right to just walk in anymore. I no longer live here. But I haven’t told the RA yet, and I might not tell her. The fewer people who know I’ve moved out, the better. It’s going to be a hard secret to keep though. Megz is Miss Popularity; she practically has groupies. There have probably been at least a couple dozen people in and out of our room just in the last 24 hours.

  I sit on the end of my bed and put my feet on my old desk. It is the only clear spot. Megz wasted no time stacking a bunch of her stuff on my side. She’s got an expansive personality; she kind of spreads out to fill whatever emptiness—whether concrete or abstract—that she encounters. I love that about her. Most of the time, anyway. My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my backpack, smiling.

  You there, KeeKee?

  I’d texted Megz as soon as I got out of my last class and said I’d meet her in the room. I only have about 30 minutes before I have to be back in the newsroom. Things don’t really get cranking until about 5 o'clock, so I try to have all my writing done before then. There never seems to be time to even take a breath once the 9 PM deadline is looming.

  I’m here, Megz. I typed.Where are you?

  It only takes a moment for her to answer. Just getting in the elevator. Why the fuck does it always smell like fucking urine in here?

  You’d never know to look at her that Megan Morgan has such a potty mouth. She looks like a China doll. But she can swear with the best of them. The first time I used the phrase potty mouth in front of Megz, I thought she’d bust a gut laughing, the way people laugh when a child says something endearing. And then she’d let go with the most amazing string of F-words I’d ever heard. I once told her it was pathetic that someone as smart as her was so addicted to the overused, worn-out, boring old F-word when there’s a cornucopia of other fresh and potent words in the language just waiting to come out of her mouth.

  “Did you seriously just fucking say cornucopia?” That’s the only response I got. Thinking about it now, staring at the Pulp Fiction poster on her side of the room, I wish I’d listened to her about moving out. I already miss her. I’m staring at the front page of The Hickory Herald tacked up next to the poster when Megz kicks the door open and rushes toward me with open arms. “I’ve missed you so fucking much, and you've only been gone one day!” She engulfs me in a hug, and for a moment, I think I’m going to cry yet again.

  I point at the Herald, at the picture of me standing in front of the dorm on move-in day, wearing a Daily T-shirt and a goofy grin. “So stupid,” I say, “to just tell the world exactly where to find me.”

  She pulls me over to her bed, orders me to sit, then pulls a couple of beer bottles out of the little fridge under the bed, expertly popping off the tops using the corner of the desk and handing me one before sitting next to me. “Here, drink this and calm down. That newspaper article still wouldn’t explain how he got your phone number and email address. But we know that Tyler has both of those.”

  I sigh, then take a swig. “I guess it’s a waste of time to remind you that you could get kicked out for having beer in here. It probably didn’t even take you 24 hours to stock up after I moved out. And I can only have a couple of sips. I’ve still got to put a paper out tonight.”

  Megz sticks her tongue out, then also takes a swig. “Oh, relax for just a few minutes and tell me about this new place of yours. You said it’s a house with three other people? Where’s it at? Any guys there? More importantly, any hot guys?”

  I can’t help blushing a little. “Oh. My. God. What the fuck is that?” Megz is pointing at me. “Are you fucking blushing? There must be some sweet piece of—”

  “Would you stop?” I take another swig just to stop my mouth from spreading out in a smile.

 
; “Tell me now!”

  So I tell her about Blue, starting with our meeting on the front porch and ending with his scramble up the tree and his rooftop song and kiss. “And that’s where it ended?” she asks incredulously. “That’s all you did with him is kiss? After the tree? And the song?” She smacks me lightly on the side of my head. “No wonder you’ve only had sympathy sex.”

  “I just met the guy,” I protest. “And I’ve got other things to worry about. And you promised you’d stop bringing up the time with Tyler.” Megz knows all about my limited romantic history, including the one guy I’d dated freshman year until he dumped me in a text message a week before Christmas. We’d been on the verge of “doing it” more than once, but I’d always called it off at the last minute.

  “Hey, what about the other two roommates?”

  “One’s a guy, one’s a girl. I haven’t actually met the girl yet.”

  Megz finishes her beer in one long drink. “So, what about the other guy? Hot?”

  I shrug and grimace at the thought of Hunter. “Yeah, I guess, if you like the type. But there’s something about him I really don’t like. The first time I met him, he was passed out naked in my bed. With some blonde.”

  “Ooo. . .” Megz raises her eyebrows, thrusts her lips out and wiggles around on the bed. “Sounds like my kind of challenge.” She grins. “What’s his name? When can I come over?”

  I shake my head and try to look disapproving. “I really don't think he's your type, but his name is Hunter. Actually, there’s a big Halloween party on Thursday. They have parties there all the time, with live bands inside the house. I sure wish I’d thought more about that before I moved in.” I sigh and take another swig. “Blue is in a band that’s going to be playing at the party.”

  “Wait a second.” Megz jumps up from the bed, pulling me with her, then grabs my arms. “Are you living in The Canadian Embassy?” She whoops when I nod. “Keegan 'Wouldn't Go to a Party if You Paid Her' Crenshaw is living at the Embassy? Un...fucking...believable!”

  “Oh, stop it. You know why I moved.” I was starting to feel like an idiot.

  “Yeah, and it was so not necessary, especially in the middle of the fucking night! We both know who's doing this. Tyler's just trying to get your attention, in his own sick way. I always thought there was something wrong with him. Mentally, I mean. And he became obsessed with you after…you know. Maybe you ought to think about..."

  "Think about what?"

  Megz tosses her wavy, blond hair. "Never mind. You can't let him win."

  I frown. "Who...Tyler? Win what? What do you mean?"

  She shakes her head. "Nothing, Kee. I was going to say maybe you should lay low, take a semester off, go where Tyler can't find you. But that'd be crazy. I'm sure he's not a serious threat or anything."

  I walk into the bathroom and pour the remains of my beer down the sink, then toss the bottle in the trash. Her words have given me a chill.

  "That's assuming it's Tyler, Megz, and I really don't think it is. And I can't take a semester off, that would be crazy. The police are going to figure out who it is very soon. The detective promised me that."

  Megz looks out the window toward the center of campus and smirks.

  "Yeah well, we'll see." Then she starts doing a little jig. "But hey, you moving gives me a reason to go to the Embassy Halloween party. So that's cool.”

  I pick up my backpack and give Megz a hug.

  “I probably won’t be at the party,” I say. “I'll be working. Well, maybe I’ll be there later on. But don't let that stop you. You don't need me there.”

  “You know,” I add as I open the door, "I worry about you here. The guy, the stalker, knows this was my room.”

  She scoffs, then walks over and kisses the top of my head.

  “Tyler wouldn’t hurt me,” she says. “You're the one he's after.”

  “That’s assuming it’s Tyler, and I really don’t think it is. It definitely wasn't his voice on the phone.”

  "You said yourself the voice was distorted. Tyler could have easily bought one of those devices that change your voice."

  She gives me a little push out the door and blows me a kiss.

  “I know it's Tyler, KeeKee. Which is why you didn’t need to move, but whatever. Text me the address. I’ll see you at the party.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Sweet Spot

  Blue

  The Sweet Spot actually hits the sweet spot as a band about 10 PM on Halloween. Even though we’re wearing costumes, and that kind of messes up the flow—I throw Corey’s stupid Jedi light saber out the window when it smacks me in the shoulder for the third fucking time—we’re finally starting to sound decent. Not bad for a band thrown together at the last minute and then slapped with a fucktard name.

  Hate doesn’t even begin to describe how the four of us feel about being in a band called The Sweet Spot. And Bryson knows it; we’ve begged him to let us change the name. But he just smiles and shakes his head, saying we’ll someday thank him for the gravel in our guts. I don’t miss the irony: the man I pretty much idolize is not so different from the man I pretty much despise. Or used to despise, until a plane crash wiped out everything but a motherfucking massive load of guilt and regret where my old man was concerned.

  Frasier Bryson is applying the Boy Named Sue principle to his cobbled-together band just like Bill Danube had applied it 25 years ago when I was born. Unbelievable.

  But after a couple hours playing a seriously random set—everything from The Calling to some Ramones, a bit of Bob Dylan and (to please a really vocal group of girls) some Dave Matthews Band, along with the Johnny Cash I throw in for Keegan’s benefit—we’re kind of coming together as a lousy little cover band. I’ve been on lead vocals most of the night while also playing bass, with Corey taking over vocals for a few songs when we don’t need him on keyboard.

  By the time I realize I haven’t seen Keegan at the party, I’ve switched to acoustic guitar and told the guys we should go ahead and do the Frasier Bryson mix we planned, even though Bryson himself hasn’t showed up. Or if he is here, he’s staying out of sight. There’s a buttload of people in the house and even more milling around in the back, most of them in costume and quite a few wearing masks. Maybe Bryson is one of them. It would be just like him to try to remain incognito.

  We have to stop playing at 11:30 to keep the local cops off our backs. We’re running out of time. I don’t need to look at my 12-string Gibson as I start the haunting intro riff of Comrade in Arms. That song, like all of Bryson’s songs, is embedded in my fingertips. But I look down anyway, staring not at the strings but at the words scrawled in Sharpie on the worn mahogany body. Monti, Cunny, Hud. Heroes of Hell’s Highway. Lameass Singers. I guess it was some kind of messed-up, masochistic moment. I know better than to look at the names. I know what kind of memories it’ll stir up. But I do it anyway.

  The guys signed my guitar as a joke after a karaoke contest I won handily. I was pretty much the only one in our unit who wasn’t tone deaf. A scene flashes into my mind: four of us from the Hell's Highway Company tossing a football around, lackadaisical in the desert heat but needing some kind of diversion. Cunny’s red hair and lopsided grin, with those pearly-white teeth of his that seemed to gleam in the sun. It is seriously weird, the things I remember.

  Cunny had fumbled the football, and it knocked off his expensive sunglasses. He accidentally stepped on them, crushing them with his heavy boot, and then furiously unleashed a blue streak of swear words. The rest of us doubled over laughing. If it was someone else, it wouldn't have been funny. But Cunny was one of those people who could make you laugh just by walking into a room. And we were desperate for every chuckle we could get.

  I've stopped playing, stopped singing, before the song is over. The band guys are looking at me, uncertain what to do. I shake my head to clear the lingering vision of Cunny, then launch into Gild the Lily, the tune I sang in the tree for Keegan. It stings a bit, that she’s not a
round to hear the song, but it’s ridiculous to be feeling that way. I’ve known the girl for all of one week. Grow a pair, Danube.

  Keegan told me she’d be late to the party; she’s worked late every night since she moved in, getting the campus paper out. And every time I’ve seen her at the house, she’s either been on her laptop or phone or with her nose in a textbook. She works a hell of a lot harder than I do. I’ve started picking up the school paper every morning on campus and reading it front to back, especially the editorials, which are all written by Keegan. Fuck, she’s smart. And already getting into my head.

  I make myself stare into the crowd. Do not look down at the guitar again. And then I see Bryson walk in, wearing his standard denim shirt and jeans and holding a red cup. Not that I'll admit it to anybody, but I am as excited as a little kid who's just spotted Santa. I invited Bryson to the party, but I'm not sure I believed he'd actually show up. I’d asked Kendra to let him into the Embassy without paying the cover we charge everyone else and to make sure he gets a beer. Dressed as some kind of a goth gypsy, Kendra gave me her usual baleful stare. But I knew she would do it.

  Bryson finds a spot along the opposite wall to lean on while he sips his beer. The orange lights Kendra strung from the ceiling shine down on his mane of white hair. There are quite a few girls in the music program who claim to have the hots for Bryson, and not just because of his celebrity status. He does look good for his age, fit and tan and always wearing this amused expression on his face. It’s hard to read him, impossible most of the time to know what he is thinking. It makes him seem kind of mysterious and cool. To girls, anyway. Hell, who am I kidding? To me, too.

  I’ve slowed down the tempo of Gild the Lily, added a weepy guitar flourish in the middle and a keyboard and guitar flourish at the end. The other guys in the band are anxious about making changes to the Great One’s work, and Corey hasn’t tried to hide the fact he doesn’t like what I’ve done.

  “Sounds kind of sugar-coated, if you ask me,” he sniffed when I first played it my way for the guys. “Where the hell do you get off thinking you can improve Bryson's stuff?”