Blues for Zoey (17 page)

53

First Times

Calen used his brother's ID, and
I had a license from one of his brother
's friends, a Sikh kid named Vijay Sandu
(who really did look like me). Calen was explicit about keeping the ID safe.

“Lose this,” Calen explained, passing me the little rectangle of plastic, “and Veej says he'll gut you—like, literally. He's not even kidding. He doesn't tell anyone, but he carries a ceremonial dagger.”

“Part of his religion,” Alana added.

Foo Bar is an old nightclub in midtown. It opened in the seventies and was made famous by all the singers and bands adored by Dave Mizra, people like Shain Cope.

“You see that homeless girl again?” Calen asked me.

“Stop saying that. She's
not
homeless.”

Calen mocked me with a sulk.

“But, yeah, I did. She stayed over last night.”

Alana was surprised. “
Really?
That was fast.”

Calen wanted details, but I wasn't prepared to give an
y, especially not in the cheek-to-cheek, factory-farm lineup outside Foo Bar. Or ever
. It was something I wanted to keep for myself. It was dawning on me that it was possible to ha
ve
two
first times. First, there was the actual, official (and almost certainly disastrous) first time, and then there was something much better. The first
time you actually knew what you wer
e doing. I had a very strong suspicion that
years later, it was Zoey I would remember, not Becky Leighton.

The
air inside Foo Bar was clammy with sour beer
reek and evaporating sweat. A local band, two guys and a girl with acoustic guitars and a tambourine, played on the stage. Some of Alana's friends were already the
re, clustered around a table near the front. Alana joined them while Calen and I went to get beers.

“So last night,” he said, while we waited at the bar. “Y
ou gonna tell me what happened?”

“It was a good night. That's all I'm saying.”

“Dude!
Awesome
.”

“It kinda was.”

Calen shuffled his feet, something he didn't do often. “I know I made fun of you, but hey, I gotta admit, she's a pretty cool girl. Pretty hot, too.”

“
I know!
” (I might have said it with a bit too much relish.) “I wish she could've come tonight.”

We scored our beers and raised a toast to other people's driver's licenses. On the way back to the table, someone tapped me on the shoulder.
Zoey
, I thought. But when I turned around, it wasn't her. It was Topher Briggs.

“
Kaz!
” He yelled
at me over the music. “How're
you doin'?!” I was ready to defend myself fr
om a fist to the face, but instead he put one
hand on my shoulder. “Listen, sorry about what happened
at my place. I was
suuuper
kacked. Obviously.”

“You still are, looks like.”

“Yep!” He raised his own pint glass. “But seriously. I'm sorry, okay?”

“
S
eriously?
”

He nodded. “You're gonna hafta show me around sometime.”

“What?”

“Didn't you hear? The whole family's
moving to the neighborhood!”

“Evandale?” I thought he was making fun of me. “Shut up.”

“I'm serious!
You know my folks, yeah? Their bank took
a huge hit. My dad got the axe, and next
month, we heard, they're cutting my mom's whole division.”

“Shit,” said Calen. “Is that true?”

“It's another ‘global economic crisis.' Fucking new one e
very week.” Topher turned to me. “D
on't be surprised when we move in
down the block, okay?” He clinked his glass against mine,
spilling a dollop of foam on the floor. “
Here's to the new neighborhood!”

Topher looked dejected.
I wanted to say something to cheer him up. “
It's not so bad, actually. They're
shooting a movie down there. Like, right around the corner from me.”

His face brightened. “Really? What movie?”

“Actually, it's just a
pilot for TV. But they're gonna shoot the whole series ther
e.”

Calen and Topher nodded like they knew what
I was talking about. I thought I might have to answer more questions, but Calen turned to Topher instead.

“I'm sure your folks'll figure something out.”

“Maybe,” Toph said, but he
didn't sound convinced. “Anyway, I'm sorry I hit you in fr
ont of your girl—who is
crazy
, by the way.” He came closer and threw an arm ov
er my shoulders. “Also, I'm sorry we didn't stay friends after, y'know, y
our dad died.”

“Whatever. Don't worry about it.”

“C'mon,” he said, pulling me toward the back of the bar. “A bunch of us have a table upstairs.”

I looked to Calen, but he said he had to bring Alana her drink; he would come find us later.

Upstairs, there was a whole other floor. It was darker, full of shadows, the sort of place from which Zoey might emerge, shimmering like a mirage. (She didn't.)

Becky was at a table on the edge
of the balcony, overlooking the stage. (“
Oh-mi-god
, Kaz!”
Cue customary wave.) Topher slid in beside her and
gave her a sloppy, off-target kiss. Then the
re was a bunch of people I didn't kno
w. The only other person I recogni
zed was Christina Muñoz, perched daintily on the end of the curving bench. She was in this pale green, skin-tight dress that was more suited to a dance club, not a hipster dive like
Foo Bar. She looked uncomfortable, which was a first.

“It's you,” she said.

“Me?”

“Kaz, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. Another first: Christina Muñoz knew my name.

“I heard Topher say it when he saw you, over the balcony
.”

“Oh. Right.”

“But, yeah, I remember you
from Toph's party. Hard
to forget when they drag you away with blood all over.” She screwed up her face. “
Gross
.”

I pointed at Toph. “Blame him.”

“Is he gonna punch you again? Because I don't want blood on my dress.”

I
laughed because I thought it was a joke, but then
I realized Christina was serious. “No, it's
okay. I think we just made up.”

“Cool.”

She slid sideways to let me in. I
noticed (how could I not?) the dress inching up her legs. I joined her on the bench, and I could feel the other guys at the table watching us.

She examined my face. “We were at the same school when we were kids, right?”

“Only for a couple years. I moved away in eighth grade. Rosemount Middle School.
You remember that?”

She nodded. “Sort of. You're kind of Chinese, right?”

“Kind of Japanese. I'm half. My dad's from Barbados.
Was
from Barbados. He died.”

“Yeah, my next-door neighbor died when I was ten. And I'm kind of mixed up too, by the way. My mom's from Bogotá, in Colombia. And my dad's from Peru. Guess we kind of have a lot in common.”

I
wasn't sure Colombian-slash-Peruvian was quite the
same thing, seeing as the two countries were next to each other and the people there both spoke Spanish.
I also wasn't convinced a dead neighbor was the same as a dead dad. But I didn't mention any of this. Having a regular conv
ersation with Christina Muñoz was too much of a novelty.

“Have you ever noticed,” she asked me, looking at the backs of her hands, “that it's always the mixed-up people who're the best looking?”

“Huh?”

“My mom used to b
reed show dogs, like when I was a kid, but she stopped because they kept dying of all these
weird diseases. Basically cuz they're inbr
ed, right? Then, after she quit the business, you know what kind of dog she bought?”

Where was this going? “I have no idea,” I said.

“A mongrel! A total
mutt
! Get it?”

“Not really.”

“My mom was
like, if you want good genes, you gotta mix them up. I think i
t's the same with people. Like you and me.”

“Wait, you really think that?”

She shrugged. “Only cuz it's true.”

“But, um … ” I started
squirming, actually fidgeting on the end of the bench. “You don't think that sounds kinda, I dunno … kinda racist?”

“What?
No!
Racist is, like, crazy guys in hoods! It
's, like,
burning
people, and that other thing. Whaddaya call it?
Starts with an
L
. Hanging people from trees.”

“
L
ynching?
”

“Y
eah! Lynching.
That's
racist.” She waved her hand between her and
me. “This is just a fact. Mixed-up people a
re the hottest.” She shrugged like this was a perfectly normal thing to say. Then she switched gears again. “Do you smoke?”

“No.”

S
he pushed me off the end of the bench and got out, pulling down the hem of her skirt.

“Come on. Even if you don't, you can'
t let me go have a ciggie by myself.”

She led me toward the stairs, unsteady on her high heels. On the middle landing, there was a painted black door to the back “
patio”: an empty sandlot with a fence around
it, lit by the glow of a 7-Eleven
on the far side. The bouncer guarding the exit was massi
ve; hollow out one of his legs and you
could plop me right inside.

“You should stand up straighter,” Christina said, once we were alone.

“Thanks for the tip.”

She lit a ciga
rette and took me by the shoulders. Smoke coiled around my ear as she pushed and pulled me until my back was straight. “You're pretty decent-looking, at least when you
're not slouching.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I said, with only a tinge of sarcasm. Meanwhile, I could feel my spine trying to straighten itself.

“You heard about me and Devon, right?”

“No.”

“We broke up.”

“Really? When?”

She rolled her eyes. “Like, the same week we got together, he was already cheating on me with some girl from his school. T
otal slut!” She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “You got a girlfriend?”

I wasn't sure how to answer, so I said, “
Yeah, I guess so.”

“You
guess
so? I hope she doesn't hear you talk about her like that.”

“It's cuz we just met, like a couple weeks ago.”

“Cool. How'd you meet her?”

“At Toph's party.”

“Wait. The girl who played piano?”

“She's pretty good, huh?”

“Yeah, except that she's
crazy
!
You should've seen her after Topher knocked you out. I thought she was going to kill him!
Sh
e's
your girlfriend? Seriously?”

“We just started, but yeah.”

Her head fell sideways and she looked at me closely again. “
Guess I missed my chance.”

It was weird hearing Christina—
the
Christina Muñoz—say that. “Maybe I should have stood up straighter,” I said, laughing a little.
“You might've noticed me.”

“Maybe,” she said, coming closer. “You have a nice mouth, anyway. Devon's got a mouth like yours. People with sort of puffy lips, like you—and me—that's how you can tell a good kisser.” I wondered if Christina always looked for bits of herself in other people. I was still wondering when she leaned forward and kissed me.

I was so stunned, I just stood there. I may have even kissed her back. A little.

Then there
was this loud
BANG
. It was the door beside us flinging open. I pushed Christina away in time to see the giant bouncer th
rowing someone out the door—like, actually throwing.
Through the air
.

It was Zoey.

54

F.U.B.A.R.

“You're banned,”
said the bouncer. “Don't come back. I
remember faces.”

Zoey lay on the gravel in a pile of crinoline, leather, and dreads. “I hope you know you just broke my
fucking arm
!” she screamed.

The bouncer didn't give a shit. “I'll believe you when you sue us.”

“M
aybe I will.”

“Go ahead. See what happens. We'll tell
'em the shit you just pulled in here. Now
fuck off
. ”

I stepped between them.
“You can't talk to her like that.”

“Who're you?”

“Her boyfriend.”

He looked past me at Christina. “Then I'd say you've got some explaining to do.”

Zoey sat
up, her arm folded against her side, her e
yes glossy with tears. “
Look what you did!
” She raised her elbow to show off the back of her arm, where a mottled yellow br
uise spread all the way up to her shoulder. “
See?!
”

The bouncer laughed. “I didn't do that.”

“Who did then?!”

“How should I know? Maybe your ‘boyfriend' here. Either way, now's the time to
fuck off
. Okay?”

He vanished inside, slamming the door.

Christina swayed on her feet. “Did he lock it just now?” she asked no one in particular. “Can we get back in, or do w
e hafta go around?”

I pretended Christina wasn't there.

“Should I call an ambulance?” I asked Zoey.

“No,
” she said quietly. “I was lying. My arm's not broken.”

Christina tried the door.
It was still open. The bouncer filled the frame. He
waved Christina in but pointed for Zoey to get lost.

Christina said to me, “I'll see y
ou inside, yeah?”

“Maybe.”

“
Definitely
,” Zoey corrected me. “You
were obviously having a good time.”

“No, I wasn't.”

Christina scoffed. “Y
ou weren't? You sure kissed like
you were.”

I focused on Zoey. “We were just talking, and then—”

Z
oey clicked her tongue. “Yeah, I saw. You
don't have to lie about it.”

“Okay,” said Christina, “this just got way too complicated. I'm going back in.”

I didn't even look at her. I just heard the door slam.

“
She
kissed
me
,
” I told Zoey. “Not the other way around.”

Zoey didn't say
anything. She was sitting on the ground, hugging her
knees to her chest. Just beneath the surface of
her skin, her bruise was a pool of yellow.

“It looks pretty bad.
Maybe you should at least see a doctor.”

She didn't look at me. “You know what
fubar
means? Not the stupid name of a bar. Like the
actual word
.”

“Is it Chinese or something?”

Zoey laughed like I was two. “It's an
acronym
, and I'd say it fits pretty good right now.”

“What's it stand for?”

“They spelt it wrong her
e. It's supposed to be
fubar
, with a
U
.
F-U-B-A-R. In World War Two, when things got
so bad the people fighting knew they were gonna die and there was nothing they could do about it, they'd say, ‘This is fubar.'
My dad used to say it all the time when I was growing up. After Mom left, he ditched the acronym. Now he usually just says the whole thing: ‘Fucked Up Be
yond All Recognition.' Fubar. Get it?” She rubbed her hand up and down the b
ruise. “I think I finally understand what he means by that.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“You think you're my boyfriend?”

“No,” I sputtered. “Well, I dunno. I just thought the bouncer would listen to me if he thought I wasn't just some random guy who—”

“So you were lying when you said that just now?”

“
No!
I just said it. It just came out.”

“Because of last night?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, we're not.”

“Okay.”

“We
hung out. It was fun. That's all,” she
said. “Besides, you really want me to believe
she
kissed
you
?”

“She did!”

“Yeah, I was just thinking, she looks like the sort of girl who has trouble finding guys to make out with in parking lots.”

“
I'm serious
.
She's a girl I used to go to
school with. That's all.” I was staring at Zoey's bruise. “Your arm looks pretty bad.”

“
Don't touch me.” She pulled away f
rom me and stood up.

“She kissed me!”

“Fine. Whatever. That's not the problem. The problem is things went too fast with you and me. Now it's all messed up. Maybe even
fubar
.”

“We can slow down.”

“Too late. Anyway, I don't have ‘boyfriends.' ”

“I don't care about that.”

“Maybe it's better if you promise me something.”

“Like what?”

“Next time you see me, just tell me to screw off, okay?”

“But why?”

“Just promise.”

How could I? All I could think was that it was happening again, just like with
Becky. Even when I got it right—at least I
thought
I got it right—the girl was
dropping me after one time.

“I can't promise that,” I said.

“You should.”

“I can't.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Zoey
stomped off while I watched. A moment later, she'
d vanished around the blinding-white corner of the 7-Eleven.