Home Song (33 page)

“. . . and now he's made an appointment with a male counselor. Joan, I know he did it to get a man on his side, and I wanted a woman!”

“Did you tell him that?”

“No, but he knows it!”

Joan did nothing more than change the position of her arms. It had been a long, grueling day for her too. She had been talking to stupid parents and recalcitrant teenagers since nine o'clock that morning. She had a headache from the buzz of the gym lights, and a heartache from some of the genuinely pitiful situations she'd handled today. She wanted to go home, flop into bed, and sleep into the next century. Along comes this normally well-balanced, kind, caring woman who was throwing away her marriage and wrecking her family because she couldn't see through her own red haze of jealousy. Claire Gardner was a well-educated woman who'd had her share of psych classes, but a college education didn't necessarily guarantee common sense, and sometimes Joan grew downright fed up with these teachers who ought to have more of it. Joan Berlatsky—bless her weary counselor's heart—had had it!

“Claire, listen to yourself. How many times have you read and heard that the basis of most relationship problems is lack
of communication? If you wanted a female counselor, you should have said so. You're blaming Tom because you're upset with him about something else entirely. Ask any divorce lawyer—this is how the big-time fights get up a head of steam. Do you want to save your marriage?”

Claire's recoil said very clearly she hadn't expected rebuttal of this sort.

“Yes,” she replied meekly. “At least I think I do.”

“Well, you're surely not acting like it. I've known Tom for twelve years, and in that time I've never heard him do anything but praise you. I'm at meetings and on committees with him that you aren't in. What he says behind your back would probably make you blush with joy. That man loves you, and he loves his children, and what you're putting them all through gets no sympathy from me, because I don't think you've got just cause. He made a mistake in judgment eighteen years ago, and he's apologized and asked your forgiveness for it, and whatever you're accusing him of now is all based on circumstantial evidence. I don't think he's having an affair because I know how he loves you. You're embarrassed by having to face his son day after day while the whole school population knows who Kent is, but—hey, so what? So we know. Big deal. We accept it. The boy is our student, and we haven't ostracized him, or Tom, for that matter. You're the only one doing that. And in the process, you're alienating your own family. I'm probably not sounding much like a counselor right now because I'm not. I'm turning down your request to talk to me about this any more because, quite frankly, this is one case where I've taken sides, and I'm not on yours. I'm squarely on Tom's, because what I see ahead for you is a broken home and four unhappy people if you continue the way you have been. He's miserable. Your children are miserable. Truthfully, I think you
probably are too. Now I'm tired, I've been talking all day, and I want to go home to bed.”

Joan stood up, bringing the discussion to a close. She moved to the door, opened it, and snapped the light switch off—quite rudely, actually—as Claire attempted to gather her wits and realize she was being roundly reprimanded and turned out.

Joan bent and locked her door behind them, then led the way toward the plate-glass door. There she turned and looked down past the secretaries' desks to where Tom's office light fell through his open doorway across the blue carpet.

“Tom, are you still there?” she called.

Momentarily, he appeared in his doorway.

“Yes, Joan, you can leave it unlocked.”

“Will do. Good night then.”

“Good night.”

He said nothing to Claire, and she said nothing to him. But their gazes met across the deserted stretch of office, and pride held them aloof.

She thought,
Oh, Tom, I know I should do exactly what Joan said
.

And he thought,
You know what you can do, Claire? You can just haul yourself off to John Handelman if you've gone to bed with him, because I sure as hell don't want you back
.

A
T
8:30 that night, Chelsea left a note on the kitchen table. “Dear Mom,” it read, “Drake Emerson called and invited me to go to Mississippi Live with a bunch of his friends. I said yes because it's not a school night so I can sleep late tomorrow. I know I should have asked you first, but I couldn't get ahold of you since you were having conferences. See you in the morning. Love, Chels.”

Chelsea made one last check in the bathroom mirror, added a layer of lip gloss, pouted at her reflection, and shut off the light. She went to the doorway of Robby's room.

“I'll be out of here in a minute. What're you doing tonight?”

His eyes swung to the door and scanned her length, down, then up. She was wearing black leggings and a fishnet top over a little tight black thing that showed her belly, sort of like what the aerobics dancers wore on TV. Her hair was bushed out in wild corkscrews, and she had too much makeup on her eyes, plus her lipstick was red and shiny instead of coral and soft the way she used to wear it. Her
earrings were big and dangly and noisy; he'd never seen them before.

“I'm going to the second show with Brenda. She had to work till nine. Are you going out dressed in
that
?”

She flicked a glance downward, then gave a toss of her head. “Sure. This is how all the girls dress up there.”

“You should have asked Mom about going there.”

“I couldn't. She's in the gym, and there are no phones in the gym, or have you forgotten?”

“You should have gone over there then. And you should have asked her about going with Drake Emerson.”

“What's wrong with Drake?”

“You know what's wrong with Drake. He hasn't got a very good reputation.”

“Listen, he called me like a gentleman, and he talked very politely on the phone. And besides, maybe if kids like that get a chance to prove they're okay, they will be. Mom and Dad have never said anything about him getting called into the office or anything.”

“Are any of your other friends going along?”

“My other friends are so
boring
. We do the same old things all the time, and I figure this is a good chance to make some new ones.”

“Mom wouldn't like it. Neither would Dad.”

Chelsea's face hardened. “Well, maybe I don't care. Did they ask us if we liked what
they
did? And besides, they're not here, so how can I ask permission?”

“Chelsea, I don't think you should wear that.”

Chelsea rolled her eyes and pivoted on one foot. Her parting remark could be heard coming back down the hall. “Oh, brr-other, I really don't need this.”

She made sure she had her jacket on and was ready to slip out the door the moment the bell rang, so Drake didn't have
to come into the house. She wouldn't put it past Robby to subject him to some grand inquisition, like he was her father or something.

As it turned out, Drake was late and Robby had already gone by the time the car pulled into the driveway to collect Chelsea. She ran out to meet him on the sidewalk leading up to the house.

“Hey, so how'z it goin', babe?” he greeted her.

“Just fine. Can't wait to see this place.”

“If you want to do some illin', this is the place.”

She disqualified the tiny shiver of misgiving and told herself she was a good girl. Tonight would be nothing but innocent fun.

The car waiting in the driveway was such a wreck she wasn't sure it would make it all the way to downtown Minneapolis. Someone named Church was driving, and beside him were Merilee, and Esmond, whom she had never met; he was twenty-three, Merilee had told her. In the dark, Chelsea barely caught a glimpse of them. Throughout the ride they remained three bodyless heads framed by the green lights from the dash. She sat in the back between Drake and a girl from Robby's senior class named Sue Strong. Sue was a burnout who—it was rumored—had a tattoo of a serpent on her butt and had once been caught bare-breasted in a janitor's room with a boy who'd flunked out of school the year before. Chelsea had heard Sue's name around the kitchen table on more than one occasion, and it hadn't been good.

“Hi, Sue,” Chelsea said when introduced.

Sue blew smoke at the roof and said, “You the principal's daughter?”

“Yes, I am.”

“This's cool, Drake,” Sue said. “Her old man busted my
ass more'n once for shit that wasn't none of his business. This's gonna be a real drag, man, havin' her along.”

Chelsea felt her stomach clench, but Drake slung an arm up and rocked her over against him, grinning into her eyes.

“Hey, Sue, watch your mouth. She's not used to talk like that, are you, sugar?”

Chelsea smiled tensely and caught the smell of leather from Drake's jacket. The faraway dash lights picked out his dark eyes and lopsided smile. He reminded Chelsea of the carny who'd run the bullets at the state fair last summer. He said all the right things, but in his grin salaciousness lingered, as if every word he spoke had a second meaning. Drake whispered, putting his mouth nearly against Chelsea's ear so Sue couldn't hear, “Never mind her. She and Esmond are jugglin' insults tonight, that's all. But we're going to have a good time, you and me. This place'll really rock your world. You're going to like it.”

He was right. Mississippi Live really rocked her world. Located in Riverplace, in a historic district of downtown Minneapolis on the banks of the Mississippi River, it was a multiplex dance hall, a music lover's dream, a rocker's delight, an assault on the senses even before one stepped inside. Crossing the courtyard out front, Chelsea heard the music pounding through the glass wall. She could see motion and lights even before they went through the door. Inside, the beat magnified and drove itself into her stomach. The crowd of upbeat dancers and cruisers was dominated by young people in their twenties. Just inside the front door a young man was strapped into the human gyro machine with his limbs outspread like a Michelangelo sketch while he whirled like a beach ball going over a waterfall. The gyro was centered between a pair of curving steel staircases leading up to an open balcony. Both the balcony and stairs were
packed with humanity, every pair of eyes captivated by the whirling human form. Many of the spectators held bottles of beer or glasses of mixed drinks.

Chelsea followed Drake up the stairway. On the second floor the beat from downstairs segued into that from the karaoke show, where a high-energy master of ceremonies clapped and stirred things up while a young man sang “Soul Survivor” and the words flashed across multiple TV screens mounted on the ceiling. A different press of people surrounded the karaoke stage, the clientele constantly shifting, moving on its feet, turning sideways when moving through the crowd to the next attraction. Drake and Chelsea turned left into a black cavern where a DJ sat in a glass booth and rap music blasted out of speakers while strobe lights spattered a collection of dancers into disjointed fragments of motion on the dance floor. One girl wore a crop top, a coarse calf-length burlap skirt, and cossack boots. One man wore black-and-red leather pants with a design like foot-long sharks' teeth taking gouges out of his legs. One dancer wore suspenders, Spike Lee–style glasses low on his nose, and a silver-sequined bowler on his head. As he whirled, his hat seemed to levitate off his head five times a second in the strobe lights.

The music hurt Chelsea's ears. It made the center of her chest feel as if it would implode.

Drake put his lips to her ear. “Want something to drink?”

She yelled back, “A Coke!”

He grinned at her while turning away. She watched him from behind as he moved toward the bar. His pants were so tight she figured something on him must be hurting. He had thick boots on his feet like those of a mountain climber. His tapered, waist-length leather jacket had zippers on the arms and chest.

At the bar he must have been carded because he pulled a billfold out of his pocket and flashed what had to be a fake ID before the bartender began mixing a drink.

In a minute he returned with two plastic glasses and handed her one. She yelled thank you and sipped cautiously, finding, thankfully, that it was plain Coca-Cola. She turned, fascinated, back to the dance floor. Nobody in the place seemed to be using the chairs, except occasionally to hook a foot on. Across the way a couple danced beside their table, apparently practicing some moves. Nobody paid them the least attention. After a few minutes Drake confiscated Chelsea's glass and set it down, then led her onto the floor. She danced until sweat dampened her bra and her hair stuck to her hot neck, never once touching Drake, though she felt as if she'd been touched by him in most of the erogenous zones of her body. He had a sinewy body that moved like smoke, and a way of keeping his gaze riveted on her that made her feel daring.

Soon they moved on to another dance floor, another bar, followed by another and another until they had sampled five. They danced in most of them, bought drinks in most of them. In the last, country music played and people were line-dancing. A sequined cowboy boot turned slowly above the dance floor, casting diamond spangles across the dancers below. The song changed to a slow one and Drake said, “Come on, babe, one more time.” He wound his arm around her waist, plastered his pelvis against her, and dropped his hand down low over her spine, where he massaged her with his fingertips in time to the music. She reached back and pulled it up.

“What's the matter?” He grinned down at her, thrusting his hips more firmly against her. “Never danced this way before?”

“Not where anybody could see me.”

“How about where people couldn't see you?”

“Mmm . . .” She smiled suggestively and tossed her head.

“Feels good if you let it.” He commandeered her arms and urged them up over his shoulders, holding them in place until she doubled them across his neck. Then he rubbed his hands down to her hips, gripping and steering them to his liking. Below, she could feel bones and flesh impress themselves upon her like fossils in clay as he kept on moving, moving, always moving against her, cradling her, keeping his knees spread and eventually working his right thigh between hers. His right hand stole up beneath her fishnet top onto the bare flesh above her waistband. He spread his fingers wide until his thumb intruded under the back elastic of her bra.

She thought of secrets Erin had divulged about having sex with Rick. She thought of her parents.
Hey, Mom and Dad, what do you think of this, huh? Your perfect little girl's not so perfect anymore, is she?

Above her, the sequined boot threw light chips across the dancers. A spell of vertigo struck her, and she closed her eyes. “Did you put something in my drink, Drake?”

“Don't you trust me?”

“Did you?”

“Just a little rum. You couldn't even taste it, could you?”

“I said I wanted plain Coke.”

“Okay, no more rum. Just plain Coke from now on.”

“But I think maybe I'm drunk already. I don't know. I've never felt like this before.”

“You aren't getting sick, are you?”

“No, just dizzy.”

“Just keep your eyes open, you'll be okay.”

“Drake, you shouldn't have done that. I'm not allowed to drink.”

“Sorry. I just thought you might like to have a good time like the rest of us. A little drink sort of loosens you up, takes away all the inhibitions, makes dancing this way more fun.” This time he slid both hands down her buttocks. But the way Drake kept swaying, the way his knees were spread, it felt good to wallow up close and use him for balance as her world grew more tipsy. Her body conformed with surprising ease, and no matter where he moved, her flesh seemed to follow. Over his shoulder she saw a bunch of other couples dancing the same way—so she figured it was how it was done in a place like this.

“Drake, I'm really getting dizzy. I think maybe I have to go.”

“Hey, it's early yet.”

“What time is it?” Over his shoulder she tried to read her wristwatch, but the numbers refused to focus.

His hands left her rump as he checked his watch. “Midnight. A little after.”

“I have to be home by one. I really have to go.” It was her first time at overt rebellion, and reverting to form came spontaneously.

“All right, whatever you say. Let's go find those guys.”

It took some time to round up the other four. By the time they headed for their car it was a quarter to one and Chelsea knew she'd never make her one o'clock curfew.

Outside, the brisk air felt bracing, but when they got in the backseat and began moving, her world started spinning. She tipped her head back against the seat and felt as if she'd been packed into a shipping carton and sent down a conveyor belt. There were four people in the backseat, and she was sitting between Drake and the door. He kissed her at
the same moment he slipped a hand inside her coat and under her fishnet top. It was nothing at all like the kiss she'd shared with Kent. Nothing that innocent. In a rush it struck her that the guilt she'd carried for that one kiss with her half brother had been misguided. Here was something she could really feel guilty for, and would—tomorrow. Drake kissed her deep and wet, with a hand up under her bra, then down behind, where he'd been touching her on the dance floor, and pretty soon between her legs.

“Stop it, Drake,” she whispered, mortified because something worse seemed to be going on on the far side of the backseat. Obviously, Sue and Esmond had made up.

“Hey, come on, nothing's going to happen.”

“No, stop.”

“You ever felt a guy?” He carried her hand between his legs and cupped it hard against himself. “Bet you haven't. Go ahead, little girl, explore. This is how a guy feels. See? Hot . . . hard . . . no, no . . .” He turned her head back his way when she tried to peer past him at their seatmates. “Don't worry about them. They can't see us. They're busy.”