Stuff We All Get (5 page)

I spend the afternoon burning cds. When Mom gets home, she gives me the Q and A. She's into it the second I tell her about my plans for tonight. I explain that I met Jolene in the coffee shop and we talked about music. Also that I found out Jolene is the singer on the geocache cd, but she didn't cache it. I don't tell any lies. I just leave out some details. Then I ask, “How come you trusted me last night, and today you don't?”

“I trust
you
, Zack,” she says. “It's others I have a problem with. What do you know about this girl?”

“I know she's smart and talented and a victim of crime. Who do you think stole her cd and put it in the geocache?”

Mom rolls her eyes. “Don't try to change the subject. Jolene works in a coffee shop. That's a good sign. Kids with jobs are usually responsible.” She pauses and asks, “How long has she worked there? How old is she? Does she go to school?”

“Tell you what,” I say. “I'll try to get all the
details
tonight if you stop bugging me now. Deal?”

She gives me her stink eye and mutters, “Deal.” Then she sighs and adds, “I'm glad you've made a friend. I was invited out tonight, and I wasn't sure about leaving you alone.”

“Mom. I'm fifteen, not five.”

“I know, I know. But you've been stuck here alone too much.” She glances at the clock. “I should get ready.”

Chapter Ten

I'm on my way out the door when my cell phone rings. It's Jolene, and she whispers, “Zack?”

“Yeah?” Oh no. She's going to cancel.

“I, um…” Her voice catches on a sob.

I feel cold all over. “What's wrong? Jolene?”

“It's just—bad. I can't meet you. Oh god. I
really
need to get out of here.”

Stories Mom has told me about domestic violence flash through my mind. “Are you hurt?” I ask.

“No. Not exactly. I just have to get out of here. Could you pick me up?” Her voice breaks again. “I need a ride.”

She doesn't mean on a bike. “Jolene? Sorry, I don't know what to say.” I do know what to say, but I'm stalling.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Never mind. I'll try someone else. Bye.”

I don't want her to hang up. “What about the cds?”

“Oh. That. Maybe I'll be in touch…” I hear a muffled thump in the background. “I better go!” she squeaks.

“No! Wait!” I say. I have to do it. “I'll come and get you, okay? Tell me where you are. I'm on my way.”

I can drive. Of course I can. The car is here. Mom won't know. What difference does a piece of paper make at a time like this?

“Are you sure?” Jolene asks.

“Absolutely,” I say.

“You're a lifesaver. Okay, I'm going to start walking. Could you pick me up at the bottom of Heaven Hill Road? Past the high school.”

“I know where it is,” I say. “I'll be there in five minutes.”

I don't allow myself to think about what I'm doing. I just do it. I get the spare car keys and run out to the car. I remember the cds, run back inside, grab them and go.

Heaven Hill Road. How perfect is that for Jolene? I let myself think about that—and her. I drive at exactly the speed limit, and I'm there in five minutes. I park and look around.

I don't see her. What I do see in the rearview mirror is a cop car approaching. I slump down in the seat and turn my head away. I've only met a couple of Mom's new co-workers, but I'm not taking any chances. I sweat through the ten seconds it takes for the car to cruise past. Then I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Two seconds later, a rap on the passenger window makes me jump, and I hit my head on the ceiling. I gape stupidly at Jolene. She's smiling as she pulls the door open.

“Surprised to see me?” she asks.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, no. Hi.”

She hefts a backpack into the backseat and hops in beside me. She looks incredibly hot. Her hair flies in a fine, pale mist around her shoulders. She's lost the work apron, and without it there's no hiding her body. The tight jeans she's wearing, along with a form-hugging T-shirt and jacket…Wow.

She brings her scent in too, a heady mix of flowers and fruit. I breathe it in and ask, “Are you okay?”

“A lot better now that I'm here,” she smiles.

I swallow hard and stare at her. She's here beside me. Incredible.

“So,” she says. “Maybe we should get going.”

I get a flash of my fantasy of Jolene and me heading into the unknown. This is quickly followed by a reality check. I have to get her wherever it is she's going, fast, and get the car back home. I don't tell her that. I nod and start the engine. “Uh. Where?”

“It's not far,” she says. “Takes about half an hour.”

“Half an hour?” I choke.

She turns those violet eyes on me, and they're huge. “That's okay, right? I need to get somewhere safe. And it's the only place I could think of.”

I consider taking her to my house. She'd be safe there. “My place would be—”

“No!” Jolene's voice has a frantic edge. “If you can't take me, then drop me off on the highway, okay? I'll hitch.”

“What? No.” I take a deep breath. I've come this far. I've already crossed the line. “Tell me the way. I'll take you.”

Jolene smiles and settles back in her seat. “Okay, you want to get on the highway.”

Five minutes later we're on the highway going north. I haven't done much highway driving, but it's actually easier than driving in town.

I want to ask Jolene what happened, but before I can, she asks, “Have you got the cds?”

“On the backseat.”

Jolene unbuckles her seat belt, turns around and reaches into the back. I stare at the curve of her body, and a front tire bounces as it hits gravel.

I gasp and swerve back to pavement. Jolene mutters, “Wow. Drive much?”

“I'm sorry,” I say. I keep my eyes glued to the road.

She wriggles back into place and doesn't say anything.

“I'm sorry,” I say again. When she still doesn't answer, I keep talking. “So, I burned twenty copies for you. I put the original in the bag. But I kept one at home for myself so actually there's only nineteen…”

“Why did you keep one?” she asks.

“Um. I thought it would be okay. Sorry. I can give you that one too, if you think…”

She waves a hand. “Never mind. Keep it. Not like you don't have it on your hard drive or whatever now anyway, right?”

“Right.” A couple of uneasy moments pass, and I have to try again. “So, about your music, Jolene. I can totally relate.”

“Yeah? What do you mean?”

“The song about traveling?” I risk glancing at her. “When I heard it, I wanted to hit the road. It got me thinking about how great it would be to see the world on my own terms. Be free. And the one about being alone? Wow.”

“What about it?” she asks.

“It was like you could be me. I moved here and don't know anyone. It's tough.”

“Yeah?” She shrugs. “I guess for some people. Not me. I can't wait to get out of this hick town. Like when I've gone on trips for auditions and stuff? I love that.”

“So is your favorite song the traveling one?” I ask.

“I don't have favorites,” she says.

“No? Huh. I guess you like them all for different reasons. Like the one about being made into a fool and mocked. The colors in it—I mean, I've experienced that too. It's harsh. I don't want to think about it. But you were able to put it into words.”

I feel her stare, and then she mutters, “Yeah. But what about the singing?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“The singing. You know, the
voice
? I guess you don't know much about music. You haven't mentioned the quality of my sound.”

“Oh,” I say. Do I tell her how sound becomes color for me? I haven't risked that for a long time. Still, she's so honest in her music. I should be honest with her. “I see the sound in colors.”

“What?”

“Colors. I'm a sound-color synesthete. The traveling song is indigo and green. And the rejection song is mostly black and red.” I hold my breath and wait, hoping she'll understand.

She emits a tiny snort and says, “Yeah, right.”

Chapter Eleven

I shouldn't have told Jolene about the colors. Not yet. I'm an idiot. I muster a feeble grin and shrug.

“So, you
don't
know much about music, do you?” she asks.

“I know what I like,” I tell her. “And I know I like your stuff.”

“Nice,” she says. “But what about your ideas for promoting me?”

“Huh?”

She gives her hair an impatient flick. “You know. You talked about how I should send out my cds. Do you know about that? Like, I just mail them to radio stations, or what?”

“I think so. I'm sure I've heard about that.” I scramble for something else to say. “And I'm sure I could figure out how to put it online.”

“Right. The indie thing. I knew a guy who—never mind. I'd rather have my career happen the old-school way. Like, I get discovered by a label, and they help me put together a band. And they promote it. All that. So all
I
have to do is perform.”

“That makes sense,” I say. “You're the artist. You shouldn't have to do all that other crap.”

“Exactly,” she says.

“Plus, that way you'll be free to write songs and play your guitar.”

She doesn't answer.

I try again. “You've got all that depth and talent. You express feelings so clearly. It seems like such a gift. I mean, when you sang about being mocked and—”

“Tell me, Zack,” she cuts in. “What is it about that song you relate to so much?”

I feel a flush crawl over my face. “It's stupid. It's not a heartbreak or anything. It was dumb. I was playing basketball, and some jerk pulled my shorts down. Then another jerk took a picture and posted it online. After that, everyone at school was mocking me.”

I feel her stare. “That was you?” She laughs. It's the first time I've heard her laugh.

“You know about that?” I ask.

“Who doesn't? In a town this size, you can't fart without everybody knowing.”

“Great,” I mutter.

“It
was
funny,” she says. “I don't get how that could bug you.” She drums her fingers on the dash and shrugs. “So anyway. I just want to sing.”

“Okay,” I say.

She goes on. “I've done some big auditions, you know. I even did one in the States. I was born there, and I can't wait to go back.” Her gaze fixes on a point down the road. “But it can't hurt to mail out cds. It's something to do while I'm waiting for callbacks.”

“Cool. If you like, I'll help you figure out where to send them.” As I say this, I wish I could take the words back. What's up with that? I
do
want to help her. Don't I? But the way she's acting makes me wonder. The Jolene sitting beside me doesn't seem like the one who sings. I take a breath and say, “Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“It's tricky to put into words. But, you're so
honest
in your music. I like that. Do you think maybe you say stuff in music that you can't talk about otherwise?”

She sighs and does some more finger drumming. Then she says, “You need to make a turn up here. See the sign for Summerland?”

I see it. I concentrate on doing everything right. I signal and make the turn. Jolene directs me to take another turn and another. We're working our way through the small town and up a hillside. A glance at the clock on the dash surprises me. More than half an hour has passed since we left Penticton.

“Are we almost there?” I ask.

“Almost,” she says.

“Where exactly are we going?”

“To a friend's place. He's cool.” She's leaning forward, like she can't wait.

“Um,” I mutter. “About the cds.”

She picks up the bag and says, “Forget it, okay?”

“Huh?”

“I don't think you know much about the business.”

She's got that right. And
I
know I'm blowing it with her, but I don't know why. Maybe I'm being too pushy?

Quietly I say, “I'm not trying to tell you what to do, Jolene. I bet it's tough to switch from composing to—”

“God!” She cuts me off. “Do I have to spell it out for you? I didn't write those songs, okay? I didn't play the guitar. I just sang. That's what I do. The
important
part.”

Chapter Twelve

A sick feeling rolls through my gut. “You just sang?”

“Yup.” Jolene checks her fingernails. “That's what I do.”

“If you didn't write the songs, who did?” I ask.

“Does it matter?” she counters.

“Maybe,” I say. “Aren't there laws? You can't just
take
someone else's music, can you? I mean, when I heard that guy doing your song at the pub—wait. Is this
his
music?”

“Probably. Was it a guy with a ponytail? And attitude?”

I nod.

“Frank. My ex. He's an idiot.”

Frank. The initial
F
in the geocache log and on the cd. I shake my head and ask, “He wrote the music? And he played the guitar?”

“Yeah,” she says. “So? Let me tell you something, Mr. Righteous. Before you go judging me, you should know the whole story. Frank wrote those songs for me. He was inspired by me. And he wanted
me
to sing them.”

“But…”

“Frank doesn't care about fame. He has zero ambition.
Zero
. He's all about his
art
. Whatever that's supposed to mean. What difference does it make if I record his songs?”

“So,” I say slowly, “what if one of his songs became a hit? Would he get paid?”