She and May and I used to talk about it, planning the perfect road trip. Mom would say that the waves sound better than trains at night and better than rain and better than a crackling fire. We used to plan how, when we had the money, we’d get on I–40 and just drive. We’d stop along the way at Arby’s for “roast beast” sandwiches (we called them that because of How the Grinch Stole Christmas). We’d get a hotel room and stay up all night watching movies and drinking sodas with ice from the ice maker, and the next day, we’d drive all the way to where the land meets the water.
But as it turned out, Mom went without us. She cried when she told me. “I have to go away for a while. I’m so sorry,” she said. “I just can’t be here right now.” As she tried to hug me, I felt frozen in her arms. I wanted to tell her she was breaking the promise. We were all supposed to go together. Of course it was too late for that, but I wondered why she didn’t at least offer to take me with her. She said she’d get her head back on and her heart sewn as best she could and come back soon. She never said when soon is.
Now she’s just a voice on the phone. She called me at Aunt Amy’s a couple of hours ago. “Hi, Laurel. How are you, sweetie?”
“Okay. How are you?” I tried to picture where she is, but all I could see in my mind was a faded postcard—skinny palm trees rising into a pale blue sky.
“I’m okay. I miss you, honey.” She sniffled, and my body tensed up. I thought, Don’t cry don’t cry. I hate it when Mom cries. May knew how to make her stop, but I never did.
“Yeah, I miss you, too.”
“How is school? What did you do today?”
“The usual. Went to classes.”
“Are you making new friends?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“That’s good. I’m happy for you.”
And then there was a long silence. I didn’t know what to say to her.
“Mom, I should go. I have homework.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“You too.”
I hung up, and just like that, Mom vanished back into the land of washed-out palm trees.
Judy, I read that you said your first memory was music. Music that fills up a home. And one day, suddenly the music could escape through a window. For the rest of your life, you had to chase it.
Yours,
Laurel
Dear Janis Joplin,
I am writing to you for an important reason, which I will get to. When I walked up to our table at lunch yesterday, Hannah was talking to some of the soccer boys who’d made their way over, and Natalie was squeezing the last of her Capri Sun out of its package, not looking interested. I sat on the end of the bench and scanned the crowd for Sky. I finally spotted the back of his head at the edge of a crowd of juniors. He hadn’t noticed me, so I turned back to the table and started contemplating whether or not to break out my kaiser roll in public. Then as Hannah laughed with the boys, I noticed her brush her hand against Natalie’s arm, like it was meant to be an accident, but in slow motion. Natalie sucked in her breath and closed her eyes for a second. Suddenly, she interrupted Hannah’s conversation and said, “Come on, let’s go to the alley.” I got worried that they were going to leave me alone and I would have to go back to sitting by the fence, but Natalie looked at me and said, “Come on!” So I followed them. The alley, everyone knows, is where you go to smoke cigarettes and things if you are either cool or a senior.
It turns out that Natalie met this senior, Tristan, in her art class. He told her that he’d buy her cloves and she could come and meet his girlfriend, Kristen. When you see them, you can tell right away that Tristan and Kristen are so in love. Kristen wears long flowy skirts, and she has long hair down to her butt that looks like it must never come untangled. Her face is soft and exotic-looking. She doesn’t talk loudly. Her voice is a whispery rasp, but musical, too. Tristan also has long hair. But otherwise, they are opposites. Everything about him is pointy and buzzing with energy. Tristan wears ripped clothes with patches sewn on from bands like the Ramones and Guns N’ Roses and the Killers. He’s always talking talking talking, and after everything he says, he says, “Right, babe?” and Kristen nods without moving her eyes.
Tristan was easy to meet, because right away he tossed Natalie her pack of cloves and said, “Hola, chiquitita!” And then he kissed Hannah’s hand and kissed my hand and said, “Who are these miniature beauties you offer up to the alley of smoke?” Before we could answer, he turned to Kristen and said, “Looks like we have found the lost children of the freshman class, right, babe? Are you ready to adopt?” Then he pulled a giant kitchen lighter out of his pants pocket and lit our cloves with a flame that almost reached the top of my head. He saw me looking at his patches, especially the one that said SLASH across his chest in bright red letters. I thought that I should say something, so I asked, “Is Slash a band?”
Tristan laughed. “He’s the lead guitarist of the band. Guns N’ Roses. Definition of rock. We’ve got a ways to go on your education, don’t we?”
My face got hot.
But then Tristan said, “Don’t worry, you’re young. There’s still hope. Ready? First lesson. ‘Being a rock star is the intersection of who you are and who you want to be’—quote courtesy of Slash himself.”
“Is that who you want to be?” I asked.
He looked at me, sort of confused.
So I added, “A rock star?”
Tristan laughed again, only this time a little differently. Like I’d asked him a hard question he didn’t want to answer.
“Well, you look like one,” I offered.
Kristen didn’t seem mad that I’d said that, or that he’d kissed our hands. I think because they are so in love, she doesn’t have anything to get jealous of. She didn’t really even look at us. She just lit another cigarette. I tried to smile in a way that would make it so she’d like me, because I really wanted her to, so badly it kind of hurt behind my eyes. I wanted them both to.
“I’m Laurel,” I offered in a squeaky voice.
Kristen’s face stayed blank, but her eyes focused toward me in a way that made me know she was deep-down nice. She said, “Kristen. ‘I’m one of those regular weird people.’”
Tristan explained, “Quote courtesy of Lady Joplin. She’s obsessed.” So then Kristen started talking about you, and I figured out that Kristen really loves you, pretty much as much as she loves Tristan.