The song fades out and she whispers, “That time it was Anne singing, right?”
Walt points at her. “You got it. They’re speaking to you, aren’t they?”
“I love it. I completely understand what she’s feeling.”
I laugh and scoot closer to her so I can read the lyrics.
“You’re listening to the tick of the clock?” I ask. “You’re waiting to touch some guy’s lips?”
She laughs and yanks the tape insert from me, wipes away a tear with the back of her hand. Blue smears on her cheek. She looks at her hand, sees what she’s done. Shakes her head and laughs harder. The bells on her headband chime.
“No,” she says. “But that emotion? I’m going to feel that for someone, someday.”
“Add it to the list?”
“Oh, no,” she says. “Matters of the heart don’t go on the list. Strictly professions.”
She stands up.
“I love Heart,” she says to everyone in the basement. “Heart is my new favorite girl band. Meg, we should go soon.”
Meg nods without looking up, and Alexa walks outside to tell Bev we’re leaving. Through the screen door, I can see them. The guy stands and grabs Bev’s arm, pulls her up. She stands fine, but he puts his hands on her h*ps as if to steady her anyway. I cough away the knot in my throat.
“Pair of aces!” Meg says, slamming her cards down on the table. The other players sigh, and she hums a victory song as she finds her bag and clicks her bass guitar case shut.
Alexa’s back now and we start saying our good-byes, Heart, epic in the background, like a sound track to our leaving.
I grab a stray extension cord, help Alexa with the last parts of her drum kit. We head to the door.
“Go conquer the world, kid,” Walt says.
I turn to face him and laugh.
“Okay,” I say, but Walt doesn’t smile.
“I’m not joking,” he says.
The tape ends with a click, leaving the room suddenly quiet. Walt keeps looking at me, tired but insistent, and it feels like everyone here is waiting for us to resolve something.
I nod, and say, “Okay” again. I look straight at him when I say it, and for a moment I try to believe that the world is something conquerable. Like I could wake up tomorrow morning, and know what I want to do, and do it. Like the anger and defeat could just lift away. Like Bev could change her mind.
The two guys at the card table with Walt start gathering the cards and shuffling, ready to start a new game. I scan the basement for the last time: tape peels off the floor, the stage area is empty again. Is this what our trip will be like? A long series of endings? Walt nods at me and then turns to his new hand. PBR brushes a strand of hair off the forehead of the passed-out girl. There’s so much tenderness in the gesture that I have to look away. When I look again, PBR lifts his hand to wave good-bye. I lift mine back.
We walk into the hot room at the Bianchi Motel and Bev heads straight for the windows. She unlocks and pushes them open, one after the next, with breathtaking efficiency. Even though I am wrecked and exhausted and angry, I could still watch her open windows all night. But there are only four, and then she is finished.
A breeze comes and we all exhale, drop our bags on the worn magenta carpet, survey our options: two twin beds with brown comforters, a mustard yellow couch, the floor. Off to one side, a narrow doorway leads to a small, white kitchen. I’m probably supposed to be chivalrous and take the carpet, but I don’t want to be chivalrous. So I don’t say anything. If they want to claim the beds and the couch, I’ll go sleep outside.
Bev lets her bag slide off her shoulder onto the couch.
“I’ll take this,” she says.
“Meg kicks in her sleep,” Alexa says. “And those beds are really small.”
She looks at me, concerned.
“I’ll just sleep in the bus,” I say, a brief fantasy flashing across my mind of waking up at 2:00 A.M. and driving home by myself.
But then Alexa discovers a sliding door on one side of the room with a tiny balcony.
“Perfect,” she says, and lays down her sleeping bag. “I can’t sleep when it’s too hot. And listen. It’s so quiet.”
She smiles at me. It’s supposed to be a casual smile, but I can tell it’s a pity smile, so I look away.
“Okay, good, but there is no way we’re going to sleep yet,” Meg says. “The night is young, and we are free forever. Not you, Lex. You’re just free for a couple months.”
Alexa shrugs. “I like high school.”
“I have plans for us,” Meg says, which is not entirely surprising. Meg is always coming up with plans. She’s the one who, in the middle of a party when everyone is content with their mild boredom, will stand up and declare it time for a game of competitive improv, or pass out copies of song lyrics so we can have a spontaneous sing-along.
She crosses the room, pulls the knit hat she wore all winter out of her duffel. Next comes a stack of paper, cut into thin strips. After that, perfectly sharpened pencils. We sit on the floor—Bev, leaning against the couch; Alexa, cross-legged, under the open windows. I lean against what has become my bed while Meg distributes the paper and pencils and explains the rules.
“So this is how it works. Everyone writes down three questions, one for every person here not counting yourself. Write the person’s name and a question that you really want to ask them. It’s kind of like Truth or Dare, but without the daring, and better, because the questions are anonymous.”