“Claire. Zach is a snotty eleven-year-old who probably spends more time staring at your boobs than your workbooks. I think you’d both survive a Friday night without him snickering every time you tell him you’re going to dick-tate his spelling words.”
“Okay, first, ew.” I shiver for effect. “Two, I need the money now more than ever. I have no idea what I am doing once summer ends, and I can’t afford to cancel these sessions. Zach’s parents pay me a fortune.”
“That’s because their kid is FOUL,” Chloe emphasizes.
“And THREE,” I say, mimicking her volume. “I always stay after and get some writing done. It’s nice to change up the scenery.”
“Listen, Claire, I get it. But can you promise me you’ll at least think about leaving the house one of these weekends?" She looks my outfit up and down. "In something you can’t also wear to mow the lawn?”
I follow her trail, looking down at my ripped, loose-fitting jeans, and faded Jefferson tank top I ordered from the Spirit Wear sale my first year. Okay, she has a point there. But I like my Friday nights. I like that after suffering through thirty minutes with Zach, who really is pretty foul, I get an envelope of cash and the rest of the night with just me, my thoughts, and a vending machine full of snacks.
I look at the clock again - 7:11 pm.
“Okay, I have to go. My session starts at seven-thirty.”
“Fine. I’ll get out of here. But think about what I said. And maybe grab a sweatshirt. That tank top is doing nothing to ward off preteen eyes.” She wiggles her eyebrows as she throws her balled-up trash toward the garbage can. She misses of course and saunters out the door.
I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder. I add my laptop charger to it, and because now Chloe has me feeling self-conscious, I throw a hoodie in too. Just in case.
13
Jamison
River’s Rum is packed. Sunday through Thursday it’s usually just a handful of locals blowing off steam after work, but every Friday and Saturday they host live music and half-price car bombs. Unfortunately for me, Ronan’s favorite metal cover band, which he met through the pizza business, is playing tonight and despite his denial, he is Irish through and through. So, here we are.
I’m nursing my second whiskey and water when the band hits the stage signaling it’s 9 pm. Most of the crowd flooding the front bar makes its way to the cheap stage in the back of the small dining area. When there's a band, River’s clears the few tables they have for eating so there’s room for people to gather in front of the stage. Tonight it’s pretty full of loyal fans.
The lead singer announces the band -Rage Against the SUPREME. It never gets old, especially because I get to remind Ronan every time we hear it, that I had to explain the significance to him the first time they met.
“I don’t get it,” Ronan said above the noise at the first concert they invited him to.
“Like the pizza Ro…Supreme.” He nodded slightly but I knew he was still clueless. They were halfway into the second song when he turned to me, screaming over the sound.
“Jay! Like the toppings!”
Like I said, not Italian in the slightest.
The crowd cheers as the band members mess around, tuning their instruments. Ronan taps my shoulder.
“I’m taking a leak and then heading to the stage. I assume you’re staying back here?” He knows me too well.
I raise my drink in answer. He rolls his eyes as he turns away. Ro is like a brother but in most ways, we are nothing alike. He has been through some shit, but he's resilient as hell. An outsider would probably assume that’s because he got adopted at fifteen, after being in foster care for just a few months, where I bounced around from shithole to shithole until I aged out of the system. An outsider just may be right.
I watch him walk towards the bathroom where I see Sean now sits at a high-top, embarrassingly close to a punk-rock redhead who is, unbeknownst to him, very clearly uninterested. From the stage, the guitarist starts with the intro to Led Zeppelin'sStairway to Heaven.
I scan the bar. Luckily most of its inhabitants fled towards the band, so I grab an empty stool and set down my drink. The few people that are left hold light conversations with the friends they’re sitting with. The bartender, a pale woman with jet-black hair and an eyebrow piercing, wipes the counter from the previous rush.
Across from me sits an older couple, probably in their fifties, holding hands in a comfortable silence just listening to the music. She looks around, people watching, swaying to the beat. He sits, one hand on hers, the other on the back of her chair, singing along. It makes me wonder. How do some people end up like that and others end up covered in blood and their own vomit, half in the bag and half in the ground? I throw back what’s left of my drink in one large gulp.
Next to me stands a tall skinny dude in a basketball jersey leaning over the stool on his other side. From his body language, I assume he is whispering into the ear of its occupant. His body shifts, and I notice the hand holding his drink tighten around the bottle. The voice of his neighbor grows louder, and I now know it’s a woman. Larry Bird over here slams his beer on thecounter and pulls her stool so it’s all but on top of his, zero to one hundred. The woman’s nervous yelp is all I need to hear to confirm my suspicions. I grab this loser’s shoulder and snap him around so he’s now facing me. His beer flies from his hand and lands in a crash on the floor.
“Bro! What the hell?” he yells.
I snatch the collar of his douchey jersey and pull him so we meet, chest to chest. Speaking in a fierce, low tone, I look him dead in the eye, my face so close to his that the tips of our noses all but touch.
“If I see you so much as look at her wrong, or any other woman for that matter, I will palm your head like a basketball and dribble it down this bar. Got it…bro?”
Before he can respond, we’re interrupted by Ronan who caught the whole thing on his way out of the bathroom. Bear-hugging me from behind, he pulls me backward. Reluctantly, I release the now-stretched collar of Basketball-Guy, who huffs, adjusting his jersey. I back up just enough to ease the tension between us.
