Page 3 of Dirty Chorus

I wipe the edges of my cheeks, smudging the eyeliner I spent a good half hour on. I hate crying over him. I hate how stupid I feel standing out here in a black dress waiting for him to pick me up.

I stroll across the grass, my ankles rolling in the heels I desperately wanted to wear. I climb up the porch steps, my fingers tingling and going numb as I open the front door. When the door slams behind me I’m engulfed in a cloud of cheap Merlot and cinnamon candles.

Mom’s in the kitchen with a glass of wine, dipping her head back as she takes whatever pills she has in that yellow medication bottle of hers.

“I thought you were going out?” she asks with a slur, sipping her wine. Her grey eyes are glossy. “Have you seriously been out there for over an hour?”

I use the wall as an anchor and pull off my heels, throwing them to the floor. “He’s not coming.”

Mom sways a little, clutching the edge of the kitchen counter for balance. “He’s nothing but a pig. I’ve told you that from the start, all he wants is...”

I cut her off. “Don’t!” I snap.

“I can tell just by looking at him.” She places the glass down on the counter with a clumsy clink.

“Then you would've known Dad was nothing but a cheating asshole too.” I throw my purse over my shoulder and toss it to the floor as I use the back of my hand to wipe my tears and stomp off to my room.

Chapter 3

Noah

I’m a just latte-sipping, vegan douchebag.

I tell myself not to forget that every morning while I do my daily affirmations. Well actually, it’s what my old bandmates called me before they kicked me to the curb, regardless of my actual dietary inclinations. But still, it motivates me to be better. In a weird way, I admit.

While driving like a grandma, I sip on my latte, pound a Mcgriddle in three bites, and throw the wrapper in the passenger seat. I practice verses to songs I’ve written, but of course, I keep forgetting the lyrics to the chorus. You would think I learned my lesson to roll up my window while driving or to put my hair up in a beanie, because at the wrong moment, a piece of my hair lodges itself into my mouth, and I inhale it, gagging instead of singing the lyrics.

I forgot when I thought it was a great idea to become Rapunzel, but whatever, I’ve grown my hair out for the past several years, and I don’t plan on cutting it. Ever. I’ve worked hard growing these beautiful locks, but I could work harder in getting this chorus down for our demo.

I ease on the brakes, coming to a halt at a red light, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. I creep forward as cars pull out to make a right turn. The Civic in front of me must think they pulled out a little too far. Cars speed past them, and I’m guessing they’re too nervous to be barely past the white line as their brake lights flash and they start backing up. No biggie, I’m sure they’re just gonna get out of the crosswalk. But they keep coming.

“Hey... Whoa... Stop...” I breathe out the words, as if they can hear me. They're seriously not stopping. Their reversing wheels just gave my armpits a rush of sweat. I start honking the horn, laying on it.

“No! Stop! Stop! Stop!” It was like they were in their little world, singing la-la-la, just backing up, no worries here. Are they blasting music? Clearly, they’re clueless about the persistent honk. I’m inches away. There’s no room for me to back up either when I can’t even see the headlights of the car behind me. I press my lips together and embrace it. The painful jolt and the metal scraping against metal sent my heart to my stomach. They hit me.

“You gotta be shitting me,” I say to myself, and I throw my skull into the headrest.

Two people within the tinted windows of the Civic look frantic. They’re yelling, possibly, because I see hands flailing all around. Their yellow hazards flash as they drive off, and I tailgate them to ensure they don’t speed off into the distance. I’ve seen that occur on countless occasions while death-scrolling reels when insomnia gets the best of me.

The Civic turns and heads into the parking lot of a nearby Walmart. They find a parking space and double-park between the faded white lines. They’re even crooked. Talk about asshole parking. As I place my truck in park, I talk myself off the ledge of being a typical douchebag today, but the temptation is winning. I leap out of the truck, slamming the door shut.

I watch two girls crawl out of the car, arguing with each other. And lo-and-behold, Trouble from the church bathroom carves a hand through her black hair, racing to her bumper where there’s a minuscule dent in the dead center.

Panic is ingrained on her face as she waves her arms up and down at the other girl with her. I round my truck, only to spot a decent-sized scrape that merely chipped away paint. The dent isn’t too noticeable to the naked eye, but it will make me wince every time I see it. I stride back over to them, putting my hands in my trouser pockets. My feet scrape over the loose gravel as I inch closer, overhearing the two bicker with each other.

“Mom’s going to kill me! It’s her car!” Trouble bites her thumbnail, and she says it in a normal tone and not the Beverly Hills dialect that was rather obnoxious the other night.

“I’ll tell her I hit a mailbox,” her friend shrugs.

“Like that’s gonna roll over smoothly with her! Jesus, Payt! You only have your permit!”

They look so similar and I wonder if they are sisters with both of them rocking out lengthy dark hair, but Trouble’s little friend is thinner, with pale skin, big blue eyes, and a light coat of freckles running across the bridge of her nose.

“It’s fine!”

“Shut up, shut up.” Trouble presses a finger to her friend’s lips and takes two steps in front of her as if she were some magical shield that would protect her. She flashes me the biggest grin with the prettiest white teeth. Thank God, she’s not going downtown on a piece of gum because I’m a bit relieved I’m not hearing the persistent smack.

Her face turns beet-red as she meets my gaze. “So, um...” she says and rocks on her heels. “Hi again. Funny seeing you here.”