Awkward

Benny woke up on the couch the following morning, delightfully warm and very comfortable. It took her a moment to remember that she had fallen asleep there the night before, allowing the television to eventually lull her into unconsciousness, but the blanket tossed over her curled form was certainly new. ‘Tré,’ she thought to herself in a fond sort of exasperation, turning over and squinting around at her surroundings. The television was off and she was alone in the room. Everything was bright, struck by the sunlight streaming in through the windows and the sliding glass doors.

Humphrey was pitter-pattering around in the foyer. She could hear his nails sliding and scratching across the already worn linoleum, playful barks breaking through only somewhat ominous growls now and then, all muffled by something. A pair of feet joined him, thumping against the floor. There was a laugh, light and feminine, and then the taunting call of “Too slow!”

“Uh…” Still not awake, Benny shook her head to rid herself of the last remnants of sleep bogging her down, and somehow managed to push herself off of the couch. She inched her way toward the door, already uncomfortable with the notion that someone unfamiliar was nearby but too curious to not go and check it out.

It was a girl; a rather young one at that, on the starting end of her teenage years and not someone that Benny instantly recognized (not that she assumed that she would anyway). She was pretty enough, dark hair matching with her eyes and dressed in a simple outfit of jeans and a Quiet Riot t-shirt. She was playing with the dog, tugging on the chewtoy that he had clenched between his teeth and managing to pull it away from him. Every time she did the mutt would lunge forward again and manage to grab it back—she was letting him—and they would find themselves engaged in another game of tug-o-war until she pulled it away again.

It must be nice to be a dog, Benny thought to herself tiredly as she slumped against the doorframe, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The most Humphrey ever had to worry about was when Tré was going to feed him and let him outside, and the occasion that someone would make a bid for one of his chewtoys. It kind of put things in perspective for her, though, that she could actually feel jealous of a four-legged mutt with no opposable thumbs…

“Oh, hey. You’re awake.”

The dog had reclaimed his chewtoy. He barked once at the stranger girl, who was now standing in the middle of the foyer a little awkwardly, and then trotted over to Benny. She knew she had to be imagining it, but Benny could have sworn that his expression was decidedly smug. He nudged at her foot with his snout and whined loudly, as though to say ‘Look, I won!’

“Good for you, Humphrey,” she sighed, patting him once on the head. That was all that was needed, apparently, for the dog whined again and trotted down the hallway toward the kitchen, his tail wagging along behind him happily. “Weirdo.” Unwillingly, she turned her gaze back to the girl. “Um. Hi.”

“Hi.” The girl smiled, apparently not at all fazed by Benny’s shyness. “Sorry if I woke you up. I saw you when we first walked in, but my dad told me not to disturb you… Tré threw one of the dog toys at you, but when you didn’t really respond he said to just leave you alone. But I guess I was being kinda loud, so sorry…”

“S’ok…” Benny shrugged, pushing a few strands of knotted hair out of her face. “Uh…so, like, your dad is friends with Tré, then?”

“Yeah.” For some reason, the girl found this something worth laughing about. “They’re in the basement. We just came by to pick something up, I guess.”

“Oh…er…cool.” Benny didn’t know what else she was supposed to say to this.

“I like your hair.”

“Thanks.” Subconsciously, one hand went up to the twisted locks and wound a few of them between her fingers. “I…like your shirt.”

“Oh, thanks.” The girl looked down at her shirt with a wide smile. “It’s my step-mom’s, actually. I stole it and am holding it hostage until she returns my Madonna shirt.”

“Seems fair.”

From somewhere down the hallway and around a corner a door had just opened, and a pair of masculine voices was echoing down the hall. The door closed, and the muffled thumps of footfalls on the carpeting began to approach. “Stella,” was the call from yet another unfamiliar voice (an occurrence that she was quickly becoming tired of), but the voice itself turned out to be attached to a familiar-looking man. Tré followed after this rather lanky figure, and he appeared only mildly perturbed that his houseguest was awake and standing sleepy-eyed and grumpy in his foyer.

“Mike, Benny. Benny, Mike.” Tré seemed to be giving up on the awkwardness, at least for the moment, and he gestured between them lazily. Mike gave his bandmate something of an amused look, quite a comforting gesture to Benny who had been expecting a little more surprise directed at her, and nodded to Benny thoughtfully.

“Hey,” was all he said, and she was perfectly all right with this. “C’mon, Stella.”

“Okay. Bye, Benny.” The girl smiled at her again, and Benny forced the gesture right back at her.

“Uh…yeah. Good luck with your t-shirt war.”

They left, Humphrey alerted to their abandonment by the opening of the door and nipping after their heels even as Mike quickly snapped the door shut behind them. He whimpered at the door for a few seconds, scratching at the linoleum, until he was sure they weren’t going to return. Only then did he turn his affections to Tré—who immediately shunned him.

“Oh, I get it. You only like me when Stella isn’t around. Ungrateful mutt.”

“Don’t listen to him, Humphrey.” Acting offended for the pair of them, Benny slapped her knee and goaded the dog to her. Collar in hand, two fingers lightly hooked through the top loop, she glared once at Tré and led the dog back into the living room. “He’s so insecure, just ignore him.”

“You wanna be homeless again?” he threatened, though stayed rooted in the foyer.

“Kick me out, and I’m taking the dog with me.”

“Ungrateful mutt.”

Though he was clearly joking, his tone giving away to a slight chortle, Benny was still fairly certain that he wasn’t referring to the dog.

--

This was turning out to be one of those mornings Tré came to realize, once Benny didn’t appear in the kitchen as he made breakfast. (He felt a little offended by this, as he was actually cooking for once – just eggs and bacon, sure, but that was still pretty mind-boggling to him.) He hated those mornings, the ones where she just couldn’t climb out of her ever-deepening hole of misery and so hid away from the world. Where, he had no idea. Once or twice he had found himself completely unable to locate her for hours at a time, only for her to suddenly appear as the morning turned to afternoon, asking when lunch was.

She had an iPod. Tré found that to be pretty hilarious. Here was the girl who owned not a computer nor even a cell phone, yet there it was; a hulking piece of technology that looked big enough to be a phone—Tré had thought it was, when she pulled it out of her pocket for the first time. When he remembered that she didn’t own a phone his attention was caught, and when she produced the little purple-colored headphones that went with it, he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh my god, Benny,” he’d laughed. “That thing’s a tank! Put some wheels on it, you could have driven that from L.A.”

“One, that didn’t even make sense,” she’d sighed. “And two…shut up. It’s not the size of the iPod, it’s the music you have on it…”

Unfortunately, the old thing was rather glitchy, and he bared witness to her frequent mumbles and curses when it didn’t work as it should (which was often). When the backlight wasn’t refusing to work, the issue was usually that it would freeze and stop playing music—she couldn’t even turn it off, and instead had to let it sit until the battery died and she could recharge it. She did so with a dock that could plug into an outlet, and that sometimes didn’t even function correctly.

“Tell me something,” he dared to ask. “How does one who owns not a computer, put music on their iPod?”

“Verily,” she’d responded, rolling her eyes and making him laugh, “that depends on such a roommate as whom lets me use his computer for such things. It was kind of weird, though; we shared the same iTunes program, so we always had the same music. Whenever I added new stuff, he’d also get it the next time he plugged in his iPod, and whenever he added new stuff, I got it. Lucky for me he has good taste in music, I guess. Though I could go without all the Manson.”

She spent as much time as she could with the little purple buds shoved into her ears, the volume on the iPod turned up as much as was possible without it being painful. He found her several times this way, just wandering around the house, lost in the music and not really paying attention to her surroundings. The only way to get her attention was to physically grab her arm or shoulder; always a surprise to her, and he hated that irritated expression she’d then offer up, but it was just the way of it.

She always had her iPod with her when she turned up after one of those mornings. It was a comfort thing, he thought. Maybe that was where she went whenever she wandered off like that. The physical location wasn’t important just so long as she had her music with her. This was, perhaps, the one thing about her that he felt he could completely understand.

This time he got lucky. He found her, though she probably hadn’t meant him to and thought it unlucky that he did. She was in her room, something he discovered by chance because Humphrey kept running up and down the stairs. Her guest room was on the second floor of his house, a place he rarely ventured to unless it was to retrieve items from the storage room or his wandering dog. He thought she probably liked this, as it gave her the privacy that she so often claimed to need.

Chasing the dog down the stairs for what seemed like the tenth time that day, he noticed that her door was slightly ajar and nudged it further so with his foot. She looked up in surprise when he peered around the door frame, but smiled when the dog trotted happily around him and began to lick at her arm.

She sat on the floor, leaning back against the side of her bed and with a guitar—her acoustic—resting in her lap. Shoeless, clad in shorts and a very loose-fitting t-shirt, she looked so very…hippy-like. He refrained from saying it out loud. It was doubtful that she would mind the specific label but he knew that she disliked most of them as a whole, and wouldn’t appreciate even a lighthearted one shoved upon her. Still, it was exceptionally difficult to abstain when he noticed the peace sign inked on her skin, nearly lost amongst a cluster of vines and more colorful flowers that crept up her ankle. She could be so predictable.

“What’s up, mopey?”

She only looked away from the dog she was fondly petting long enough to roll her eyes at him. “Oh come on,” he said. “If I have to put on a phony German accent and drag a leather couch up here I will, but it’ll be a lot easier if you just tell me what’s eating you.”

Sometimes, it really was just that easy. It still managed to surprise him when this happened, but for her sake fought against acting the part.

“I miss playing with my band,” she muttered. When she bowed her head over the guitar, her dreadlocks fell from over her shoulders and thumped lightly against her hand and the headstock of her guitar. She strummed on it quietly, reservedly, the tune she played unfamiliar and mellow.

Though Tré instantly thought it interesting that she still referred to the band as “her” band, even when he knew she was still unsure if she could ever go back to it, he decided not to comment on that. She just looked so sad sitting on the floor of her room like that, bent over her battered acoustic like she was trying to hide it from him. He nodded thoughtfully, hands stuck in his pockets.

“Really? Do you miss them, or is it just…I don’t know, being able to play at all?”

She glanced up at him curiously, her fingers leaving the strings. Her hair stayed as it was, big brown eyes peering out from behind the clumped strands as though they would protect her. “What d’you mean?”

“Well…and I know this all too well, really…it’s different just practicing by yourself, you know? You can do that, and it’s fun and it keeps you from getting rusty, but it’s just not the same. Sometimes I call Mike and Billie over here and we jam together…we don’t have to, especially when we’re on break and don’t have to prepare for any shows anytime soon, but if you’re in the music business for the right reason…” He shrugged. “You do it because you love it. And usually, it’s way more fun to play when you’ve got others to play with you. You can sit on the floor here all you want and strum on your acoustic, but it won’t stop you from missing what it’s like to play your other guitars, and playing them along to drum beats and a bass.”

She thought about this for a moment, eyes cast downward to her lap. She shrugged, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “I miss it,” she admitted, the tone in her voice suggesting that it pained her to do so. “That’s part of it, I guess…I miss them too, though.”

“Why?”

“I dunno…they liked me, maybe?” she mumbled. “Besides Lucille. I mean, you know how I am…it’s a wonder no one’s tried to kill me yet, I’m just that kind of person. But Sicily and Oliver and Zach, they did like me…for whatever reason. Even our manager seemed to like me. Besides like, my family? That doesn’t happen very much with other people.”

“I like you.”

She gave him a strange look, head cocked to the side somewhat and a sad little smile stretching across her lips. “I know,” she said finally. “I won’t pretend like I understand that either, though.”

“Honestly?” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I think more people like you than you probably assume. I don’t know if this is just low self-esteem or whatever, but things are brighter than you think. This is just a really sucky situation with your band, so I can’t blame you for being down in the dumps about it, but…cheer up, okay? Things’ll get better.”

“Easy for you to say. Your friends don’t like me.” She bowed her head again, the smile gone. “And don’t say that they do…they don’t. They think I’m weird and probably a gold-digger, and they think you’re creepy for liking me.”

“Eh…” It was probably best not to lie, he thought; she wouldn’t appreciate it, and would see right through it anyway. “Well…Billie might not…a bit…yeah. But Mike’s a little different…you know, his wife is younger than him. She’s not twenty, sure, but I think that he’s gotten to the point where he’s more willing to judge younger people as just…people, and not by their ages. And Billie…well, he’ll come around, probably.”

“He’s really protective of you…” The smile was back. He was glad for it. “It’s actually kind of sweet…I guess. Is he always like this?”

“God, yes,” Tré chuckled. “The first time I got married, he cornered her right before the ceremony and ‘nicely’ threatened her with the whole don’t-you-ever-hurt-him thing. Then he gave her the birds and the bees talk…that was weird.” He scratched at his scalp for a moment, looking disturbed. If he at all saw that Benny’s expression had suddenly gone a bit stony, he didn’t comment on it. “Doesn’t matter anyway. He’ll get over it,” he said idly.

“Gee, that’s convincing.”

Tré rolled his eyes, stepped further into the room. This felt weird. It was his room, in his house, yet he still felt as though he was an intruder here. It was odd, though…she’d been living here for more than a week already, and it was still nearly bare. The bed was neatly made, and the few belongings she’d brought in from her car—some clothing, barely seen peeking out from behind the ajar closet door, her guitars, a pair of shoes—were carefully set off to the side. Everything was set so that it would be easy to grab it and get out, he noticed. He wondered if she’d meant for it to be that way.

His eyes went back to her. She was regarding him warily, still sitting on the floor with her guitar in her lap. He smiled, and held a hand down to her. “Come on,” he said, managing to sound only a little exasperated.

“Why?” But she took his hand even as she asked, placing her guitar on the bed behind her when she was up on her feet.

“Grab one of those, and come on,” was all he said, pointing to the two battered electric guitars that sat leaning against the wall.

“I have an amp in my car—”

“Don’t need it.” He was already walking out of the room. Though she was confused, her hesitation was minimal; she grabbed her Gibson and scampered out after him. She wasn’t surprised when he led her downstairs—her guest room seemed to be the only room that was ever used on the second floor—but it did surprise her when he led her to a door that she’d never been through before, right down the hallway from the kitchen. Somehow she’d always known that it had to lead to a basement, but she never figured there would be anything down there that would be of interest. But he just kept smiling that irritating smile of his, flipping a light switch at the top step and leading the way down. Instantly, the carpeted stairway was brightly-lit; a little too much so, and she squinted as she descended into the whitewashed area.

“Holy shit…” was all she could think to say when the surprisingly large room finally came into her view. She took the last two steps gingerly, clasping her guitar to her chest as though it was her child. Suddenly, she felt incredibly small. “What is this, your own recording studio or somethin’?”

It was a room that clearly had money put into it—acoustic panels were set strategically into the white-painted brick walls, and the carpeting was crème-colored and very thick. Her feet padded across it lightly. His drum set sat near the far wall, already set up and gleaming in the bright light. Against another wall, held there in their polished wooden stands, were several shiny guitars and a bass. It didn’t surprise him that she automatically went those instruments, eyes wide and her mouth slightly open. She didn’t touch them, she seemed almost afraid of them, but she clearly wanted to.

“Not exactly a recording studio,” he laughed, already settling himself behind his drum set and grabbing a pair of sticks from the tall bucket behind the swiveling seat. “It’s just where Green Day practices sometimes. Used to be at Billie’s place because he had the bigger basement, but he moved last year and while that was going on we brought things here. Dunno if it’ll stay here, but I won’t complain.”

“Is this Gibson Les Paul Billie’s?” She wasn’t even listening to him, instead choosing to hover over the slightly beat-up instrument furthest to the left on the stand.

“Yeah. One of his favorites.”

“It’s beautiful.” She glanced down to her Gibson, the scratched black finishing and the chipped headstock, and couldn’t help but feel inadequate to these instruments. These looked to be the ones that were used just for aimless practice—favorites, sure, but also not entirely looked after or important. And they were still gleaming beauties that she hardly dared to breathe too close to, compared to her guitars. Even the scratched-up, cherry red Gretsch seemed to be laughing at her.

The crash of cymbals behind her made her jump, and there was that laugh again. She glared at him over her shoulder and he looked away, whistling innocently. “Ass,” she said, sighing. “So what did you bring me down here for?” She knew, at least she thought she did, but she wanted him to say it. Already her fingers were starting to itch, and she was fighting not to move toward one of the amps sitting to the side of a small green couch.

“Go ahead and plug in,” he said, and she was walking over before he’d even finished. “Should have everything over there; they never move that stuff or take it with them.”

Everything in this room was so much nicer than she was used to. She fumbled with the cord, and hesitated with the knobs, all the while trying to convince herself to stop being so jittery. In the back of her mind, she just couldn’t get over this—she was using equipment that Green Day used, that was owned by them even, and she hated herself for feeling that way. She didn’t see Tré as “that drummer from Green Day,” she just saw him as… Tré. That he was in this band, that he had money, that he was famous…they were these inconsequential details that she usually just ignored. It was hard to even see his friends as these celebrities that she’d grown up listening to, and yet this was all still way too surreal for her. Just a few weeks ago, she never would have imagined that she would be in this situation, and that was just weird.

“Any requests from the lady?” Trying to appear smooth, he was twirling one of his sticks around in his hand.

“Only that you don’t call me ‘the lady.’”

He led the way, and she followed. She liked this, and honestly preferred it that way. It reminded her of when she practiced with Oliver, who had almost always led when it was just the two of them. It was easier to react to the drum beats and predict the patterns than it was to let someone else try to follow the erratic patterns she usually came up with. Tré didn’t bother starting off slow, either, which she liked even more. He threw himself right into it as though his life depended on it, and for a minute or two she just watched, admiring his technique. Every inch of his body was thrown into every beat, and sometimes he wasn’t even sitting on the swivel chair even though he meant to be; he threw himself around like a rag doll, somehow still managing to not miss the toms or cymbals. It didn’t lose its magic for her, even without the colorful stage lights falling upon him like they had on the tour.

His beat was recognizable. She could follow it in her head, and she knew that she was familiar with the song, but she just couldn’t entirely place it…it didn’t matter, though. It just made it easier for her to place her fingers and a pick to the strings, and truly make it into a song. Without her usual foam plugs in her ears, the sound was instantly deafening—but she liked that, too. Her life had been so quiet since she left the tour, and her band, and she needed a little noise to find its way back. Her eardrums were already starting to ache and she couldn’t have been happier about it.

When she finally did recognize the song, she started to laugh. But by then she was so into it that she couldn’t have stopped if she wanted to. He was throwing himself into the music to an almost frightening degree, fiercely resembling an electric chair victim, and he made it easy for her to let go. By closing her eyes, she could pretend that she was back onstage with her band, there was a crowd right in front of her, a few onlookers to the side and partially hidden by the curtains…

She jumped up on the couch, pretending it was an oversized speaker, enjoying the way the overstuffed cushions leant a spring to her step. She bounced around easily, freely, her hair flying and whipping about her and sometimes hitting her shoulders, making her skin sting—it was a good kind of hurt, a familiar one, and it was a feeling she was pleased to reclaim again.

One of his sticks broke. She heard it, a sharp crack against the rim of one of his drum toms, and opened her eyes just in time to see one of the pieces bounce off one of the backing cushions to the couch. His drumming stopped, and she followed suit with reluctance.

“Well, shit…” His laughs came out as fractured giggles instead, ragged and out of breath, and he tossed the other stick over his shoulder and stood up. “Sorry about that. My drumsticks always seemed to like you.”

“Can you blame them?” She tossed her pick away, deeming it now useless, and pushed her unruly hair away from her reddened face. She was breathing quickly, her chest rising up and down and her fingers shaking, and she couldn’t keep her infectious smile away from her lips. “I’m kind of hot stuff, don’t know if you realized it or not.”

“So modest, too.” He swooped down and grabbed the drumstick fragment from the floor, where it had fallen. When he stood up again, puffing his chest out and making sure he was standing at his full height, he grinned up at her. For once, she was a little taller than him—but not by much. Still, it was decidedly odd to have to look down at him. She decided to take advantage of this, and reached out her free hand so she could ruffle his hair.

“Hey…” he complained, pretending to scowl and raking his fingers through his unruly fauxhawk-like hairstyle. “Not cool. Do you know how long it takes me to get it like this every morning?”

“Terribly sorry,” she giggled. She was suddenly very conscious of how close he was standing to her. Tiny beads of sweat were formed on his forehead and above his lip, and even through his scowl she could see the corners of his lip twitching, struggling to not start a smile that would take the rest of his lips with them. The room was rather cold, but she could feel the heat from his body reaching her, she could smell him…it was an instinctive reaction, her knees were starting to shake and she was leaning down, her dreadlocks falling upon his shoulders and his face going into shadow, blue eyes locked on her brown ones.

But it wasn’t meant to be. She’d barely even felt his lips on hers before they jerked apart, an unintentional interloper’s voice ringing out from the top of the stairs in mixed aggravation and amazement:

“Oh hell no, that was not Lady Gaga I was just hearing down there!”

“Fuck you, she’s a spiffy broad!” Tré barked right back, tearing himself away from the couch and stomping across the room toward the stairs.

“My old cat sounded better when she yowled, Tré. For god’s sake, develop some taste.”

“Fuck you, Billie!”

“Got a condom?”

Tre paused, one foot on the bottom step. He looked to the girl calmly, nodded once. “Excuse me for a moment, Benny.” And he was gone, tearing up the stairs like he was being chased and his voice echoing up to the first floor, “Jesus Christ on a hamburger bun, I’mma keel you.”

“Okay…” Benny felt herself sliding down the backing cushion. Her knees hit the softness of the couch and she sighed, throwing her guitar’s strap over her shoulder and setting the instrument on the floor gently. Everything was cooling down again; there was no more music, no more Tré but for a few thumps and some yelling up on the first floor. The original coldness of the room struck at her almost all at once, assuring her that it wasn’t just her impending panic attack that was making her lungs seize up. Her pale legs were covered in goosebumps, and she rubbed at them with calloused fingers.

“I need to stop doing this,” she mumbled into her knees, even as simultaneously she wondered what “this” was. She didn’t like this, she decided. She didn’t like that a man could make her knees feel weak, make her feel weak. Vulnerable, even. No, she didn’t like that at all. It was probably just the thrill of it all; that few moments of interest and excitement before the prospect of sex, and she was used to that. But doing this over and over again with the same person, feeling it that much more…it was a little too monogamous for her, even if she was taking liberties with the definition.

“Ooh, god,” she mumbled, letting her forehead rest against her bare knees. “I’m fucking losin’ my mind here, ain’t I?”