Mama Killed A Man

“So,” John said, spinning around in his swivel chair. “What’s Daddy Hurley planning for tonight?”

I skimmed through the last few pages of an X-Factor comic before throwing it aside. It was the one where Layla Miller followed one of Jamie Madrox’s duplicates into a time machine and landed in a dystopian future. I’d read it at least four times and each time I marvelled at how much better the spin-off was than its original, X-Men. John was the only person I’d met so far in my lifetime that thought the same, and as soon as this was revealed, I forced him to bring his entire comic book collection up to his Mum’s house for examination. And, after lugging a box of two hundred and thirty six comic books up Gatsby, he wasn’t too pleased to find that I’d already read around a hundred and eighty of them.

John frowned at the growing “already read” pile while I explained that Daddy Hurley was on his way to LA.

“Brookie,” I spat the name, “has to do some record-y stuff up there in autumn, so he’s gone to meet with people.”

John laughed at the sour expression scrunching at my face and wheeled himself over to me.

“It’s called fall, and I don’t get why you hate her so much,” he smiled, “She can be kinda alright sometimes.”

I quirked a brow, “And how would you know?”

John shrugged, turning away. I grabbed the arm of his chair and roughly pulled him back towards me. “I-I may have bought a single once?” he stammered.

His mouth made a little involuntary twitch.

“Liar,” I accused.

John sighed, “Fine, maybe it was an album. But really, how bad can she be?”

“I’m not talking about her music, John. She calls me Berlin. As in the wall that fell.”

“I’m shit at history so that means absolutely nothing to me,” he replied, folding his arms across his chest. “But you do seem to fall over a lot.”

I rolled my eyes. “She’s just a bitch. Every time I wanna do something with my Dad, she drags him off to the studio with some lame excuse,” I flung another comic dramatically onto the pile.

“Look, Amber, it makes sense that you don’t like her,” John said, putting his feet up on my lap. I frowned and pushed them off. “But she’s just one of your Dad’s clients. After the album’s finished she’ll be completely out of your life, so there’s really no need to be jealous.”

“Jealous?” I seethed, “I’m not jealous!”

“Sure.”

“John, I’m not. This is more than a little rivalry.” I growled, running a hasty hand through my hair as I struggled for words, “I can’t explain it, and I know I can’t put my finger on one particular instance, but she’s just not nice.”

John put his feet back on my lap and smirked at my glowering face, “You’re too cute when you’re angry.”

I huffed, jumping up off the bed. Quickly, he reached out and caught my arm, jerking me towards him. The back of my foot stubbed against a wheel on his chair and I fell backwards into his lap. I heard the sharp intake of breath as my elbow made contact with his chest and the uneven distribution of our combined weight upset the chair, tipping us both onto the floor.

“John!” I groaned, pushing myself off him.

“See, you do fall down a lot,” I smacked him in the stomach. “Hey, settle down,” he laughed, poking my bum with his toe as I gathered myself off the floor.

Settling myself back on his bed, I snatched another comic and opened it to a random page, holding it right in front of my face.

“Aw, are you pissed at me now?” I gritted my teeth at the blatant smirk in his voice.

“Well,” I said sharply, peering at him over the spine, “Celeste’s taking me to a party tonight and I was gonna invite you but now I don’t think I will. Does that answer your question?” It was terribly childish, but so was he.

He got up and dumped himself next to me, seizing the comic from my grasp. “Well, it’s a good thing I wouldn’t have been able to come anyway.”

“What?”

“I have plans.”

I cocked a brow sceptically, “What plans could you have?”

He shrugged, smirk growing, “Just plans.”

When Celeste was twelve, she slipped on the side of the pool and cut open her head. She told me about how when the blood ran across the cement and washed into the pool, all the water in the Jacuzzi turned green. As she recounted this story to the paramedics, one of them told her it was because of the chlorine. He also told her that they’d have to shave her head so that they could give her stitches. Even though she was horrified at the time, a few months later she realised that it was the best thing that could’ve happened to her hair. After you shave your head, she told me, your hair grows back twice as nice, which was how she got away with using ninety-nine cent shampoo from the gas station. Celeste told me all this as she weaved my comparatively stringy hair into a neat French braid.

“So, you’re friend knows we gotta be outta here by seven, right?” she said, leaning around me and checking her make up in the mirror. “The place is kinda far away and you know Friday night traffic.”

“He can’t come,” I said smoothly, trying to sound offhand.

Celeste stopped examining her eyelashes and paused with her hand on a powder puff, “You don’t sound alright with that,” she said suspiciously, “what happened?”

I told her.

“I was frustrated and annoyed and I took it out on him, and now I don’t know if he really couldn’t come, or if he just said he couldn’t because he wanted to wind me up.” I huffed.

“What was his excuse again?”

“He didn’t have a real one,” I said begrudgingly. “He just said he had plans.”

“So, he probably does,” she replied simply.

“But why wouldn’t he tell me?”

“Uh, because you’re not his mother.” Celeste raised a perfectly arched brow, “Why do you even care so much?”

“I don’t know,” I felt my neck grow warm.

Celeste laughed and it sounded like the tinkling of crystal wine glasses, “Well, if he was trying to wind you up, mission accomplished.”

The party, Celeste explained as I searched the room for my phone, was more of a backyard gig with booze than a party party. There would be a few high school bands from around Tempe and so I was to expect a lot of people there. Which was why she wouldn’t let me leave the house wearing thongs, or flip-flops as she hastily corrected.

“It’s too hot to wear shoes,” I grumbled.

“And you’re too hot to get your toes chopped off,” she replied curtly, tossing my vans at me.

I sighed, grabbing a pair of socks from a drawer and tugging them on, “So what kinda bands will there be?”

“Mostly pop-rock, you know, fun stuff,” she said, shrugging on a loose vest over her baby-doll tee. “You into that?”

I nodded, “Yeah, I’m into all the rock sub-genres.”

“Good, or else I’d be reconsidering our friendship. Oh,” her eyes lit up as she got up off the couch and dug between the cushions, “I found your phone. I felt it vibrating against my butt.”

I thanked her and took the phone before checking my messages.

Don’t be mad :( I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, promise.

“Aw, see, he’s sorry,” Celeste cooed as I stuffed my phone in my pocket and exited the room.

“This is my friend Brian’s house,” Celeste said as we pulled up to a blue-gray, one storey weatherboard unit. “He organizes a lot of these things.”

I nodded as I dismounted the Jeep and silently followed her up the driveway. The air was alive with the buzz of talk, enthused by the smell of fresh grass and beer and the sound of check, check through a crunchy amplifier. And, as we weaved our way through the mass of teenagers squashed into the living room, I realised that Brian wasn’t Celeste’s only friend at the gig.

Choruses of “Hey Celeste,” filtered from every mouth we passed and my eyes widened in wander as my mind tried to absorb all the new and fascinating faces. Celeste took one look at my expression, which probably boarder lined between intimidation and awe, and linked her arm through mine reassuringly.

“Look at all your potential friends,” she said into my ear with a smile. I grinned back and let her tug me down a hall and out into the backyard.

The backyard was massive, and not just in comparison to the house. A low stage was set up in the centre at the back, made up of sturdy, black, rectangular boxes, all set up with a drum kit, as well as some microphones and amplifiers. A boy wearing a bright yellow t-shirt and black board shorts was tapping at the centre microphone and yelling to another boy with dark amber hair who was crouched down at the amplifiers.

“See carrot-top over there?” Celeste said. “That one’s Brian. And the other guy is his cousin, Keith.” I nodded and added their names to the long list that was forming in my brain.

“Brian, and Keith,” I mumbled under my breath.

Celeste giggled, “Don’t worry about remembering all those names Amber,” she smiled, patting my cheek. “Half those kids in there will be off their faces in an hour and won’t remember you tomorrow, so use that to your advantage.”

I smiled nervously and opened my mouth to tell her that with the enormous fuss they all made over my accent, I doubted that would be the case, but a tall lanky frame was stepping up onto the stage and I focused in on him, taking in his light green eyes and birds nest hair as a lump formed in my chest.

My jaw clenched as I gritted my teeth and Celeste gave me a small shake, “Amber, are you alright?”

“See that kid getting up on stage?” I said, jerking my chin in his direction.

“Yeah, he’s cute,” she said, giving him a once over, “But I don’t think I know him.”

“That’s John.”

Her smile fell, “Oh.”