Pulse

“Ouch.” Ivy complained, lightly touching the skin around the angry pink wound on her palm. It had been twitching ever since she put the alcohol on it about fifteen minutes ago.

She would have gone to sleep on her couch, but whenever she closed her eyes to sleep, a movie of the morning greeted her closed lids. The ugly dimness of his eyes after he gave the fire extinguisher back, the fear she had realized a moment too late, the vague realization of the pain in her hand when her nail bit into it…

She forced her waking dreams to stop there, and instead went on to the aftermath. Daniel had come to save her. Sure, he had done a shitty job, but the fact that he had tried had to count for something, right? And he had followed her home, which was kind of creepy, in all honesty, but sweet, in a way. But instead of staying with her when she had gotten home, he had chosen to instead ignore her and go driving off down the road without a backwards glance in her direction.

Ivy realized, with a start, what was probably wrong. She had been monopolizing his time, that much was certain, but she had thought that he hadn’t minded too awfully much. Or maybe he was just tired of having to help her all the time. Help her get her music back, help her realize it really was good, help her have a good time, help her when her mother was in the hospital, help her when Harold was trying to feel her up…

Ivy sighed. Of course he was tired of her. So she would give him a break.

The next Monday, Ivy didn’t go to school. Instead, she went to her neighbor’s house. He never went to school, instead choosing to play drums in his basement, which always smelled vaguely of pot, due to the previous owners of the house having a stoner daughter…

Ivy sat in his orange beanbag chair, drinking grape juice from a can. He sat on the dark carpet beside her, his drumsticks in his lap. Ivy was oddly content. She knew her mother would scream at her for skipping school, but really, who cared?

Exactly, Ivy thought grimly. Who cares?

Just then, her neighbor, Freddie, got up. Something was buzzing in his pants. Ivy sated at him in shock, and then realized it was his cell phone.

“Yello!” He said loudly, flipping the phone open. He waited a few seconds, and then his face fell. “What the hell, Mitch? You said he would be there!” There was a bit of loud screaming on the other end. Ivy could make out a few words, like “money”, “filthy punk”, and “Echo Star”.

She wondered vaguely what these meant, and what they had to do with one another. “Yeah, well, some friend you are!” Freddie screamed into the phone, and then paused for a second. He shouted once again for good measure, and then threw the phone against the wall.

“What was that about?” Ivy wondered aloud, playing with the pop-top on her canned juice.

“Band issues.” He said, sinking down to the carpet once more. “Hey, give me a drink of your juice.

Ivy handed him the nearly full can. “Band? I didn’t know you’re in a band.”

“Were.” He said grimly, taking a large swig of grape juice. It trickled down his chin, and got the little bit of scruff he had there sticky.

“What happened?” Ivy asked, concerned for Freddie. She took back her juice, which was now less than half full.

“Well, apparently Joey, our guitarist, and his girlfriend, our singer, decided to run off to Vegas to get married.” He muttered angrily. “And we have a concert in three weeks. Mitch just called to tell me that they weren’t planning on coming back. Ever.” He growled the last word.

Then Ivy made a decision that would change her life forever. “Hey, I’m a singer.” She said, before she could stop herself. Stupid she told herself.

But Freddie looked excited. “You are?” he asked, getting up in her face. Their noses were about three inches apart.

“Your breath smells horrible.” Ivy complained, pushing his shoulders to make him go away.

He didn’t seem at all offended. Then again, they had known each other since they were about three. “Are you a singer or are you not?” He was tapping his hand nervously on the side of the beanbag chair.

“Freddie, dah-ling” she said, elongating the first syllable like she was a famous person from the thirties. “Would I ever lie to you?” He smile was brilliant.

He stopped for a moment. “Yes. Yes you would.”