Vegas Boys

Brendon came to the front door at about noon the next day to take me to band practice with him. I hadn't eaten lunch yet, and he, being a seventeen-year-old boy, was constantly hungry no matter how much he ate, so we stopped for burgers at a White Castle on the way.

We were driving out to Spencer's grandma's house, because, apparently, none of the band member's parents would let them practice at home, and they couldn't afford to rent their own practice space yet. It was a twenty-minute drive, and we passed the time singing along loudly and obnoxiously to the radio, making it our prime goal to earn as many strange looks from other motorists through our ridiculous headbanging/moshing. Neither of us thought twice about Brendon eating a hamburger, singing, dancing wildly, and driving at the same time. But, luckily, we made it to Spencer's grandma's house in one piece, laughing all the way.

And we were still laughing when we got out of the car and hurried up to Spencer's grandma's front door. Unsurprisingly, Spencer opened the door to let us in and was immediately shaking his head at us. "It's nice to see you two enjoying yourselves, for a change," he said sarcastically, closing the door behind us as we stepped inside. "Do you ever stop laughing?"

"Not when we've got your funny face to laugh at!" exclaimed Brendon, promptly cracking up at his own lame joke as he clapped Spencer on the back. Spencer glared and shrugged him off as he sauntered out of the room.

The first room looked to be some sort of parlor, but the adjacent one Spencer led us into was much less formal. The floor was covered in a plain, rather ugly green carpet, which matched the dusty curtains flanking the enormous window on the left. Brent was lounging in an atrocious brown armchair that looked hairy somehow, and Ryan sat before the old piano in the corner, hesitantly picking out "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" on the worn keys.

"Wow, Ryan, you are such a talented musician," I told him sarcastically.

"Yeah, that's what they tell me," he replied in a monotone, never once pausing. "I can also play 'Bah, Bah, Black Sheep' and the ABC song."

"...Which all just happen to be the same song."

"The lyrics are completely different!" he argued.

"Yeah, well they're all annoying as hell, how about that?" said Brendon. He kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the nearby couch, pulling me down into his lap with him.

"Mabel enjoys them," Ryan defended himself indignantly.

Brendon snorted.

"Mabel's my grandma," hissed Spencer behind his hand, for my benefit, and I nodded in understanding as I struggled not to laugh.

"When are we going to actually start practicing?" asked Brent bluntly.

"As soon as Ryan stops playing kiddie songs and Brendon gets his lazy ass off the couch," answered Spencer as he made his way over to the drum kit that was set up in front of the window.

Ryan obediantly stopped playing and walked over to pick his guitar up off the floor as Brent got up and reached for his bass as well. Beneath me, Brendon pulled me closer, so that I was basically laying up against his chest, and groaned.

"C'mon, lead vocalist," urged Spencer irritably.

"I've got an idea: how about instrumental Panic! at the Disco?"

"How about you get your lazy ass up and sing," said Spencer; it was an order, not a question.

"I don't wanna," Brendon whined, holding my body in a vice grip against his, as if that might somehow justify his unwillingness to move. "I can just sing from over here."

"Get up and sing, or Ryan will play 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star' instead," said Ryan.

Brendon laughed. "If I get up, will Ryan stop referring to himself in the third person?"

"Yeah, I'll make him stop," Ryan agreed seriously.

"Okay, good, because that's kind of scary," said Brendon. Placing both hands on my waist, he started to shift me off of his lap onto the couch, saying, "Sorry, Kels, but apparently it's impossible to sing sitting down."

"That's okay," I laughed, sliding into the warm spot he left behind as he got up to stand before the microphone.

-----

"Your mom called while you were gone," Dad informed me bluntly as soon as I had shut the front door behind me.

My broad smile--the one leftover from Brendon's last kiss goodbye--faded almost instantaneously. He couldn't have waited a few minutes before telling me? He had to ruin my good day right away? "Okay," I sighed, trudging upstairs to go call my mother back.

Band practice had been amazing, of course, so maybe calling Mom was neccessary--maybe it was just God's way of keeping the universe balanced. Still, I sat listlessly on the edge of my bed and stared at my phone for a good five minutes before I could finally bring myself to pick it up and dial the familiar number.

It really was sad how much the thought of my own mother just made me cringe inside; and things had only gotten worse between us since my arrival in Vegas.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mom. Dad said you called...?"

"Oh, hi, honey!" As she recognized my voice, her own voice immediately took on a phoney, sugary-sweet tone. "How are you?"

"Um, I'm okay, I guess." I tried not to sound so uncomfortable. "How about you?"

"Oh, we're fine," she said dismissively. "How's school?"

"Well, it's school, so...pretty good, considering."

She laughed way too much for such a reluctant joke. "Well, that's good. I'm very glad to hear that."

"Yeah." I didn't know what else to say.

"...So!" she began, with that burst of new enthusiasm she always employed when changing the subject. "Christmas is coming up."

"...Uh-huh," I agreed, even though it wasn't even December yet.

"What do you want Santa to get you?" she asked brightly.

I cringed inwardly at the mention of "Santa"--I thought we'd already agreed to put a stop to that long ago. "Oh, I don't know...money, I guess."

"Money? That's boring."

"I'm a boring person, Mom," I told her, and my dull tone supported that claim so well that I almost laughed out loud at the irony.

She did laugh. "Oh, honey, no, you're not. Your father says you're quite popular in Vegas already."

I rolled my eyes, wondering if Dad had blatantly lied to appease her, or if he actually believed that. "No, not really."

"Mmmhmm, sure," she laughed. Then she stopped, and the empty space left over from the silence felt heavy and grave, and somehow, I could sense what was coming next. "And who's this boy I've been hearing about?"

"Oh..." I tried to sound off-handedly confused--like it wasn't important and I couldn't be bothered to be too sure about it. "Who--Brendon?"

"Is that his name?" She was no longer amused; there was a cold, stern undertone to her falsely cheerful voice.

"I guess, if that's who you're talking about." I could feel my anger rising; in my opinion, she was the reason I'd pushed Brendon away for so long, and I resented her deeply for this.

"Well, who is he?"

"I don't know." I was trying too hard to sound casual, I decided--my voice was shaking anyway, and I just ended up sounding nervous and scared. "He lives next door. We walk to school together."

"And he's in a band?" she pressed me.

I shut my eyes tight and gritted my teeth, mentally cursing Dad and his overly-helpful abundance of information. "Just with a couple of his friends. You know, for fun."

"Mmmhmm," she murmured suspiciously. "And how old is he?"

"Seventeen."

"A junior?" she quizzed me.

"Senior."

"...But you're a junior," said Mom, sounding confused--as if it were physically impossible for two people in different grades of high school to have any sort of relationship.

"I know," I said, and the agitation in my voice was plain.

She was quiet for a long time. Oh, God, here it comes, I thought despairingly to myself.

"And you're dating?" she asked finally.

"Yes," I confirmed uneasily.

"How long has this been going on?"

She didn't ask how long we'd been dating, she asked how long had "this been going on"--as if what we were doing was obscene and shameful. As if I had been committing some sort of crime, rather than spending time with the one person in my life who actually seemed to care about me.

"I don't know, Mom," I said irritably. "What does it matter?!"

"Well, I just want to know--"

"Why?! Why do you want to know?!"

"Because I want you to be happy, Kelsey!" she cried, half-hysterical.

"Well, I am happy! No thanks to you," I added grudgingly. But before she could get started again, I went on: "He makes me happy. And I'm really glad I got past all those lies you told me all my life and let him in, because he's probably the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Another long, chilly silence in which I could almost feel my mother's unvoiced anger lingered between us for several minutes. Then she said quietly, "That's what you think. But you're young, Kelsey--you're so young, and you haven't learned yet... Men aren't like us. They don't think and feel like we do. They lie and pretend, and you believe them, and then eventually they'll break your heart and you'll realize that they were just fooling you all along."

"No," I half-shouted, feeling tears of anger springing up in my eyes. "I'm not listening to your bullshit any more." I paused, waiting for her to yell at me for my profanity, but she didn't, so I just went on. "For months, Brendon tried to get to know me, and I wouldn't let him, because I was scared--"

"You don't have to be scared," Mom interrupted quickly, realizing her mistake. "You just have to realize--"

"Let me finish!" I shrieked. This had been a long time coming. "I wouldn't let him in, and then when I did, I realized that all those months I spent fighting him were wasted. He truly cares about me, and I don't know what I'd do without him. And I don't care what you say: he's not using me, and he won't hurt me. He's not like Dad, Mom--and I'm not like you."

I knew without seeing her face or hearing her voice that my words had cut her deep. They had found the heart of the conflict, and they had left it gutted and hollow of any effective argument or defense.

"Well, I guess I can't convince you otherwise, then, can I?" said Mom softly. "But I never meant to hurt you, or make you resent me. I just know how Vegas boys are and I wanted to protect you from that."

"Vegas boys," I thought bitterly. As if they were a breed. As if Dad and Brendon could ever be compared by any stretch of the imagination; as if they should be expected to think and feel and act the same way.

"So when he hurts you and you're blindsided and you have no one left to turn to, don't come running back to me. Because I've been there before, and I've tried to warn you, but you won't listen."

"No," I agreed proudly. "I won't."

She let out a soft little humorless laugh of despair. "Just be careful, honey. Sooner or later, he'll be through with you, and he'll go and leave you. You're going to get hurt."

"No, I'm not, Mom. Brendon's not going anywhere, and I won't get hurt."

Famous last words.