The Bad Boys of Summer Anthology(221)

When the message opens, there’s no “Dear Mel,” no “How are you?” Nothing trite or ceremonial, just essential Joss—a few lines and then the lyrics to a song.

I read it over and over again. The Girl from Shangri-La. I sit and stare at the computer screen for hours. I stare until my eyes burn and I can see the sky growing lighter outside. There are no thoughts in my head, just a low hum that accelerates and recedes in time with the pounding of my heart. Finally, something inside of me snaps. I reach out, click delete, and move to the bed, where I close my eyes and dream of Joss like I have every night since he left.



The Girl from Shangri-La is only the beginning of the emails that come from RockStar1. Every second or third day, I open my email to discover a new song along with some small description of what Joss is doing that day.



November 12: Staying with my dad right now. Today we started tearing out one of the walls in his dining room. I convinced him to put in French doors—



November 15: I wrote this one while I was at City Park. There were about a thousand geese there, and one kept trying to bite my foot. Luckily I was wearing boots because the fuckers bite and shit everywhere—



November 20: Talked to Dave today. I’ve decided to sell some of my songs. I don’t know when I’ll perform again, if ever, but I won’t sell The Girl from Shangri-La. That one’s for you alone—



November 23: Had my first real run-in with the paparazzi today. I guess they’ve found out I’m in Denver. Luckily they don’t seem to know where my dad lives, so I haven’t had to leave yet, but it’s just a matter of time. I might have to move to a hotel, which is kind of a bummer. My dad’s a good roommate. We’ve done well together. He’s a pretty chill guy, but he never had an iPod until I bought him one. Hard to imagine, isn’t it?



November 29: I’m hoping you had a good Thanksgiving, sweet Mel. My old man’s got a few “lady friends” (I bet that doesn’t surprise you), and one of them had us over for turkey. I think she really just wanted to introduce me to her daughter who is a very large divorcee with six Pomeranians.

Luckily my dad knew it was coming, so he spent a bunch of time talking about “that gorgeous redhead you had on tour with you.” One of the Pomeranians came in handy when I wanted to get rid of the stuffing I hated. He barfed it all up later, but at least it was him and not me. I realized it was the first Thanksgiving dinner I’ve had at someone’s house since my mom died. The things that strike you out of the blue like that are strange sometimes—



Each email talks more about his life. I keep deleting them, but I read each one, and I never empty the trashcan in my inbox. I’ve hover over that “empty” button a thousands times over the weeks that go by, but I can’t bring myself to press it.

Finally, on December 12th, I open up another email from Joss, and this time, for reasons I will never understand, I don’t hit “delete.” I hit “reply.”



To: RockStar1

From: picsbymel

Yes, I do still like my coffee with almond milk instead of real milk. Someday you’ll find out I’m right about that. You should tell your dad that I saw a photo of that huge neighborhood he’s building where the old airport used to be. I could picture him there, his hard hat on, staring everyone down with the Jamison scowl.

Dave came by the other day to talk to Tammy. I’ve been living here at her place since we got back from California. I’m not sure what Dave told her, but she seemed really happy after he left.



And so it begins. Emails between Joss and me. I don’t know if it’s a good idea or a bad one. I only know that, for the first time in over four months, I feel as if I’m closer to being whole. More than this tragedy that has defined me. More than a robot caring for her sister while her heart bleeds inside her chest. I feel like me again just the tiniest bit, and I’m not willing to give that up, no matter how dangerous Joss is.

Over time, the song lyrics in Joss’s emails fade, and the stories about his life become longer and longer. We talk about our days, about his dad, about my sister, about the silly little things that you notice and think about—a song you loved, a beautiful sunset you watched, the person who was rude to you in line at the grocery store.

We talk, and it isn’t about a future or a past, it’s just about our lives. He’s writing and selling songs, I’m thinking about opening a photography studio. It’s simple, and it’s without expectations or promises. We become friends, something I realize we never really had a chance to be before.

It’s six weeks after I start replying to Joss when I get a letter in the mail from Patterson and Assoc., Attorneys at Law. It’s informing me that Seattle College looks forward to enrolling me for the summer session in an independent study course that will fulfill the requirements for my degree. In August I’ll be granted my MFA. Joss’s lawyer has been working this whole time to get me reinstated and I had no idea.

I sit in the huge kitchen at Tammy’s house, surrounded by marble and stainless steel, staring at the sheet of paper, so relieved that my entire body feels limp. I hadn’t realized how intensely I still cared about this.

Tammy walks in from the garage carrying a suitcase. “What’s happened to you?” she asks. “You look like you’re going to faint.”

I hold out the letter. She scans it and stops on the letterhead.

“These are Lush’s attorneys.”

I nod.

“What are they talking about? You’ve been reinstated? You finished your degree last spring.”

I’m grateful that Tammy’s well again, because now I have to confess to my mistakes. Somehow after everything we’ve been through though, my escapades with Professor Marin don’t seem very significant anymore.

I’m shocked when I tell Tammy the story and she laughs. “Oh my God, Mel. Seriously? You were sleeping with your prof?”

“Yes. What’s so funny about that?”

She shakes her head. “Well, it just goes to show that I didn’t know you nearly as well as I thought I did. To me you were my sweet little sister, this sensitive artist who needed to be sheltered from the world. I guess I just pushed that on you, because you’ve turned out to be so much stronger than me.

“All our lives, I’ve acted like you needed me to take care of you when you were the one who went out in the world and tried things, met people, took on challenges. I’ve never been anything but Walsh Clark’s girlfriend, here in my hometown, since I was fourteen years old. Without that—without him—I have no idea who I am. Meanwhile, you catch the eye of these powerful, sexy men, you try life and love, and when your world comes crashing down on your head, you pick yourself up, assess the damage, and fix shit.”

“I didn’t fix this. Joss did,” I remind her.

“Joss was the weapon you used to fix it, Mel. If you hadn’t told him, hadn’t had him wrapped around your little finger, hadn’t already been in there fighting that dick professor, Joss couldn’t have helped. Don’t ever doubt yourself, Mel. You’re so much more amazing and resourceful than I ever gave you credit for.”

I look at her for a moment and realize she’s got a point. I’m not the little sister anymore. I’ve taken care of her. I’ve survived losing Joss, I’ve held it together, and now I can finish my degree and move on to the life I had planned. I don’t think I’ll be eligible for the Eddie Adams, but really, who cares? I don’t think I need approbation from anyone else anymore. The only person I care about impressing is me.

“Thanks,” I tell Tammy. She starts to walk out of the room. “Tammy?”

“Yeah,” she answers, turning to look at me, her long hair shiny again, her eyes sparkling.

“I’ve been in touch with Joss. We email. For the last couple of months.”

She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Good,” she says concisely. “That’s really good. Tell him I said hi.”

“Okay.”

She smiles and leaves the room. I sit and watch some pigeons out the window eating the breadcrumbs I left for them this morning. Sometimes your world can change on a dime, and sometimes it takes lifetimes, but no matter what, you can bet that it will change.





Chapter Thirty-Nine

Joss



I’ve started feeling restless, and I know that my days of hiding out at my dad’s are numbered. As much as I love writing songs, the urge to perform some is rearing its tenacious head. The question is, what the hell am I going to do about it?

My work with the energy woman is helping me define what I want for the future, and one thing is becoming clear. I don’t think I’m cut out for the life of a rock star. Not the way I was headed with Lush, anyway. I enjoy performing. I like to be able to share the songs in a live venue with the fans, but the big auditorium shows with the constant media and promotions really screw with my psyche.

I want to be able to go to the grocery store without being mobbed. I like to see my audiences’ faces when I sing to them. I like driving the car myself, and I don’t want to worry that I’ll wake up with a naked seventeen-year-old in my bed if I don’t have security outside my door 24/7.