Another Miserable Love Song Read online

  Another

  Miserable

  Love Song

  Brooke Carter

  Orca soundings

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2016 Brooke Carter

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Carter, Brooke, 1977–, author

  Another miserable love song / Brooke Carter.

  (Orca soundings)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-1312-0 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1313-7 (pdf).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1314-4 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca soundings

  PS8605.A77777A66 2016 jC813'.6 C2016-900456-2

  C2016-900457-0

  First published in the United States, 2016

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016931880

  Summary: In this high-interest novel for teen readers, Kallie tries to get over her father’s death and help her band at the same time.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover image by Getty Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  www.orcabook.com

  19 18 17 16 • 4 3 2 1

  For Robert, and for my girls. Stay loud.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter One

  One good thing about watching a matinee alone on a Thursday afternoon is there’s no one around to see you bawl your eyes out. The Outsiders always got me—especially the part where Patrick Swayze’s character lets down his guard and shows some love for Ponyboy—but this time I was a mess. Maybe it was because it was my eighteenth birthday (which should have been a bonus, seeing as I waited an eternity to say goodbye to seventeen). Or maybe it was because my dad had promised to be there and wasn’t. Death has a funny way of preventing you from keeping your promises. Dad used to say, Kallie, not even death could keep me from our Swayze-fest. I guess that’s another thing death does. It makes liars of us all.

  The Outsiders being my all-time favorite book-slash-movie, every year on my birthday my dad and I would visit the run-down Dolphin Cinema on Hastings Street for the dollar-matinee showing. Until this year, when he decided to die.

  Scratch that—I shouldn’t have said that. Jeremiah Echo would never have chosen to die, and certainly not before we got to see our favorite greaser gang come of age one last time. If he’d known he’d die before seeing Ponyboy bleach his hair or Two-Bit start the day with chocolate cake and beer, well, I’m sure Dad would have arranged a final viewing, no horrible death puns intended. Pancreatic cancer is one swift downer. By the time Dad found out that the dull pain in his side was a super deadly tumor, it was too late. He was gone two weeks later, and I began spending a lot of time in dark movie houses.

  Dad had been my best friend. Hanging out with him had been like being with an older, cooler version of myself. It’s a little cheesy to say that about your own dad, I know, but Echo Senior was special like that. And seeing as my mom was a deadbeat or maybe not of this earth anymore, and my extended family consisted entirely of distant cousins back in Greece, well, I was on my own.

  It was going to be a long walk in the blazing early-July sunlight, and as usual I was ill equipped in the fashion department. I was not meant for a hot climate—not that Vancouver was particularly tropical or anything, but it was muggy as hell in the summer, and I didn’t do shorts. Or sundresses. I had some curvy thighs, and I did not want them rubbing together and getting all sweaty or sticking to a janky old bus seat.

  I stood in the sunshine and tried to will myself to enjoy the heat, to be one of those gross people who feels energized by the sun instead of cooked by it, but it wasn’t happening.

  I took out my dad’s ancient iPod and started walking. On the playlist? The sad-sad-birthday-after-your-daddies-and-you-are-suddenly-homeless playlist? A downbeat mix of Radiohead, Smashing Pumpkins, Nirvana (because my dad loved them the most), Portishead and a little Chopin thrown in for the died-way-too-young factor.

  I walked down the side street at a good clip, wanting to get to the main road and the bus stop as soon as possible. It wasn’t the worst place in the city to be, but it definitely wasn’t the best. When I spotted the old blue van trailing me, suddenly I wished I was one of those kids whose parents had bought them a cell phone. If you don’t have a cell phone, you might as well be marooned on a desert island or stranded on the moon. When you’re a teen girl alone with a suspicious vehicle following you, being stuck on the moon sounds like a really good option.

  The van sped up until it was right alongside me. My heart skipped a beat, and I could feel my pulse bubbling in my throat. I did not want to look, because I felt like if I did, I would be making something happen.

  “Hey, hot stuff,” a voice said, and I was just about to break into a run when the voice said, “Hey, Kallie, like my new ride? Kallie? Didn’t you see me waiting for you?”

  I stopped and turned, and relief flooded my body like a warm flush. It was Jamie, my friend, and right then absolutely my most favorite person on the planet. She stopped the van.

  “Jamie, Jesus!” I said. I walked over to her.

  “Well, okay then,” she said, leaning her long arm out the window and tipping her imaginary cap at me. “I’ll be your lord and savior if you like, little missy.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What are you doing here? And where did you get this…thing?”

  I took a look at the beast Jamie was driving. It was absolutely enormous—calling it a beast was an understatement. It was long, blue, wide, rusted and vibrating with an intense rumble that made it seem like it was going to fall apart at any second, explode or take off into the stratosphere. Maybe all three.

  “This, sweet lady,” Jamie said with pride, “is your ride home. And my new tour van. So I wouldn’t go insulting it too much. Old Blue here has a sensitive disposition. And”—she lowered her voice—“I’m worried it might quit on me if it hears you.”

  “Dude,” I said. “This thing is not Christine, right? It’s not going to hunt us down and kill us, is it?”

  Jamie smiled—the same amazing, wide smile that had charmed me into being friends with her a few years back. The first time I met Jamie was when she came to my door looking for donations for the junior football team. I knew who she was because I had heard about this girl who went through hell just to get on the football team, and then there she was at my door, looking for cash. She had come to the wrong place. I guess the guys on the team had given her the crappy ’hood to canvass while they took Plum Hill and Tower Heights. Coming to Northside was not a good strategy.

  I opened the door and there she was, giving me a world-class smile. It was a true-blue, weak-knee genuine dazzler. It wasn’t fake or put on or practiced. It was sincere, the kind of smile you can feel in your chest. The kind that makes you grin back in a stupor. It was a wide smile too, full of teeth, and her eyes were all crinkled up. It fe
lt like that smile was meant just for me. It felt like that smile was saying I was beautiful, that she was happy to see me, that she liked me, really liked me a lot. Jamie’s smile was the warmest I had ever felt, and it came on a day when I was not feeling so good about myself. That smile was a surprise for a girl who never got surprised, and I have loved Jamie for that ever since.

  And, in true Jamie style, she had shown up again just when I needed her. This time in her big blue boat of a van.

  “Hey,” I said. “Were you waiting for me the whole time?”

  She shrugged. “Nah. I mean, I figured you’d need a ride after your yearly movie, right? Anyway, can’t let you walk home alone around here. And I wanted to show off my new wheels.”

  “Cool. You could have come to the movie too,” I said, but as soon as I had, I knew it wasn’t really true.

  Jamie, to her credit, just nodded. “It’s all good,” she said. “You going to get in or what?”

  I looked at the van. “I don’t know. Maybe I should take my chances on the street.”

  Jamie revved the engine. “Be careful what you wish for, Kallie.” She smiled that infectious smile again, and I felt it lift me up inside.

  “Thanks,” I said and walked around the front of the van. I opened the passenger door, and the weight of it swinging open nearly knocked me over.

  “Jesus,” I muttered, hopping in and buckling the ancient seat belt.

  “That’s me,” said Jamie. “Your own personal Jesus.”

  She pressed on the gas and we lurched forward, tires squealing, and sped off.

  On the ride back to my neighborhood, Jamie kept quiet and turned on the radio. She tuned it to a classic-rock station, and the sounds of the music my dad loved so much filled the van as we drove. The windows were rolled down, and the wind stirred up my hair and cooled me off. I relaxed into the cracked leather seat and let my hand float on the breeze. Jamie didn’t say a word the whole time, and she gave no indication that she saw me crying. That’s just something you don’t find in a person all that often. That was my Jamie. One of a kind.

  Chapter Two

  Jamie waited outside in the beast while I ran into my soon-to-be-ex-home to change. I opened the door and found once again, as I had every single day since Dad died, that the house was too quiet. All I had left of him were his old records and a collection of little notes we called “echoes”—and believe me, we relished how clever we were for coming up with that.

  I loved our little house. It was only 650 square feet—super tiny—and perfectly square. Dad had painted it this vivid cobalt blue, and it stood out like a gleaming little gem in a sea of tan and brown suburban homes. Our area of Vancouver wasn’t the newest, or the best, but it was a safe enough place, and it had its charm. Our landlady, Mrs. Brahni, had been kind enough to let me stay for a couple of months rent free, but at the end of the summer I would either have to come up with enough dough for rent or get out.

  While I couldn’t bear the thought of losing my home, right now I felt like I couldn’t get out and away fast enough. I rushed into the bathroom to freshen up. Walking in the sun had left me feeling a little swampy, and I needed to splash my face with some water. When I reached for a towel, I noticed a slip of paper nestled in the basket of silly soaps my dad kept on the top of the toilet tank. They were shaped like robots and cars and sunglasses and had horrible scents like leather and ocean floor. I grabbed the paper and unfolded it. On it was printed a single word:

  LIVE

  I flipped it over and saw two more words:

  LIVE LOUD

  An echo from Dad? My heart pounded out an aching tune in my chest, and while I was grateful for that tiny piece of him, part of me wished I hadn’t found the note. What did he mean?

  I pondered it as I ran out to the waiting van and hopped in.

  Jamie lived with her bandmates in an old converted convenience store at the edge of town. Most of the houses around there had fallen into disrepair and were either crack houses or were literally crumbling to the ground.

  I felt welcome at her place, and Jamie’s bandmates were also my friends. The band was pretty good. They called themselves Fractured, and they played a fast mix of punk and straight-head rock. Some of it was a little too pseudo California punk for my taste, but I would never have said that to Jamie. I’d never want to hurt her feelings.

  Cindi Broken was the lead singer. She was completely gorgeous and the main object of Jamie’s affection. I didn’t like the way she treated Jamie sometimes, like Jamie was an annoyance to her.

  Elaine Lee, known as LeeLee, played bass. She’d once had a withering crush on me when we were a bit younger and was the wildest and most totally carefree and rebellious person I had ever met. She was my hero that way. LeeLee did not give one single fuck. One day I hoped to care as little about what people thought of me as LeeLee did about what they thought of her.

  Then there was Dolly Dillon. Boy-crazy guitar virtuoso. Dolly looked like a punk Barbie. She was also one of the smartest people I had ever met, and she had a wicked sense of humor. We would play chess together late at night when everyone else was crashed out. I worried about her a little bit. She had a tendency to dumb herself down for whatever boy she liked.

  Anjaly “Jelly” Gill filled out Fractured’s sound on keyboards. Jelly was a plus-sized super-goth. She was also a very dark and kind of depressive person. Out of all our friends, I felt she’d had it the worst. Her mom was always drunk and screaming at her. Jelly was definitely the Johnny Cade of our gang.

  Last was Jamie. Jamie Foster, drummer. She was the band’s anchor. She kept everyone in time, which was hard to do sometimes because Dolly was always trying to speed things up. Jamie with the fantastic smile and the patient nature of a saint. Jamie who was the single best thing remaining in my life—a life that was falling apart faster than I could comprehend.

  It really hadn’t occurred to me that Jamie might have planned a little something for my birthday. Which was pretty stupid, seeing as Jamie is one of the most thoughtful people ever. But when we pulled up, I spotted a few acquaintances milling about with slicked-back hair and rolled-up jeans—’50s greaser getup.

  “Hey, Jamie—” I began, but she cut me off as she parked.

  “Kallie, it’s your birthday,” she said. “We are having a party. Deal with it.”

  “Yeah, but what’s with the outfits? Couldn’t you have hipped me to that?”

  “And spoil the big surprise? Never!” Jamie grinned, popped out of the driver’s seat and raced around the beast to open my door for me.

  “My lady,” she said, bowing dramatically. “Your soiree awaits.”

  I sighed. “Fine. But I am so not having a good time.” I pouted in mock protest.

  “We’ll see,” said Jamie with a mischievous grin.

  I couldn’t help but grin back.

  I walked into the store to a chorus of “Happy birthday!” and “Hey, Kallie” and a few whoops and whistles. Someone called out, “Hey, Misery!” and a few people cheered. At the store, only my closest friends called me Kallie. The rest called me Misery Girl, a nickname I’d earned after stage-diving to Fractured’s popular song “Misery” at an all-ages show a year ago.

  I looked around and saw that someone had put a plaid tablecloth over the old sagging couch in the main room and had gotten several helium balloons with muscle cars printed on them.

  “Mustangs and madras, huh?” I said to Jamie.

  “That’s not all,” she said and nodded at a table laden with cheap beer, bottles of Cherry Coke and a lopsided chocolate cake.

  “Thank you,” I said, and I meant it. I knew how lucky I was to have friends like these.

  “Wait,” I said, noting Jamie’s bland outfit. “Who are you supposed to be?”

  She whipped off her shirt so that she was just wearing jeans and a white undershirt, then mussed up her hair.

  “I’m Dallas Winston. You know, when he’s all sleepy after getting into a fight, and Ponyboy and Johnny co
me to him for help?” She grinned.

  “Nice,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I know he’s supposed to be bare-chested, but, uh, I can’t rock that look just now.” She swallowed and looked uncomfortable for a moment.

  “I can see it,” I said and tousled her hair. “You know that’s my favorite part. Dally looks the sexiest then.”

  Jamie smiled shyly at me. “I’ll be your Dallas Winston anytime, babe. If you’ll be my Cherry,” she added lasciviously.

  I swatted her. “Watch your mouth, Dallas Winston. I’m too pure for you.”

  We both laughed and made our way to the table to grab drinks.

  “Cheers, Cherry,” said Jamie. “Happy birthday.”

  “Cheers,” I said and took a long drink of my Coke.

  The party was getting going, and people were dancing and trying to approximate some kind of demented punk-rock sock hop.

  “You know what this party needs?” I asked.

  “What?” asked Jamie.

  “Some real rock. Why isn’t Fractured playing?”

  Jamie’s expression soured.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” said Jamie. “Don’t worry about it now. It’s your party, and I want to have fun.”

  “Okay,” I said, but judging from Jamie’s expression and reluctance to talk, I assumed it was pretty bad. I hoped everything was okay with the band.

  Jamie cleared her throat. “Um, there was a gift we wanted to give you, Kallie, but we can’t because Cindi isn’t here.”

  Ah yes, Cindi, always absent and perpetually unreliable. Cindi arrived late to nearly every gig Fractured had. I suspected she was the source of Jamie’s troubled mood.

  “Yeah,” said LeeLee. “We were going to sing you a song we wrote called ‘Stay Gold,’ but we can’t because Cindi quit the band.”

  “What?” I almost spit my drink all over LeeLee.

  Jelly nodded. “It’s basically the worst thing that’s ever happened,” she said.

  “Well, not the worst, Jelly,” said Dolly quietly, and Jelly looked at me apologetically. I did just lose my dad, after all.