A/N: Hey, everyone! This chapter is a bit longer than my usual for a good reason. Happy reading!
Need a playlist for your reading? Check out the Anarchy Road Playlist on Spotify!157Please respect copyright.PENANAowKbRr3w0o
Chapter 21— Fuck Jenny Tyler
157Please respect copyright.PENANA3WWRjOAPDz
The cool paint dribbled down my fingers, staining a mixture of blues, yellows, and blacks onto my skin. I looked like some sort of twisted, rebellious rainbow that my mother would be mortified over. But it was the least of my concerns. The cool Massachusetts air breezed over my shoulder, pushing back my curls and rippling through my green Homecoming dress. I shook the can harder, reaching deep for the last dregs of lemon yellow paint I could get. My thighs ached from the long crouching, but I knew the product of my labors would be worth the pain. I’d taken the tail end of the truck while Rodrick had dibs on the doors and the hood. Just a few more splotches of paint and my doodle of Pac-Man eating an anarchy symbol would be complete. I stood back, snickering proudly at my masterpiece. For ten minutes we’d been hard at work, perfectly detailing Kurt’s truck in washable spray paint. I could only imagine the look on his face when he’d wake in the morning and see.
“Jenny, come over here,” Rodrick grunted from the other side.
I abandoned my doodle to crawl over to Rodrick’s side of the truck. As soon as it came into view, I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing loud enough for any neighbors to hear. Written in large inky black letters were the very familiar words “Löded Diper” along with a drawing of a skull.
“Oh my gosh,” I cackled, a delighted grin taking up my face. “That’s amazing.”
Rodrick snickered and extended his index and pinkie finger into a ‘rock on’ sign. “That’s rock and roll.”
“That’s rock and roll.”
Our time at Kurt Klein’s place was short-lived. Not long after, a light flickered on inside the house and we were forced to retreat back to the van in a furious rush. Throwing the cans in the back of the van, we raced inside and drove off in a crazed escape. I could hardly contain the fireworks of excitement igniting in my veins. I hadn’t felt this alive in months—maybe even years. At least not since I was on a stage playing my own songs. I didn’t want it to end.
I faced Rodrick as he started the engine and ripped out of the neighborhood. “That was amazing.”
“I know,” he huffed, amazed and half-dazed, “That was the coolest thing I’ve ever done.”
I grinned, a devilish idea coming to mind. “Really?”
His smirk hinted at a bit of sheepishness amidst the excitement. I watched out the window as the quiet, sleepy neighborhood passed into the rearview window and the neon glow of downtown came into view. I began to think that, despite all the tours and stadium-playing, maybe this was also the coolest thing I’d ever done.
“Hey,” I said, “where’s the closest 7/11?”
“Like five minutes away. Why?”
“I’m feeling a little thirsty.”
157Please respect copyright.PENANAiJ9di9PLw5
**********
157Please respect copyright.PENANAA3eJSiFcQ8
The van came to a rough halt in the near-empty gas station parking lot of a quiet 7/11. The only light came from the chemical, electric glow of the neon ‘OPEN’ sign in the glass window. Rodrick sighed and leaned back in his seat, shutting off the rock music coming from the radio.
“And we’re here, why?”
I shifted in my seat and grabbed my bag, digging for my wallet. “Lend me fifteen bucks.”
“What?”
“C’mon, Rodrick. Trust me.”
He squinted at me, trying to read my face but soon coming to nothing. “Fine.” He dug in his glove box and console before pulling enough dollar bills together to make fourteen bucks.
“Good enough.” I jumped out of the van, a smirk painting my lips. “Wait here. I’ll be back.”
I heard Rodrick calling after me as I ran off towards the convenience store. The little bell dinged as I entered. The place was nearly empty save a tired-looking teenage boy running the cigarette counter. The aisles of snacks and candy were deserted. The only sound came from an old television at the counter that played a crackly rerun of a “Friends” episode. The one where Rachel and Chandler fight over the cheesecake. Deep in the bowels of the store, the hum of the freezers droned on. I cast a glance at the 7/11 employee and made my way to the alcohol section. I loved my best friend Valerie for many things but mostly for how shockingly rebellious and badass she was. Two years ago, Valerie had gifted me a pack of guitar picks with my initials on them as well as a crisp, laminated fake I.D. My only real use for it had been buying cigarettes at late-night gas stations like this one. Valerie was usually the one to buy the beer. However, desperate times call for desperate measures.
I browsed the racks of wine coolers, beers, and hard ciders before landing on a cheap six-pack of flavored hard seltzers. One look at them and was reminded of all the nights we spent in Freddy’s basement getting buzzed on wine coolers and attempting to play Mozart on the ukulele. I smiled at the memory and grabbed the pack from the fridge.
When I dropped the pack of cans on the front counter, the teen jumped at the sound and turned around, his eyes dark and tired. He latched his eyes onto my dress and stared. I tried to think whether I’d seen him at school, but I didn’t recognize him. Good.
“And a pack of Marlboros.” I smiled sweetly at him. “Please.”
The boy stared back with near-glazed-over eyes and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the shelves behind him. He scanned both items and said in a groan-like voice, “I.D.?”
I pulled out the fake I.D. from my wallet and handed it over, only a tiny thumping in my chest. He took a few seconds to look back and forth between me and the picture, his lip lazily hanging out. Finally, he handed it back. And grunted, “$21.64.”
I laid down the cash and shoved the cigarettes into my pocket. “Thanks.” I latched a hand around the six-pack and pushed through the doors, the little bell dinging as I left.
Rodrick was shocked at the goodies I’d returned with, demanding to know how I got it.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Did you have to bride someone?”
“No.”
“Did you steal it?”
“No.”
“But—”
I interrupted with the crack of the lid, the carbonation escaping and hissing. I took a gulp from the can and let the strong alcoholic watermelon taste fill my mouth.
Rodrick gawked at me, his lips parted and his eyes wide. He probably thought I’d gone insane. This wasn’t at all Jenny Tyler. Jenny Tyler was expected to be home by now, probably studying for a quiz or organizing her Polaroid collection or some shit. But I’d made a promise earlier that night. A promise I was determined to keep. Fuck Jenny Tyler.
“Try it. Or are you too scared?” I jabbed.
Rodrick frowned and replied with his evil, baiting smile. He didn’t wait a second longer before cracking open a can of black cherry flavor and taking a long sip.
“Wow,” he said, pulling away from the hard seltzer, “That’s sweet.”
“You like it?”
His eyes twinkled in response. “Yeah.”
157Please respect copyright.PENANAXcCvq7uFuP
About an hour later, we were sitting on the floor of his van’s empty trunk with the egg-painted door slid out and our feet kicking the pavement. The back of his van was littered with empty, crushed seltzer cans. And early into my third can, I was feeling great. Better than great. Fantastic. Like I could walk on a cloud. Beside me, Rodrick tilted up his can and drank the very last of it before crushing it and tossing it into the trunk behind him.
“You remember the first time I caught you smoking behind the cafeteria?” He said, looking out into space.
“Caught me?”
“You looked different—dressed different than you do now. After that, it was like you completely changed what you looked like. I thought it was ‘cus of me.”
I narrowed my eyes at him and leaned over. “What made you think that?”
Rodrick shrugged. “First, I thought maybe you saw how awesome I pulled off the look and you just gave up…But then, I was worried you just didn’t want to be seen around me.”
I was speechless for a few moments, taking in all the emotions infused with the tipsiness ebbing its way in. He thought that I didn’t want to be seen around him? It wasn’t exactly a far stretch. I’d kept my distance for a while. But not because…
“It’s not that.”
Rodrick peered over, curious. “Then what?”
I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. “I can’t explain it.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
I took another sip of the sweet seltzer and shook him off. “It’s complicated. Stupidly complicated.”
Rodrick’s cool demeanor shifted, and he turned his body towards me, prying further. “I can understand complicated. Usually. You can tell me.”
I locked eyes with him and, for a moment, considered it. Maybe Rodrick would understand. Did I trust him enough to not run off and blab to the entire school? Did I trust him to not draw hoards of paparazzi to my front door? And if I did tell him, would he ever look at me the same way again?
I released a sigh and made up an excuse. “I wanted to look like Angie. After I met her, I figured if I dressed like her, maybe I’d fly under the radar and no one would mess with me.”
It was clear to me that Rodrick wasn’t fully convinced, but he lowered his eyes, accepting that I’d say nothing more on the subject. “That sucks. I kinda liked how you looked. It was pretty hot.”
There came the feelings again. The nervous fluttery ones I got whenever he looked at me like that. The same ones from the van and from the nurse’s office. The same ones that made me want to press his fingertips against my skin and run my hands through his tousled dark hair. And this time, I saw it reflected back in him. His body leaned closer to me. And as he did, his warmness and the smell of Axe and Red Hots washed over me.
“Um,” he mumbled, “My house isn’t far from here. I can show you where the band practices. If you want…”
I nodded without a second thought, sure that if I opened my mouth, I’d say something I’d regret.
Rodrick barely smiled, and we both piled into the front again. Rodrick started the car. The drive to Rodrick’s house felt like an eternity. My nerves were in bundles, and the tipsiness from all the seltzers wasn’t helping my racing heartbeat. I pressed my palms into my knees and stared holes through the floorboard of the van. Everything seemed like a fast-moving blur now. All around me, houses and trees passed by in the cold night. But I felt like, inside this van, we were untouchable. Rodrick pulled the van into the empty driveway.
“My family’s at a dinner party tonight. Just a few neighborhoods down.”
“Oh.”
Rodrick opened the door to the garage and flicked on the yellow light that brightened the space. It was an open yet cozy space with wooden walls and curtains over the windows. Several mic stands were set up and cords were strung about the carpeted floor. But, the real prize was the amateur drum set set up in the corner, underneath a white sheet banner painted with “Löded Diper”. Even the bass drum had “Löded Diper” written in Sharpie on the face. Posted around the walls were many homemade fliers that advertised Löded Diper gigs and music releases. Rodrick stepped around the space, arms out wide.
“This is where the rocking happens,” he declared proudly.
I feigned a look of amazement, soaking up the full image of the cruddy garage. It was two steps away from looking like Freddy’s basement. Rodrick reached over his drum set, crashing into the cymbal, and retrieved his drum sticks. He twirled them around his fingers skillfully—the same way he twirled pencils around his fingers (whenever I could catch him with a pencil). However, one slipped out of his grasp and tumbled to the floor. Rodrick lunged to catch it. I chuckled. When he was back upright, I took another look around and spotted a sweet, ocean-blue electric bass. An Ernie Ball, to be exact. I drifted over to where it sat on a stand and ran my hand along its silver keys. Rodrick watched me admire the instrument. I was quick to pipe up and say, “Is this a Stingray? These things are crazy expensive.”
“Yeah, Chris saved up money last summer to get a pretty good used bass for our gigs.”
I knelt down to the instrument and ran my fingers across the glossy, shiny blue surface. Ernie Balls were Trevor’s favorite. He’d love to see a Stingray like this one.
“Jenny,” Rodrick said, pulling me away from my thoughts, “I didn’t think you played any instruments.”
I debated a response. Would it be too risky to tell the truth? Or at least a half-truth?
“I used to play guitar. Just for fun. When I was younger.”
“What? That’s so cool. I’ve always wanted to learn to play. Chris tried teaching me a long time ago, but he’s a terrible teacher.”
Of course Ferret-Face is a terrible teacher. I bet he’s a terrible guitarist, too.
I stood back up, a hand still clung to the electric bass. “I could teach you if you want. I still remember a couple of songs.”
Rodrick suddenly ducked his face down and blushed, his cheeks flushing warmly. “Cool. Um, Ben keeps a spare guitar upstairs.”
I smiled a little, unsure of what to do with myself. “Okay.”
Rodrick led me out of the garage and further into the house. Rodrick’s mom obviously had a lot of love and care for both her home and her family. The neat, comfy living room was decorated with photos of her family—many with Rodrick, Greg, and another child I hadn’t seen before. Overall, it was a predictable suburban family house. But the further we got towards the staircase, the more I saw traces of Rodrick’s existence. The occasional dirty shirt and old sneakers strewn around. The same kind of decorating that Trevor and Freddy were prone to. Rodrick had become uncharacteristically fidgety, constantly pulling his left hand into a fist and releasing it. He blinked a lot more often and glanced away whenever he caught me watching him. The stairs led up to a second level of bedrooms, but Rodrick continued to a second staircase all the way at the end that led up to what looked like an attic. Only, it was a bedroom. Rodrick’s bedroom.
My eyes scanned the room as if I was looking into an aquarium at the zoo. It was Rodrick’s cave—his nest. I’d almost mistaken it for a garage sale. The dark room was dimly lit in colorful lamplight along with the glow from red chili pepper lights strung on the walls. It was cluttered with parts of a drum kit, lounge chairs, and amps. In the corner was a large speaker and a pile of punk rock CDs. What first caught my eye was the countless amount of posters tacked onto every wall surface—Guns N’ Roses, The Ramones, The Offspring, My Chemical Romance. All the bands I grew up listening to and aspiring to be. He seemed to have all of them cataloged right there on his walls. In the middle of the room, beside his blue lava lamp nightstand, was a bed, messy and cluttered with blankets, that overlooked the backyard through the attic windows. I imagined I would smell the stench of teenage body odor or perhaps week-old food. But, instead, the room was perfumed with fabric freshener and cinnamon chewing gum. And maybe the occasional musk of a cigarette.
“Sorry it’s not clean. Don’t usually have people over,” Rodrick said, quickly throwing a pile of dirty shirts and jeans into his closet. His movements were rushed and more conscientious than his usual arrogant swagger. Something was different. He was acting different. He ushered for me to sit, and I did, slipping my heels off onto the floor in the process. Rodrick scurried over to the corner of his room where he fumbled with getting a guitar out of its case. At the very sight of the guitar, my heart began to beat faster. The reality of my situation was setting in. The cloudiness in my head parted for a brief moment, and I began to hear a song, slow and sweet. One that I had heard before but couldn’t remember exactly where from. It echoed in my brain like some lost memory newly recovered.
Rodrick seated himself in front of me, the guitar laying awkwardly in his lap. “Why didn’t you tell me you played guitar? You knew I was in a band.”
I blinked back, my head fuzzy and my thoughts scattered. “I…” I searched for the words, searched for some sort of answer. But, there were no more excuses left. No more white lies I could tell to save my ass. Nothing.
“Put your fingers on the strings,” I said, more of a command than anything else. The song hummed on inside my head, growing louder and louder.
Rodrick hesitated, unsure of the right spots for his fingers. He propped the electric guitar up against his chest, leaned his head around, and made a scattered pattern on the fretboard.
“Like that?” he asked.
The sweet music came to a great crescendo in my head. It had to come out. I couldn’t take the sounds bouncing around in my head any longer.
“No, like this,” I said, taking ahold of his fingers and moving them to the correct chord. At a single touch, my heart leaped out of my chest. His touch…It was everything I’d imagined. Warm, soft skin. The perfect fit for my fingers. Only this was much better. This was real.
Rodrick froze at the touch, his eyes locked onto our hands. I could hear his breath shrink back. Or was I just imagining it?
“Strum.” It came out barely a whisper on my lips.
And when Rodrick brushed his hand down the strings on the other end of the guitar, a lovely, muffled chord sounded. The same chord I’d heard bouncing around in my head. My face softened as the fog began to clear. I was instantly brought back to a different time, a different place. A moment like none other. The moment I first heard a Fleetwood Mac song. A moment that would change my life forever. The same magical energy blew through me once more, and as Rodrick continued to strum, I softly sang the words that came to me.
"Something in the way she moves attracts me like no other lover…"
I could feel Rodrick’s eyes locked hard onto me, but I remained aimed in on the guitar, guiding his fingers across the strings in perfect harmony. His touch was so soft, and I felt content to sit that way for years.
"Something in the way she woos me…"
I thought of all the things I’d worried about for this night—disappointing Rodrick, doing the wrong thing, taking the wrong step. But none of it mattered. None of it had ever mattered. Because if he was a loser, I was a loser, too. We could laugh and smoke cigarettes behind buildings for all eternity and I’d be alright with that. Just so long as he was there with me.
"I don’t wanna leave her now, you know I believe and how…"
Why had I been so worried? Why had I kept trying to make us so different when we were so much one and the same?
"Something in her smile she knows that I don’t need no other lover, something in her style that shows me…"
I could feel Rodrick so close to me, and all I wanted was to breathe him in. But, there were his fingers. The same skillful, olive-skinned hands that I’d imagined so many times wrapped around mine. Then, it had seemed like only a far-away dream. Now, here he was so close.
"I don’t wanna leave her now, you know I believe and how…"
Our quiet song died off into total silence as the last chord rang out. My fingers rested gently atop his. If I pulled away, it would be the end of it all. We stayed this way for several long seconds, the only sound left being our breaths and the night crickets chirping beyond the window.
I looked up, finally meeting Rodrick’s gaze. His dark, dazzled eyes penetrated so deeply into mine and relayed a longing I’d seen in him before. His body was leaned in close to mine, our faces only a foot away from one another’s. His lips parted, wanting to say something but too captivated to let any words pass. I smiled softly at him and grazed my thumb gently across his hand.
And before I could take another breath, Rodrick knitted his fingers into mine, leaned over the guitar, and kissed me.
The initial shock blurred out so much of my thoughts. But the kickstart of my heart quickly brought me back to myself. His lips were so gentle, so soft. He kissed me like one sharing a deep secret to another—so cautious and yet so trusting. His fingers held mine tightly, and my eyes fluttered to a close. His taste—like Red Hots and dark cherry seltzer that barely teased my tongue.
Just as I was beginning to beg for more, he pulled away. I swung back, completely disoriented and intoxicated by his taste. He looked back at me with just a hint of fear and a whole lot of waiting in his eyes. Like I was supposed to reply or something. I opened my mouth to say something. Anything. But it was hopeless. I was doomed.
ns 172.70.130.129da2