After Nicky kicked ass and after we were back at my house, I put on some records and climbed up to the roof. After, of course, Nicky grabbed some Popsicles, Poptarts, and peanut butter crackers.
"This is immensely terrifying when you're straight," he said, talking about the height and being sober for the moment.
I shrugged.
Earlier, when Nicky said 'Have you...' and just dropped the conversation, I was curious only a little. But now, it was practically eating me alive. And it seemed important, too.
When the packet of Poptarts was gone, Nicky reached inside the pocket of his jacket. "I'll be right back," he then said and began to climb back into my room.
"No you won't," I say, grabbing on to his hair. I'm not stupid, I know that he reached inside his pocket to see if he had any drugs. "Can't you just be normal for one night?"
"But I'll get sick," he whines.
"Just don't think about it," I suggest, still holding on to his hair.
Nicky seems annoyed. "It doesn't work like that, Charlie," he sighed.
"Whatever," I said back. "You've never even tried it."
"Psh, to hell I haven't!" he exclaims. "Let go of my fuckin' hair."
"No."
"Dammit, Charlie, let go!" he nearly yells, now angry.
"Please don't," I beg. "Just... Um, tell me what you wanted to tell me earlier." I've been trying to get him to stop with drugs for as long as I can remember. So far my efforts have been fruitless for the most part.
Nicky's glare falters for a minute, and he looks really confused. Then he remembers what we were talking about and goes back to glaring at me. "Let me go for a minute–just one minute. Only sixty seconds–and I'll come back and tell you," he says smartly.
I raise an eyebrow. "What is it?"
He's standing on the windowsill, probably terrified, while he clutches the roof and I clutch his hair. I bet if he weren't so pissed he'd most likely be sobbing because of the height. He makes a big point of not looking down. I can see the anguish in his eyes, but I don't let it get to me. "Paper," he says slowly, practically fuming in the silent sort of way he fumes, "all I need is a piece f paper. Can I please go and get the goddamn paper!?" He had said all of that with deadly calm until the last two words, which he yelled.
And at that, without any warning, I let go of his hair. In shock, he slipped and for a moment was only hanging on with his fingers. When he regained his footing, before going inside, he turned to look at me.
Before he was able to slow his heart rate down enough for a glare, he was as pale as a ghost and his eyes looked like they would if he would've done everything Marky gave him and if it was all really strong and very real.
And then he slid inside and returned moments later with a sheet of paper.
He ripped the paper into the size and shape a cigarette would have if it were unrolled.
From there, he went to work. "Want one?" he asked.
All I had to do was look at him.
He put up his hands in surrender and went back to rolling.
He laid down and I followed likewise, looking at the clouds, which were tinged a lightish pinky-orange from the setting sun that could hardly be seen above the tips of the trees lining the horizon.
"Okay," he said, blowing out smoke a he did so, "so earlier..."
I looked at him. He was staring fixedly at a cloud, though I could tell his mind was somewhere else, and he was looking way beyond the cloud.
"Have you ever been bowling?" he asked after quite a long moment of silence. I begin to answer with a duh! because he and I have gone on many occasions. "With, uh, with S-Steven, I mean?"
I consider the question. Come to think of it... "No, I don't think so." Weird.
"Oh, okay." Though he sounds kind of relieved.
"Why?" Is this really what he wanted to say, or is he just high? Matter of fact, I feel a little dizzy. I hope he finishes that nasty thing soon.
"Just wonderin' is all," he replies.
I don't say anything back. Actually, neither one of us says much of anything. But when you're with your best friend you don't have to say anything. You can just sit (or in this case lay) with them for hours and stare at the sky, while the music of Cream and the Beatles drifts through your open window.
The night was quiet, other than the rustling breeze in the budding branches. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky anymore. A beautiful night of early spring, to say the least.
But all good things must come to an end.
I'm not sure what time it was, but Surrealistic Pillow had just ended and Nicky sat up slowly. I had my eyes closed. I wouldn't even had noticed he sat up except for the fact that our shoulders were touching and the roof creaked a bit.
He flinched at the noise and I bit back a smirk. Nicky is absolutely terrified of heights.
I sat up too. "I gotta head home," Nicky said tiredly. "My mom said to be back by lunch."
I tried not to laugh at that. "See you tomorrow," I yawned.
"Probably," was his response. I followed him through the window, closing it behind me and turning off my record player, which was kind of hot because it had been on for so long. I walked Nicky to the door, where he turned around to face me again. "Listen," he began slowly, collecting his thoughts, "sometimes things aren't always what they may seem."
"Okay," I said with a little chuckle.
He puts a hand on my arm. "I'm serious," he states, looking me dead in the eye. "Just... Watch how much time you spend with certain people. Be careful who you hang out with."
"I'll see you tomorrow," I say with a smile, ignoring his drunken warning.
On that disturbing note, Nicky rode away on his bike, and I went to sleep. Though Nicky's words couldn't help but haunt me.
Who was he taking about? I mean, Nicky seems to know everything about anything. So when he issues a warning, you best heed it. But I can't tell if he was just saying that to say it because he's confused or not.
For the time being, I'd like to opt for the latter. I'll have plenty of time to mull it over in school tomorrow.
--
By the end of the week I still had no idea what he meant, but whenever I got around to asking him, Nicky always made excuses not to answer and left hastily. In saying this, he didn't come over at all and I was really starting to get quite worried.
But I had other things to distract me from constantly thinking about it.
For example, on Wednesday, I was being shoved through the throng of people rushing out of the school, just trying to get to the sidewalk so I could begin my walk home (Alice had needed my Corvette for a business trip–she had to go up to New Hampshire for a few days). However, when I stepped outside, finally relieved of the rushing students, I saw a familiar looking car in the parking lot and a very familiar person leaning up against it.
I hate to seem like that person who can't stand to bear a minute without her boyfriend, but...
I grinned and jogged over to Steven's car, where he pulled me into a tight hug. I looked behind me and saw a few people gaping at us. Most of them were girls, the ones that are friends with Pamela and Jake and them–the cheerleaders and the douche-bag jocks. I'm assuming they were thinking, What the hell is Charlie doing with someone that fuckin' sexy?!
I grinned evilly and them, then got into his car.
"What're you doing here?" I asked him, sill kind of surprised.
Steven shrugged, joining the long line of traffic trying to get out of the school. "I hadn't seen you in awhile. I figured we could do something."
Yes, I know, I have the world's most perfectest boyfriend.
However it turns out my perfect boyfriend forgot his wallet at home.
But since we had decided to go to Boston anyway (and we were about a quarter of the way there already) I saw no harm in stopping by the band's apartment and getting his wallet.
Steven did, though, which was kind of strange. I didn't think too much into it anyways.
We had parked out front of the apartment building. "I'll be right back. Wait here," he said, offering a smile at the end.
I stopped mid-unbuckle with a shrug, and obeyed him.
After about ten minutes I started to wonder what he was doing.
As cluttered as the apartment is, Steven said he knew exactly where the wallet was. It should've taken him four minutes tops to return to the car.
So I, being who I am, went up to go see what was going on.
I knocked on the door, but instead of any Aerosmith member answering, an elderly woman peered out at me. Then she told me to stay off her property, even though I was in the hallway and clearly not on her property.
So I went down the hallway a little more. Turns out it's thirteen twenty-five, not thirteen oh-five.
So I knocked again and hoped for this to be the right room.
A pretty blond girl who looked like a normal person my age answered the door with a smile. But her smile turned to concern. "Tom isn't here," she said.
I must've given her a pretty strange look, because she quickly covered and asked, "Oh, no, that's right. Joey or Brad?"
"No... Who're you?" I ask, knowing I've reached the correct apartment, but the wrong person. She's obviously here for somebody, and since she already ruled out three and I'm with Steven, Joe must be here too.
Yes, that's why Steven's taking so long–he saw Joe and had to write some songs or something.
The girl doesn't say her name; maybe she's a little shy or something. I reach out a hand for her to shake, knowing that if she's with one of the band members then I'll be seeing a lot of her. "I'm Charlie," I say.
The pretty blond girl smiles warmly again, shaking my hand. "I'm–"
"Leaving!" Steven sang, springing out of nowhere.
"What?" the girl and I said at the same time.
"You're leaving!" he repeated, still frantic. "Right? Remember Joe called?"
The girl frowned. "No..."
"Well, he did," Steven urged. This is actually kind of amusing.
"Okay?"
"Yeah," Steven continues. "He's waiting downstairs in the car."
The blond girl has a bit of trouble hiding her grin. Looks like I was right. She is with Joe. "I'll be back later, then," she says, looking pointedly at Steven like she was expecting a completely different reaction by Steven from the news that Joe was waiting for her.
"Yeah, okay, great," Steven says hastily. He grabs her shoulders from behind and practically ushers her to the stairs
"Lo–" she starts, but Steven stops her.
"Yeppers, he's waiting. See you later! Go now, b-bye!" he exclaims excessively brightly.
With a bit if hesitation, the girl begins her descent to Joe.
Steven watched the stairs for a minute, now back by my side. "Who's she?" I ask.
"Oh, she– Is that the phone?" Steven hardly gave me time to answer before he dashed inside to answer the apparently ringing phone.
I just kind of stood awkwardly in the doorway.
"Tom!" he said brightly. And then he paused for quite some time. "Oh, yeah, okay. I'll be right there. Yep, sure, bye."
Steven returned after hanging up the phone. "Bad news," he said with quite the dramatic frown. "We've got a practice tonight."
A practice? For the band? Cool! Why is that bad news? Is he like saying that I can't come? "And that's bad?"
Steven nods with a sigh. "I gotta take you home now."
Why can't I go? "Not really," I say.
"You really wanna come to the rehearsal?" he asks skeptically.
"Yeah!" I exclaim without thinking. Then I feel my cheeks grow hot. You'd think I'm the freaky number-one fan or something.
But then again, maybe I am.
Steven starts heading for the stairs. Naturally, I follow him. "I don't think that's the best idea, actually," he says sheepishly.
"And why not?" I demand.
He laces his fingers with mine. "Because," he begins, but doesn't finish until we reached the car.
"Why not?" I nearly whine after the car was started.
"I said because," he says.
I absolutely detest that answer. "Okay, Mom," I reply darkly. Steven frowned. "Sorry," I say. "Because isn't a good answer."
"Fine," he says tightly. "Dope, booze, and... Profuse cursing."
"I get all that and more with Nicky," I muse without thinking.
Steven's knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. "Oh, well–" He freezes before saying whatever jealousy-induced thing he was going to say, and seems to deflate. "Tell you what: if you let me take you home, you can come to the show on Sunday."
Looks like I'm losing this one. "I was planning on doing that any–"
"Please, Charlie," he practically begs. "We really need to focus." He pauses for quite a long beat. "If were not serious about this, then nobody'll want to sign us."
Well, I suppose that makes sense. But what's the harm in attending one measly rehearsal? Why is he so ardent on taking me back home? Am I really that much of a distraction? If I am, then cool! 'Cause that means that I must be pretty hot in order to take away from rehearsal time.
Either that or I'm obnoxious and loud.
But seeing as I'm quite the introvert, I'm guessing it's not the latter.
When did I get hot?
--
"So Sunday for sure?" I ask.
"Yep," Steven replies. "Sunday for sure."
"I guess I'll see you then, then," I say, folding my hands behind my back, not really wanting to go inside my house.
"I guess you will."
"Uh, have fun at practice," I offer.
"As always." He smiles, sliding his hands down my arms and taking my hands into his own (after I unfolded them, that is). He leans down to kiss me and I more than willingly reach up. Instead of kissing me, though, he rests his forehead against mine. "I love you," he says rather seriously.
I silently curse the blush rising on my cheeks when he kisses me. "You too," I say with a tiny little stupid smile dancing on my lips.