about women drivers under his breath as he marched back to his van. I studied his hell-on-wheels contraption – a frightening navy-blue monster with tinted windows and dark rain guards that lined the edges – and wondered why he was so upset about it in the first place.
“Nice child molester van you got there,” I said, attempting a joke.
His eyes wandered to the van, gave it a silent appraisal, then found their way back to me. “Thanks for the input,” he said, unsmiling. His quiet confidence was both intimidating and irking at the same time. “For the record, a buddy of mine gave it to me. It’s not something I would’ve necessarily picked out for myself.” He toyed with the silver ring on his right index finger, his gaze now back on the van. “Not that it’s really any of your business.”
The flames in my cheeks had expanded, and I could feel the heat spreading to my ears, my neck, my chest. After everything I’d been through, the last thing I needed was some pompous ass giving me a hard time, especially when I hadn’t even done anything wrong. Not on purpose anyway.
Dylan was just about to open his door when he suddenly turned back around to face me, looking intrigued. “So, why’d you move back here, anyway? Cali wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be?”
“No,” I said, my blank expression mirroring his. “For the record, I moved back after I caught my best friend in bed with my boyfriend.” I started to head back to my car, then stopped and glanced back at him over my shoulder. “Not that’s it’s any of your business.”
***
I called Beth on the way to Noir to tell her I was running a little behind schedule, thanks to my impeccable driving skills. I ended up stuck on the phone with her for the entire drive because once Beth’s mouth gets going, it stops for no one.
Beth and I had known each other since grade school, and she was a great person to confide in when you were in the midst of a crisis because she never told you what you wanted to hear. She was gut-wrenchingly, wholeheartedly, one-hundred percent honest. Always. I hated her candidness when we were younger because my hormonal, sensitive teenage self didn’t exactly take well to constructive criticism, but now that I was older I really appreciated her honesty. Sure, there were times when little white lies were necessary, because no one wants to hear “Yes, you really do look fat in that dress” or “You’re right, your forehead does look like you’ve sprouted a third eye.” But there were also times when you didn’t want someone to sugar coat anything; you wanted them to give you their God’s honest opinion.
This was definitely one of those times.
“So you walked in on them?” she asked, wide-eyed, leaning forward in her seat.
“Yeah, I…”
“What did you do? Did you cause a scene?”
“I just… ran.”
“You left? Why?”
I shrugged. “I was in shock. I didn’t even know what to say. I just wanted to get the hell out of there and try to process what just happened.”
“So what did Justine say? Have you talked to her? She must’ve called you, right?”
Beth was very analytical. Conveying a story to her was like being on trial; she would constantly interrupt with one hundred questions and you had to offer up every single detail so she could analyze each aspect of the story and weigh her opinion carefully.
Beth and I met the summer before we both entered the sixth grade. She lived a street over from me and was the only girl in my neighborhood who didn’t think I was some sort of foreign reptile because I went to Catholic school. Our afterschool rituals consisted of riding our bicycles around the neighborhood and swapping stories about our daily adventures. I was always envious of her public school lifestyle, mainly because nothing exciting ever happened at Holy Family. No one ever got caught fooling around in the locker room or smoking pot in the bathroom. Her stories were like listening to the narrative of a soap opera, which, in my eyes, made her the epitome of cool. I couldn’t believe she actually wanted to be friends with someone who wore knee socks and saddle shoes on a daily basis.
“She’s called, but I can’t talk to her,” I said, answering her question. “Maybe someday I’ll be able to, but right now, I just can’t.”
“Do you think they’re, like, dating? Or do you think it was just a one-time thing?”
“I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t want to know.”
“God, I really can’t believe Justine would do that to you,” she said, covering her eyes with her hands. “I really can’t. You guys have been friends for so long.”
I bit my thumbnail nervously, and then asked the question I had been dying to ask all along. “Beth, why do you think she did it?”
Beth sighed. “Well, I think it could be one of two reasons. The first reason could be that she’s jealous of you.”
I shook my head. There was no way. The only time jealousy occurred was when someone felt they were being denied something they could have, something that belonged to someone else. Justine could’ve had any guy on the planet. It didn’t add up.
“No way,” I said. “I think I’d pick up on it if she was. I mean, come on, the girl was my best friend.”
Beth gave me that look that implied she knew what she was talking about. “Don’t be so sure. Sometimes people hide things well. Maybe she’s always secretly compared herself to you and you never realized it.”
I shrugged. “Maybe. So what’s the second reason?”
“Well, the second reason is that maybe she’s in love with him. And I don’t mean some sort of sexual infatuation, I mean serious love, as in marriage. If she doesn’t have jealousy issues with you, then that’s the only thing that would make sense. I can’t picture her ruining a friendship, especially a friendship like the one you guys had, unless she wanted to spend the rest of her life with this guy.”
That was the more logical explanation, the one I had been leaning towards all along. But the thing that bothered me even more than the thought of Justine and David getting married was the fact that Beth used the word “had” when referring to my friendship with Justine. The friendship you guys had.
And even when I returned home later that evening, I still couldn’t get those words out of my head.
I’m not sure who came up with the brilliant revelation that college freshmen are mature enough to choose their own majors and career paths because – and I can pretty much guarantee this – eighteen-year-olds do not have the mental capacity to make such a life-altering decision. And in the city of Los Angeles, if you decline to enter into the world of wanna-be model/actresses, that doesn’t leave you many job options.
Five years and three major switches later, I didn’t find my calling. It found me.
I was browsing the classifieds for internships when I saw it.
“Pace Magazine is looking for interns to assist with our new music column, ‘Sound Bites.’ Responsibilities will include article fact-checking and assisting with weekly music reviews. Journalism and Communications majors only. All interested candidates should send their resume to [email protected].”
The words danced before my eyes. Bright lights and heavenly choir music engulfed me.
A music writer. Why the hell hadn’t I thought of this before? For all the years I’d lived and breathed music, it had never occurred to me that there were other professions inside the music industry