don’t you clean up nice?” Momma announced, leaning against the door frame of my bedroom with her arms crossed over her chest.
I nodded, agreeing with her, “I make this suit look good,” staring at my reflection in the mirror.
She laughed, shaking her head at me. “Baby, you’re so much like your daddy. Right now, in that suit, all you remind me of is when he came to pick me up for prom. You even tied your hair up.”
“It’s a weddin’.” I shrugged. “It’s the least I can do.”
Pushing off the wall, she walked into my room and stepped up behind me. “Cash, we still gotta talk about last night.”
“Do we havta?”
“You cannot break curfew like that. You’re lucky your dad was called in or else—”
“He’d bitch ’bout somethin’ else?”
“Cash ... come on. Cut him some slack. You know you haven’t made it easy on us by any means these last few years.”
I shrugged again. She was right, I hadn’t.
The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. A lot had happened over the last three years, both positive and negative.
For one, our band was taking off. At least by North Carolina standards. We were playing gigs everywhere. Driving our piece of shit van from show to show. It didn’t matter what it was, we took it.
Weddings.
Graduations.
Birthdays.
You name it, we performed there.
Including all the events at our school and small beach town, from homecoming to prom, to the pep rallies, to the annual Fourth of July festival.
My band, First Verse, was on that stage.
I still lived and breathed music. I wouldn’t stop until the whole world knew my name.
Much to my old man’s disapproval.
He made it really fuckin’ clear by never showing up to any of our shows. Momma, on the other hand, was there for every one she could attend. Supporting me, probably against his wishes.
My father and I were butting heads now more than ever. My grades were dropping, and I was skipping school more than I should. Taking gigs at the drop of a dime was the only thing important to me. I didn’t give a shit about class. It wasn’t like I was going to college. I’d yet to express that to him, though, didn’t wanna deal with the fallout of the unexpected news.
Snapping around to face her, I argued, “Ma, I was at a gig. It ain’t like I was out partyin’ like most of my friends do.”
“That doesn’t excuse you walking in at almost two in the morning.”
“I texted you. You knew where I was.”
“Cash, you reeked of beer and god knows what else. I’m not stupid. I know what debauchery goes on behind the scenes at your gigs. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, right?”
It was true. I couldn’t get too pissed at her for calling me out on my shit. I was the stupid ass who didn’t change my clothes or use mouthwash before returning home. It wasn’t a big deal. I had a beer or two, maybe three. I didn’t know, it all blended together sometimes. The highs I experienced after our shows were like being on cloud nine. Miraculously floating along with no end in sight.
Booze.
Pot.
It helped me take the edge off and come down from the euphoria.
Music started off as a high.
Everything about it was over the top...
The beats.
The melodies.
The vibrations you felt in every last fiber of your bones, your insides, your soul.
The instruments coming together as one.
Creating something from nothing.
It was the ultimate spike of adrenaline.
Plus, my bandmates were older than me by a few years. A lot of our gigs were performed at clubs, smoke lounges, and restaurants. Drugs and alcohol came with the nightlife scene. I wasn’t much for the drugs other than weed, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t around for the taking.
“Cash, I do not want you going down that road. I will yank you from that band so fast your head will spin if you come home past curfew again smelling like alcohol. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Promise me.”
I nodded, unable to lie to her with words. If I had to sneak out to be at a gig, then it was what I’d have to do.
“And if you are having sex, please tell me you’re using protec—”
“Ma!”
“Don’t ‘Ma’ me. I know boys will be boys. Your daddy was picking up girls when he was in preschool on the playground. It’s in your genes. You are too young to be a fath—”
“Ma! Your mouth is runnin’ like a hound dog.”
“I’m serious, Cash! You