Summer school. In Duluth. Who did that?
“The worst part,” Sam went on, “was that the clock was set to radio and when I woke up, your stupid song ‘Villain’ was playing.”
“What a great station you must have had it set to.” The taxi was slowing. I said, “I have to go. The future is here, decked in flowers and fruit.”
“Wait —” Sam said. “Have you seen Isabel yet?”
My fingers still felt the shape of her. “Da. We embraced.
Angels sang, Sam. Those fat ones. Cherubs. Cherubim. I must go.”
“Don’t bite people.”
I hung up. The taxi driver put the car in park. “Now you walk.”
I opened the car door. As I handed him some cash, I asked, “Want to come with me?”
He stared at me.
I got out. As I shouldered my bag on the sidewalk, a posse of young skater kids zoomed by. One of them shouted at me, “We’re skateboarding!”
The others behind him keened joyfully.
My lips still tasted like Isabel’s perfume.
The sun beamed overhead. My shadow was tiny under my feet. I didn’t know how I could stand to be in my own head until dinner.
Baby North lived in a Venice Beach house that looked like it had been built by a caffeinated toddler. It was a collection of brightly colored blocks of different sizes stacked on one another and next to one another and joined by concrete stairs and metal balconies. It faced the endless tourist-dotted beach and the touchable blue ocean. It was a more mirthful establishment than I had expected.
People were afraid of Baby North. This was because she was a home wrecker, I thought, in the sense that she had destroyed the lives of the last seven people she’d put on television. It was sort of her brand. Get a train wreck, put it on television, wait for the explosions, toss a fluttering paycheck over the scene of the wreckage.
Everyone who signed a contract with her thought they would be the one to escape unscathed with their dignity and sanity, and they were all wrong.
None of them had seemed to know it was just a performance.
I climbed the concrete stairs. When I knocked on the door, it fell open. There was no point calling for her. The music inside was so loud that nothing was for sure except the purest of the trebles in the vocals and the ugliest of the bass from the drums.
It was the sort of track sung by a girl who might possibly have been discovered on the Disney Channel.
When I stepped in, the airconditioning hit me like a punch.
I could feel every single one of my nerves tensing and considering their shape and species.
This was going to be a thing here.
It had been a very long time since I had been a wolf. And it had always taken a lot to convince my body to shift — a precipitous drop in temperature, an interesting chemical cocktail, a persuasive kick to my hypothalamus. The temperature difference now wasn’t enough to do it, but it was enough to shock my body into the seductive memory of shifting.
Werewolf, werewolf.
That would be a good song.
Inside, the ceiling soared up above the concrete floor, all the way up to the exposed ductwork. There were four pieces of furniture.
In the middle of them, Baby North stood bent over an iPad. I recognized her more from gossip blogs than our brief meeting years before. Her brown hair was cut in a heavy fringe over her deep-set eyes like a ’70s model. She wore scrunchy leggings and some kind of smocky-tunic thing made out of canvas or linen or something monklike. She was short and pretty in a disconcerting way — a way to look at, not to touch. I had no idea how old she was.
I pointed toward one of the speakers overhead. The singer was chirruping something about how we should all call her and do something before it was too late. It was relentlessly catchy.
“You know this stuff will make you go blind, right?”
When Baby turned to me, her smile was huge and genuine and world-eating. She tapped something on the iPad, and the music died instantly.
“Cole St. Clair,” she said.
Though I was sure that she wouldn’t break me, I felt a twinge. It was the way she said my name. Like it was a triumph that I was standing here.
“Sorry I’m late.”
She clasped her hands to her chest, enraptured. “God, your voice.”
A review of NARKOTIKA’s last album had summed it up like so:
The title track of Either One/Or the Other begins with twenty seconds of spoken words. The boys of NARKOTIKA are well aware that even without Victor Baranova’s insistent drums and Jeremy Shutt’s inspired bass guitar riffs, Cole St. Clair’s voice would lure listeners to an ecstatic death.
Baby said, “This is the best idea I ever had.”
My heart stuttered hard, just once, like an engine turning over. It had been a long time since I’d been on tour. Since I’d been out in public as a musician. Now, with my pulse faster, I couldn’t believe that I’d thought I might give it up for good. It felt intentional, powerful, purposeful. I’d been in stasis for a year and now I was back on solid ground.
I was not a disaster.
Isabel was going to dinner with me.
I had been taken apart and put back together again, and this version of me was unbreakable.
Baby set her iPad on one of the four pieces of furniture — a birch ottoman or house pet or something — and circled me, hands still curled up on her breastbone. I had seen this posture before. It was a guy circling a car on the auction block. She had acquired me with a not-insignificant amount of effort, and she wanted to know if it was worth it.
I waited until she’d circled once.
“Happy?” I asked.
“I just can’t believe you’re real. You were dead.”
I grinned at her. Not my real smile. My NARKOTIKA smile. One sly side of my mouth working wider than the other.
It was coming back to me.
“That smile,” Baby said. She repeated, “This is the best idea I’ve ever had. Have you been to the house yet?”
Of course I had not. I had been haunting Isabel in Santa Monica.
“Well, you’ll see it soon enough,” she said. “The rest of the band moves in tomorrow. You want something to drink?”
I wanted to ask her about the band she’d assembled for me, but I thought it would sound like I was nervous. Instead, I asked, “You got a Coke?”
The kitchen was big and spare. Nothing looked particularly residential or even human. The cabinets were all thin slats of pale wood, and the walls were covered with exposed PVC pipes headed to the upstairs. The fridge looked like a surprise, like it ought to have been a vat of some commercial fluid instead. I needed no one to tell me Baby lived alone.
“The worst part,” Sam went on, “was that the clock was set to radio and when I woke up, your stupid song ‘Villain’ was playing.”
“What a great station you must have had it set to.” The taxi was slowing. I said, “I have to go. The future is here, decked in flowers and fruit.”
“Wait —” Sam said. “Have you seen Isabel yet?”
My fingers still felt the shape of her. “Da. We embraced.
Angels sang, Sam. Those fat ones. Cherubs. Cherubim. I must go.”
“Don’t bite people.”
I hung up. The taxi driver put the car in park. “Now you walk.”
I opened the car door. As I handed him some cash, I asked, “Want to come with me?”
He stared at me.
I got out. As I shouldered my bag on the sidewalk, a posse of young skater kids zoomed by. One of them shouted at me, “We’re skateboarding!”
The others behind him keened joyfully.
My lips still tasted like Isabel’s perfume.
The sun beamed overhead. My shadow was tiny under my feet. I didn’t know how I could stand to be in my own head until dinner.
Baby North lived in a Venice Beach house that looked like it had been built by a caffeinated toddler. It was a collection of brightly colored blocks of different sizes stacked on one another and next to one another and joined by concrete stairs and metal balconies. It faced the endless tourist-dotted beach and the touchable blue ocean. It was a more mirthful establishment than I had expected.
People were afraid of Baby North. This was because she was a home wrecker, I thought, in the sense that she had destroyed the lives of the last seven people she’d put on television. It was sort of her brand. Get a train wreck, put it on television, wait for the explosions, toss a fluttering paycheck over the scene of the wreckage.
Everyone who signed a contract with her thought they would be the one to escape unscathed with their dignity and sanity, and they were all wrong.
None of them had seemed to know it was just a performance.
I climbed the concrete stairs. When I knocked on the door, it fell open. There was no point calling for her. The music inside was so loud that nothing was for sure except the purest of the trebles in the vocals and the ugliest of the bass from the drums.
It was the sort of track sung by a girl who might possibly have been discovered on the Disney Channel.
When I stepped in, the airconditioning hit me like a punch.
I could feel every single one of my nerves tensing and considering their shape and species.
This was going to be a thing here.
It had been a very long time since I had been a wolf. And it had always taken a lot to convince my body to shift — a precipitous drop in temperature, an interesting chemical cocktail, a persuasive kick to my hypothalamus. The temperature difference now wasn’t enough to do it, but it was enough to shock my body into the seductive memory of shifting.
Werewolf, werewolf.
That would be a good song.
Inside, the ceiling soared up above the concrete floor, all the way up to the exposed ductwork. There were four pieces of furniture.
In the middle of them, Baby North stood bent over an iPad. I recognized her more from gossip blogs than our brief meeting years before. Her brown hair was cut in a heavy fringe over her deep-set eyes like a ’70s model. She wore scrunchy leggings and some kind of smocky-tunic thing made out of canvas or linen or something monklike. She was short and pretty in a disconcerting way — a way to look at, not to touch. I had no idea how old she was.
I pointed toward one of the speakers overhead. The singer was chirruping something about how we should all call her and do something before it was too late. It was relentlessly catchy.
“You know this stuff will make you go blind, right?”
When Baby turned to me, her smile was huge and genuine and world-eating. She tapped something on the iPad, and the music died instantly.
“Cole St. Clair,” she said.
Though I was sure that she wouldn’t break me, I felt a twinge. It was the way she said my name. Like it was a triumph that I was standing here.
“Sorry I’m late.”
She clasped her hands to her chest, enraptured. “God, your voice.”
A review of NARKOTIKA’s last album had summed it up like so:
The title track of Either One/Or the Other begins with twenty seconds of spoken words. The boys of NARKOTIKA are well aware that even without Victor Baranova’s insistent drums and Jeremy Shutt’s inspired bass guitar riffs, Cole St. Clair’s voice would lure listeners to an ecstatic death.
Baby said, “This is the best idea I ever had.”
My heart stuttered hard, just once, like an engine turning over. It had been a long time since I’d been on tour. Since I’d been out in public as a musician. Now, with my pulse faster, I couldn’t believe that I’d thought I might give it up for good. It felt intentional, powerful, purposeful. I’d been in stasis for a year and now I was back on solid ground.
I was not a disaster.
Isabel was going to dinner with me.
I had been taken apart and put back together again, and this version of me was unbreakable.
Baby set her iPad on one of the four pieces of furniture — a birch ottoman or house pet or something — and circled me, hands still curled up on her breastbone. I had seen this posture before. It was a guy circling a car on the auction block. She had acquired me with a not-insignificant amount of effort, and she wanted to know if it was worth it.
I waited until she’d circled once.
“Happy?” I asked.
“I just can’t believe you’re real. You were dead.”
I grinned at her. Not my real smile. My NARKOTIKA smile. One sly side of my mouth working wider than the other.
It was coming back to me.
“That smile,” Baby said. She repeated, “This is the best idea I’ve ever had. Have you been to the house yet?”
Of course I had not. I had been haunting Isabel in Santa Monica.
“Well, you’ll see it soon enough,” she said. “The rest of the band moves in tomorrow. You want something to drink?”
I wanted to ask her about the band she’d assembled for me, but I thought it would sound like I was nervous. Instead, I asked, “You got a Coke?”
The kitchen was big and spare. Nothing looked particularly residential or even human. The cabinets were all thin slats of pale wood, and the walls were covered with exposed PVC pipes headed to the upstairs. The fridge looked like a surprise, like it ought to have been a vat of some commercial fluid instead. I needed no one to tell me Baby lived alone.
