This Song Will Save Your Life

“That’s not the story your arm told.”

“I did that a long time ago. Before I knew you or Harry or Mel, or Pippa or Char or Pete, or Start. I didn’t know then how good life could be. But now I know. And I would never do it again.”

“I think I can speak with some expertise on the issue of personally inflicted bodily harm,” Vicky said. “May I?”

“Go for it.”

“It’s not worth it. Sure, high school sucks sometimes. Some people will mess with you, whenever they want, and for no reason except that they can. But hurting yourself is giving those people all the power, and they don’t deserve it. Why would they deserve to have control over your life? Because they’re cool? Because they’re pretty? That’s completely illogical.”

“Where did you learn all this?” I asked her.

“Like I said. Lots and lots of therapy.” She paused. “Also, almost dying from malnutrition. It gave me a lot of clarity.”

“Thanks, Vicky.”

“Anyway,” Vicky said, “now that you’re alive, the second most important thing: Is the party still on for tonight? You’re ungrounded?”

“For about the next nine hours,” I replied.

“Okay, then I need to go find something to wear that isn’t a nightgown.” She paused. “One last question on the self-mutilation thing.”

“I don’t really feel like having this conversation, Vicky.”

“We won’t. Just one last question. What did Char have to say about it?”

I frowned, confused. “Nothing. I mean, he doesn’t know. Why would he?”

“Because you were hooking up,” Vicky said softly. “For weeks.”

I thought about that—the number of times he had pulled my shirt off of me, or grabbed my hands in his, kissed my shoulder. “I guess he never noticed?”

“No,” Vicky said. “I guess he wouldn’t.” She didn’t say anything more.

“Speaking of Char,” I said, “I ran into him at a pizza parlor this afternoon.”

“What did he say?” she asked. “Did he apologize?”

“No.”

“Did he beg you to give him another chance?”

“No.”

She sighed noisily. “He’s such a waste of a good haircut.”

“Hey,” I said. “Do you know Char’s real name?”

Vicky didn’t even pause. “Sure. It’s Michael. Michael Kirby. Why?”

“No reason,” I said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

We hung up after that. Then I opened my computer, and I googled “Michael Kirby.”

I wanted to know who Char really was. No more personas, no more images, no more pretending.

It was easy—so easy that I had to wonder why I had never asked Vicky for his real name before. Within ten minutes, I had a whole picture painted of Michael Kirby.

He was nineteen years old, turning twenty next week. He’d grown up in Westerly, about forty miles from here, the middle of three kids. On the high school track team, he would occasionally, but not all that often, finish in the top five in the 400-meter. He was one of eight trombone players in his high school’s marching band. I watched a video of them playing at a county fair, but I had to watch it twice before I could tell which one of the blue-uniformed trombonists was him. Michael’s dad worked in construction and his mom worked part-time as a secretary for Russell Gold, DDS, “Where Your Smile Makes Us Smile.”

In Michael’s freshman year at state college, he’d joined the college radio station and lived in Hutton Dorm. There was a photo of him wearing pajama pants at a study break, with a caption reading, Michael’s special snack: Chex Mix! Now in his second year, he was only a part-time student; he spent the rest of the time as a server at Antonio’s Pizzeria. He maintained Antonio’s Web site, and when I clicked the “contact us” button at the bottom of the page, it opened an e-mail addressed to [email protected] /* */

That was Char. It was all laid out for me across the Internet. It was a simple portrait of a person, like a million other people, and I felt the magic of Char float off into the air, as if I’d blown on a pile of dust.

But you know better than anyone how the Internet sees everything and nothing, all at the same time.

After I had learned all I cared to learn about Michael Kirby, I looked up my own name.

Why do you do this? Why do you want to see what other people say you are?

I suppose it’s because old habits die hard.

The first two search results were the same as always. Elise Dembowski, MD. Elise Dembowski Tampa Florida school superintendent.

But the third result was different. Elise Dembowski suicide had fallen down on the list. The third thing that came up when I typed in my own name was Elise Dembowski DJ.

I stared at my computer screen for a long moment, and I smiled. Then I closed my laptop and got ready for Start.

20

“So you decided to show up after all, hmm?” Mel said when I arrived at Start later that night. “Just couldn’t stay away?”

“What can I say? The scene needs me,” I told him.

Mel laughed. “Atta girl.” Then he noticed who was behind me. “Hello,” he said, sticking out his hand for a shake. “I’m Mel.”

“I’m Joe Dembowski. Elise’s dad,” said my dad.

I closed my eyes briefly. Please don’t do anything to embarrass me, Dad. Actually, my dearest hope had been that he wouldn’t identify himself as related to me, period. Let everyone think he was just some lecherous old guy who enjoyed hanging out at warehouse parties on his own.

“You’ve come to see your daughter’s big premiere?” Mel nodded his approval. “You’ve got a good dad,” he said to me. “And don’t worry about it, Joe; I don’t need to see your ID.”

“You’ve been taking care of Elise?” Dad asked, looking Mel up and down.

Mel shrugged modestly. “When she lets me.”

Dad laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I know what you mean,” he said. Then we entered Start.

“So this is where you’ve been spending all your time?” Dad asked, looking around the room. The party hadn’t started yet, so it was almost entirely empty. The bartender’s iPod was playing faintly on the speakers.

“Some of my time,” I said cautiously.

Dad shrugged, like he wasn’t impressed. Then he laughed. “You know what? You’ve come to enough of my gigs over the years. I’m glad to finally have the chance to return the favor.”

“I’m glad, too,” I said, and I was. Glad that we were back on speaking terms, glad that my dad understood what it meant to fall in love with music, glad that I had my own father and not Sally’s. I hugged him suddenly.

“I’m proud of you, baby,” Dad murmured. “Go out there and knock ’em dead.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “Now would you please sit over by the bar and act like you don’t know me all night?”

He nodded. “You got it.”

I headed over to the DJ booth and started setting up. Char had always taken care of this part before, so I went slowly, checking and double-checking to make sure that everything was plugged in correctly.

Just as I was plugging in my last cords, the Dirty Curtains arrived.

“Helloooo, Glendale!” Harry shouted, raising his drumsticks in the air. “How y’all doing tonight? Glendale in the hoooouse!”

“Harry,” Vicky said, a step behind him. “We’ve been over this. The drummer doesn’t get to banter with the audience.”

“What about the guitarist?” Dave asked, setting his guitar on the stage. “Does the guitarist get to banter?”

“No,” Vicky said.

Dave shrugged. “That’s cool. I didn’t want to banter anyway.”

“I did,” Harry said. He raised his voice again. “Glendale, get your hands in the air if you’re sexy! All sexy hands, in the air! Unsexy hands, you can just hang out.”

“I swear to God,” Vicky said, “I have the bantering under control. I will handle the banter. Just play your goddamn instruments.”

I stepped down from the booth and gave Vicky a hug.

“Okay, I am freaking out.” Vicky let go of me and took a step back. “Now tell me the truth: do these false eyelashes make me look like a My Little Pony?”