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But mostly the auditions didn’t work out, and she’d come home like a balloon whose air had been let out. Eventually, she said that she’d missed her window, and that if you want to be a real actress, you have to live in California. She took up painting instead and got a job filing papers in a doctor’s office. She said that she thought being a mom was her real job. She said that we were her greatest accomplishment.
Mom would say all the time how she wanted us to have happy childhoods, happier than her own. Sometimes she’d ask us if we were happy, and we’d always say yes. Still, she said that she wished she could give us more. She liked to talk about somedays. Someday we’ll have a house with a pool. Someday we’ll learn to ride horses. Someday we’ll have beautiful dresses with sequins head to toe, like the ones on TV. Someday we’ll go to California. We’ll see the ocean together.
She and May and I used to talk about it, pla
But as it turned out, Mom went without us. She cried when she told me. “I have to go away for a while. I’m so sorry,” she said. “I just can’t be here right now.” As she tried to hug me, I felt frozen in her arms. I wanted to tell her she was breaking the promise. We were all supposed to go together. Of course it was too late for that, but I wondered why she didn’t at least offer to take me with her. She said she’d get her head back on and her heart sewn as best she could and come back soon. She never said when soon is.
Now she’s just a voice on the phone. She called me at Aunt Amy’s a couple of hours ago. “Hi, Laurel. How are you, sweetie?”
“Okay. How are you?” I tried to picture where she is, but all I could see in my mind was a faded postcard—ski
“I’m okay. I miss you, honey.” She sniffled, and my body tensed up. I thought, Don’t cry don’t cry. I hate it when Mom cries. May knew how to make her stop, but I never did.
“Yeah, I miss you, too.”
“How is school? What did you do today?”
“The usual. Went to classes.”
“Are you making new friends?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“That’s good. I’m happy for you.”
And then there was a long silence. I didn’t know what to say to her.
“Mom, I should go. I have homework.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“You too.”
I hung up, and just like that, Mom vanished back into the land of washed-out palm trees.
Judy, I read that you said your first memory was music. Music that fills up a home. And one day, suddenly the music could escape through a window. For the rest of your life, you had to chase it.
Yours,
Laurel
Dear Janis Joplin,
I am writing to you for an important reason, which I will get to. When I walked up to our table at lunch yesterday, Ha
It turns out that Natalie met this senior, Tristan, in her art class. He told her that he’d buy her cloves and she could come and meet his girlfriend, Kristen. When you see them, you can tell right away that Tristan and Kristen are so in love. Kristen wears long flowy skirts, and she has long hair down to her butt that looks like it must never come untangled. Her face is soft and exotic-looking. She doesn’t talk loudly. Her voice is a whispery rasp, but musical, too. Tristan also has long hair. But otherwise, they are opposites. Everything about him is pointy and buzzing with energy. Tristan wears ripped clothes with patches sewn on from bands like the Ramones and Guns N’ Roses and the Killers. He’s always talking talking talking, and after everything he says, he says, “Right, babe?” and Kristen nods without moving her eyes.
Tristan was easy to meet, because right away he tossed Natalie her pack of cloves and said, “Hola, chiquitita!” And then he kissed Ha
Tristan laughed. “He’s the lead guitarist of the band. Guns N’ Roses. Definition of rock. We’ve got a ways to go on your education, don’t we?”
My face got hot.
But then Tristan said, “Don’t worry, you’re young. There’s still hope. Ready? First lesson. ‘Being a rock star is the intersection of who you are and who you want to be’—quote courtesy of Slash himself.”
“Is that who you want to be?” I asked.
He looked at me, sort of confused.
So I added, “A rock star?”
Tristan laughed again, only this time a little differently. Like I’d asked him a hard question he didn’t want to answer.
“Well, you look like one,” I offered.
Kristen didn’t seem mad that I’d said that, or that he’d kissed our hands. I think because they are so in love, she doesn’t have anything to get jealous of. She didn’t really even look at us. She just lit another cigarette. I tried to smile in a way that would make it so she’d like me, because I really wanted her to, so badly it kind of hurt behind my eyes. I wanted them both to.
“I’m Laurel,” I offered in a squeaky voice.
Kristen’s face stayed blank, but her eyes focused toward me in a way that made me know she was deep-down nice. She said, “Kristen. ‘I’m one of those regular weird people.’”
Tristan explained, “Quote courtesy of Lady Joplin. She’s obsessed.” So then Kristen started talking about you, and I figured out that Kristen really loves you, pretty much as much as she loves Tristan.
When I got home today, I looked up about Slash, and I also looked up about your life, so that I can start my education, and so that I can be friends with Tristan and Kristen. I read that you grew up next to oil towers in Texas, and that when you were a teenager, everyone in high school was terrible to you. But that made you fearless. And then you became famous. When Kristen and I are better friends, I am going to ask her to play me some of your music. I know that I could find some online, but I sort of hope that the first time I hear it will be with her. Until then, though, I am writing because I wanted to thank you for saying that thing about regular weird people, because I thought about that a lot, and I am one of them, too. With all of us standing there together, Kristen, Tristan, Natalie, Ha