No More No More

Dream On

Steven came into the music store while I was working a few weeks later.  He sat down at one of the pianos and began to play.  I joined him on the bench.  He was humming along to the chords he was playing.  It was the melody he sang me many weeks ago to calm me down.

                                                                        🎶    🎶    🎶

November came up fast. Everything seemed to be going in fast motion––especially whenever one of the guys copped and we were up for days on end. Steven forced Tom and Joe to go to the music store with him, and to bring their guitars.  I watched in amazement when Steven said, "Tom, play what my left hand's playing; Joe play what my right hand's playing," and they did it.  Steven hummed along with them, La da daa, di da look in the mirror... Dah da daa, do dah da gettin' clearer... The past is gone. It went by, like doobie da-ah. La la the way... Everybody's got their dues in life to pay...

I was mesmerized.

Joe kept avoiding me, Joey kept making fun of me, Tom kept being Tom, and Steven kept on making me forget my plan.  Joe refused to give up the couch so Tom resorted to sleeping where I used to sleep––on the floor in front of the TV.

     I convinced the boys to drive me to Hopedale.  I wasn't going to ditch my family like some people.  I suppose it's not that big of a deal to drive like forty minutes, but apparently to Joe it was... Steven had walked down the block to the store to buy eggs and bread for breakfast.  We could only get six eggs unless two people went.  If two people went, we got two sticks of butter, a loaf of bread and carton of milk (if they wore jackets), and a dozen eggs. The sticks of butter were shoved down the pants (so if I went, I couldn't get butter), the milk or bread was concealed by the jacket, and the eggs were tucked neatly between the shirt and pants.  Tom joined Steven to the store and Joey was getting some of the good stuff.  At home, it was just Joe and me.  Or maybe it was Anthony and me.  No, definitely Joe: he was still avoiding me.

     I tried to talk to him.  He was lounging on the couch, watching TV, playing his guitar, and had a joint hanging out of his mouth.  I sat down near his feet.  "Are you coming down with us?" I asked him.

     He glanced up at me for a fraction of a second before shrugging.

    I roll my eyes.  "Do you talk at all?"  He shrugs again, not looking at me, but I can see the little smirk behind his hair.  I watch as Mo and Larry team up on Curly, thinking.  After a while, I say quietly, "Anth––er, Joe, I–I'm sorry."  He stops playing his guitar and peeks up at me.  "I'm sorry for, uh, exploding out in the hallway when you guys finally came back.  I was..."  I try to find the right word, but can't shape my mouth around it.

     He waits for just a minute, sitting up a little.  "You were...?" he asks, wanting me to finish.

    "I was..."  Why can't I just say it?  It's not like it matters anyway.  "I guess I was a little hurt that you didn't call or come home earlier."  I stare at my hands and say just above a whisper, "I guess I was jealous."

     "Oh."

     "Yeahp," I say, popping the p.

     "Sorry."

     I sigh, "It doesn't matter much."

    Joe shakes his head in disbelief.  He wipes the hair out of his face and sits up.  "You are ridiculous, Annie Capello," he says with a smile.  I haven't seen him smile since I've seen him wear glasses: The day that he left for Vermont.  "Can we let bygones be bygones?"