your best american girl ✓

12 | cold war crimes

For as long as I could remember, music has been a way for me to escape reality.

With my headphones in, I strum the strings of my bass to the tune of a Green Day song. Each time my fingertips pluck them, the vibrations tingle my hands, and I become one with the crash melody. My dominant hand moves along the frets as quickly as possible. I hum the lyrics, making sure every strum is precisely on beat.

I've played many instruments throughout my short lifetime, but none of them makes me feel as free as the bass does. By itself, it doesn't produce enough rhythm to be its own song, yet somehow it's the foundation of many famous pieces.

Nodding my head, I completely immerse myself in the sounds coming out of the speaker. The world around me moves in slow motion, and the room is blurred.

When the song finally ends, I pull out the speaker cord from the outlet, when I notice something strange. There's someone lingering in the doorway, watching me. The frail figure finally emerges from their hiding spot, and instantly, I can recognize who it is based on the choppy bangs and celestial ankle boots.

Was she watching me?

Without so much a glance in my direction, Faye walks in sheet music in hand, slipping the paper in between the clip of the podium stand, turning to leave when she's finished. Her heels click against the checkered floor.

"You're not even gonna say hello?" I mutter, zipping up the case around my bass. Glancing up, I realize she's lingering beside the open exit, pondering whether or not to stay. A glimmer of hope blinds me as I watch her back concave, then convex when she takes a deep breath.

"Greetings are reserved for my friends," she replies bluntly, gaze so venomous and malicious that it felt like a dagger to the heart. God, even the way she said those words echo in my head. There's not an ounce of pity or sympathy for someone she once considered a best friend. I'm only met with the pure intention to hurt me.

Ouch. After everything that's happened between us, I still do consider her to be my best friend, so there's not going to be any ill intent on my end. I'm looking for answers. Besides, why can't we be mature about it? First, she's petty enough to rat me out, now she's dishing out insults as if I have done awful things to her since lying.

A rare glimpse into her vulnerability gives me enough courage to speak. "You know, I get it, you don't like me, and like I said before, I'm sorry. I was in the wrong for lying. But what you did was fucked up. That was none of your business, and it was my privacy—"

Spinning on her heel to face me, her nostrils flare in anger. During the years I've known her, I don't think I've ever seen her so livid. She has never once lost her temper like this. It's not in her nature to be angry, let alone be angry with me of all people. "That's your mother, Leigha. She has every right to know. Besides, I was looking out for you."

Not Lee or Leighanna, but Leigha. She must be really pissed off. If I'd known everything was going to blow up in my face like this, I wouldn't have lied to her. After everything, I've deluded myself into thinking that somewhere deep down inside, she still cared about me. Guess I was wrong.

Frustrated, I shift my weight, letting the wooden stool creak. "How is this supposed to help me at all?"

Any lingering remnants of the once amicable energy between us has been replaced with sheer animosity. With a bitter laugh, she puts a hand on her hip, fingers digging so hard into her bone, her knuckles turn white. "I don't even know who you are anymore."

Huh? Prior to this encounter, I'd consider her the person that knows me best. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about?" she repeats slowly, as if she was trying to make sure that's what I actually said. Bringing her hands to claw at her head for a second, she scoffs. "This is about you always seeking white validation. This is about you using money as a measure of success because you have such a romanticized idea of this country. This is about how you're being manipulated—"