Wabanaki Blues by Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel Page A

search for the perfect mate. I try to remember they are only performing, especially when they both drop to the floor, groaning and snarling at one another, nose-to-nose on all fours, like mating bears.
    The song spins into reverb. I collapse on an ottoman made from a padded monster truck wheel, clapping painfully.
    Sponge pulls a blanket off a frosty case of Grim Reaper beer and slaps one into my hand. I thank him and guzzle it.
    â€œYour song was great, guys,” I yell to Scales and Del, before recoiling at the microbrew’s taste—which is somewhere between Guinness and prune juice. Scales reacts to my disgust with a high-pitched hiccup-giggle that morphs into a trilling war whoop. What a voice she has.
    She steps between Del and me, brushing her lips against his earlobe and whispering something. Bear hands me another Reaper and I down it, remembering too late that I skipped breakfast. Del breaks away from Scales and pulls Rosalita and me onto the ottoman with him and Angel. Scales stomps back over to her Mustang couch, pouting. Sponge nestles in beside her, and she tries to shove him off. He pokes at her playfully, refusing to budge.
    The neck of Del’s guitar touches mine sharply. Bear looms over us, like a Victorian chaperone. I try to ignore him and turn my eyes to Del’s guitar. The artist’s signature on Angel says “Will Pyne.” I wonder if Del’s dad is Mom’s mysterious friend.
    â€œDel, your dad paints guitars, portraits, and cityscapes. He’s one seriously talented man. Does he have a gallery in Boston or New York or something?”
    â€œNah, he sells everything on the Internet. That way he gets to keep his privacy.”
    â€œCan I meet him?”
    He sets down his beer as if it’s his worst enemy and limps away. “I think he’s busy today, Mona Lisa.”
    Bear overhears him and shakes his head negatively.
    Missing the warmth of Del sitting beside me on the ottoman, I follow him over to a desk. The top is painted with artificial clutter: a spilled coffee cup, a newspaper from 1994, a scatter of colored pencils and two pseudo-dripping paintbrushes. My head feels dizzy. It must be the cheap rotgut beer.
    â€œWhat’s wrong Mona Lisa?” he asks.
    â€œYes, Mona Lisa, why aren’t you smiling?” asks Scales, giggling.
    I groan inwardly at this tired joke, and point to the desk. “I see your dad paints furniture, Del.”
    â€œHe paints anything when he runs out of canvas…” His voice cracks. “Or whiskey.”
    So Del’s dad is a drunk, and he has no mom. That explains my grandparents’ involvement in his upbringing. Stones rumble in the driveway, along with the distinctive motor sound of a Harley pulling in. Everyone springs into action as if an alarm has sounded. This must be Mr. Pyne. Sponge falls off her Mustang couch with a thud. Scales rushes to scoop up our beer bottles. Bear leaps around like a ballet dancer stashing unopened beers in his gym bag. Del kicks his dad’s painted desk with his overly heavy black boots, scuffing the chair leg. His eyes scour the room as if he doesn’t recognize his own house. I’ve seen this same look on Lizzy’s face, whenever her deadbeat dad visited her apartment. On those days, I felt protective of her, realizing her Cherry Coke attitude was really a mask.
    I slurp one last mouthful of Grim Reaper right before Scales grabs my bottle and tosses it. Before I can swallow, I notice one real photograph among the faux-clutter on the desk. I pull it out and beer spews from my lips. It shows a dark-haired man, who looks like Del, standing beside a Harley with green flames. I’m desperate to look out the window to check out what kind of bike just drove in, but I hear the electric garage door already grinding closed.
    I hold my forehead.
    â€œYou okay?” Del asks.
    I don’t respond right away. I try and tell myself there must be hundreds of