Wabanaki Blues by Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel Page B

Harleys with green flames in New England, not just the one that belonged to the guy who killed Mia Delaney. Still, I’ve never seen another bike that matched this notorious description before. Grumps did say Del’s dad went to Yale—which is only a half-hour away from Hartford. I’m hoping this is all a dark coincidence.
    I pick a few triads on Rosalita and finally reply in half-sung lyrics. “Sometimes you laugh. Sometimes you lie.”
    I think I meant to say, “cry,” but it’s hard to be sure what I meant.
    Scale sucks air between her teeth as Del leans into me.
    He re-sings the lyrics I started and adds a new line. “Sometimes you laugh. Sometimes you lie. Sometimes you’re wishful when an angel walks by.”
    This guy really likes angels. I’ve never been called an angel. It sounds like something a guy says to inveigle a girl. Or scarier, Del means it.
    He slugs his beer before Scales whisks it away. “Wait a minute, Mona Lisa, my muse! I think we got us a song here.”
    I’m pretty sure Del’s dad is about to appear, and they don’t get along. So why is he taking the time to write a song right now? This is insane. It’s obvious his dad makes him nervous. Hell, the guy’s self-portrait makes me nervous, never mind his green-flamed bike. Then again, the whole point of songwriting is to cope with life’s emotional challenges. Right? Bear seems to appreciate this fact. He remains calm and strums a few chords to go with the lyrics, encouraging Del to add more words to the tune. Del tries his burgeoning lyrics with Bear’s third line:
    Sometimes you laugh, sometimes you lie.
    Sometimes you’re wishful when an angel walks by.
    Sometimes you need her, sometimes you know…
    Del lifts his furry teepee eyebrows at me, indicating I’m responsible for completing the final line of the stanza.
    I swing Rosalita into position and jump in with a single country-western style chord, “ Where there’s an angel, a devil must go.”
    Bear nods, approvingly. Del wraps his arm around me like a blanket infused with fire ants. I’m sure he is going to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. I don’t care if his friends see, or if his drunken father walks in, or even if his dad is Mia Delaney’s murderer. The fire ants are climbing up my neck, choking me. I’m a seventeen-year-old high school graduate, and no guy has ever kissed me.
    Del pulls me closer. I sink a few inches, like I’m sucked down into this woodsy earth. A door between the house and the garage bangs open and shut. Del presses his forehead to mine and his lichen eyes fade. “What a team we made.” He pushes me away, as if he’s saying good-bye forever.
    â€œDaddy’s home!” comes a shout from the newly opened door. Those words rattle out of this guy’s mouth, like a dumped bucket of used car parts.
    He staggers in, wearing a tee shirt with a picture of an exploding planet on the front. It says, “Apocalypse Survivors” in flaming letters. That’s Mom’s favorite Hartford band. This must be her Will. He resembles a rotting and decomposed version of Del with axle grease hair, bile-green monster gumball eyes, and skin that shines as if it’s spread with a thin layer of mayonnaise. Great taste, Mom.
    Del’s dad approaches Sponge, unsteadily. “Lemme guess, you’re stoned again, aren’t ya boy?”
    Sponge shakes his head like a Muppet. “No sir, Mr. Pyne.”
    Mr. Pyne circles Sponge, head-bobbing and singing Lady Ga Ga. “Daddy I’m so sorry, I’m so s-s-sorry yeah. We just like to party, like to p-p-party, yeah.”
    He stops singing. “Well, well, well. Looks like we got us a new troublemaker in town.” He approaches me, bugeyed, spewing whiskey breath. “You’re Lila Elmwood’s kid. My condolences on being trapped here for the summer, little Lila.” He