Screaming Divas (24 page)

His face started to crumple. “Why didn't I know that?”

Trudy shrugged. “I guess you weren't paying attention.”

“I guess you're right.” He took a deep breath and composed himself. “Look, why don't you go into her room and take something to remember her by. Take whatever you want.”

They looked at each other and nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

The last time they'd been in that room, the bed had been unmade and clothes had been strewn all over the place. Cassie's textbooks had been in a leaning tower on the floor. Today, everything was neat and orderly.

Harumi and Trudy watched as Esther slowly pulled back the quilt and lifted the pillow to her face. She inhaled deeply, then threw it back down. “It smells like Downy,” she murmured. “There's no trace of her at all.”

No doubt within a few days, Johnette would have all this stuff bagged and sent off to Goodwill. Then they could get busy putting up a wallpaper border with ducklings or whatever.

Esther crouched down in front of Cassie's bookcase. After a moment, she pulled out
The Collected Poems
by Sylvia Plath and held it against her heart.

Harumi's eyes roved slowly around the room, taking in the portrait of her mom in beauty queen regalia, the Doc Martens and ballet flats lined up under the bed, the bottles of fingernail polish on the vanity. Then something caught her eye—Cassie's sparkly pink guitar pick, nestled in a crystal tray. Harumi reached down and plucked it out. She held it for a moment, remembering how it had caught the light when she played, before tucking it in her skirt pocket.

Now it was Trudy's turn. Without a moment's hesitation, she claimed the guitar propped in the corner. “Okay,” she said, clutching it by the neck. “Let's get out of here. This place is starting to give me the creeps.”

When Trudy stumbled into her rented house the night of the funeral, she was totally wasted. She'd broken into her father's apartment and helped herself to a fifth of whiskey. Her dad was apparently off somewhere on vacation.

She didn't know why she'd gone to him. He wasn't the “kiss it and make it better” type. Yet she'd wanted something a little familiar and comforting to counteract the shock of Cassie's death. When he wasn't there, she'd felt like vandalizing his place. Instead, she'd just filched the liquor.

Her answering machine at home was full of malicious messages, left by fans of Screaming Divas—fans of Cassie. Some of them were threats, others just prolonged sobbing. And then there was that other message.

“You bitch!” one of the callers, some high school girl, no doubt, had wailed. “You killed her. I hope you go to hell.”

Yeah, she was probably headed there anyhow, but who cared? It was no doubt more interesting than sitting around on a bunch of puffy clouds listening to harps. That's what she told people, anyhow. She didn't really believe in all that.

No one seemed to understand that she'd loved Cassie. They'd been like sisters, like halves of one self. She'd felt their personalities oozing together at times. Maybe that's why she'd screwed Noel. They'd both been involved with Adam, they shared songs, why not share Noel, too? It made sense in a weird sort of way, but when she'd seen them together, she'd totally lost it. Maybe she was afraid that they would team up and leave her behind, when she needed them both.

She hadn't talked to Noel since they'd returned from Washington, DC. Right now she didn't think she could stand the sight of his face. She wanted to see Cassie and plan the future of their band.

Among the rants and slurs on her answering machine, there was another message that she'd played over and over:

“Hey, Trudy? This is your mama calling from Los Angeles. You're probably not going to believe this, but I've been temping for Wild Blue Records and I handed your demo to the A & R guy. That's Artists and Repertoire, by the way. And guess what? He was impressed. He said y'all had a lot of energy and he wants to hear more.” There was a long pause before she went on. “And Trudy, I'd really like to see you. Why don't you come on out here and give us a visit?”

Sarah must not have heard about Cassie, and that was just as well. She'd have to find a replacement for Cassie, and maybe for Esther and Harumi, too, if they were giving up on her. But Trudy had put so much into this band that she wasn't about to quit now. She would carry on as a tribute to the lost Diva.

It was midnight in South Carolina, but still suppertime on the west coast. Trudy listened to the message once again, scratching down her mother's new phone number. Then she erased the other messages. She stabbed out the digits with her index finger and waited for the ring.

“Hey, Ma,” she said, practicing. “My suitcase is already packed. When can you pick me up?”

Back in the day, Suzanne Kamata spent a lot of time hanging out in a club in Columbia, South Carolina, much like the one in this book. (The Beat goes on ….) She later wrote about musicians for the
State
newspaper, the
Japan Times
, and other publications. Now, she mostly writes novels. In her free time, she enjoys searching for the perfect fake fur leopard print coat and listening to the Japanese all-girl band Chatmonchy.

This book probably would have stayed in a drawer forever if not for the enduring enthusiasm of Helene Dunbar. So, thank you. I'd also like to thank Tracey Waters, Margaret Stawowy, Eric Madeen, Andy Couturier, Leza Lowitz, and Caron Knauer for reading and commenting on earlier drafts. I'm eternally grateful to Pat Conroy and Jonathan Haupt, for their brilliant suggestions; Michelle Sewell of GirlChild Press, for publishing a portion of this book in
Woman's Work: Short Stories
; and the editors of
Hunger Mountain
for publishing another part. I've been deeply honored to work with the fabulous Jacquelyn Mitchard, dream editor and writer extraordinaire, and her wonderful intern, Mary Chamard. Finally, I am so happy to have the support of my fellow SCBWI Japan members, and the UncommonYA writers. I couldn't do this without y'all.