Scar Girl by Len Vlahos Page A

“So what did Harry tell you about why we’re jamming on our day off?”
    He raised one eyebrow and said, “He just told me that you were in a place that you needed to jam. As you know, I can respect that.”
    â€œYou didn’t ask why?”
    â€œDidn’t need to. A dude—or dudette—needs to jam, you jam. Why, you pregnant or something?”
    Holy crap, I was not expecting that, and it must’ve showed all over my face. I was too stunned to answer.
    Richie was quiet for a moment while he looked at me like a puppy, with his head cocked to one side. Then he saw something—maybe it was my eyes, maybe it was my boobs, and, yeah, he looked there, too—that gave me away.
    â€œHoly fuck,” he said. “I was just kidding. For real, you’re pregnant?” I nodded, and he paused a beat before asking, “Does Johnny know?”
    â€œNo! And neither does Harry, and you can’t tell them, all right?”
    He nodded. “Damn, you feeling okay?”
    And you know what? Of the few people I’d told—Theresa, the priest—the only one who bothered to ask how I was feeling was Richie. Everyone else got lost in their own hang-ups. Theresa was still lost in the tragedy of her own experience, and the priest was lost in the rules of Mother Church. They both saw my pregnancy as their problem or their opportunity. Only Richie saw it as mine.
    He isn’t always the sharpest tool in the shed—I don’t know, maybe that’s not a fair thing to say; more like he’s not always the most interested tool in the shed—but he’s probably the most decent. It also felt really good and really scary that someone in the band knew.
    RICHIE MCGILL
    When Chey told me she was pregnant, I was completely freaking out on the inside. I mean, she was pregnant! I wanted to ask her all sorts of questions—Was she gonna keep it? How could she play bass when, you know, she got big and stuff? Could she feel it squirming around inside her?—but I didn’t. I could tell she wanted her space, so I kept my trap shut. I’m pretty good at that. I guess that’s why the other guys in the band tell me stuff. I’m good with secrets. I hate them, but I’m good with them.
    CHEYENNE BELLE
    When Harry came back into the room, you could feel the tension. It was like waves pounding a beach. He looked at me and Richie, waiting for us to say something.
    Richie, true to his word, kept my secret. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s make some noise.” And we played.
    For a little while, everything was great. It’s always great when we play music. It’s like it connects me to the rest of the world.
    Have you ever held a bass guitar? If you have, then you know it’s big. And it’s heavy. Much bigger and heavier than regular guitars. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m small. Just holding the bass makes me feel gravity more than someone else does. The whole thing pulls me down to the earth. It’s an incredible feeling. I’m rooted, stable. But that’s only the beginning. The real magic is when you plug it in.
    Bass notes are low, rumbling, like the language mountains must use to talk to each other. It’s like the instrument plants me on the ground, and then my fingers draw music up from the center of the earth.
    It’s hard to explain.
    Anyway, we played for about forty-five minutes, and it felt good. But then the elephants in the room—my pregnancy, the fact that Richie knew about it, Harry’s song, worry about Johnny—started to gather together and dance around me.
    Plus, something wasn’t feeling right. My back hurt and my stomach was starting to cramp. Time to go.
    I told the guys I was tired and asked Harry to drive me home.
    HARBINGER JONES
    We dropped Richie at his house and then headed for Chey’s.
    â€œCheyenne,” I said when we were alone in the car, using her full