“I do have a better idea: I’ll follow them like I normally would, and I’ll be careful.”
“Your solution is a vague promise? Wow, you know, if we make it out of this mess, you might have a future in politics. No, Blaze, what I think we need to do is go check out your old room — which I’m sure is still exactly as you last left it — and get you a disguise.”
She’s taking way too much glee in this. But it sure does make my heart beat to see even the smallest smile on her face.
I nod. Can manage one word. “Fine.”
Her hand slips in mine and she squeezes it tight. “Come on, let’s go see what Declan Dunne’s high school room was like.”
My old room is just down the hall from my mother’s old office. It takes some pushing to get the door to open; the hinges are rusty and squawk squeaky protests after years of disuse. Inside, buried beneath a layer of dust and the smell of musty mildew, everything is exactly as I remember it. I pause in the doorway, still holding Tiffany’s hand, and feel a surge of memories come flooding back. I’m taken to a time where I was just an innocent kid with an attitude and the inclination to get himself into trouble; there were no assault convictions, no criminal record to speak of. The kid who lived in this room is a stranger, now. Innocent — to a point — and with the whole world ahead of him. He’s made a fucking lot of mistakes on the way; he wouldn’t recognize the man standing in his doorway, but he wouldn’t regret too much how things turned out, either. Finding a family like the MC, after everything I’ve been through, means I’m a damn lucky man.
“Are you OK?” Tiffany says, sensing my reluctance and looking up at me with glassy eyes. There’s still that slight smile on her face and it makes me realize that, as long as I that’s there, I’ll always be OK.
“I’m fine,” I say. Then, with one step, we plunge back into how things used to be.
And Tiffany dives right in. This room is a whole opportunity for her to see the person I once was.
Not content to just head to my closet and see what clothes we could put together into a passable disguise, she instead starts a slow circuit of my room, looking over everything like a detective examining a crime scene.
“Nice CD collection you have here. Green Day. Foo Fighters. The Ramones. The Clash. Dropkick Murphys. Oh, and what’s this I see here buried behind all the others? Declan Dunne, is this a John Mayer CD?”
“It is.”
“I didn’t figure you to be a John Mayer fan. Especially not with the Rancid logo on your bedspread.”
“I’m not. I think John Mayer’s a creepy motherfucker. But back then I needed something to play when I brought girls back here because I never found a chick willing to fuck to The Guns of Brixton or I’m Shipping up to Boston.”
“I’m more of a Doors girl, myself,” she says, smiling slyly and running her thumb along the John Mayer CD.
“Wait, what? I thought you’d be all Mozart and shit.”
“Oh, I like Mozart. I fell in love with his music back in sophomore year of high school. There was this piece on NPR about the Mozart Effect and how classical music is supposed to help your brain function, so I would always listen to him when I was studying. It was nice.”
“You are such a nerd.”
She shrugs. “I grew to like it. But, when I would finish studying, I liked to light up and listen to some of The Doors. I thought Jim Morrison was deep.”
I blink. “Wait. Light up?”
“Get high. You know the term, right? I needed to relax. It was how I treated myself if I got all my studying done on time.”
I shake my head, stunned and half disbelieving. “Saint Tiffany, a stoner. Well, I never would have guessed.”
“I would smoke enough to take the edge off. Never to excess. And I never did anything crazy like go driving or anything else that could put someone at risk because I’m impaired. It was just a natural way to unwind.”
“And you’re not fucking with me?”
“I’m not. I haven’t smoked in a while, though I’m thinking maybe I could use it,” she says, sighing. “Back then it was a weekly ritual. I’d finish everything that I had to, all of my homework, all of my studying, all of my chores, and then I would reward my diligence with some Hawaiian Haze. If I couldn’t get any Hawaiian, which would happen from time to time, I’d usually go for Hindu Kush or Afghani, just because I like the thought of their history and being connected to a strain that’s been grown and smoked for ages. Even if they were more pungent than I’d like. But even with a compromise strain, there is something special about listening to some nice music or reading while smoking something pleasant.”
I laugh. “OK, by sheer nerdiness, I believe you. I can’t imagine anyone geeking out about pot so much unless they actually loved it.”
“Nerdiness? Says the man with a No Doubt poster on the ceiling above his bed.”
“I like their music,” I lie.
“You don’t strike me as a ska fan. In fact, now that I look closer,” she says, squinting and craning her neck to stare at the poster. “Shouldn’t there be some men in the background of this poster? You know, the other guys in the band? But, to me, this doesn’t look like a No Doubt poster — this just looks like an enormous poster of Gwen Stefani in a skimpy outfit.”
“She’s a talented singer. Maybe I appreciate that.”
“Sure,” she
