The Only Medicine

I peer out over the crowd through the smoke-filled haze. It’s not a bad turn-out tonight, to be honest; there’s a few of the bar regulars at the scattered tables, including one particular patron we refer to as ‘Goth Grandpa’—he’s always dressed head-to-toe in black, with his baggy pants tucked into his socks, and he has a long grey beard that would make ZZ Top envious. At this point in time, Goth Grandpa is dancing to music that hasn’t started yet and sloshing his beer all over his hands and the people nearest to him.

Mike clicks his drumsticks together behind me and we launch into a cover of Armageddon by Alkaline Trio.

“I wrote the words to this song on the back of a photograph, behind your back it goes …” Vic sings sweetly. I always enjoy the way that Vic sings this song—his voice is a lot higher than Matt Skiba’s, making it a bit more three-dimensional.

I join in at the chorus, rasping along to Vic’s sweet voice, my brown fingers flicking across the bass strings. Goth Grandpa is swaying completely out of time, possibly due to drunkenness rather than tone-deafness.

“Thank you, thank you everybody,” Vic pants into the microphone to polite applause. He glances over his shoulder at Mike and me, then back at the crowd. “We’re After Yesterday and this next song is called …”


“Pretty kickass show tonight, guys,” chirps Marjory, one of the bartenders. She hands us all Cokes and turns to serve someone else.

“Thanks,” I murmur, guzzling my drink. I’m absolutely drenched with sweat and parched from singing and screaming. I always have warm water up on the stage to soothe my throat when I’m singing, but there’s nothing like an ice-cold Coke at the end of a set.

“How many people, do you reckon?” Vic asks.

“I think I counted about fifty,” I reply. He nods in agreement.

“Hey, Marjory, how’s about a round of whiskeys?” Mike asks, leaning over the bar and drumming it with the palms of his hands. His lip ring and philtrum stud glint in the dim bar lighting.

She looks over at him, her eyebrow cocked. “Not a chance, Fuentes.”

See, we’re all underage—Joe, the bar owner and a friend of Papa Fuentes, agreed to let us play, but we can only be in the bar until eleven o’clock and our parents basically had to sign a permission slip. It was embarrassing. Even then, he only agreed because Vic’s nineteen, on the provision that he ‘look after’ Mike and I. We’re both eighteen, but somehow Vic’s whole extra year of life makes him closer to adulthood and/or sainthood.

“Come on, guys, it’s almost eleven. We should head home,” Vic murmurs, draining his Coke. Mike rolls his eyes.

“Where’s your girlfriend, Mia?” Mike asks, elbowing me in the ribs. “I thought she had a fake ID.”

“Jane’s not my girlfriend,” I frown, shoving him away. “We’re just friends.”

“Suuuure.”

Okay, so maybe Jane is sort-of my girlfriend. Well, she’s a friend and she’s a girl. And … she sometimes warms my bed for me. It’s not really a big thing, but we hooked up at a house party in front of everyone a few weeks ago and now everyone thinks we’re in love. No, she’s not my girlfriend.

I wrap my scarf around my head and shrug my coat on as we head out into the night. It’s actually a pretty mild night. I’m knackered from playing, though, and can’t wait to get home to bed. Luckily Vic’s car isn’t parked too far away. Mike hops into the back, leaving the front seat for me. It’s funny; Vic and I have been best friends since elementary school, but Mike and I have really only become friends in the last year, since we started the band. I mean, we’ve always been friendly, but we only ever hang out together in conjunction with Vic or at school, since I have barely any friends.

“Can you believe we’re back to school next week, Mia?” Mike pipes up from the back.

“Oh god, don’t remind me,” I moan. “And we’ll have exams soon.”

Mike and I have some of the same classes, like maths and English. I hate maths. I hate school. I can’t wait to leave and just focus on playing music. I’m so jealous of Vic being out of school.

“Am I dropping you home or do you wanna stay over tonight?” Vic asks, one hand on the steering wheel. “We could go see a movie tomorrow or something?”

I purse my lips, thinking. “Yeah, that could be cool. We should stop by my house so I can grab some stuff, though.”

He parks in my driveway and leaves the car running while I jump out and go inside to pack an overnight bag. My mother is outside on the porch, smoking, her dark brown skin glowing in the dim light.

“Hey mija,” she says, hugging me and pecking me on the cheek. “How did the concert go?”

“It was good, Mama,” I grin. She’s always been supportive of my musical endeavours, even if she hates the music we play. “Hey, I’m gonna stay at Vic’s tonight, okay?”

She looks at me fondly. “Ah, Vic. When are you going to marry that boy?”

I scrunch my nose up at her. “Ew. Vic and I are just friends.”

“Well, you be nice to that boy anyway. I love my Vicky.”

I roll my eyes and head inside and up the stairs. My room is pretty small and absolutely filthy. Well, I’m sure it’s clean underneath the clothes, and some of the clothes themselves are clean, but it’s very messy. Mama always nags me about cleaning it but I’ve just never seen the point in closets—why hang something up when you’re just going to take it off the hanger again? I pick up a few different shirts, sniffing them to make sure they’re clean, eventually choosing a tatty Atreyu shirt and pair of black skinny jeans. I stuff them into a backpack, along with some underwear, a night shirt and toiletries, then scamper back down the stairs and out the door.

“Love you, mija!” Mama calls as I race past her.

Notes