The Only Medicine

It’s Friday afternoon and the bell has just rung and I’m waiting for Mike by Vic’s car. Students are pouring out of the doors and hopping into their own cars, talking loudly about their plans for the weekend. I lean against the hood, which is surprisingly warm from the winter sun. Mike is late, which is pretty unusual for a Friday—usually he’s out of there as soon as the bell goes, if not earlier. I’ve packed to stay the night, because we’re going to have band practice tonight and tomorrow in order to prepare for the first Battle of the Bands session, which is in exactly two weeks’ time. Vic is stressing out, although he has single-handedly written two songs already and is well onto his third.

Mike strolls out after about fifteen minutes of waiting that feels more like an hour. He flicks a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it while he walks toward me.

“What took you so long?” I ask, hopping off the hood of the car.

He shrugs and fetches the keys out of his school bag, which is hanging nonchalantly off one shoulder. He unlocks the car and we both hop in. Once again, he’s smoking in Vic’s car, which Vic has been texting me about all week (“next time he does it, punch him for me!”). He starts the ignition and an Offspring song comes on the radio.

“In my own simple way, I think she wants me only,” I sing softly along to the words. Mike taps his hands on the steering wheel in time. “She said, ‘come over right away.’”

This song always reminds me of Jane—I can’t help it. The lyrics say everything I feel about our relationship, about feeling used and hating it and still running to her when she calls. Speaking of Jane, I haven’t heard from her all week. I flick open my phone absentmindedly, but there are no new text messages.

Instead I text Vic. “heading home now. Mike took ages.”

“You been thinking of any lyrics?” Mike asks, flicking his spent cigarette out the window.

“I've written some stuff,” I reply. The only good thing about relationship turmoil is that it makes good lyric fodder. I've yet to match it up with Vic’s stuff, but I’m sure I've got at least one song’s worth.

“That’s good,” he replies, and we’re quiet for the rest of the drive.


Vic is in the garage when we get to the house, so I chuck my stuff in his room and bring my bass case with me. He’s sitting on the couch, plucking experimentally at the chords of his guitar, trying out a new riff.

“Hey,” I say, pulling my bass out of the case.

His face lights up when he sees me and he stops playing. “Mia! I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” He gets up and folds me into a hug.

Mike comes in behind us. “Get a room, you guys.”

“Hah hah,” Vic says sarcastically, letting me go and sitting back down. Mike takes a seat behind his drum kit.

“All righty,” I say, fetching my notebook out of my bass case. “Shall we begin?”


We rehearse late into the night, playing song after song until they all sound the same to my tired ears. Mike eventually sets his sticks down and disappears upstairs to fetch us some beer. Mama and Papa Fuentes generally don’t mind if we have a few drinks in the house, but they draw the line at two or three. If we planned to drink more, however, I know Mike has a secret stash of Jack Daniels in his underwear drawer.

“Pretty good, Mia,” Vic says, placing his guitar back in its stand. He runs a hand through his long brown hair and takes a sip from his glass of water on the floor.

“Any favourites?” I ask, setting my bass back in its case.

He thinks for a bit. “I like the one you wrote about Jane.”

I pause. “Oh, really?” At first when I was writing the lyrics, I thought it was about Jane, but as the song neared completion, I realised it wasn’t about her at all. In fact …

My thoughts are interrupted by Mike coming back into the room, three bottles of Corona between his slender fingers. The sight of the amber liquid makes me more aware of my parched throat. He hands one to Vic, then me.

“Cheers,” he says, and we clink bottles and drink.

After about an hour of drinking, Vic and I decide to head to bed and get some shut-eye. I’m actually really knackered from the week and from rehearsing all night. As usual, he pulls out the fold-out bed for himself and lets me have his bed. He has the softest mattress; I’ve often thought about swapping it for my one at home.

We chat a bit in the dark, and I’m so close to telling him that it almost brings me to tears. Keeping things from Vic is so hard—it makes every conversation feel dishonest. After a while he yawns.

“Nighty night, Mia. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight,” I whisper, then roll onto my side to face the wall. I am an awful friend.

I don’t know how long I lie like that in the dark, but eventually I have to get up and pee. I silently get out of bed, using my phone as a light, and open the door as quietly as I can. I look over at Mike’s room—force of habit—but the door is closed and there’s no light under the door. I’m about to walk toward the bathroom when I hear a noise coming from his room; it sounds like moaning. I freeze.

What the fuck? I think to myself. Is Mike watching porn?

I quickly head to the bathroom, trying not to think about it. I mean, I know Mike watches porn (he as much as admitted it the other night), and that’s fine, but thinking about Mike watching porn leads to other thoughts that I’m just not prepared to deal with.

I’m heading back down the hallway when I hear Mike’s door open and a faint giggle. Then I’m face to face with Jessica, who just about jumps out of her skin.

“Oh, holy shit, you scared me,” she whispers, clutching a hand to her chest. Her hair is all dishevelled and she’s wearing one of Mike’s t-shirts, which is essentially a dress on her. I can tell she’s not wearing a bra underneath it.

“Sorry,” I mumble, not wanting to stick around and chat. I quickly slip back into Vic’s room. Back in Vic’s bed, I curl up against the wall again, trying to stop the feeling spreading in my stomach, trying to stop the tears that threaten to spill. I’m not annoyed with Mike. I’m not hurt.

I think I cry all night.

Notes

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