Ache by P. J. Post Read Free Book Online

lost in our own thoughts.  I bang my head to the groove while I watch the city life go by, normal lives and average people that think today was pretty good and tomorrow is going to be better.
    Suckers.

 
     
5
Secrets Unshared
     
     
    We get back to our rehearsal space and Todd drives by Tonya’s van and stops by the front door.  Actually, it’s a converted gas station that’s tucked in between an old industrial park and the railroad tracks that split the town — just like the cliché.
    Tonya, she’s the singer in our band and even though we all help pay for the rehearsals space, it’s not very much, I guess she knows someone and gets it cheap.  We were just happy when she joined the band and invited us to use the space.  We were jamming in Todd’s garage before, but his parent’s bitched constantly and the neighbors didn’t exactly dig our vibe.  We were going nowhere and then she showed up.  She even has a P.A., what more can two growing boys want?
    Once upon a time, the garage bays were being converted into one big office or retail space or some shit, but they never finished.  Metal studs and half complete drywall partitions line the room, the glass garage doors are still there and open up to our main rehearsal space.  Tonya lives in the converted supply loft upstairs.  Apart from the oil stained floors, it’s a pretty sweet set up, especially since it’s been my home-away-from-home for a while now.  We call it the Garage .
    “See you later, dude, I have to go by work and pick up my check,” Todd says over the top of his shades.
    “You want fries with that?” I ask.
    “Kiss my ass,” he says, scowling.
    I grab my shoes, duffle and shopping bag from the backseat and wave as Todd races out of the parking lot.  He’s always in a hurry, like it matters when he gets his check, but he seems to be having a good time just the same.  I think he’s bogarting the secrets to happiness.
    I see that Keg Vomit’s van is gone.  They hit the stage last night wearing matching striped shirts from the sixties and were all sporting medium length blond hair that they had pushed to the side.  We thought they were going to do Beach Boys songs all night, but they torched the place, very intense.  We met them after the show and besides being a great band, they were a blast to hang out with, so we invited them over.
    Everyone in the scene needs each other, not many are making any money playing punk, and hotels aren’t in the budget.  We’re still trying to be a big fish in a small pond, but lots of touring bands end up crashing with us and for the most part, they’re pretty cool, like they are staying with family — family they don’t owe money to. 
    I open the door and walk in to hear Bow Wow Wow blasting, asking if I want candy.  I turn down the mixer.
    “Tonya, you should keep the door locked,” I shout up at her through the balcony of the loft above.
    I dump my things on the remaining case of beer and fall into the couch.  I look up to see Tonya leaning over the half-wall of her balcony.
    “Be right down,” she calls.
    I hear her rummaging around and then she turns the corner of the stairs.  Tonya is an enigma.  She always wears oversized flannels over t-shirts and baggy chinos with waffle-stomper boots, regardless of how hot it gets.  They m ake her look heavier, frumpy, but it’s hard to tell because she seems kind of petite too.  She has big brown eyes, smooth skin and a light complexion that makes her look younger than her nineteen years.  Her hair is a shoulder-length mess of purple and red.  She’s wearing an old, baggy sweat suit now that says Property of North , which I assume refers to the High School on the other side of town — the one I didn’t go to — and those white pom-pom socks that I’m sure frequent those same high school halls.
    She was really shy and acted a little weird when we first met.  But when she joined the band earlier this year, we hit it off just the