Page 22 of Don't Bang a Bandmate

“As much as I’d love to catch up with the rest of them, I’m afraid this matter is confidential. Is seven good for you?”

I look at Chrissy for help, but there’s not much she can do. She turns up her hands and shakes her head, leaving me to make the call.

“Uh, yes,” I say, reluctantly. “Seven works for me, sir.”

“Wonderful. And Jordan...”

“Yes?”

“Confidential,”he repeats before hanging up.

I drop my phone onto the table as if it had a plutonium core.

“Well, that’s ominous,” Chrissy says.

I nod.

What’s Paul Monroe up to now?

6

BRONSON

Idon’t talk much.

But I was a chatty child, apparently.

All that changed when I was five years old. After years of begging my mother for a son and getting nothing but daughters, my father decided that he didn’t want to be a dad after all, and left.

I didn’t have much to say after that. My three older sisters were happy to speak for me, though. Which was fine for me. Not so much for my mother. After a few years, she insisted they stop, fearing I developed a speech impediment of some kind.

Use your words, Bronson,she’d say.

But I had words. I just preferred to listen instead. I liked to express myself differently. Through clothes. Or music. Things like that.

There are situations where words are important. Sticking up for a friend, for instance. Or whispering dirty talk to a pretty girl between the sheets.

Last night just happened to be both.

I don’t remember meeting Jordan Peck. She’s always just been there, a constant presence in my life since before I even knew what life was. From kindergarten through gradetwelve, she was there. We grew up together, have more shared experiences together than with anyone else I know — except maybe Addison, who lived with me and my family after her mother kicked her out.

Some might say last night was inevitable.

I’m not sure I’d agree.

But I’m not sure it was a surprise, either.

I don’t remember meeting Jordan Peck. But I remember the day we became friends.

She was small, only about three feet tall. At recess, she would always sit beneath a tree outside with a book in her lap. I thought that was so strange. Why would she read when she could play? But she seemed happy, and I liked it when she looked happy.

One day, I ran outside with the other students, and Jordan lookeddifferent. She had tears in her eyes. Her book was gone. It was torn to pieces by a bully whose name I’ve long forgotten now, but I’ll never forget how satisfying it was to walk up to him and punch him in the face.

Some guys use their words.

Others punch the kid in the nose.

I’m the latter type.

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