Dibs! (Lesbian, GxG)

Chapter 25

We've been practicing our violins and correcting any mistakes for the past half hour in the band room. I made sure that the door's locked before we started; Nancy saw me walk by her classroom, and I'm pretty sure she'd make excuses to stop by and "check" on me.

     I didn't tell Randy that when I asked him to lock the door. I didn't want to hear his response.

     Lowering the bow, I wait for Randy to make any comments. "You mind showing me how you hold the violin again?" he asks.

     Confused, I do as he says. "What does this have to do with anything?" I ask.

     "You were keeping your right wrist firm when you were playing," he starts. "However, your left is limp. I think what you're doing is straining your fingers to press on the strings when you play a note."

     I glance at my left hand. It looks fine to me.

     "Let me show you." Randy picks up his violin and shows me how he positions the instrument. The wrist is straight. "I can reach the notes easily in this position."

     Oh. I mimic his posture, and I play a couple notes. "Like that?" I ask. 

     He makes a so-so gesture. "Close. I'd suggest that you can practice in the mirror and see how your wrist is holding the violin. If that doesn't work for you, then I'm out of ideas." I laugh. "Have any more time to play today?"

     "Yes, but I'm not really in the mood to practice more." I walk over to the case and put the violin in, and then the bow. I count in my head the last time I rosined the bow, and figure I can get away with it until tomorrow.

     Randy puts his away as well, but slowly. It seems as if he's been thinking. I ask aloud, "What's going on in your head?"

     Snapping the case shut, he grabs the handle and lifts the case up. "Jules is upset," he says, setting it by his backpack. "Said something about one person too many believing a drug-related rumor more than believing her."

     I'd respond with, "I never said I believed it." A little voice pipes up in my head, though. If you're questioning someone based on a rumor, it's a sign you're not trusting what they're saying. Instead, I just say, "Oh." 

     He pulls out a phone, pauses, and quickly puts it away as he looks at the digital clock above the door. "I've been telling her to let everyone know what happened," he says.

     My ears perk up. "What are you talking about?" I ask. I don't know if this is something I need to hear. Nonetheless, I fold my hands together and sit down on one of the many chairs in the room.

     "You know that Jules used to attend Edgewood High, right?" I nod. "Did she ever tell you why she transferred to Fife?"

     "Um, I don't think so," I say. If this was related to this Wayne guy she had a crush on, technically she didn't. "I heard there was an incident last year, though."

     "Yeah." Randy stops, obviously trying to think. I didn't think the event, whether mild or severe, would be something you'd forget. "There was . . . something else that happened. Few people know what happened," he says. "And Jules would like to keep it that way. Hell, if I was in that position, I'd want that as well."

     "Then, why are you telling me?" If this turns out that Jules was involved in something that can cause PTSD, then a) the rumors were completely off and b) I owe her a fucking huge apology for coming off as someone who only believes in rumors.

     Randy shrugs. "I figure, you're Jules' friend, and you should know." The word 'friend' comes out easily for him; if he knew about how his sister and I met, he'd most likely say it oddly, as if he doesn't know what to call me.

     I cross one leg over the other. "Alright, I'm listening."

     He lets out a deep breath. I notice his ears wiggle a bit. Doesn't Jules do that as well? Huh, it's a possibility. "Wayne is, was, a drug dealer. Jules didn't know until she was already head over heels for him, and when she found out someone she liked did drugs, she was opposed to it. It didn't stop her from being curious about the business."

     So, did she take some drugs? "She'd ask him questions. What kind of people does he usually sell to? How much does he make by dealing? At some point, Wayne got tired of her constant questions, and in so few nice words told her to get lost."

     Randy reaches into his backpack and pulls out a metal water bottle from the side pocket. Taking several big gulps, he hesitantly continues, "Jules never learned how to cope well with any kind of rejections, so she kind of snapped."

     I take the opportunity to say, "By 'kind of', you mean . . ."

     If he wasn't uncomfortable at the beginning of the story, he is now. "Jules found the majority of his stash and started getting rid of them. Burning them by the bags, pouring the stuff in local ponds, basically using all the elements to help destroy them. I wasn't there when this all happened, but from what I heard from the few people, Wayne caught her in the act and flipped out. Yelling about how they were expensive and how dependent his clients were on him getting the drugs for them."

     Someone knocks on the door. I look to see my sister making funny faces at the window by the door. I give her a serious look, and Nancy pouts before going away. "He just yelled at her?" I ask Randy. "And that got her to switch schools?"

     He clears his throat. "Not exactly," he says, softly now. "She's, um, got a scar on her upper stomach from that time. A big one." Randy doesn't expand on it. Thank God; I had enough information I needed to know about.

     We both stay where we are, me because I don't know if heading home immediately is a good response. Nancy's itching to go, though, from the many times she looks through the window and stares at me with a huffy look. "I should take my sister home," I say, standing up and taking my violin case.

     Randy nods in understanding. "And I need to pick up mine," he responds.

     We leave through the same door and give each other weak goodbyes before I'm pounced on by Nancy. "Finally! You were taking forever to finish!" she exclaims.

     It felt like forever, I wanted to respond with. "He was telling me a story," I answer.

     "Can I hear it?"

     I shake my head. "It's something between Randy and me," I say. "Besides, I doubt you'd understand."

     Nancy seems to want to argue, but shuts her mouth. "Who's driving?"

     I hold up the keys that were in my jeans pocket. "That would be me."

     My sister groans as we get to the car. "You're a horrible driver," she says, putting on her seatbelt. I'd respond to that, but frankly, I'm going to wait until she realizes how ironic her statement is.