unREASONable by Arya Matthews
Track 11
Marshall
For the rest of the afternoon, I work on subduing my outrage at CJ for asking Alexandra to Riot Night with us. It’s the thing that only the Vipers do, no girls. Not even Elise gets invited to Riot Night. It’s always been this way. Why does Alexandra have to become part of that equation too? I shouldn’t be mad at her. CJ’s the one who invited her, but she could’ve refused. She should have refused.
She should’ve also refused to do fan mail with us. Especially in those atrocious red leather leggings. The moment I heard her coming, I decided I’d pretend like she’s not even there, but I haven’t been able to ignore her. Her red-clad legs draw my eyes after themselves no matter what I do. What’s worse, I catch myself checking her expression. Is she comfortable with what’s happening? Are the rest of the band members nice to her? Does CJ continue hovering around her? And Zach, that bleeping punk. He’s worse than CJ sometimes because he can be awkward when he tries to flirt, but his sincerity works like a charm.
CJ does stay close to Alexandra. He never leaves her side once. After his invitation to go out, Alexandra seems to be in excellent spirits and smiles, smiles, smiles. She has a pretty smile. Happy and a little shy. No wonder CJ gravitates toward her. She’s definitely his type—petite, curvy, long hair. Hangs on CJ’s every word.
“Are you coming to Riot Night too?” Alexandra looks at me through her bangs, eyes full of… What is it? What does she want from me?
I refuse. “Nah.”
“Why the heck not?” Shane asks.
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Nu nikak emu ne ugodit’,” Alexandra says, causing me to smile. There’s no pleasing him.
“He’s kidding.” CJ smooths out her hair. “Marshall would never miss Riot Night. Right, Marsh?” He shoots me a meaningful look.
I nod. “Right.”
After all, if I go, I can watch how things are progressing between CJ and his matryoshka. And stop it.
> <
There’s a burger shack on the outskirts of Portland that we have been frequenting since before anyone knew us. The place has lost some popularity with the locals over the years with an abundance of new chain franchises popping up like mushrooms after the rain, but we continue going there to satisfy our cravings for grease burgers and fresh cut fries. We usually call the owner a couple hours before closing, and she prepares us food and lets us linger an hour after she closes the door. She even refuses to take any tips for that, just says she loves seeing us all “grown-up and handsome.”
When we arrive, the last of the customers file through the door, a couple of them throwing glances our way. Alexandra pulls her head into her shoulders and hides under the hood of her jacket. If such a small encounter makes her uncomfortable, how is she going to handle interviews and gigs with thousands of people present?
A table waits for us, piled with baskets of fries, onion rings, double-patty cheeseburgers, and dipping sauces. Straws from soda cups stick out like red and white spears. My mouth waters in anticipation of fat, salt, and sugar heaven.
“It’s been a while,” says the owner as she flips the sign to closed.
“Hello, Jess,” I say, the rest of us echoing my greeting. “Thanks for having us.”
“Anytime. But who’s that with you? You’ve never brought a girl before.” Jess eyes our new bassist with excited curiosity.
The tiny Russian emerges from under her hood. “I’m Alexandra.”
“Jess. Nice to meet you. And who’s your poison?”
Alexandra’s mouth drops open for a second.
“She’s CJ’s girlfriend,” I say with my most winning smile.
“She’s totally mine!” Zach yells from the table, through a mouthful of fries.
“What did I tell you earlier?” Alexandra scolds Zach, then turns to Jess. “I’m no one’s girlfriend. I’m a co-worker.”
Jess laughs. “Girl, you got your hands full then.”
“You have no idea.” Alexandra chuckles before she stabs me with one last warning look and goes to eat.
Everyone stuffs their faces, but I’m on high alert and just stand there, watching CJ with his girl. He has one arm around Alexandra’s back while she looks up at him, chattering away.
His girl.
CJ and Alexandra. Together. I’m not in the picture at all.
“Marsh, you’re awful weird lately,” Shane says around the straw of his soda. “Are you going to eat or what?”
Alexandra slides out an empty chair next to her. “I promise I won’t bite. Just this once.”
I drop on the indicated chair and karate chop CJ’s hand when he reaches for a burger from a basket in front of me. “This one’s mine.”
Shane hides a laugh behind his fist, feigning a cough. “Are you talking about food or—”
I kick his foot under the table. “What else could I be talking about?”
He leans to look at CJ’s arm on Alexandra then waggles his eyebrows at me. I ignore him.
“So, Alexandra, the deal with The Label was that we get who we get and we don’t complain. But I must admit, we don’t know anything about you.” Zach shovels spoonful after spoonful of a thick shake into his mouth. “I tried to look you up online, but there’s no one named Alexandra Lermontova who matches your looks on any of the large social media networks. Or newspapers. Or anything. So where did you come from? What does your family do? How did you learn to play music?”
Alexandra dips a fry in ketchup and steals a sideways glance at me. “You looked me up?”
“I didn’t. Zach’s the one with nothing else to do.”
She turns to the pianist again. “You already know I’m from Saint Petersburg. A regular neighborhood with teachers, factory workers, and software engineers. My parents owned a convenience store. Groceries, an assortment of other necessities. It was close to a school, and we had a bunch of kids popping in for snacks. Mama loved them. She loved ordering fun things to sell to them.”
“Owned?” Graham asks. He’s always the first one to pick up little nuances like this.
“Yeah, they don’t anymore. The Russian economy is always challenging. A couple of years ago, my dad borrowed money to keep the shop afloat after he had remodeled it, but it didn’t work out.” Alexandra’s expression grows distant.
Before I can ask what’s wrong, she continues, “And I learned music like any other Russian kid. At seven or eight, you enroll in a music school for seven years, take a specialty, solfeggio, choir, music history and literature.”
“Seven years?” Zach keeps asking. “Then what?”
“Then you graduate and hope for the best. My best ended up being me coming here to relieve CJ of the bass duty.” She flashes our former bassist an enormous smile, and I almost think she’s genuinely happy if not for her earlier subdued behavior. “Most people don’t do anything. Just play music for their own pleasure. Others attend more school. I was going to try for Saint Petersburg State Conservatory and a few places in Moscow after high school, but hey. This is better, right?”
Alexandra keeps mentioning how all of her plans stopped with Project Viper like she never intended to join us. It’s beyond weird.
“What did you study originally?” I ask despite the danger of coming off as confrontational again.
“Vocals.” Alexandra’s voice is so small, I’m not sure I heard her right.
“Vocals?” Shane sounds as surprised as I feel. “You studied singing? What about bass then?”
Alexandra drags another fry through her ketchup with more precision and deliberation than the task warrants. “I learned how to play guitar with my dad for fun. He was a great guitarist.”
Everyone’s quiet.
So, she’s a singer and not a bassist after all, just like I thought. Finding out that I’ve been right all along doesn’t exactly bring all the satisfaction I thought it would. Also, she’s too good for a complete novice. Fine, she played guitar before, but to switch to a bass guitar in such a short time and own it? She’s kind of scary.
Alexandra’s eyes meet mine, her own full of guilt. Or maybe fear. Guilt I can deal with, but I’d rather not be responsible for any kind of fear from her anymore. I pick up a strawberry milkshake and set it in front of Alexandra, hoping to distract her enough to wipe away the sheepish look on her face. “So you studied vocals. You seem to be handling the bass just fine.”
Shane gasps. “Are you feeling alright?” With an accompaniment of chortles from the other guys, he reaches over the table to feel my forehead.
Smiling, I lean backward in my chair. “I’m fine.”