Mikey leaves in the middle of the night a week later, the end of June, parking the band van outside my building at two a.m.
He knocks softly on my door, calling my name. When I open the door, he says, “We have to leave early. It’s crazy, we’re on a weird schedule to make the first show tomorrow.” He’s jittery, excited. I can feel the nervous energy coming off him.
He puts a piece of paper on top of the card table. It’s got his cell phone number, Bunny’s and Ariel’s numbers, and his tour schedule. “I know you don’t have a phone, but maybe you can use Leonard’s or the phone at work if you have an emergency, okay? And you can email me from the library.”
Mikey bends his head close to me, so that I can almost feel his cheek against mine.
“This is really going to be something, I think,” he chatters. “I think we’ve got a line on doing a record at a studio up in Northern California, too. I mean, that would be fucking awesome, right, C?”
I duck my face, but he catches me in his arms. I count to twenty, very slowly, in my head. He kisses my forehead.
Keep your shit together and stay strong, he whispers in my ear.
