Joe Schreiber: Perry's killer playlist

It definitely wasn’t Paula’s fault. She’d made it pretty clear that she was ready whenever I was, which I guess made me one of the worst deal-closers of all time. Throughout junior high and high school, all I’d thought about was the day I’d finally get rid of the virginity problem. Now here was Paula with her knockout face and smoking body-an experienced woman, no less-patiently waiting to teach me so that I wouldn’t knee-and-elbow my way through the chicken dance of sexual initiation the way my parents’ generation had, decoding the lyrics of bad eighties hair-metal power ballads as our Kama Sutra. Exactly what did you say to a girl after she shook you all night long? And was pouring some sugar on someone as sticky as it sounded?

We were an enlightened generation. Chow had lost his cherry to his girlfriend back in his sophomore year of high school, Sasha and Caleb had never had any problems scoring (“Dude,” Sasha once said, with absolute sincerity, “why do you think we even play in a band?”), and even Norrie sounded like he was at it pretty routinely with his current girlfriend. Here I was, paralyzed at the starting line, waiting. For what? True love? A sign from God? A long weekend in Paris?

Therapy was what I needed, and a lot of it. Meanwhile, I wondered if there was a Virgins Anonymous program in some church basement somewhere, or at least a cult in southern Connecticut in need of one to sacrifice.

Throughout it all, Paula remained super cool about the whole thing. She always said she’d wait until I was ready. But how long before her anticipation turned to exasperation?

Meanwhile, I tried not to think about it.

It was a great plan, and sometimes it almost worked.

When we got back to the house, Mom was in the kitchen with her laptop and a glass of wine. We’d just moved in at the end of the summer-the workmen were still finishing the addition over the garage, and there were color tiles spread out on every surface, two thousand shades of white. It looked like a Michael Bolton concert on our kitchen table.

“Hi, Perry. Oh, hello, Paula. How was the beach?”

“It was great.”

“I’ve always loved that stretch of shoreline, especially in the fall.” She cast her gaze across at the sea of nearly identical rectangles fanned out across the table. “Which color do you like for the upstairs bathroom, honey? Isabelline or Cosmic Latte?”

“Mom,” I said, “Paula and I have got some really great news.”

Mom looked up, her face suddenly slack with surprise. “You’re not getting married, are you?”

“What? No. ”

“Thank God.” Mom reached for her wineglass. “I mean, not that you’re not a wonderful, terrific person, Paula, but-”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Stormaire,” Paula said, and flicked her eyes in my direction. She still hadn’t gotten to the point where she could comfortably call my mom “Julie” yet. “For a second there, the way Perry said that, I think I almost had a heart attack too.”

“So I assume that means you’re also not…” Mom gestured with her hands in front of her stomach.

“What?” I said. “Full?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Seriously, Mom?”

“Honey, I’m sorry, but these are the thoughts that run through a mother’s mind.” And before I could ask her why they had to be the thoughts that ran out of her mouth, she was back on the laptop, clicking away, talking and typing at the same time. “You know, I was thinking, since this is going to be our first Thanksgiving in the new house, and Paula, I know that your family is out in California… would you like to come and have Thanksgiving with us?”

I took a deep breath. “I might not be around for Thanksgiving.”

The typing noise stopped. From here I could see that she’d been updating her Facebook page, and in the silence I could feel her status changing. “Oh?”

“I was trying to tell you-”

“Tell us what?” That was Dad, coming down the stairs and around the corner with his iPhone in his hand and the Times under his arm. Immediately reading a disturbance in the emotional weather of the room, he turned to my mother. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” Mom was frowning, and two red spots had appeared on her cheeks. “Your son hasn’t told me yet.”

“Perry?” My father put on his stern attorney voice. “What’s going on?”

“Look,” I started, and that was probably a good start, but at that moment, the rusty Econoline van came squealing up into our driveway and I saw Norrie and Caleb jump out and start lugging their guitar cases and drums up toward our garage with the unquestioning sense of purpose that comes from not being able to go anywhere without hauling five hundred pounds of equipment along. We’d been using my house for practice for the past couple weeks, and they must have assumed that my announcement of tonight’s meeting was business as usual.

“I should go talk to those guys.”

“Maybe you should wait,” Paula said.

“Why?”

She pointed out the window, not that it was necessary. There was no mistaking the tubercular gargle of the vehicle as it charged down the street and pulled in behind the van and Paula’s car. Linus Feldman drove a burgundy 1996 Olds 88, its chassis rusted and flaking down the primer, its remaining paint the color of an old bruise. Linus’s car doubled as his office, meaning the passenger seat was usually overflowing with unanswered correspondence, disputed contracts and flyers for our shows, past and future. Stepping out, he emerged in a swirl of paperwork and Starbucks cups.

“Stormaire?” he bellowed, arriving at the front door without bothering to knock. “Is Paula in there? Send that duplicitous wench out here now.”

Paula sighed. “Hi, Linus.”

“Linus?” Dad blinked. “What’s he doing here?”

Having trumpeted his arrival in no uncertain terms, Linus stood on our porch, arms crossed, with the air of a man who could wait forever. He was floating in a corduroy suit jacket with suede elbow patches and khaki pants, and his fluffy white popcorn hair seemed to swell, doubling and tripling with the sheer ferocity of his indignation.

I opened the door. “Hi, Linus.”

“Did you sign a contract?”

“No, I-”

“But you’ve seen it.”

“A contract for what?” Dad asked, alternating his attention between me and Linus. He knew that Linus was a lawyer like himself, a brotherhood with an overlap that might ideally permit them to use some kind of professional shorthand, although on the few occasions when they’d met, it seemed to work the opposite way, signals crossing, interfering with each other’s frequencies. “Perry, what’s going on?”

“Take it easy, Linus,” Paula said. “Let’s all just breathe.”

“Don’t patronize me, Yoko.” Linus held up a sheet of paper, thrusting it in our faces as if it were a warrant for someone’s arrest. “An e-mail from George Armitage’s assistant? This is how I find out that you’re taking Inchworm on a European tour?”

“That was an oversight,” Paula said. “George was supposed to let me tell you myself.”

“This is completely unacceptable.”

“Wait-”

“Europe?” Mom said. “Perry? When were you planning on telling us about this?”

Dad reached for the e-mail in Linus’s hand. “May I see this, please?”

“These terms are absurd,” Linus said, snatching the e-mail away before any of us could see it. “You can tell George Armitage that he can take his tour and shove it up his-”

“Perry’s never been out of the country before,” Mom said.

“That’s not true,” I said. “I went to Toronto for the Shakespeare festival my junior year. And we all went to Paradise Island for Christmas that year. My passport’s up to date.”