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“Are you sure?” But she sounds relieved.
“Yeah. I’ll be back. Sorry,” I mumble again.
I spend a miserable fifteen minutes outside. When I come back, the club is packed. There’s hardly standing room. A
He kisses her slowly and deeply. They don’t care that anyone could watch. Or maybe they’ve forgotten they aren’t alone. When they break apart, A
I turn toward the bar for a bottle of water, but A
“Better?” St. Clair asks, but not in a mean way. He looks concerned.
“Yeah. Thanks. Sorry about all that.”
“No problem.” And I think we’re leaving it at that when he adds, “I understand what it’s like to be ashamed of a parent. My father is not a good man. I don’t talk about him either. Thank you for trusting us.”
His serious tone throws me, and I’m touched by this rare glimpse into his life. A
Max has been too busy to come out and say hello. I feel bad about this. I feel bad about
everything
tonight. “Of course. I promise.”
“You neglected to mention that he’s much cooler than us.” Worry has crept into her voice.
St. Clair, back to himself, is clearly ready with a catty reply, and I’m pleased that the moment he opens his mouth is the same moment Amphetamine explodes into their set. His words—all words but my boyfriend’s—are lost.
The intensity radiating from Max mirrors what I feel burning inside of myself. His lyrics are by turn tender and sweet, scathing and cruel. He sings about falling in love and breaking up and ru
Joh
And it’s for me.
When it’s over, I turn to my friends for their reaction. A
“He’s good, Lola. He’s
really
good,” A
“Has he considered therapy?” St. Clair asks, and A
“How can you—”
“I need the bathroom,” A
He’s weaving his way toward us now. People are clapping him on the back and trying to engage him in conversation, but Max’s eyes are only on mine as he brushes past them. My heart beats faster. The dark roots of his bleached hair and his black T-shirt are sweaty. I’m reminded of the night we met, and there’s a flare inside of me that’s near animalistic.
Max stiffens as he reaches for an embrace. He’s noticed St. Clair. Max’s jaw tightens as he sizes him up, but St. Clair slides in an easy introduction. “Étie
My boyfriend relaxes. “Right.” He shakes St. Clair’s outstretched hand, and then he’s already pulling me away. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
Max. Yes, I want to be with Max.
“Thanks for coming. Tell A
St. Clair looks royally pissed. “Yeah. Sure.”
Max leads me down the block to his van. He opens the door, and I’m surprised to discover it’s still empty. We climb in. “The next band is using Joh
I slam the door, and we’re on top of each other. I want to forget everything. I kiss him hard. He pushes back harder. It doesn’t take long.
We collapse.
I close my eyes. My temples are still throbbing with the sound of his music. I hear the flick of Max’s lighter, but the smell that greets me isn’t cigarette smoke. It’s sweet and sticky. He nudges me in a silent offer. I refuse. The contact high is enough.
Max drops me off around two in the morning. I forget my wig in his van. I feel like a disaster. Once again, I’m racked with guilt and anger and confusion. I drag myself inside, and my parents are there, as if they’ve been waiting by the door since I left. They probably have. I brace myself for their wrath.
It doesn’t come.
“Thank God.” Andy crumples onto our chaise longue.
My parents are both on the verge of tears, and the sight makes me cry for the hundredth time today, huge embarrassing hiccuping sobs. “I’m sorry.”
Nathan embraces me in an iron-tight hug. “Don’t you
ever
do that again.”
I’m shaking. “I won’t. I’m sorry.”
“We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Dolores.” Nathan leads me upstairs, and Andy trails behind. I’m closing my bedroom door when Nathan says, “You smell like pot. We’ll talk about that tomorrow, too.”
I open my window and look into the night sky. “I need your help.”
The moon is thin, a sliver of a waning crescent. But she’s listening.
It’s four in the morning. I can’t sleep, so I tell her about my last twenty-four hours. “And I don’t know what to do,” I say. “It’s all happening at once, but everything I do seems to be wrong.
What am I supposed to do?
”
Cricket’s window slides open. I dive for my closest pair of glasses so that I can see him. His hair is puffy from sleep, even taller than usual, and his eyes are half shut. “You still talk to the moon?” His question isn’t condescending, it’s curious.
“Pretty dumb, huh?”
“Not at all.”
“Did I wake you up? Did you hear me?”
“I heard you talking, but I didn’t hear what you said.”
I let out a slow exhale of relief. I need to be more careful. It doesn’t escape my attention that it’s nice to know when someone is telling the truth. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “It’s Sunday night, you should be in your dorm.”
Cricket is quiet. He’s deciding how to answer. A car with thumping club music cruises down our street, looking for parking. When the bass fades away, he says, “I wanted to make sure you were okay. I was waiting for your light to come on. I fell asleep.” He sounds guilty.
“Oh.”
“I’ll leave early in the morning.” Cricket glances across his room at a clock. He sighs. “In two hours, actually.”
“Well, I’m here. I made it. Barely.”
He stares at me. It’s so intense that it’s almost invasive. I look down at the alley between our houses, and a stray cat is wandering through Andy’s compost pile. “You didn’t have to do that,” I say.