Chaos

by Jamie Shaw

  “What’s the point in dressing up for him?” he asks with the echo of our footsteps following us down the hall.

  “Who says it’s for him?”

  “Kit,” Kale complains, and I stop walking. At the top of the stairs, I turn and face him.

  “Kale, you know this is what I want to do with my life. I’ve wanted to be in a big-name band since middle school. And Shawn is an amazing guitarist. And so is Joel. And Adam is an amazing singer, and Mike is an amazing drummer . . . This is my chance to be amazing. Can’t you just be supportive?”

  My twin braces his hands on my shoulders, and I have to wonder if it’s to comfort me or because he’s considering pushing me down the stairs. “You know I support you,” he says. “Just . . . ” He twists his lip between his teeth, chewing it cherry red before releasing it. “Do you have to be amazing with him? He’s an asshole.”

  It’s not like I can’t understand why Kale is worried. He knew how much I liked Shawn before that party, and that night, he squeezed every last detail out of me. He knew I gave Shawn my virginity, so he knew why I cried myself to sleep for the next few weeks when Shawn never called.

  “Maybe he’s a different person now,” I reason, but Kale’s dark eyes remain skeptical as ever.

  “Maybe he’s not.”

  “Even if he isn’t, I’m a different person now. I’m not the same nerd I was in high school.”

  I start down the stairs, but Kale stays on my heels, yapping at me like a nippy dog. “You’re wearing the same boots.”

  “These boots are killer,” I say—which should be obvious, but apparently needs to be said.

  “Just do me a favor?”

  At the front door, I turn around and begin backing onto the porch. “What favor?”

  “If he hurts you again, use those boots to get revenge where it counts.”

  I laugh and take a big step forward to squeeze my brother in a hug. “Promise. Love you, Kale. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

  With a big sigh, he hugs me back. And then he lets me go.

  It takes me an hour to drive to Mayfield. An hour of drumming my fingers against my Jeep’s steering wheel and blasting the music so loud that I can’t hear myself think. My GPS interrupts the eardrum massacre to give me directions to a club called Mayhem, and I park in the side parking lot of a massive square of a building.

  With my Jeep in a spot and my ignition turned off, I drum on my steering wheel a few more times before smacking the heel of my palm against my glove compartment. It pops open, a hairbrush spills out, and I use it to tame my wind-tangled locks.

  Earlier this week, the name of Shawn’s band—The Last Ones to Know—popped up on one of my favorite bands’ websites. I blinked once, twice, and then pushed my nose toward the screen to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.

  They were looking for a new rhythm guitarist. After doing a little digging, I found out that their old one, Cody, got kicked out of the band. The website didn’t say why, and I didn’t care. There was an opening, and everything in me told me to send an email to the email address listed at the bottom of the online flyer.

  I typed the email in a daze—as if my guitar-loving fingers wanted to be in the band even more than my spaced-out brain did. I wrote that I had been in a band in college but that we broke up to go our separate ways, I sent a YouTube link to one of our songs, I asked for an audition, and I signed my name.

  Less than half an hour later, I received a reply overflowing with exclamation points and an audition time, and I wasn’t sure if I should smile or cry. It was a chance to make all my dreams come true. But in order to do that, I’d have to face the dream that had already been crushed.

  These past six years, I’ve tried not to think about it. I’ve tried to erase his face from my mind. But that day, with that email in front of me, it all came back in a rush.

  Green eyes. Messy black hair. An intoxicating scent that seemed to linger on my skin for days, weeks.

  I give my head a little shake to clear Shawn from my mind. Then I finish brushing my hair and take one last glance in my rearview mirror. Satisfied I don’t look nearly as messy as I feel, I hop onto the asphalt and haul my guitar case from the backseat.

  Now or never.

  After a deep breath of city air, I begin making my way around the concrete fortress casting shadow over the parking lot. Unforgiving rays of afternoon sunshine wrap themselves around my neck and send beads of sweat trickling between my shoulder blades. My combat boots hit the sidewalk step by heavy step, and I force them to keep lifting and falling, lifting and falling. It isn’t until I’m at a massive set of double doors that I finally stop long enough to let myself think.

  I raise my hand. I lower it. I raise it again. I flex my fingers.

  I take a deep breath.

  I knock.

  During the seconds that tick away between my knock and the door opening, I think about grabbing my guitar case from where it’s propped against the wall and hightailing it back to my Jeep. I think about who will open the door. I think about Kale and wonder what in the hell I’m doing.

  But then the door is swinging open and I’m stuck on the threshold of a decision that could make my life or ruin it.

  Long dark chocolate hair. Fierce brown eyes. A piercing gaze that smacks me right in the face. The girl—who I’m guessing is the one who responded to my email and signed her name “Dee”—trails her eyes all the way down to my boots and then back up again. “The band isn’t here to sign shit or take pictures,” she says.

  Apparently, I’ve offended her just by breathing. “Okay?” My eyebrow lifts from the sheer gust of hostility she throws at me, and I resist the urge to glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m in the right place. “I’m not here for autographs or pictures . . . ”

  “Great.” She begins closing the door in my face, but I slap my hand against it before she can shut me out.

  “Are you Dee?” I ask, and the girl’s glare hardens with either recognition or irritation. Maybe both. She’s so focused on trying to murder me with her eyes that she doesn’t even notice when a blonde-haired girl pops up behind her. With nothing to lose, I wedge my combat boot against the door and hold out my hand. “I’m Kit. We spoke over email?”

  “You’re Kit?” the blonde asks, and the brown-haired girl that I’m assuming is Dee slowly offers up her hand.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say with an apologetic laugh, realizing why the girls are acting like I’m some kind of groupie. Probably because I look like one, with my barely there top and my spider-leg mascara. “Yeah. I have four older brothers who thought Katrina was too girly of a name.”

  The running joke is that I didn’t even know my name was Katrina until grade school—but it isn’t a joke, because I’m pretty sure I really didn’t. The boys boycotted the name my mom had insisted on, and eventually she gave up the good fight. It was Kit from the day I was born, and the only people who call me Katrina are people who don’t really know me.

  “And you’re here to audition?” the blonde asks.

  I pull my guitar case from where it’s propped against the wall and give them a big smile. “I hope so. It is okay that I’m a girl, right?”

  “Yeah,” the blonde rushes to say, but Dee still has her eyes narrowed with skepticism.

  Having been the only girl in an all-guy band in college, I’m used to it, so I’m not surprised when she says, “That depends . . . Are you a girl who can play the guitar?”

  “I think so,” I deadpan. “I mean, it’s difficult since my vagina is constantly getting in the way, but I’ve learned to manage it just like any other handicap.” I pause for dramatic effect, my expression somber when I add, “Sadly, I don’t get special parking.”

  A long moment of silence passes where I’m sure my brand of humor is lost on the two chicks in front of me, but then Dee bursts out laughing and they both lead me inside.

  On our walk through a short hallway, the blonde apologizes for the rude welcome and tells me her name
is Rowan, and then we turn into the cavernous space that is Mayhem. A massive bar lines one wall, a stage lines the other, and in the middle of the room sits a row of card tables and six foldout chairs—like some kind of makeshift setup for the judges of American Idol.

  I cross the club to lean my guitar against the stage and, in an attempt to convince myself Shawn isn’t about to magically appear at any freaking moment, I say, “So it’s just going to be us?”

  “No—” Dee starts, but she’s barely gotten the word out before a back door opens and bright afternoon sunlight spills onto the floor, paving the way for all four remaining members of The Last Ones to Know.

  Joel Gibbon enters first, his blond hair giving him away. In high school, it was a gelled mess that stood up all over the place; now it’s a disciplined Mohawk that cuts a line down the center of his head. He’s followed by Mike Madden, who looks the same and yet somehow more manly, like he grew into himself. Adam Everest walks in next, looking even hotter than he did six years ago. His hair is still long and untamed, his jeans still look like they got into a fight with a paper shredder and lost, and his wrists are still adorned with stacks of mismatched bracelets. The blonde girl walks to meet him, and I feel sorry for the way she’s going to feel when Adam decides to stop calling.

  And then, I get my first glimpse of Shawn Scarlett just before the door closes behind him. My eyes fight to adjust back to the dim lighting, and when it does, he’s all I can see. He has that same dark hair, that same scruffy jaw, that same look about him that makes it hard for me to breathe.

  “Guys, this is Kit,” Dee says while Shawn continues stealing the breath from my lungs. “She’s up next.”

  They all look me over as they gather close, with only Adam and Joel managing to contain their ogling. When I see the way Shawn is raking his eyes over me, a satisfied smile sneaks onto my face. After six years of not being able to forget him, this single moment is making it all worthwhile. Whether he remembers me or not, he’s staring at me like I’m the hottest chick he’s ever seen.

  These pants were so worth it.

  “We thought you were a dude,” Joel says, wrapping his arm around Dee’s shoulder and giving me an excuse to play it cool.

  “Yeah,” I say, withdrawing my gaze from Shawn even though I can feel his green eyes still tracing over the curves of my exposed skin. “I gathered that when your girlfriend tried to close the door in my face.”

  “Have we met before?” Shawn asks, and a laugh almost bubbles out of me. Have we met? Yeah, I guess you could call it that.

  He’s staring at me with a slight squint to his enchanted forest eyes, but I refuse to let them charm me. Instead, I meet them with a smirk and say, “We went to the same school.”

  “What year were you?”

  “Three under you.”

  “Didn’t you used to come to our shows?” Mike asks, but I stare at Shawn for a moment longer, waiting to see if my smile, my eyes, or my voice jog his memory. The rejected teenage girl in me wants to claw his face off for forgetting me, but rationally, I know he’s given me the upper hand in a game I wasn’t aware I’d be playing. One I’m making up the rules for as I go along.

  When Shawn stares and stares and still can’t place me, I turn to Mike and answer, “Sometimes.”

  As the guys continue asking me questions—have I been in a band before, were we any good, why’d we break up—and I continue giving them answers—in college, we could have been better, because they wanted nine-to-five jobs—I wonder what would happen if Shawn would remember me. Would I be happy? Would he laugh it off? Would he apologize for breaking my teenage heart?

  Any apology now would be too little, too late. It’d be meaningless—and so infuriating that I’d have to use my combat boots to do just what Kale told me to.

  “And you’re sure this is what you want to do with your life?” Mike asks me, and I nod.

  “More than anything.”

  Satisfied, Mike turns to Shawn. “Anything to add? Or should we have her play?”

  Shawn, who hasn’t said another word since asking me what year I was, rubs the back of his neck and nods. “Sure. Let her play.”

  Taking my dismissal for what it is, I walk away and grab my guitar, sliding it onto the stage before hoisting myself up behind it. I force Shawn from my mind and get set up in record time, strapping my Fender around my neck and stepping up to the mic. As I adjust it to fit my height, the guys are all sitting at the tables, laughing and carrying on. All of them but Shawn, who is too bored with my audition to laugh along with the rest of them.

  “What do you want me to play?” I ask, ignoring the way he’s staring at the table in front of him like it’s far more interesting than anything I could possibly do onstage.

  “Your favorite song!” Adam shouts, and the butterflies in my stomach fade away as I concentrate on the music in my head. I think about my options for a moment before chuckling under my breath and stepping back. As soon as I position my fingers and pluck the E string, all six American Idol judges start to groan and I can’t help laughing.

  “Just kidding!” I say into the microphone, knowing they must have heard “Seven Nation Army” by the White Stripes a hundred times by now by amateur guitarists. When I step away from the mic again, I smile down at my guitar, thinking about it for another brief moment before I begin playing “Vices” by Brand New. My fingers slide over the strings, the harshness of my chords assaulting the very foundation of the building we’re in and reminding me how much I’ve missed being onstage. With my old band, I played small venues to small crowds, but a stage is a stage, and a show is a show. Performing is in my blood now—like being A positive or B negative. I couldn’t forget what it feels like if I tried.

  When Adam’s hand lifts, I reluctantly stop playing.

  “Do you write your own stuff?” he asks before my heart can sink too far. When I nod, he asks me to play something, and I play one of the new untitled songs I’ve been working on just because it’s the freshest on my fingers.

  Again, I don’t get far into it before he stops me.

  I wait for him to tell me I suck and order me to leave, but then the guys share a few words and all stand in unison, their chairs screeching against the floor as they get slid back. When Shawn, Adam, Joel, and Mike walk toward the stage, my heart beats hard, climbing inch by inch into my throat. I try to play it cool as Mike sits at the drums, as Joel and Shawn collect their guitars and hook them up, as Adam takes his place at the mic.

  Adam names one of their songs and asks me if I know it, and I nod in a daze. My chin is still moving when Adam’s thumb goes up and Mike’s drumsticks tap together. Three taps, and then I’m swept up in a performance with The Last Ones to freaking Know.

  We play bits and pieces of a few songs, and I’m feeling really, really good about my audition, when Adam gives me a big smile and says, “Okay. I think that’s good. Have we heard enough?”

  He glances at Mike and Joel, who are both smiling equally wide and nodding, and then he looks at Shawn, who nods too, with no light in his eyes whatsoever. No smile, either—not a small one, not a forced one, just nothing. He doesn’t even try.

  “Yeah,” Shawn says, turning that unfazed expression on me. “Thanks for coming. We’ll give you a call.”

  I stare at him blankly, not giving myself permission to speak or think or feel—not with him standing in front of me, staring at me like I’m nothing. I politely thank the guys, and then I gather my things.

  I leave knowing I’ll never hear from them again.

  Because I know what it means when Shawn Scarlett says he’s going to give you a call.

  Chapter Two

  “FIND FROYO,” I order my phone on the way out of Mayhem’s parking lot. I’m not going to cry. Not going to cry. Not going to shed a single goddamn tear.

  I am, however, going to drown myself in the biggest bucket of frozen yogurt I can find.

  “Sorry, I do not understand,” the robotic voice of my phone says back to
me syllable by syllable, and I growl at it sitting down in my cup holder before repeating myself.

  “Find fro-zen yo-gurt.”

  “Can you repeat that?”

  “FOR GOD’S SAKE, HELP ME OUT HERE.”

  “Say that again?”

  “I WILL END YOU.”

  “That’s not nice.”

  I’m about to pick my bitch phone up and pitch it out the window, when the damn thing starts ringing. Unknown number. Seeing an opportunity to take my frustration out on an unsuspecting telemarketer, I whip my Jeep into a gas station and answer it. “Yeah?”

  “Kit?”

  I pull my phone away from my ear to stare at the number again before answering. “Yes?”

  “Hey. It’s Dee.”

  My heart launches into my throat, and I barely manage a pathetic, “Oh . . . hey.”

  “Hey, I just wanted to let you know that we all freaking loved you!”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, you got the job!”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Seriously?”

  Dee laughs, and I silently thank God I didn’t chuck my phone into a pothole. “Yeah, you were awesome. Seriously, you blew it out of the water. I only have one last question before we make it official-official.”

  Yeeeah, because that doesn’t sound ominous at all. “Okay?”

  “Which of the guys do you think is the hottest?”

  I glance around the gas station for some kind of candid camera. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Nope, simple question. You could bang one, who do you choose? Adam and Shawn are pretty hot, but Joel is hotter, right?”

  It’s a trap. It’s a giant deadly trap with flashing neon signs, because from my time in Mayhem, I could tell Adam was with Rowan and Joel was with Dee . . . sooo . . . I really have no idea what the hell is going on. “None of the above?”

  “Aw, come on,” Dee coaxes. “I’m just curious, honest. No one is even around me right now, and I swear I won’t tell.”

  Never in my life have I been a girl’s kind of girl. I’ve never kissed and bragged. I’ve never squealed over boys. And I’ve certainly never told an absolute stranger about my high school crush on Shawn Scarlett, so I’m not going to start spilling my guts now, right after that crush rose from the dead and pushed its dirty zombie fingers up and out of my chest.