by Jean Haus
I hate this stupid shit. I hate crying. But the more I try to control it, the more tears fall.
This is why I don’t hang with my friends very often anymore. Their concern, though touching, breaks my heart. I spent four years working toward my goal of a scholarship. To have achieved that goal, give it up, and be continually reminded of it just plain sucks. Yet I’m also aware that if Chloe and Marcus had gone off to college, I’d be a total wreck. That my friends are still here is something, actually at the moment if feels like everything.
I’m breathing deep and letting out air slow when what looks like a folded bandana comes into my blurred vision.
“Looks like you need this,” someone says in a deep voice.
Embarrassment runs through me as I glance at the guy holding the bandana. His mop of dark hair blends into the night. He’s wearing baggy shorts and a white t-shirt. With the lights on the ground, his face is mostly a shadow while his ragged flip-flops are the most defined thing on him.
He jiggles the bandana in my now upright face. “It’s clean.”
Mortified at my obvious public breakdown, I reach for the triangle of fabric. “Um…thanks.”
“No problem.” He falls next to me on the brick. One knee rises as he plants a foot on the wall behind him. While I wipe my eyes, the zip of a lighter sounds in the darkness. “Boyfriend?”
A miserable laugh escapes before I can stop it. “Sort of…” I’m not about to explain my life to a stranger. I can’t even explain it to my friends.
“Guys can be dicks.” I hear the grin in his words.
“Yeah…” I finish wiping my eyes while wondering why this guy is talking to me. Why he won’t let me cry in peace.
He lets out a stream of smoke. “Trust me, it will get better. And one day you won’t even remember what you saw in such an ass.”
Though I wish he’d go somewhere else, the conviction in his tone has me saying, “Sounds like you have experience.”
His teeth flash white in the darkness. His hand sprays across his chest. “Thought my heart was shattered. Thought I was dying. Later I realized she wasn’t worth such a response.”
I dig my vans into the cement. “Actually, I don’t want to be disrespectful. He wasn’t a dick. He…just didn’t like me enough for a long distance relationship. I can’t hate him for that.”
My shadowy bandana man is silent.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Too much stranger information.”
He shakes his head. “No. I was just stunned. That’s some mature thinking for someone who’s…What’s the cut off for getting in here? Sixteen?”
“Eighteen,” I mutter with irritation lacing my tone. “I’m eighteen. Nineteen in two months.”
A chuckle escapes him.
My face warms. And the red’s probably noticeable since at five feet four inches, I’m far closer to the string lights than him. Embarrassed about crying and now my looks, I hold out the bandana. “Thanks. I should get going. I, uh, didn’t snot on it or anything.”
He stubs his cigarette out on the brick wall then reaches for the bandana. His warm hand brushes mine. “Are you going to be alright?”
Though confused why he’d care, I nod.
“Here, you might not need it,” he says, digging in his back pocket then holding out a card until I take it. “But just in case.”
Thoroughly confused now, I take the card—I don’t want to be rude—stuff it in my front pocket, mumble a goodbye, and wander through the semidarkness. This time I stop in the bathroom. No one pays attention to me while I rinse my face and dry it with a rough paper towel. A quick look in the mirror shows slightly red, puffy eyes. In the dark of the theater, Marcus shouldn’t be able to notice. Or at least I’m hoping so. If Marcus even suspects I’ve been crying, he won’t let it go until I spill everything.
I do have to squeeze my way back between the crowd, repeat ‘excuse me’ multiple times, and even get a few dirty looks, but I finally make it back to Marcus.
“Cool,” he says. “They’re just about to get started. Long line?”
“Very,” I say, looking ahead and pretending to have a huge interest in the stage.
“You’re going to love this band.”
Not enough to try out. I keep my eyes on the stage, but give him a closed lipped smile.
The stage lights up and the crowd grows loud. Amid shouts and claps and people going nuts like idiots, four guys step on the stage. They don’t say anything just take their places. Of course, my eyes follow the drummer. He pounds four times on the snare drum and the band immediately breaks into music. I recognize My Chemical Romance’s Teenager.
The crowd goes more wild. I watch the drummer. He’s good. The song sounds good too. Though it’s similar to the original, they sped it up—an eighth I’d guess—which gives it a louder feel.
Next to me, Marcus does a fist pump dance and sings with the song. “Good huh?” he shouts at me.
Though the verdict is still out, I nod. I tap my fingers on the banister and watch with a critical eye—and ear—more than for fun.
The next song, Gamma Ray by Beck, is totally different. I recall Marcus saying they played a variety. Guess this major switch proves it. After watching the drummer again, I check out the rest of the band. They’re obviously all talented and the singer can sing, but the non-music part of me notices the muscled arms playing the instruments and the shine of the singer’s bare chest. Though I can’t make out faces from this far, I have a feeling some of the girls aren’t here for just the music. The eye candy just might have something to do with the large female crowd directly in front of the stage.
The third song is something I’ve never heard before. Though catchy with a long repeating chorus and fast beat, there’s a folk influence in there. I nudge Marcus. “What’s this?” I mouth.
“This is theirs,” he shouts in my ear.
My interest goes up a notch. I don’t want it to, but the fact they don’t just do covers impresses me. I nudge Marcus again with my elbow. “What’s their name again?”
“Luminescent Juliet,” he yells in my ear.
I give him a look and a question with it. What kind of dumb name is that?
He shrugs and keeps up his fist pump dance. For a boy so into music he can so not dance.
Through the rest of the set, I mostly watch the drummer until the thud and want in my chest has me glancing at the rest of the band, but my eyes always go back to the drummer. He really is good. He also looks like he’s enjoying himself. Between songs, the singer says some stupid shit but for the most part, the band seems to be serious about the music. I like that.
Once the singer yells out, “Goodnight!” The band heads off the stage and Marcus turns to me as the lights come on. “What do you think?”
“They’re good.” I go to leave with the rest of the crowd, but he puts on a hand on my arm.
“Think you’ll try out?”
I press my lips together.
He grins. “Tell me you’re thinking about it.”
“Probably not.” He opens his mouth but I cut him off. “Can we go?”
He nods below us to the people leaving. “Give it a minute. I want to introduce you to the band.”
My brows rise. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew them?”
He shrugs. “I just know the singer. He gave me the tickets. He lives in my dorm but we can meet the rest of them too.”
“No way…I’m not in the mood.”
“Come on, Riley.”
I shake my head.
“Okay then just let me say hi.” After another of my looks, he adds, “I told him I was coming.”
“Fine. Just don’t introduce me.”
We follow the end of the crowd down the stairs then wait to get into the main theater until it’s almost empty. A few stragglers like us hang out near the stage. Well, Marcus is near the stage. I’m a few feet back resting on a rail.
He’s talking to some guy about the performance when I remember bandana man fr
om outside and the card in my pocket. I give the room a peek for a guy in a white t-shirt and shorts. No bandana guy in sight. I dig the card out. Since I thought the guy gave me his number—not that I’d call him—I blink at the black and green ink. One words stands out the most. Suicide. Then free and help. Slowly, like at the pace of a waltz, I realize he gave me a card to the Suicide Hotline.
My face warms. Looking around and still not finding the guy from outside, I stuff the card in my pocket.
Just because a girl’s in a dark alley crying doesn’t mean she’s suicidal. Yet beyond the embarrassment burning throughout me I’m touched that someone would try to help me, even if he got it wrong.
Like way wrong.
Still, I can see where bandanna man was coming from. I probably looked pretty pathetic out there crying alone. Major loser. The weight of my life just pulled me down for a moment. That’s all. I’m okay. My hand presses over the card in my pocket. I’ve never thought about that. However, crying in a dark alley alone does point to the fact I may need a change in my life.
A major change.
So adrift in thought, I’m startled to notice the band has come out. The singer stands with an arm around some girl’s waist and a beer in his other hand while talking to Marcus. This close, I can see that his body matches his face. He’s quite good looking with dark blond hair, deep dimples, and a crooked white grin. Chloe would be whispering smoking hot in my ear if she were here. As they talk, other guys come out on stage and start packing up. The tall drummer starts tearing apart his set. The bass player talks within another group a few feet away. Shorter and energetic he exudes fun. He still bounces a bit as if on stage.
I’m watching the drummer and thinking about being able to pack up drums when the guitar player comes over to Marcus and the singer. Chloe wouldn’t whisper smoking hot. It would loudly tear out of her mouth with an F-bomb. While the singer is eye candy, the guitar player is walking lust. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Muscled body in a tight, dark tank top. The girls waiting behind him practically pant.
He brushes the angled flop of hair out of his eyes and looks up. Our eyes meet. Shit. He’s caught me staring. His eyes narrow. My face flushes as my gaze finds the floor. He probably thinks I’m panting after him like the other girls. Doesn’t know I’m just musically interested.
Feeling like an idiot, I find the nerve to glance up at the stage. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see both the guitar player and singer still talking with Marcus. No one looks at me. I cross my arms, stare at the far wall of old torn wallpaper, and mentally will Marcus to shut up and come on. Behind my irritation, drums beat in my head.
After I’ve studied frayed wallpaper like its displayed art, Marcus comes up to me. “You ready?”
“No, I thought I’d stare at the wallpaper for another five minutes.” I spin away. Marcus catches up with me in the theater lobby. “Shit Riley, slow down.” But the whirl in my head has me moving fast. Maybe if I keep moving, the thought that’s entered my brain won’t come out.
“Why is the drummer quitting?” I ask as we step onto the sidewalk.
“He’s transferring to another university.” Marcus digs for his keys even though we’re still several blocks from his car. “He’s good but you’re better.”
I don’t say anything. Rather imagine playing again. Excitement churns in my gut.
“So?” Marcus elbows me in the side.
I don’t want to play on stage. I’d rather be in the Marching Band. But I want to play. Bad. “You have their play list?”
A grin breaks out on his face. “I can load it on your iPod. I already told my mom you’d be practicing in the garage.”
My eyes narrow on his grin. This time I give him a nudge. A hard one right in his ribs.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
