by Nall, Gail
I’m sorry, what? I couldn’t keep up with his barely coherent lyrics? “Right. Well, we’ve already got an offer with another band. But thanks.” At least, we will after tomorrow night, once I get Trevor to agree.
“Then why did you ask me?” Eric shakes his head. “Never mind. I’ve gotta get a shower.”
“Wait!” I grab his dirty sleeve, and then wish I hadn’t. I wipe some mysterious red liquid from my fingers. “Can I grab a ride with you tomorrow night? To Spotlight for Battle of the Bands?”
He holds up a hand and strides off toward the bathroom.
I’m going to take that as a yes.
I’m waiting in the park by the swings at noon on Saturday. For Steve-o Grimaldi, of all people. It’s overcast and chilly, and Eric’s old bomber jacket—the only thing I could find in the hall closet that matched my future as a rock star—isn’t exactly the warmest thing in the world. Also, I’m hoping Steve-o gets here fast, before Eric finally wakes up and finds out I’ve taken his favorite coat and refuses to drive me tonight. He’s a little overprotective of this thing.
At 12:15, I spot Steve-o strolling into the park, right behind a mom with two little kids. He looks like he’s just rolled out of bed himself, his too-long dark hair squashed flat on one side, and when he gets closer, I can see the pillowcase creases on his left cheek. And his bloodshot eyes. It was a questionable choice, asking Steve-o to get me a fake ID, but Spotlight is strictly twenty-one-and-over and I literally couldn’t think of anyone else who’d know how to do that. Steve-o has the Holland Performing and Visual Arts High School fake-ID market cornered. Between that and his other business interests, the guy’s probably a secret millionaire.
He yawns and scratches his sad excuse for beard scruff when he reaches me. “’Morning, Fitzgerald,” he says.
“It’s afternoon. So I brought the money. Where’s the ID?” I hold up the fifty bucks—my entire week’s allowance, which means I’m completely broke now.
“You’re all business today.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.
I cross my arms. “That’s why we’re here. I don’t know about you, but I’ve got stuff to do.” Be nice, Casey. He could veto my whole plan to join the band. “Sorry, I’m just in a hurry, that’s all.”
“I was hoping we could have a little talk about my brother.”
Ugh. “What about?” Never mind that I know exactly what it’s about.
“He’s got a thing for you, you know.” Steve-o smiles his creepy smile.
“Yeah . . .” This was a mistake. I would’ve been better off getting Harrison to drive me to Bloomington and finding some random college student to make a fake. Steve-o’s never really liked me, and I have no idea why. “Trevor’s okay with that?”
Steve-o shrugs, which could mean anything from yes to no to who cares. “So, you like him or what?”
I say the only thing I can think of that won’t make Steve-o mad. “It doesn’t matter, because I’m going out with someone else.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Who? Your little runt friend?”
Okay, rude much? Also, Steve-o is completely clueless if he thinks Harrison is into me. Then again, Amanda did try to set him up with Rosalita, so maybe I am the only one who knows the truth. “No.”
“Someone from school?”
I shrug. Steve-o’s friends with Trevor, but I guess guys don’t really talk about this stuff. Or care about whether their brothers want to go out with girls who have long histories with their friends. Somehow I think being a guy is much less complicated than being a girl.
Steve-o whistles, like I’ve impressed him or something. “College guy? Or some loser from South County?”
Steve-o’s got a lot of nerve calling anyone from the regular high school a loser. Nice—I have to be nice. “It’s new. I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it. Can I have my ID?”
He finally pulls the ID from his pocket and hands it over. There’s something blue under his fingernails, but I don’t think I even want to know what it is. “You theater types are so damn judgmental. Johnny’s a good guy, you know. He’s not the fuckup you think he is.”
“Right.” I’m too busy examining the ID to say anything else. He used my school picture from last year’s yearbook. I’m not looking so hot in it, since I was already dealing with mono but didn’t know it yet. Otherwise, the ID looks good. Surprisingly good. I hand over the money. “Thanks for this.”
Steve-o pockets the bills and pushes his stringy hair behind his ear. “What do you need it for anyway? You going to the show tonight?”
“Maybe.” I don’t know why I’m being so cagy with him. It’s not like he won’t see me there with Trevor.
“I’ll see ya there.” He starts to walk off, but stops. “Johnny’ll be there too, just in case you change your mind.”
Not likely. But since I’ve been nice to Steve-o, I might as well put in a good word for me and Harrison. “Yeah, you know, Harrison and I are thinking of joining a band.”
He looks me up and down, and snorts, like I’ve just told a joke.
I just smile back. He’ll see tonight, when I show up in my most rock-star-appropriate outfit. And no one would deny that I can sing.
They’ll be begging me to join.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Hot,” I say to my reflection that night. I’ve nailed this rock vixen look—short black skirt, black tights with one carefully made hole in the knee, black boots, a tight long-sleeved Manic Banshee shirt, big earrings, red lipstick and black-lined eyes, and super-straight hair with a streak of pink. I’ve even painted my nails a glittery blue. Trevor’s going to double-take so hard when I walk into Spotlight tonight.
“Casey, come on, already!” Eric yells up the stairs. “You’re making me late.”
He went on and on earlier about how this Battle of the Bands is a big deal, and how more than half of the bands on tonight are from Bloomington or Indy—all hoping for the five-thousand-dollar cash prize for the winner. I grab my phone and fly down the stairs. Eric’s already outside in his beat-up old Buick. I yank the rusted passenger door open and slide in.
He looks at me and laughs.
“What?” I pull down the visor and check my face in the cracked mirror.
“Who are you trying to impress? Not that I mind the shirt at all, but the rest of it.” He waves a hand at me. Then a smile creeps across his face. “Wait, you’re meeting someone.”
I play innocent. “No. Maybe. So what? And why are you even noticing anyway?” Most days, I could walk out the door in a bathrobe, and all Eric would say is “Got five for gas?”
“It’s a little hard not to notice when your baby sister’s made up like a groupie.”
I punch him in the arm. “Not nice, jerk-off.”
“About time you were done with that prick Blakeman.”
“What do you have against Trevor?” I ask, just as his phone rings.
He throws it at me without answering my question. “Tell me who it is.”
I catch the buzzing phone. “Um, please?”
“Jesus H., Case. It’s probably Ike. Just look, okay?” He huffs out a breath as he squeals through a left turn. “Please.”
“All right, then.” I peek at the phone. “It’s Dad,” I say in a flat voice.
“Then answer it. It’s one in the morning over there.”
I shake my head and drop the phone into the dirty cup holder in the console, just as it stops ringing. I talk to Dad only when I have to—on our scheduled weekly calls. I don’t make time for people who can’t be bothered to make time for me.
“You’re acting like a baby about this whole thing,” Eric says. He pulls up to a red light, spits on his fingers, and rubs at a smudge on the windshield.
“That’s unsanitary,” I tell him.
“You’re changing the subject.”
“That’s because I don’t want to talk about it.” I cross my arms and slouch in the seat. I don’t get why it’s so easy for Eric to forgive him whe
n Dad left us both.
Eric eyes me in the glow of the stoplight. “You need to get over it. He felt guilty about leaving. Still does because you make him feel that way. You’ve put him through hell, Casey, and it’s not fair.”
I ignore him and choose to watch downtown Holland pass by in a blur of closed stores and empty office buildings. Eric doesn’t say anything else, which is the way I want it.
He pulls up to Spotlight, which is pretty much the only venue in town unless you count the tiny room at the bowling alley where Herman and the Hell-Raisers play Willie Nelson covers every Friday night. I’ve never actually been to Spotlight since technically, I’m not old enough, and well, most nights I was memorizing lines or practicing scales or hooking up with Trevor.
But not anymore. Now I’m 100 percent focused on getting my life back into order. And that starts with getting into Trevor’s band. I just need to remember that it doesn’t start with kissing Trevor.
I shiver a little in the thin, long-sleeved shirt as I wait for Eric to shrug into the bomber jacket I’d borrowed earlier.
“Not a chance,” he says when he sees me eying it.
Such a gentleman. So I wrap my arms around myself and follow him to the side door. He knocks and then turns to me. “You have to go in around front.” He points to the line of people snaking into the parking lot.
“Come on, Eric. It’s freezing out here.” Not to mention that I keep replaying this scene in my head where some burly bouncer takes one look at my fake ID and calls the police.
The door opens, and Eric steps inside. “Around front,” he says. “Look, I’ve gotta help set up. I don’t have time to argue with you.” He pulls the door shut, right in my face. Just as I’m about to give him a well-deserved middle finger, the door pops open again. “Find me after if you need a ride home, okay? And text me if you don’t.”
I give him two middle fingers, which feels really rock-badass. Although maybe it would’ve been more effective if he hadn’t already shut the door again. And I’m breaking out into a whole new layer of goose bumps, so I cross my arms and speed-walk to the end of the line.
I crane my neck to see if I can spot Trevor. The line takes forever to move forward. The longer I stand there, the more nervous I feel. It’s kind of like that time Amanda had her one moment of rebellion and decided we needed to sneak into a second movie when we were twelve. It was the last Harry Potter movie, even though we’d already seen it twice. We didn’t get caught or anything, but I felt exactly like I do now.
Amanda. I promised her I was done with Trevor. But there’s a reason I don’t feel comfortable about her knowing where I am tonight, because no matter how I spin it, I know exactly what she’d say.
I look down the line and don’t recognize a single person. Just as I’m wondering how in the world I’m going to pull this off, I’m at the doors. The burly bouncer guy is even burlier than I’d imagined, and he’s holding out his hand. I fish the ID out from between my phone and its case, and hand it over.
All those acting skills are coming in handy right now. My hand didn’t shake, and I’m giving the bouncer an I’m-so-bored-with-this-whole-ID-thing look. He grunts, slides it through a reader, and hands it back. And I about melt into a puddle of relief right there in the doors of Spotlight.
But I don’t. Instead, I flash him a grin and then push my way into the crush of people inside the bar. There’s no way I’m going to spot Trevor in all of this. I pull out my phone and send him a text. Then I square my shoulders and start moving through the crowd. And I let the moment sink in.
I, Casey Fitzgerald, former drama queen, just got into a bar on a fake ID to see a show with Trevor and what is probably every college student between here and the Ohio River. I don’t see a single person I know from Holland, which makes the whole thing even crazier and more exciting than it already is.
“Casey!” Trevor shouts from somewhere behind me.
I turn around and collide with a girl carrying a beer. The brown liquid blends into her torn black shirt. I’m trying not to stare, but she has even more piercings than the bassist in Eric’s band. And that guy has holes in his ears I can see right through, so that’s saying something.
“Watch it,” she spits. “You’ve ruined my shirt.”
“Sor—” I catch myself. “Whatever.” Then I disappear into the crowd toward Trevor before she can kick my ass.
“Hey,” I say when I finally get to him.
“Hey, yourself.” He hands me one of the drinks he’s holding, then glances down at my outfit and smiles—in a good way. Score. Take that, Eric.
I sniff my drink. Beer. When I take a sip, I almost choke. Must be the One-Dollar Special tonight.
“So, um, is that band playing later?” I ask, while I cough quietly and point at the T-shirt under his jacket. It reads Misfit Turntable in spiky letters, and it has a picture of an old-fashioned record player with devil horns. It’s a little offbeat. I wonder if Oliver would ever wear it.
And I wonder what Oliver would think of me being here with Trevor.
Trevor shakes his head. “That’s what we decided to call ours.”
“Great name,” I say as innocently as possible. I kind of can’t believe he’s already got shirts made up for a band that doesn’t really exist yet, but whatever. “You know, it’s my dream to be in a band, which is why Harrison and I are going to join one.”
“Really? I thought your dream was to play Cosette on Broadway.”
“Éponine,” I correct him automatically. Everyone knows Éponine is the best role in Les Mis, besides Fantine. But there are Fantine girls and there are Éponine girls, and I’m totally an Éponine girl. “I mean, it was my dream, you know, before. But my other dream is to front a band. Like, ever since I was a little kid.”
Trevor nods and looks over my shoulder. I sip the skunky beer for fortitude, then have to fight to keep my face from giving away exactly how awful it tastes.
“I write songs too.” When desperate, lie.
His attention snaps back to me. “You do? Since when?”
I shrug. “For a little while now.”
“You’re crazy talented, you know that, Casey Fitzgerald?” He wraps an arm around my shoulder.
I should shrug him off, but I don’t. It’s like something I’ve been craving that I didn’t even know I missed until now. If I don’t think about the play, it feels like nothing’s changed. I make a mental note to jot down a few songs tomorrow to show him. It can’t be that hard.
“If you’re not busy tomorrow, you should—” A chord from a bass guitar cuts him off. “Hey, it’s starting. Let’s move up closer.”
He was thisclose to asking me to join his band, I know it. “Sure,” I say.
He grabs my hand and leads me through the crowd. Trevor pushes through everyone until we’re just a few rows back from the stage.
“Are you ready for The Possum?” The lead singer of the band onstage screeches into the microphone. I bite my lip so I won’t laugh. I mean, really, who names their band The Possum? Although biting my lip was probably not the smartest thing to do while wearing dark red lipstick. I rub my teeth with my finger to get rid of it before Trevor thinks I’m bleeding from the mouth or something.
The Possum launches into something that sounds vaguely like “Sweet Home Alabama.” I sneak a glance at Trevor. This isn’t something we ever did when we were together, so I’m not entirely sure how to act. And now that I think about it, it’s not like we ever really did much of anything. Sure, we’d see a movie sometimes (which usually ended in hooking up) or go to the park (which ended the same), but mostly we just hung around his house (which, again, ended the same).
He’s bouncing in rhythm with the song. His hair swishes back and forth, hiding his face. So I bounce along with him, careful not to spill the gross beer on myself.
“Oops, sorry,” I say when I bump into the guy next to me.
“Hey,” Steve-o Grimaldi says, lit cigarette between his lips. Or I think he says, s
ince I can’t hear him over the music.
I leap away, only to find myself face-to-face with Johnny Grimaldi.
“Heeeeey,” he says.
“I’m here with Trevor,” I shout. I loop my arm through Trevor’s, which more or less makes it impossible for him to keep jumping up and down with the song. He doesn’t pull away, though, thank God.
“Trevor?” Steve-o looks completely confused for a moment. Then I guess whatever’s left of his brain cells springs into action, because he punches Trevor in the shoulder.
His twin, however, just nods and then disappears. I never thought I’d feel bad for Johnny Grimaldi, but I know what’s it like to have your best friend get together with the one person you really like. Or used to like. Or are very, very confused about.
I dodge the business end of Steve-o’s cigarette as he moves past me to stand on the other side of Trevor. Which leaves me standing next to . . . Oliver?
Casey? he mouths.
“What are you doing here?” I yell over the music. I drop Trevor’s arm so I can scoot closer to hear Oliver. It’s starting to feel like all of Holland High is here after all, which is taking some of the badass sheen off the night. Although I shouldn’t be surprised to see Oliver, given his choice of shirt wear.
“. . . with them . . .” is all I hear him say. I lean forward and spot Tim, Jenna, and Kelly, of all people. I wave at them and wonder how I didn’t know Kelly had a fake ID. What has everyone been doing while I’ve been spending my time memorizing lines and studying vocal technique?
Better question: Does Oliver know I’m here with Trevor? My insides twist up on themselves.
“This band is awful,” Oliver says, so close to my ear I can feel his breath. I ignore the tingles that creep up my arms and nod just as the microphone explodes in feedback.
Oliver’s looking over my head. “. . . Trevor?” he finally says.
“Um, yeah,” I yell back. I shrug and hope that conveys that Trevor and I aren’t together. But Oliver knows our history, and I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what he’s thinking.
