Infinite Repeat

by Paula Stokes

  She grins. “In a good way.”

  I cross her lawn to the curb where my car is parked, looking back as I slide into the driver’s seat. Amber stands in the doorway, watching me. She gives me her finger wave and I wave back. Then I start my car and pull out into the street. Smiling to myself, I light up a cigarette and turn toward home. Everything feels back to normal.

  It’s not until I pull my car over in front of my apartment building that I realize I never told her about April 5th.

  Chapter 8

  Ebony calls me from work the next morning. “So how was it?” she asks.

  I blink sleepily. “How was what?”

  “Your romantic dinner, dumbass.”

  “Oh, it was good,” I say, swallowing back a yawn. “Totally fine.”

  “That sounds exciting,” she says drily. “I’m calling to tell you that Lainey said she’ll work for you next Saturday. You can go support your girlfriend at her concert. Maybe even aim a little higher than totally fine.”

  “Lainey?” I ask incredulously. “You’re going to trust her with the prep list? All the food will end up sparkly.”

  “Or worse. Death by Fake Tan Brownies.” Ebony snorts.

  “I heard that, Ebony,” Lainey yells in the background.

  Ebony lowers her voice. “I’ll let Princess Denali work the front and I can do the food prep. I’ll make sure C-4 hooks it up on Friday so we don’t run out of anything major.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “Yes. You do,” she says. “And I plan to collect in chocolate.”

  I hang up with Ebony and call my mom at the tattoo parlor where she works during the day. I quickly give her the details of the trip, including that my airfare is covered.

  “An overnight trip to Chicago? Will there be an authority figure in charge?”

  “Yes, Mom. Some guy named Janne who manages the band. He’s the one renting the hotel rooms and stuff.”

  My mom coughs. “Am I to assume you’ll be sharing a room with Amber? And that her mother is okay with this?”

  “Don’t get all paranoid,” I say. “I’ll crash with one of the guys in the band.” I don’t make a habit of lying to my mom, but this is one of those times when both of us would prefer not to have the conversation required if I tell her the truth.

  “I don’t know if me not wanting to be a grandmother at forty qualifies as paranoid,” she says, her voice laced with sarcasm. “But I know you’re excited to have Amber back.” She pauses. “So, if you promise you won’t do anything stupid, I guess you can go.”

  “Promise.”

  “You doing okay otherwise?” she asks hesitantly. “I looked for you the last couple of nights when I got home, but your door was closed and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “I’m okay,” I say. “Trin and I hung out Friday night. We listened to Crow Black Dream and just talked and stuff.”

  There’s an awkward pause and then my mom says, “That’s nice, Micah. I’m glad you two can talk about . . . things. It looks like my next client just arrived. I’ll see you later tonight, okay?”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  I start to call Amber, but then I remember how busy she is today between band practice and her family obligations. I drop my phone back to my floor and curl onto my side, pulling my covers back up to my chin.

  But I don’t fall back to sleep.

  I’m not as excited about going to Chicago as I should be, and I can’t figure out why. Everything is fine with Amber and me. She’s acting the same as she always did. So what if one of her band boys likes her? Like she said—she’s not a sheep. He doesn’t get to have her just because he wants to. And once the Arachne’s Revenge album comes out there’ll be all kinds of guys fantasizing about her. I can’t go all jealous asshole on the whole world.

  My phone blips with an email alert. It’s from Stacee, my dad’s old bassist. I don’t know why I didn’t tell Trinity I had her email address. Maybe part of me doesn’t want Trin to replace Hangman’s Joke with the new version of the band.

  Stacee has sent me a handful of emails over the past few years, usually with the same subject: Your dad. I delete them all without reading them. I appreciate the thought of condolences, but sympathy won’t make me feel better and it won’t bring him back, so what’s the point?

  This one is different though. The subject is: I need to see you. I sit up in bed and run a hand through my mohawk. My finger hovers over the DELETE button but then curiosity gets the better of me. I open the message:

  Micah,

  I hope you’re doing okay. You know how much I miss your dad. That’s not what this is about. I have something of yours I need to give back to you. Can we meet up somewhere?

  Stacee

  How could she have something of mine after all this time? Maybe the band found something that belonged to Dad—more music or CDs or something. If they did, I would want it, but what could have taken six years to stumble across? I close my email without responding, but this time I don’t press DELETE.

  Later, I text Amber to give her the good news about Chicago. She calls back right away.

  “You’re coming? You promise?” She’s practically hyperventilating.

  “Yeah, I promise.” My lips curl into a slow smile.

  “Yay! I can’t believe it! Micah, this is all going to mean so much more with you there. You have made me sooo happy!”

  I hear the guys in the band mimicking her in the background. Nate’s baritone stands out from Eli’s and Damien’s voices, but I refuse to let him get to me.

  Amber ignores them. “Janne’s putting us up in a really nice hotel. I hope you don’t mind sharing a room with me.”

  My smile widens. “I think I can manage that.”

  Chapter 9

  Next Saturday afternoon, I board a plane to Chicago. I’m by myself because Arachne’s Revenge ended up on an earlier flight than mine. Apparently, Janne tried to get us all together but there were no more seats. No big deal. I don’t need to be there as early as everyone else and go through sound check and all that.

  After I forgot the other night at Amber’s house, I pretty much gave up on the idea of explaining April 5th. Everything seems back to the way it used to be between us—no point in screwing that up with a bunch of heavy shit. Besides, I think there’s a statute of limitations on deep dark secrets, and this one expired. I can tell her next year, maybe.

  I plug my earbuds into my phone. I’ve got Crow Black Dream downloaded, and I smile at the thought of my sister and her Mickey Mouse ears hairdo as “Waiting Beyond” starts to play. She was so positive the song was meant to be uplifting, but it still sounds dark and melancholy to me.

  When the plane lands at O’Hare, I follow a stream of college kids and businessmen through the giant airport, marveling at the high ceiling and cavernous hallways. This place is like ten times as big as St. Louis’s airport.

  I don’t have checked luggage, so I duck out of the steady stream of travelers and plop down in a seat at a mostly empty gate. Amber said to call her and she’d tell me how to get to WyldNytes, the club they’re playing at.

  I wait patiently as her phone rings twice, three times, four times, voice mail. Sighing, I hang up and text her:

  Hey. I’m here. How do I find you?

  Five minutes pass. And then another five minutes. I google WyldNytes on my phone and put the address into my GPS. The club is in an area of the city called Wicker Park, a long way from the airport, but it looks like I can get close if I take the El to the Damen stop. I text Amber again and let her know I’m hopping on the train.

  When the next train roars into the station, I grab a seat in the last car. I count the number of stops before I get off. Twelve. I kill time by checking out the people sitting around me. I wish Amber were with me. Sometimes we play this game where we try to guess people’s stories just by looking at them.

  The girl across from me is shockingly thin, with collarbones sharp enough to cut meat. Her dark hair is wrapp
ed into a tight bun and she’s wearing jeans and a black sweater even though it’s sixty degrees outside. Ballet dancer, I think. I study the pinched expression on her face. She just got passed over for a lead role. The girl catches me staring, so I move on to the guy sitting next to her. Cornrows. Basketball shorts. High-top shoes. It’d be too easy to call him a rapper or an athlete. I decide maybe he’s an undercover cop. But he’s starting to make friends out on the street and now his loyalties are being tested.

  I wonder if Amber feels like that—caught between her new life and her old one. She keeps assuring me everything is fine, just like it always was. But these are major changes for her. I think about her timid voice when she said she was scared. It suddenly occurs to me I haven’t been as supportive as I should be. Too busy playing the role of the jealous asshole. Well, all that changes now. Or whenever I manage to find her.

  When the train stops at the Damen station, I weave my way through the crowd and plunk down on a bench. I pull my phone out to text Amber again but I’ve got a message waiting.

  Sorry, M. Janne says your best bet is to take a cab. Sound check is done but we’re having a last minute jam session to iron out a few kinks. Love, A.

  In St. Louis if you need a cab you call one and they pick you up. I don’t know the first thing about hailing a cab in Chicago. I mean, I’ve seen it in movies. You just step out in the street and wave your hand. But when I exit the station and try that move, the first two cabs drive by without slowing and the third one almost runs me over.

  After two more failed attempts, I decide to just use my GPS and walk to the club. The brisk wind swirls between the buildings, blowing my shirt out from my body and my hair forward into my eyes. I rub my hands back and forth over my forearms. Probably should have worn a sweatshirt. Oh well. I’ll have Amber to keep me warm later. My lips quirk into a smile as I think about it.

  Another gust of wind blows a crumpled paper bag from the top of an open trash can out into the street. I watch it pitch and roll across two lanes of traffic like an urban tumbleweed. I can tell when I’m getting close to the club because there are groups of kids dressed in jeans and concert T-shirts all heading in the same direction.

  WyldNytes turns out to be a two-story brick building, butted up close to restaurants on either side. The front windows are papered over with flyers for upcoming shows. Just seeing that reminds me of my favorite club back in Hazelton. When I slip inside, I immediately feel even more at home. The dim lights, the buzzing of the crowd, the scent of smoke and sweat and beer—it all speaks to me on the most basic level.

  A bouncer pats me down, scans my ticket, and then directs me to the floor seating. I stop outside the entrance to the lower part of the club and text Amber again.

  I made it. Where are you?

  Amber appears from a hallway a few minutes later. She’s got her hair in two fishbone braids and is wearing a shimmery blue dress that I’m betting someone picked out for her. “Micah!” She swoops me into a hug.

  I squeeze her tightly, lifting her a few inches into the air before letting her go. She giggles and then directs me to follow her backstage. Man, I love the sound of her laugh.

  The backstage area has a couple of couches, a TV, and a table of food. The rest of Arachne’s Revenge are sprawled out on one of the couches—Nate and Damien playing video games while Eli just kind of sits back in the corner and takes in the scene. Assorted people I’ve never seen before are milling around the room, most of them with laminated badges clipped to their belt loops. I try not to think about going backstage with my dad. This is Amber’s night. I can’t make it about me.

  She lowers her voice. “You’re not going to start something with Nate, are you? I’m nervous about the show and it would help if I didn’t have to worry about you too.”

  “I promise I’ll be good.”

  “Perfecto. Come meet Janne.”

  I give Nate and the other guys in the band a nod as Amber half drags me across the room to where a tall blond guy with slicked back hair is talking on a Bluetooth headset and gesturing wildly with one hand.

  He holds up one finger to us and I immediately decide I don’t like him. Which is not like me—I generally don’t care one way or the other about most people. But really, does this guy think we’re going to interrupt his important phone call?

  Amber and I wait patiently while the guy goes on and on about getting wine delivered somewhere later. Then he turns to us and smiles one of those Hollywood Insider barracuda smiles. “Heeeey,” he says, drawing out the word as he shakes my hand. “I’m Janne Masterson. You must be Amber’s friend Micah.”

  And now I like him even less.

  “Boyfriend,” Amber says and gives Janne a look.

  “Yeah, hon.” He dismisses her words with a wave of his hand. “Just not for the press, remember? Arachne’s Revenge will sell more records if boys can fantasize about that sweet little mouth of yours.”

  I cough into my hand. “Don’t you think the music will sell itself?”

  “Sure, kid,” Janne says. But he’s looking at something on his phone and not paying attention to us anymore.

  “I bet you’re starving,” Amber says quickly. She yanks me away from Janne toward the table of sandwiches.

  I grab one that looks like roast beef and then gesture toward Amber. “Anything for your sweet little mouth?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Don’t let him get to you. Magazines aren’t exactly lining up to interview me. If they ever do, I’m not going to lie and tell anyone I’m single. But why argue with him when it’s a nonissue, you know?”

  “Right,” I say. Her reasoning makes sense in a nonconfrontational kind of way. I’ve just never known Amber to be nonconfrontational before.

  A guy wearing a backward cap and a Bottlegrate T-shirt enters the room with a case of beer. “You want?” He offers a can to Amber.

  She shakes her head. “Come on. All these people are stressing me out.” She heads for a door in the corner of the room. I follow her through it and we end up in an alley behind the club. We both lean back against the building, looking forward at nothing in particular. Another fast-food-bag tumbleweed bounces past us.

  “Doesn’t it bother you?” I say after another few seconds. “The way he talks about you like you’re a thing?” I take a bite of my sandwich and a few crumbs of bread fall to the ground. A speckled bird comes to investigate.

  “That’s how these people are. Musicians are just commodities to them. We make songs. They sell songs. Everyone makes money.”

  “It sounds kind of soulless.” The bird pecks at my boot. I offer it another morsel of bread.

  Amber shrugs. “Most jobs are soulless when you really think about it. I’d rather put up with Janne and have a job doing something I love than wait tables for the rest of my life.”

  “Oh, you’d rather be someone’s puppet than work hard like my mom, you mean?”

  “Micah! That’s not what I meant at all. Come on.” Amber rests her hand on my arm. “You know this is all I’ve ever dreamed of, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be perfect. And that’s okay.”

  “Which one of us are you trying to convince?” I take another bite of my sandwich and toss the rest of my bread to the ground.

  “You, I guess.” Amber smiles down at the bird as it attempts to fly away with a hunk of bread that probably outweighs it. “I believe it, Micah. I really do.”

  “I hope so.”

  The back door to the club opens behind us and Janne sticks out his head. “Amber.” He beckons to her without even acknowledging me. “It’s almost time to go on.”

  She gives me a quick kiss. “See you after the show.”

  “Yup.” I follow her back inside, watching as she falls in line behind the rest of the band. I want to be happy for her, but I hate seeing her at everyone’s beck and call. Maybe that’s what is really different about her. She’s thinner, blonder, and more polished. But she also seems . . . tame. The Amber I fell in love with would never l
et assholes tell her what to do.

  Chapter 10

  Arachne’s Revenge goes on to some scattered clapping but not much else. The floor section is only half full and people are doing more talking than paying attention to the stage. The two kids next to me say something about how they’ve never heard of them.

  Amber and the rest of the band quickly win over the crowd though. They start with their song “The Island,” a Goth-rock number about star-crossed lovers. The song is full of angry guitar, but Amber’s sultry voice carries over it, thanks to a stellar job by the sound team. Boys whistle. Girls look adoringly at Nate, and I still don’t get it. I mean, he’s the freaking bassist. They could at least go all gaga for Damien. That guy can really shred.

  Arachne’s Revenge launches into their second song, and by the end of the first chorus, the front section of the crowd is all facing toward the stage, many of them swaying along to the music.

  My favorite part of the show is when Amber plugs her violin into her amp for the song “Wake Up Dreaming.” It’s different from most of the rest of their songs since it’s got a lot of classical music interspersed with the guitar parts. Eli does most of the instruments on a synthesizer, but Amber plays the lead violin herself. That song manages to sweep me away every time I hear it. For almost five whole minutes it’s like nothing in the universe exists except for music. Sometimes I wish I could really live in a place like that.

  Arachne’s Revenge plays for another twenty minutes and then Amber comes out to join me for Bottlegrate’s set. They’re originally from Chicago and the crowd goes wild nonstop while they’re onstage. For most of the set, I stand behind Amber, my arms wrapped around her waist, my chin tucked against her shoulder. After a while, the fabric of her dress makes my skin feel itchy and I raise my head up a little, pressing my jaw to her temple.

  She leans back into me. “I love you, you know,” she says as one song ends and the guitar riffs fade into the soft buzzing of the nearby amp.