by Amy Spalding
That night my mother and I have a very quiet dinner out at the very loud Mexican place on Ventura. Afterward we walk down the sidewalk in the cool evening air, and when I do a double-take over a pair of red shoes in the window of a shoe store, she makes me go inside and try them on.
“I have enough shoes,” I say, even though I don’t believe that’s actually possible.
“Who cares?” she says. “Let me do something nice once in a while, all right?”
“You do nice things all the time,” I say, even though that’s different than actually being nice. I don’t know if I think Reece Malcolm is nice.
“Too kind.” She flops into the chair next to me. “How is everything?”
“Everything’s okay.” I slide out of the new shoes and back into my old ones. “You really don’t have to get these.”
“Eh.” She gathers them up and carries them to the register. I wait by the door, and thank her only a thousand times as we keep walking. Then I summon the courage to bring up something that’s been nagging me a little since last night when I saw those pictures in her bedroom. Okay, a lot of things nag at me but this one feels safe-ish to ask about.
“Why haven’t I met anyone in your family?” My heart starts pounding before it’s even past my lips, so it’s more than a minor miracle I get it out.
“If we’re technical,” she says, “I only have one person in my family: my mother. And she’s in New York, which isn’t exactly conducive for you two meeting. Trust me, she’s tried. My mother’s just . . . exhausting. I wanted you to be settled in a while longer first. And if we’re not being technical, I’d say you’ve already met my family: Brad. Kate and Vaughn. Chosen family counts for more in my book.”
Something about that phrase cuts through me roughly. She didn’t choose me at all, and deep down I know I count for less. Hearing it sucks, though.
“How are things with the boy?” she asks.
“Fine, I guess,” I say. “But he wants to hang out more than I can, since I have so many rehearsals after school . . .”
“Yeah, I swear, half a relationship is time management,” she says, then sighs. “Not actually. I know.”
“Are you okay?” I ask, because there’s something about the way she exhaled that seemed like she’s really rattled.
“Brad wanted me to go out with him tonight,” she says. “Some concert I don’t care about, that he does, and maybe if I cared enough about him, I’d go.”
“Is that what he said?” I ask. “I mean—sorry. It isn’t any of my business.”
“I’m the one who brought it up,” she says. “And, no. He didn’t. But I worry he thinks it. I worry I— Shit. It’s just . . . the possibility exists this is all I am, this is all I have to give.” She gestures at me. “I’m no fucking better here, am I? As if shoes will fix everything.”
“Shoes are pretty important to me, though,” I say, because right now staying silent seems rude, and I don’t like seeing her this way at all. Also that she realizes something is here to fix lights a tiny flame of hope deep down in me. I glance at the bracelet on my right wrist, feeling better that it’s her trying her best, not buying me off.
“There is that.” She links her arm through mine, leans in a little. Her hair brushes my cheek. “I’m sorry I’m such a screw-up. Hopefully it isn’t genetic and you’ll be fine.”
“You’re totally not a screw-up,” I say. “You’re like a rich and famous writer with a house and a boyfriend and friends you think are family.”
“You,” she says, “are far too kind. My money is mostly thanks to my trust fund, and I’m sure I’ll ruin things with Brad eventually.”
“Still,” I say.
“I’m going to warn you,” she says. “Because something tells me I should. But I’m planning on hugging you. Don’t freak.”
The warning is a good thing, because I might have had a heart attack. She wraps her arms around me, tight, and kisses my cheek.
“Thanks, kid,” she says.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Being as kind as you are is something,” she says. “I don’t take such things for granted. All right, let’s get ice cream and head home. I have work to do, and I’m assuming you probably have homework as well.”
It’s the first night I bring my backpack downstairs and do my work sitting across the room from my mother as she writes. But tonight it feels right, and I hope tomorrow it will, too.
Chapter Fourteen
Things I know about Reece Malcolm:
29. Shockingly, she owns some amazing shoes.
30. She cares more than I figured. Even about me?
“So I was wondering,” I say, walking up to Lissa on Friday morning. I’m a little nervous even though haven’t I learned by now she’s not someone to fear? “What are you wearing tonight? What should I wear?”
Lissa laughs. “Really? The fashionista is asking my humble opinion?”
“I am not a fashionista,” I say. “It’s L.A.! Lots of people look nice.”
“Mmm hmmm.” She points at my shirt (blue and sleeveless, layered over a white tank top for some contrast), then my skirt (kind of poufy and knee length, printed with flowers that look kind of retro), then my shoes (I took a chance with my silvery flats, which don’t entirely match anything I’m wearing but my necklace—I think they work anyway). “It’s a compliment, you know. I know a lot of people wear nice stuff, but you put everything together in a very . . . you way.”
“No, I . . .” I shrug. “Thank you. Still, I don’t think I can go to Elijah’s band’s show dressed like this. Right?”
“Not everyone there will be straight out of Hot Topic or whatever you’re thinking,” she says. “And I think E likes you because you’re so . . .” She gestures to me. “You. But I can come over and help you pick out something that’s less—”
“Me?”
“No, fashionista, you can still be yourself. Just less flowery.”
I didn’t intend on inviting her over, but firstly, it would be rude to say she can’t, and secondly, I really do need help getting ready. And thirdly—if I admit there’s a thirdly—Lissa is someone I hope I can actually become friends with, especially now that Travis seems to hate everyone who has a bigger role than him in Merrily and because even though Mira’s being pretty nice, I don’t totally trust her. I’m just a little worried if Lissa spends more time in my mother’s house there’s something that gives away what a freak I am.
If there is, though, Lissa doesn’t act like it when she shows up a bit before we have to leave for the show, and she doesn’t seem to realize that my room still looks like a sort-of-lived-in display room with hardly anything personal up on my walls except for a few theatre programs. Yeah, Sai was in here, too, and that didn’t stress me out—well, not for that reason—but I don’t feel like boys notice that stuff as much, and, anyway, he’s new to L.A., too. He would shrug off anything strange as having to do with that.
Lissa flips through my closet. “You have a lot of really nice stuff.”
“My mother got me a bunch of new things when I moved,” I say. “Since I didn’t have a lot of notice I was coming or anything.”
“Really?” she asks, and I feel the weirdness of my statement hanging in the air around us. Crap. “What happened?”
“Nothing, just.” I sit down on my bed, dragging one of my toes across the rug, staring at the line it makes. “My dad died.”
“Devan, oh my God.” She spins around to face me. “I’m really sorry, I—”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, because I don’t want to bring down the night’s mood.
She turns back to my closet and takes out a pair of dark jeans and this stupid shirt from Pizzazz, my old show choir, that I somehow packed and brought here. “Wear this.”
“Really? Isn’t it lame? I only wore it to sleep in or for rehearsals.”
“It’s so lame it’s kind of amazing. Trust me.”
Considering Lissa always looks cool, today i
n a shirt that says The Damned (she had it on inside-out at school) and faded jeans (I realize her and Brad have basically the same uniform, albeit different tastes in music), I do trust her. So I slip into the bathroom and change from fashionista mode to something that my reflection in the mirror promises won’t look too out of place. I step into my silver flats and put on my white bracelet and necklace, so I also still feel like myself.
“Where are you guys going?” my mother asks as we walk downstairs a few minutes later. She’s curled up in her usual chair in the living room with her laptop propped on her knees.
“Um, Elijah’s concert?” I say, worrying she’s about to change her mind. “You said I could go, remember?”
“Yeah, of course you can go, I just forgot when it was,” she says, a note of exasperation in her voice. “Do you need money?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks. See you later.”
She waves, but her attention is already back on her computer, so I lead Lissa outside. I wonder if it’s obvious how weird my whole situation is. Suddenly I don’t want to be here, not with Lissa, not on my way to a place where I know I won’t fit in, not in this stupid stupid stupid Pizzazz shirt.
“Maybe I should—”
“Maybe you should what?” Lissa sticks her tongue out at me and shoves me into the passenger seat. “Come on. If we hurry, we can eat before they go on.”
I buckle myself in and lean my head against the window. It’s so easy to want to be the girl who isn’t scared by everything, but at the moment it feels impossible to actually be her.
“Are you still worried about that shirt?” She backs out of the driveway and throws a glance at me. I can’t tell if she’s making fun of me or not.
“No, just.” I spin my bracelet around on my wrist. “Sorry. It’s probably annoying I get nervous about everything.”
“A little! Mostly I don’t get it. When you sing you’re this force of nature, all fearless and bad-ass. Then you switch off, and it’s weird. It’s like you really are in a musical, where you can only express yourself through song or whatever.”
I laugh because it’s a way better metaphor to get labeled with than, you know, a wild squirrel. “I never really thought about it like that.”
“If I could be like that all the time, I definitely would.” She shrugs. “I’m no force of nature, though. Maybe a chance of rain.”
“In L.A. a chance of rain seems pretty good,” I say.
She laughs and cranks up her stereo, shouting something over The Clash. (I’m savvy mostly when it comes to show tunes, but I’m not a complete lost cause, either.)
“What?”
“I said, I’m glad you came.”
I wish I could bottle how I feel right now, the music at a deafening level, the twists and turns and hills of Laurel Canyon flying past us, the possibility I could be like them, too, part of nature. Could feeling fearless not turn off when I wasn’t singing? I like it as a goal.
Lissa finds street parking not too far from Molly Malone’s, where Killington Hill is playing, and walks right up to the burly-looking bouncer outside like he isn’t large, scary, and glaring at everyone in the vicinity.
“Hey, Red,” he greets Lissa with a sudden smile. “Where’s your guy?”
“He’s playing tonight,” she says, more enthusiastic than I’ve ever heard her before. “He’s not my guy, though.” It’s said like an afterthought, and I wonder if she would have added it at all if I wasn’t there.
“Go on in,” he tells her, and Lissa grabs my hand and yanks me through the door. I don’t know what I expected, but it’s just like a bar with a stage in back. And I don’t look out of place; there are plenty of girls in jeans and vintage-esque T-shirts.
“I don’t think we have time for food, but I’ll get us beers.” Lissa riffles through her bag and takes out what is a very good but fake ID. “Though you don’t seem like a beer person.”
“I’ll have a beer,” I say, because it seems like the right thing to be drinking here, and I know it’s totally Afterschool Special of me to hope Lissa thinks I’m cool and therefore will drink a beer to try to prove that, but, okay, I do. Beer turns out to be pretty gross, but I sip mine anyway because I’m thirsty and also because of that whole cool thing.
“I love right now.” Lissa nearly has to shout into my ear thanks to the noise from the crowds of people. “Five minutes before a show.”
“Yes!” I can’t believe we’re speaking the same language. “The air is, like, electric.”
“Exactly,” she says and clinks her bottle against mine.
“Devan?”
The first and only time I’ve had alcohol, I run into my mother’s freaking boyfriend?
Brad makes his way to us through clusters of people surrounding the bar.
“I, uh—”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Devan, I was sixteen once. Well, as it were, I was sixteen and far too socially lacking to be out doing anything illicit but—relax.”
“What are you doing here?”
He laughs again. “Having a drink with friends, seeing a few bands. You? The same?”
“E’s band is the first one up,” Lissa tells Brad like he’s a friend of ours. “It’s so amazing for him.”
“Who is E?” he asks. “Oh, is this the guylinered one Reece spoke of?”
Lissa cracks up. “I’m so calling him that from now on. The guylinered one! Oh, hey, I’m Lissa.”
“Brad Harper.” He shakes her hand. “Well, enjoy. I’ll see you later, Devan.”
I wave and hand my beer off to Lissa. “I can’t drink this with him watching.”
“Who is that?” she asks. “He’s cute, and the accent—”
“He’s my mother’s boyfriend,” I say before she can continue and scar my psyche. “So please stop.”
“Got it,” she says. “Oh, they’re out on stage. Come on, let’s get closer.”
We squeeze in, slipping through gaps in the crowd, until we more than halve our distance to the stage. Elijah is completely absorbed in connecting cables and tuning his bass, but right before the drummer counts off, he throws a look to the crowd and grins at Lissa and me. My body fills with warmth that this boy who is so passionate and talented has a smile like that for me, has kissed me more times in the past week than I can count, can even remember I exist in the rush of lights and noise and music.
Lissa and I jump up and down for the entire set, screaming more enthusiastically at the end of their songs than anyone else. Not that the crowd isn’t responsive or anything. People are paying attention, nodding along with the beat, directing all their attention at Killington Hill. Pride swirls around in me, for Elijah and also for myself. It isn’t just that he’s my sort-of boyfriend, it’s that I can be in this crowd, Lissa at my side, finally part of something that isn’t show choir or the school musical.
When their set is over, Lissa gets us another beer each (I can’t even see Brad at this point, and I guess I’m getting used to the taste), and we watch as the guys hurriedly pack their equipment before Elijah bounds off of the stage and makes a beeline for us.
“Hey!” Lissa holds out her arms, which I guess he doesn’t notice, because the first person he hugs is me.
“I’m so glad you came,” he says, and kisses me. He tastes like the stage: lights and sweat and adrenaline. “What’d you think?”
“You guys were amazing,” I say honestly. “I’m so—”
“Where’d Liss go?” he asks, pulling away from me. We spot her making her way to the door, and then Elijah takes off without another look to me. I decide to wait before going after them: give it a couple minutes, then finish my beer, then weave my way through the crowd and walk into the crisp night air.
They’re sitting close together on the curb, Elijah’s arm wrapped around Lissa, her head on his shoulder. My stomach does a few backward flip flops, and I think about turning around and going inside, but they notice I’m there.
“Hey,” they say at exactly the same time
.
I notice that Lissa’s eyes are red and wet, which is sort of hard to entirely accept. Lissa is way too tough to cry in public like someone like me would do.
“Hi,” I say.
Lissa whispers something into Elijah’s ear, and he nods.
“I’m gonna talk to Liss for a minute.” He gets up and pulls Lissa to her feet. “Wait here for me, okay?”
I nod, and then watch as they head down the sidewalk and around the corner. My stomach is still flopping, so I wrap my arms tightly around myself as if that will help.
After a few minutes, I sit down and get out my phone to check that I don’t have any missed calls or texts. After what the clock on my phone verifies is ten more minutes, there’s still no sign of Elijah or Lissa. I wonder how long I’m supposed to sit alone on the sidewalk before going inside or looking for them.
“Devan?” Brad walks outside with a couple guys who I guess are around his age and who immediately take out cigarettes and lighters like their lives depend on it. “Is everything all right?”
I shrug and try to look very casual about sitting out here alone.
“I’ll be just a minute,” Brad tells his friends, before sitting down next to me on the sidewalk. “Where are your friends?”
I shrug again. “Around the corner. They needed to talk.”
“Ah.” He surveys me, probably catching onto the signs I’ve been here for a bit: my phone out, my notebook in my lap. Just habit—I have nothing to add to my Reece Malcolm List. “Why don’t I wait with you?”
“No, I’m totally fine, and your friends—”
“Trust me, any excuse not to stand over there with smokers is a very good one. So your guylinered one is very talented,” he says. “I always wanted to be in a band, especially when I was younger.”
“Why weren’t you?” I ask, eager to move the subject away from Elijah. “I mean, you’re obviously totally obsessed with music.”
“Sadly, it takes more than that. I’ve accepted I’ve no musical ability at all.” His phone beeps, and he takes it out of his back pocket. After reading the message, he chuckles softly and taps out a response. “It’s Reece, letting me know she can’t make it tonight, as if that’s any sort of news.”
