The Art of Lainey

by Paula Stokes

  Micah ducks out of the club a minute later. I watch him spin a slow half circle as he tries to find me. Our eyes meet and I raise my hand in a partial wave. He ambles over and sits down next to me. Plucking the book out of my hand, he stretches his legs out in front of him and begins to read silently. “You brought your homework to the concert?”

  “I’m actually reading that for . . . personal reasons.” I stare straight ahead at my strappy sandals and the scuffed leather tops of his steel-toed boots. I catch glimpses of Alpha’s patio through the space between the parked cars. A tall waiter with thick, blond hair ambles up to a table of women my mom’s age. The way he walks reminds me of Jason—it’s almost a swagger, as if he knows he heading into territory where he will be universally adored. As he takes their orders, he pauses to put his hand on one’s arm. The women burst into giggles the second the waiter disappears back into the restaurant. It’s cute how much fun they’re having, but it all strikes me as being a little fake.

  I should know. I’m turning into somewhat of an expert when it comes to being fake.

  Micah flips to the next page. He still hasn’t said anything. I figure he’s waiting for me to explain my behavior. Not going to happen. I mean, how mortifying would that be? Gee, I started getting into the music. Then I started getting into the way you were getting into the music. Then I started getting into you. And now I’m out here reading a warrior strategy guide to cool off. Nothing weird about that.

  I could always lie—tell him it was too loud or too hot, that I was fanning myself with the book, but the more I watch the theater production going on across the street, the more the idea of any more phoniness makes me feel sick. Maybe if I sit here and say nothing Micah will think everything is fine.

  “So,” he says finally, setting The Art of War on the ground between us.

  So is a word that can mean many things. Pretty sure this one means: “What the hell is wrong with you, freak show?”

  I don’t respond right away. I look straight ahead, trying to decide if the urge to kiss him has passed. It has. I’m back in control. He turns toward me and I catch of whiff of Red Lynx aftershave mingled with smoke and sweat.

  “Are you okay?” Micah asks. Just when I’m thinking his concern is really sweet he says, “Did you have a stroke? This might be the longest I’ve ever heard you go without talking.”

  I try to force my face into a frown but my lips curl up at the edges. I can’t help it. Even when he’s teasing me, he’s still kind of funny. “It’s just a little overwhelming, you know?” The words fly out of my mouth almost without thinking. Super. I sound like I’ve never been to a concert before. I steel myself for the barrage of scorn I know is forthcoming.

  But all he says is, “Do you hate it? We can go.”

  “I love it,” I say. “Or that song, anyway.” He looks a little surprised. I should take this as my cue to shut up, but I keep talking. “It felt unreal. Like I was dreaming or on drugs or something.” I shake my head. Could I be more lame?

  Micah looks up at the sky. It’s hazy and gray, the smoke from a nearby factory lacing together with feathery clouds. “I know what you mean,” he says, passing up a second opportunity to rag on me mercilessly. “That whole mix of classical music and guitar and shit gets inside of you. I always feel like I’m floating through space or breathing underwater.”

  That is an excellent description of how I felt.

  “I’m surprised you like this group,” I say. “Pianos? Violins? I thought you only listened to hard-core punk and screaming death metal. You know, music to murder by.”

  “Well, they do harder stuff too.” Micah nudges my foot with his steel-toed boot. “Hmm. Music to murder by, eh? That would be a cool name for a band.”

  I laugh. “I know, right?”

  He punches me lightly on the leg. I flinch. He turns to look at me and I focus on the waiter across the street, memorizing his gait as if there’s going to be a test later. “No, seriously,” Micah says. “I think we need to form a band, just because you came up with that. Can you play anything?”

  “Um, I can sing.” If karaoke counts.

  “Lead vocals for Music to Murder By. Let’s hear it.”

  “What’s our song called?” My mouth is still forming words independent of my brain.

  “Destructor.” He says this in a low, booming voice, stretching the final R sound into a growl.

  I let out a crazy half-screech, half-snarl, stretching it out for about ten seconds. My impression of what a song called “Destructor” would sound like.

  A couple of the kids in front of the club look over. One of them puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles.

  Micah holds his fist out for a bump. “Look, our first fans! Why, Glinda Elaine Mitchell. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  I cringe. Ever since I was old enough to know that my mother named me after the good witch in the Wizard of Oz, I’ve been trying to forget. Aside from the occasional substitute teacher, no one calls me “Glinda.” No one. “Don’t call me that,” I say, tapping my knuckles against his. “Ever.”

  He holds his hands up in fake surrender. “The girl is feisty tonight.”

  “The girl is always feisty.”

  “So I’m learning.” Micah picks up The Art of War. He clears his throat. “‘There are five ways of attacking with fire. The first is to burn soldiers in their camp; the second is to burn stores; the third is to burn baggage trains; the fourth is to burn arsenals and magazines; the fifth is to hurl dropping fire amongst the enemy.’ This is some serious shit.” He smiles. “Should I be worried?”

  “I’m actually using it to strategize,” I blurt out. “You know, to win back Jason.”

  I’m expecting Micah to burst out laughing but he just nods to himself. “How Machiavellian of you.”

  “Leo said that too. It was Bianca’s idea. She’s definitely the brains of the operation.”

  “I assume you and Bee aren’t burning any soldiers or stores?” Micah asks with a gleam in his eye.

  “Some parts of it are more relevant than others,” I admit.

  He tosses the book to me. “Well, show me what you got.”

  I show him my highlighted passages and tell him about some of the stuff Bianca came up with, like being deceptive and attacking from a position of power.

  “Fall like a thunderbolt, huh?” he says.

  “Right. When the moment comes, be bold. Decisive. Strike with power.”

  “Got it.” The top ten list is tucked in the back of the book. Micah nods again as he goes through the strategies.

  “Do you think it’s crazy?” I ask.

  He laughs lightly. “I think it’s highly organized, and maybe a little scary. But I also think we’re missing an excellent show.” Rising to his feet, he holds his hands out toward me.

  Tucking the book back into my purse, I grip his fingertips gently and scramble back to my feet. The image of him with his head back, eyes closed, swaying to the music flashes into my head ever so briefly. My face is flushed. My whole body still feels hot. My chest expands as I inhale a huge breath of air. Get it together, Lainey.

  When we get back inside, the main act is getting ready to take the stage. I can see two of the members of Arachne’s Revenge—the drummer and the guy with the dreads—sitting over at the T-shirt table. The lead singer is working her way through the crowd toward the front of the stage. When she gets closer, I see she’s not as old as she looked under the lights.

  To my surprise, she doesn’t veer off to grab an open space at the front of the stage. She moves straight through the crowd until she makes her way over to us. And then she wraps her hands around Micah’s head, covering his eyes with her fingers. The girl leans in close to whisper in his ear.

  Micah removes the girl’s hands from his eyes and turns to give her a quick hug. It’s the same kind of hug I gave Leo in the car, more of a pat on the back with lots of space between the torsos. “Hey,” he says.

  Hey is another word tha
t can mean many things. As I watch this awkward embrace, puzzle pieces start snapping together in my head. Could it possibly be . . .

  “I’m Lainey,” I say brightly. The girl and Micah both turn to look at me. Micah opens his mouth to say more, but the lights drop again and the crowd begins to cheer as the four guys from of Bottlegrate run out onstage. They’re older than Arachne’s Revenge, probably late twenties to early thirties.

  People behind me press forward, pinning my body against the stage. A strand of my hair gets tangled around something and my eyes water as individual hairs snap loose from my head. The lead singer of Arachne’s Revenge wraps her hand around my arm, pulling me to the side of the crushing crowd.

  “Thanks,” I say, rubbing my scalp with one hand. I swear if I end up with a bald spot I’m going to charge Micah hazard pay.

  “No worries.” She leans in close to me and I notice she’s wearing jet-black fake eyelashes. Despite the noise, I hear her next words like she’s shouting them through a megaphone at church. “Nice to meet you. My name is Amber.”

  Chapter 20

  “HE WILL WIN WHO KNOWS WHEN TO FIGHT AND WHEN NOT TO FIGHT.”

  —SUN TZU, The Art of War

  “That’s Amber?” I mouth, once the leggy blonde girl disappears back into her throng of bandmates. They’re all sitting at the T-shirt table now, doing their best to look unimpressed by the headlining band. The lead singer of Bottlegrate launches directly into a hard-core cover of an old pop song without even stopping to greet the crowd.

  Micah reads my lips. “Yeah.”

  I cup my hands around his ear. The warmth of his skin makes me tremble. “How come you didn’t tell me Arachne’s Revenge was her band?”

  He says something I can’t make out. The guitarist and the bassist walk circles around each other on the stage. I step even farther off to the side, to the point I’m almost hiding behind a stack of amplifiers. At least I’m not in danger of being crushed or trampled.

  Micah brushes my hair back from my ear and repeats himself. “I said I wanted to see if you liked the music before you knew who she was.” His breath makes the blood rush beneath my skin.

  “They’re okay,” I say. I sneak another peek at her, envying the laid-back style of her kimono and combat boots. “She’s actually way more normal than I imagined.”

  “Told you so. Also, everyone says that if they meet Phoenix first.”

  “So why did you two break up?” I ask. Then I see Amber lean over and bite on one of her bandmate’s dreadlocks. He turns his face toward hers and both of them collapse into a fit of laughter. “Oh.”

  Micah’s pale skin gets even whiter. “She says she’s not dating any of them. She just doesn’t have time for both me and her music.” He stares at Amber and Dreads Guy.

  I watch him watch them. It’s painful. In my head I see Jason and Alex kissing against Jay’s Mustang.

  The first song ends. Micah manages to rip his gaze away from the T-shirt table, like the end of the music has broken a spell. His jaw tightens. His eyes glow almost golden in the stage lights. “I’m not sure if I believe her.”

  I don’t know what to say to this, so I don’t say anything. Part of me wants to hug him. Not an awkward Leo hug or a let’s-make-someone-jealous hug—a hug that says I get it. That I know exactly how it feels to see the person you love with someone else. But that’s not what our agreement is about. We’re not using each other to feel better about getting dumped. My job is to be his ally. To help him level the battlefield and then aid in his attack. That’s going to take time. Like Bianca said: wars aren’t fought in a day.

  I try to focus on the concert. Bottlegrate puts on an amazing live show. The guys are constantly laughing and joking with the crowd. I recognize a couple of their songs from the ride to Mizz Creant’s and find myself bobbing my head and singing along. Halfway through the set, the guitarist does a guitar solo where he ends up lying down on the stage, his fingers flying like lightning across the frets. The crowd explodes with cheers and whistles. I clap along with everyone else. I can’t believe how much fun I’m having.

  Micah, however, is not having fun. After about two more songs of him looking over at Amber every five seconds, I reach out and give him an awkward pat on the shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I mouth at him, gesturing toward the side of the club with my head.

  He cups his hands around my ear but still has to yell in order for me to hear him. “No, I’m sorry. I dragged you here. I shouldn’t be ignoring you.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “But we can leave whenever you want.”

  “Let’s go.” Micah wraps his hand around mine and we squeeze through the crowd. His touch is friendly, almost protective. It doesn’t elicit the same shock waves I felt earlier. Somehow, meeting Amber and seeing Micah in pain has neutralized things. I’m refocused on our battle.

  He drops my fingers as we head around the building to the gravel parking lot in back. He shakes his head as he unlocks my car door. “Maybe this was a bad idea. I don’t think I’m ready to see her, especially not with some other guy.”

  As he turns around, the fluorescent lights of the parking lot illuminate his hunched-over form, his head lowered in defeat. This time I give in to the urge. “Hey,” I reach out for him. “Come here.” Leaning in, I loosely wrap my arms around his neck.

  His body goes tense as he straightens up, but his hands end up in the vicinity of my waist. “I’m not a girl, Lainey,” he mutters. “All my problems can’t be fixed with a hug.”

  “I know that.” As I release my hold on him, I brush my lips against the wedge-shaped scar on his temple.

  He backs away. “What was that for?”

  I shrug. I’m not even sure myself. “You looked so sad. I just . . . feel sorry for you.”

  “I don’t need you to feel sorry for me,” Micah says in a shrill voice. His lips curl into a smirk as he heads around to the driver’s side.

  It takes me a second to realize he’s imitating something I said to him the day Jason broke up with me. I slide into the car and pull the door shut behind me. “Do you remember everything people say so you can use it against them?”

  “I try.” He stares at me for a moment, but doesn’t say anything.

  “What?” I make a big show of fumbling for my seat belt so I can escape his penetrating gaze.

  “Tsk-tsk. Breaking your own rules, Lainey Mitchell,” he says. I click my seat belt into place. Wow, he’s right. He looked so alone and vulnerable there for a second that I didn’t even think about a kiss on the cheek being a technical infraction of my “absolutely no kissing” rule.

  “Uh . . . sorry?” I offer, a blush creeping into my cheeks. “It was a random impulse. It won’t happen again.”

  Micah glances over at me as he starts the car, a smile still playing at his lips. “You’re kind of cute when you get all flustered.” Then, before I can formulate a response, he plugs his phone into the stereo and cranks up the volume. As we pull out onto the road, he turns the music down slightly and starts talking about how it was the instrumental song “Wake Up Dreaming” that got Amber and her band noticed by a studio executive. “She never thought her classical violin training would come in handy with the band,” Micah says. “Everything happened so fast for them. By this time next year they might be playing venues all over the US.” His voice goes tight with grief. It’s obvious how much he cares about her.

  “It was so intense, the way you got into that song,” I say. “Like you were the only person on the planet.”

  “It’s definitely one of my favorites.” He slows the car to a stop in front of my house a couple minutes later.

  I unlock my door and slide out. Then I stop for a second and lean back through the open window. “You were kind of nice to me tonight.”

  Micah shakes his head. “Was not.”

  “I think you were,” I insist.

  “If you say so. I’ll try harder to be a dick next time. After all, that is what you like, right?”

&nbs
p; I purse my lips. “Jason isn’t a dick. He just found some other girl he likes better.” It’s the first time I’ve actually put that thought into words. It hurts, but it’s also freeing, like I’ve confessed a secret that’s been slowly squeezing me to death.

  Micah runs a hand through his mohawk. The humidity has mostly flattened it. “And then he dumped you at your job, in front of your friends.”

  “He probably figured it was the one place I wouldn’t make a scene.”

  “Do you do that with everyone?” Micah puts the car in PARK and leans toward the passenger-side window.

  “Do what?”

  “Make excuses for their shitty behavior?”

  My eyes widen. Do I? “I have no idea,” I admit.

  “It’s kind of a nice quality,” he says. “But it’ll probably set you up to get hurt a lot.”

  The way he says the last part makes me think we might not be talking about me anymore.

  I’m about to ask him for clarification when I notice his gaze has drifted slightly lower and he can totally see down the front of my dress.

  I back away from the window and adjust my neckline so I’m safely covered. “Perv.” I frown.

  He grins, not at all embarrassed about being caught. “Like I said, I’ll try to be more of a dick from now on.”

  “Good start.” I turn around and head for my front door.

  “Why do you want him back anyway?” Micah shouts after me. “You really don’t think you deserve better?”

  “I don’t want better,” I say, walking closer to the car. “I want my life back, with my boyfriend who likes the same things I do. I want the senior year I’ve been planning for since I started dating Jay. Homecoming. Prom. Soccer championships. Even graduation. Do you know how many times I’ve imagined all of those things?” I can hear my voice rising in pitch. I need to calm down before I wake one of my parents. “But I never imagined them without Jason. Nothing will be the same without him.”

  Micah nods slowly. “I know what you’re saying. I guess I’m just wondering how we know when to give up and move on.”