Being Friends With Boys (15 page)

“If I’m wearing boots,” I told her, “it’s my combats.”

She scrunched up her face. “Flats, at least?”

We ended up compromising okay. I’m in jeans I haven’t worn since last winter, because I don’t like the way they hug my butt and hips, but Darby insists that’s how jeans are supposed to fit. I passed on the minidress but agreed to a loose, artsy top that she usually wears with leggings. I said no way to the belt.

Makeup was another fight, because I just don’t wear any, and Darby had this entire kit of waxes and powders and concealers and who knows what else.

“Mascara and lip gloss and that’s it,” I growled at her.

But she talked me into some powder. And a tiny bit of bronzer on my cheeks, too.

The hair, I have to say, is really the best part. I don’t want her to get too big a head, so I’m going to have to ask her carefully, but I really would like to know what she did. It’s just nice and wavy, instead of the heavy, tangled mess it usually is.

“You look good.” She smiles happily.

“Thanks.” My own smile at her in the mirror turns quickly to pale horror when the doorbell rings. Instinctively I reach for her hand. She squeezes it back just as hard.

But I can’t stand waiting upstairs for as long as Darby wants me to, mostly because I don’t want Fabian to have to suffer Dad and all his dumb jokes and questions. Even if Fabian and I are just friends, Dad is a torture I can’t subject anyone to too much.

When I get to the bottom of the stairs, both their eyebrows go up. Which is when Hannah comes in from the kitchen, where she’s been staying out of the way. She smiles brightly at me, pleased to see Darby’s makeover, but—my stepmom really is cool—she doesn’t say anything.

“You look nice,” Fabian says. Does he actually think so? Or is it just that I look different, and “nice” is the only polite substitute?

Dad makes a big deal about hugging me before we leave and making sure I have my phone, plus repeating my eleven thirty baby curfew about five times, which is hugely embarrassing, but Fabian doesn’t seem to mind. He’s polite and patient and even says, “I like your dad,” when we get to the car.

“He’s a dork, but thank you.”

“My dad’s a dork, too. It’s okay.”

His unself-consiousness makes me remember that he
asked
me to do this. He wants me here. So I don’t have to be any different than I’d be in Oliver’s rec room.

On the drive to the club, we talk together about the things we haven’t been able to at rehearsal: school, family, college plans, all of that. I don’t feel the slightest bit awkward telling him I’m pretty convinced I’m applying to Georgia Perimeter—
maybe
Mercer—because I already know I won’t have a very competitive application. By then Dad and Hannah will have three girls in college, anyway, so I don’t think they’ll mind me ending up somewhere cheaper and closer to home.

“I might not even go at all, really,” I go on. I’ve only ever told Trip this part before, but Fabian’s understanding face makes it feel all right. “I figure it might end up being smarter for me to just, you know, get a job or something. Take some classes. Get to know myself a little more.”

“That seems reasonable,” Fabian says.

And it does. Even more so, now that he’s said it. Maybe I should get Fabian to explain it to Jilly and Dad, so that they’ll get off my back about having higher aspirations.

“What about you?” I ask.

“International relations, probably. I’m looking at Duke.”

“Wait, not music?”

He shrugs. “They have that too. But I’m not sure this is a forever thing for me.”

“But you’re so . . .”
Excellent
, I want to say. But then we’re at the Masquerade. Seeing it, I realize I’ve driven by it a ton of
times without paying attention. It’s a big, dark, almost burned-looking building next to a giant, fenced parking lot that is maybe two football fields of asphalt. We have to walk almost five minutes before we even get to the door, where a puffy-faced, dread-headed girl asks to see our IDs. I want to ask Fabian more about the international relations thing—like how many languages he knows–but finally being here is a little intimidating.

While I dig out my driver’s license, I grab a ten to pay my cover, but Fabian waves it away, saying, “You might not like the band, after all.”

More evidence that This Is Actually a Date. Yesss.

Inside the club, Fabian leans in close to my ear so I can hear him. “There are some people I want you to meet,” he says.

A twinge hits the back of my mouth. Yes, Fabian’s face is now so close to mine that I can feel the warmth coming off his skin, but him saying there are going to be other people here makes my heart sink with disappointment.

“Do you want anything before we go dance?” he asks, leading me up a dimly lit staircase to the second floor, where there’s a bar-looking area on the left and another dance floor on the right.

Part of me wants to suggest we get a Coke and talk a little bit longer before these mysterious other people horn in, but I know that’s just stalling the inevitable. I shake my head and try to smile. I follow him into the spinning blue glow.

At the guardrail, he stands quiet, looking down. I watch the dancers on the floor, letting my eyes go from one body to the next. I don’t know who we’re looking for, and I don’t want to know. I don’t want them to materialize, ever. On the stage is one lone DJ and his laptop. He isn’t as cool as the turntable guys Trip has shown me before, but the people on the floor seem to like it.

Suddenly I’m knocked in the back by some girl. I’m about to say
What the hell?
when I realize she’s run up to grab Fabian in a squealy hug. I watch as he lifts her off the ground, holding her in tight. Every bit of me knows, without question, that this is no date. My heart folds up somewhere deep inside my chest and shuts out the light. I would very much like to go home now and dissolve. I am, I guess, just too easy to hang out with. Just one of the guys.

But it’s not like I can leave. Fabian shouts something into the huggy girl’s ear and gestures in my direction. I see there’s a second girl standing farther back, watching us. Now I wish Trip had come with me, or that I’d sounded more sincere asking him along. It would definitely make this part more bearable. I decide I’ll text him when I get a chance, whether he answers back or not.

“Charlotte, this is Taryn,” Fabian says, close to me again. This time there’s no electric jolt. “And that’s Sylvia.”

Sylvia raises her hand in greeting, solemn like one of those wooden Indian statues they have outside of hokey country stores.
She is short, with pixie-cut black hair. The rest of her is dressed in black, too.

Taryn is blond and bouncy like a pinup girl—one of the sweet, pink-cheeked ones who always has her knees (and sometimes her underpants) tangled up in some dog’s leash. She is happy and grabby, squeezing both my hands, pulling on Fabian’s arm. She’s adorable. Even though I don’t like that they’re here, I realize, begrudgingly, that I will probably like them both as people.

“This DJ is awful,” Taryn yells, googling her eyes. She says something else in Fabian’s ear. He nods, and motions for us to walk ahead of him to the neighboring bar. Taryn bounces ahead, pulling me along by the wrist. Guess I’ll get my Coke, after all.

We order our drinks and take them over to a high, grungy table. This time I insist on giving Fabian my ten, even though I know it’s too much for one soda. I don’t have a lot of dignity, but I figure I’ve got to hold together whatever scraps I can.

Taryn beams at me. “So, Charlotte! You’re in Fabian’s new band!”

“Well, yes. Sort of. I mean, I write the songs.”

“She sings,” Fabian adds proudly. “I can’t wait to hear!” Taryn gushes. “Fabian always has the coolest projects. Remember that Chinese exchange kid? You were
boss
with him.”

I know their answer will only make me even more jealous,
but I have to ask: “How long have you guys known each other?”

Taryn frowns over at Sylvia. “How long is it? We met Fabian in—”

“A year and a half,” Sylvia says.

Taryn’s frown deepens. “No, that can’t be right.” She turns and squints at Fabian. “Is it really only a year? Gosh. It feels like so much more.”

“Taryn and Sylvia are also in a band,” Fabian helps.

“It used to be Fabian’s band too, until he got too cool for us.”

“What kind of music?” I ask.

“Cunt rock,” Sylvia says flatly.

I don’t know how to arrange my face, hearing that. Is Sylvia being serious or is she just messing with me? I can’t imagine what cunt rock would even sound like.

Taryn swats her playfully and turns to me. “It’s just a bunch of, you know, girl songs. Powerful girl songs, though. Covers, mostly. We like old Liz Phair stuff a lot.”

“
You
like Liz Phair,” Sylvia growls.

“It’s a good band,” Fabian says to me. “We should hear them sometime.”

Stupidly, the hope in me that just crashed over the dance floor railing flickers a tiny bit. Does this mean he’ll take me out? Again? To hear them play? Is he introducing me to these friends so that they can help him decide if he and I should go for it, in spite of the
Sad Jackal thing? Maybe this
is
a date. A weird one, but still. I take a long drink of my Coke to keep the sudden smile I feel in check.

Now that I’m more motivated to make a good impression, I ask Sylvia and Taryn about what other bands they like, which morphs into a discussion about bands we hate, and then bands we wish we could see live. It’s interesting, actually, talking to girls who really know music. Know more than the Top 40 hits that Lish and Darby listen to, anyway, or the musicals and standards that Jilly always played in the car. There are several bands Sylvia mentions that I want to follow up on. When I say some of the ones Trip has introduced me to, she seems pleasantly surprised.

Long after our sipped-down drinks have gotten watery, we head to the lower dance floor, where the band, Unkind, has already started. I’m a little bummed we missed their entrance, because I always like to watch how a band first presents itself to the audience. Mostly I like to see this for Oliver’s sake—in case there’s any advice I can give—but whatever. I can’t watch anything too carefully onstage anyway, because Taryn is dragging the three of us across the dance floor. It’s impossible not to jump up and down with her, partly because she is still hanging on to my arm, but also because that’s what everyone else is doing, including Fabian.

Sylvia dances mostly by throbbing her head either back and forth or side to side, the whole time standing firm in one place. Taryn is up and down and all around and over. Fabian and I do a
combo of both, I guess, mainly staying out of Taryn’s way. Every time we make eye contact he gives me that pressed-lips smile, and my flickering hope becomes a steady glimmer.

On top of the thrill of being with Fabian, the whole thing is plain fun. I’m not sure how long it goes on, only that way too soon I see, on some guy’s watch next to me, that it’s almost eleven. I don’t want to have to drag Fabian out of here, like some girl with a pumpkin waiting outside, but I also don’t want Dad to pull his whole “He’s not responsible enough” thing and keep me from doing this again. Because I would. Like to. Do this again with Fabian. Even with Taryn and Sylvia. And maybe if I get home on time now, I can ask for a later curfew.

Reluctantly, I catch Fabian’s eye and point at my wrist. His eyes widen in surprise, but then he nods and leans in to say something to Taryn, who nearly clocks him in the face in the process. I watch him sign to her that we have to leave. But instead of letting us just slip away, Taryn grabs Sylvia by the lapel and they follow us out, give me their phone numbers, and program in mine.

“It was great meeting you,” I tell them, honestly meaning it.

“We can’t wait to hear your band!” Taryn hugs us both, then waves merrily.

When we’re walking back to the car, I tell Fabian, “Your friends are cool.”

“Thanks. I like them too.”

“Do you miss playing cunt rock?”

“Ha. When I was playing with them, we used to do a lot more poppy stuff. But—Taryn had these ideas and Sylvia was tired of what we’d been doing anyway, so.”

“Is that why you don’t play with them anymore?”

“Kind of. But also, it just got a little complicated when Taryn started dating Molly. And then Rachel. And then Stella.”

I try to keep the surprise off my face and my voice even. “Why was it complicated?”

He shrugs a tiny bit. “Sylvia’s had a crush on Taryn since they met. And it just got, for me, a little hard to watch.”

I don’t want to be obvious. But this is also an opening and so—“I guess it’s just too messy to mix music and romance.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” He breezes along like nothing. “Lots of people can make it work. I just wanted a different environment to play in, I guess.”

I nod and stay cool, but these words from him have made my hope-o-meter burst to the top and past the bell, shooting fireworks everywhere.

Confidence and helpless infatuation regained, I amp up my funny and we spend the ride home trying to list all the bands we can think of who have dramatically changed their sound. The best one cracks me up for almost a minute.