Being Friends With Boys (19 page)

“Come on,” Gretchen says when I hand off her bag. She hooks her arm in mine, and Darby takes the other side.

“Where are we going?”

“You’re gonna be a rock star, sister. We’ve got to make sure you look like one.”

“More importantly,
feel
like one,” Gretchen adds, squeezing me a little.

They take me to this quiet, old-lady-seeming place in Avondale called Finders Keepers. I’ve never been in here, but Darby is convinced we’re going to find a secret stash of something “truly knockout” that is also still me. The two of them are on a mission, pushing me toward the long-sleeve tops and flanking other racks themselves. When we reconvene, I’m surprised to have found two possibilities: one a dark-green vintage shirt that ties in a big bow at the neck, and the other a long, patchworky top.

Darby takes them out of my hands and places them back, making a face.

“Come with us,” she orders. Both she and Gretchen are carrying huge piles.

It feels like I try on eighty things. Dresses and skirts and layered tops and jackets. Most of the time I think what they’ve chosen is ridiculous, and once I walk out of the dressing room to show them, they agree. But when I put on the sailor pants they found, under a houndstooth minidress, Darby purses her lips and presses her finger to her chin. Gretchen’s brows are drawn together.

“With leggings, you think?” Gretchen says to Darby.

“And boots.”

“Charlotte, take off the pants and go try that jacket on again over the dress. The frayed-up one.”

I am not sure this will look any better than anything else, but I obey.

“Perfect,” Darby says when I come back out. Gretchen is pleased too.

When I’m back in my regular clothes, Gretchen goes through everything and hands Darby the rejects while she takes out the keepers. It’s like I’m hardly there.

“You’ll wear the dress and the jacket, and I’ve got a scarf. Leggings underneath, and your combat boots.”

“I told them I wasn’t wearing a dress.”

Darby looks stricken. “But it’s cute, right? I mean, it’s totally the best one.”

“It is,” I agree. “I didn’t think it would be, but you’re right. It’s just funny, is all. Oliver’s going to croak.”

It takes us almost a half hour to get home in the traffic, which means I don’t have much time to get ready, since we have to be at the school early for sound check. Darby hurries me into the shower and sets up her stuff in my room. While I’m rinsing out my hair, I try not to think about how nervous I feel. Try not to think about Fabian and what will happen between us tonight at the dance, try also not to think about all those people watching me sing, including Trip, there with Lily. It’s weird that he’s not going to be up onstage with us. He should be over at Oliver’s right now, both of them getting ready. But if he were, I probably wouldn’t be singing at all, would still be just a girl in the audience, cheering for her friends.

Once I’m out of the shower, Darby is all over me with her hair dryer, and then the straightening iron and the curling iron, not to mention brushes and blushes and gloss. Because there isn’t time to even argue, I let her do this smoky eye shadow thing on me and consent to some red lipstick. Even this hastily done, it looks pretty good.

“Okay, be awesome,” she says, squeezing me in a hug when Oliver honks out in the driveway. “And for god’s sake, don’t humiliate me.”

She is partly joking, partly serious. I roll my eyes at her and head out the door.

I’ve been to school dances before, but certainly never early. Never when the gym is completely empty and there’s only Mr. Cornell there, plus the school super making sure everything’s unlocked. Picturing it, an hour from now, full of people, my anxiety wells up in me again. I think Oliver, Abe, and Eli are equally nervous, because while I help them bring in their equipment, not one of us says a word.

Fabian breaks the tense feeling in the air when he shows up on his own, doing a little jig step. I go straight to him and grab him in a hug.

“It’s going to be great,” he assures me, patting me on the back.

“You think so?”

“You look awesome,” he says, stepping back. “You should wear dresses more.”

I blush. Oliver said a similar thing (well, all he said was “Niiiiice,” but still). I tell Fabian he looks good, too.
We
look good. Together. He goes to the stage, and I follow.

The guys fuss around a bit, trying to get the sound right, so I sit on the edge, swinging my legs and watching my knees. I take deep breaths, try to focus on the moment. So much has changed in the last several weeks, it’s almost crazy. I wouldn’t have believed it if someone told me, when school started, that this would be happening. And then the thought of things changing for the better makes me remember something I haven’t thought about in days.

“Going to make a phone call,” I tell the guys, heading outside.

She doesn’t answer, of course, but I leave a message.

“Hey, Mom, I just wanted to say good luck tonight. Big night for both of us, and I can’t wait to tell you how my show goes and to hear all about yours, too. Call me tomorrow, okay? Bye.”

Outside, on my own, the campus dark all around me but the sky still tinted indigo, I force myself to clear my mind of everything. But even after several deep breaths—after the nervousness subsides—I can’t clear away the glow of being with Fabian tonight. The thought of him is the quiet, flickering spark that lights everything up, just before it all explodes.

Ten minutes until doors open, and we’re trying not to be nervous wrecks. We’ve been hanging around the gym, attempting to not
look anxious, all of us jerking our heads up whenever the door opens. We watch girls in the Platinum club come in to set up their ticket-taking table, and then load some other folding tables with soft drinks and two huge watercoolers. Finally, when the DJ arrives, Oliver goes up to shake his hand, tell him we’re ready, but the guy hardly gives Oliver a glance. All he says to us is that he’s going to play for about half an hour, forty-five minutes, to warm things up, and then we’re on.

“You guys can hang out in the greenroom if you want,” he says over his shoulder as he hops up the steps to the stage.

We don’t really know where he’s talking about until Mr. Cornell pauses with his wires and points somewhere back behind the curtains. We thank him and scurry—
be cool, be cool
—into the fluorescent-lit room, crowded with two couches and a scarred coffee table.

“When do you think we should go back out?” Abe asks Oliver. “Ten minutes? Fifteen?”

“I’m staying back here until we play, man.”

I’m surprised. “But dancing’s our favorite part.”

He twists his mouth, jerks his head in a no. “Afterwards, yeah, but—”

“It’s cooler if we’re
revealed
,” Eli agrees.

I wasn’t planning on just sitting back here with them, only able to imagine people arriving and dancing. I was kind of
relying on having something to
do
, but oh well. At least Eli has a pack of cards.

Eight o’clock, eight thirty, and we can hear more and more people arriving. Eight forty-five, and the DJ’s still playing a steady stream of dance hits, trying to get everyone going. It’s almost nine before Mr. Cornell comes back and tells us that the DJ is going to introduce us in about ten minutes. We’ve been concentrating so hard on playing spades—not talking except to call tricks—that when he comes in we all jump about an inch out of our seats.

“Thanks, Mr. Cornell.” Oliver waves like butter wouldn’t melt within an inch of him, even though his knee is thumping up and down.

“Okay, guys,” Abe breathes, worried eyes glancing at all of us.

We nod back. Under the table, I reach over and grab Fabian’s hand, squeeze it. He squeezes—strong and warm—right back.

Eli stretches, takes a flask out of his jacket. “Time for a good luck toast, then.”

“What’s in it?” Abe wants to know.

“Liquid courage.” Eli hands it to him after taking his own big sip.

“To the beginning.” Oliver takes his turn.

Fabian holds the flask up, toasting all of us, takes a swig.

I don’t really drink alcohol, but I don’t want to jinx our good luck, either. And besides, then my lips will be where Fabian’s were.

“You boys are the best,” I say, my eyes lingering on Fabian’s just a moment before I tip the flask back. I nearly cough it all back up, though, when Taryn suddenly pokes her head around the door, waving like crazy.

“Here they are!” she squeals. She pulls Sylvia into the room, plus a tall, wavy-haired guy with giant black glasses. “We had to sneak around the back to get in here,” she whispers, pretending to tiptoe like a spy. “Very tight security. You must be cool.”

“What are you doing back here?” Fabian’s face is full of delight. He moves right past Taryn, who’s already hugging me. Over her shoulder, I watch as he puts his arms around the new guy. And then kisses him. On the lips.

Mr. Cornell is back in the doorway then. He’s not happy to see the extra people, and I’m not sure Eli gets the flask into his back pocket fast enough. But I only sort of vaguely register this, him saying, “You’re just about on.”

Really, I can’t see past the colossal wall of shock that’s just hit me.

And then Fabian’s there, next to me. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be great.” He grabs my hand and waggles it around, trying to loosen me up. “
You’re
great,” he tells me, but it’s like the end of an echo.

“Fabian’s told me a lot about you,” Lover Boy says. “I’m Drew.”

Somehow my hand accepts his. Drew.
That
Drew. The one Fabian mentioned going to the movies with a few weekends ago. The Drew who, Fabian said, thought our Van Halen conversation was funny when Fabian repeated it for him. Drew, who I thought was just Fabian’s
friend
.

“Nice to meet you,” I manage.

“Okay, okay.” Mr. Cornell beckons furiously from the doorway. “It’s time.”

I move into the dark hall, shuffling like Frankenstein. Behind me I hear Taryn squealing, Eli and Oliver high-fiving, Abe pounding Oliver’s back. Under that, though, louder than anything, I hear good-looking, too-nice Drew murmuring something to Fabian. There’s the distinct sound of their lips connecting again, and I feel myself sink. About ten feet away is the curtain, and beyond it are shouts and screams and applause as the DJ says, “—in a public debut you’ll be glad to say you were at: Sad Jackal.”

I know I am absolutely going to throw up.

But I don’t. Instead I stand there, hovering in the wings, watching as Abe, Fabian, Eli, and Oliver play the first song. With the stage lights shining down on them, it’s almost easy to forget I even know them.

From here, because the lights aren’t shining straight in my eyes, I can also look out and see the audience—part of it, anyway.
Enough to see Taryn and Sylvia and Drew, right up front. I close my eyes. Darby had already guessed right, and I was too stupid to see it. Does everybody get to have someone else, except me? And why, on top of everything else, does Drew have to have better legs than me?

My misery makes the first song fly by. The notes fade out, applause fills the gym, and now it’s my turn. Oliver looks into the wings for me, expectant, and gives me a triumphant smile. I feel myself stepping out under the lights to take his place at the mic. I can’t even look at Fabian.

But I can’t see anyone out in the crowd now either, which helps, a little. Of course I know right where Taryn, Sylvia, and Fabian’s boyfriend are standing, but it doesn’t matter. I shut my eyes, close out everything but the music starting behind me. The words spool out with more meaning than they’ve ever had:
“A bag of peanuts in your hand; searching for something you used to understand.”

The sounds from Fabian’s synthesizer sweep up and over me, and it’s like I don’t even have to make an effort to sing the next part:
“Will you look at me? Will you really ever look at me? Will you look at the real me? When will you see enough?”

Eli was wrong about performing. Being up here makes it
easier
, not harder. At Oliver’s house I was still me, Charlotte— Oliver’s oldest friend, the dumpy, amicable girl who manages the band. Now, up here, in front of this gaping blackness, the lights
and the music holding me up, I can disappear from everything except the crushing sadness I feel. I don’t know what the people out there are thinking—I don’t know where Trip is, if he’s even here; or how excellently Fabian thinks I’m doing—and I don’t care. All I care about is how utterly broken I feel right this second. Up here, like this, the low singing in me can be the all of it.

I haul the last repeating lines from a deep, breathy part of my throat:
“Now all I see is you walking away from me. Walking away from me. Walking away . . .”

I don’t think anything has ever been more true.

When the final vibrations of “Cage Song” dissipate around us, an enormous wave of cheering washes over me. Oliver moves up beside me to take his place at the mic again, touches my elbow lightly. “Awesome, Spider,” he whispers.