Exit Stage Left (14 page)

“Got it. So, hey . . .” I can’t believe I’m about to ask him this, but I need to take one for the team. The team being Harrison and me and our futures. “Harrison and I were thinking of trying out for one.” Harrison gives me a sideways look that says he’d rather eat his shoes than be in a band with Trevor and the Grimaldis, but I ignore him. He can’t possibly think it’s easy for me, either.

Trevor nods. “Yeah? That’s cool. I bet you’d make a great lead singer, Case.”

I narrow my eyes at him. He definitely wants something. “What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. You can really belt one out, you know? And you’ve got the right look.”

“Um, thanks, I guess.”

“Yeah. Hey, I gotta go find a book. See you later?”

“Sure.”

Trevor walks away. I turn back to Harrison.

“Casey? What the hell was that all about?” Harrison finally says. “Were you trying to get us into Trevor’s band? The one that doesn’t even exist yet? The one he’s going to form with Loser Twin One and Loser Twin Two? Did it occur to you that you should’ve run that idea by me first?”

“Sorry,” I snap. “The opportunity presented itself, so I took it. And anyway, he didn’t ask us to join, even though I was making it
kind of obvious that I wanted him to ask. So, no harm done.” I resume tapping my pencil on my book.

“What’s up with the whole ‘you have the look’ thing?” Harrison deepens his voice in an attempt to imitate Trevor. It comes out sounding more like Ms. Sharp when someone keeps forgetting the same line over and over again.

“I don’t know.” But I do know. He was flirting with me, again. And it was so easy for me to slip right back into my usual pattern, never mind any feelings I have for Oliver now and the promise I made to myself.

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to start that whole cycle over again. I don’t know if I can take the drama,” Harrison says. He pulls my pre-calc book across the table and begins thumbing through the pages.

“Maybe he just wants me to be in his band. Us, I mean.” Images of Trevor backing me up on guitar while I mesmerize a crowd with my songs about despair and love gone wrong flit through my mind before I can stop them. “Can’t that be all he wants?”

“Christ, Casey, I don’t know. It’s Trevor. How many girls did he go through since you dropped him last summer? He’s probably made his way through the entire school and run out. I’m sure he wants more than just a bandmate.”

“Quit making him sound like a creep.”

“Let’s see, there was Emma Akers, Sam DiStefano, Lucy Nguyen, Emma again, and that girl in college, Kelsey somebody. Gabby. Then Amanda. I’m forgetting someone in there. We’ve got three minutes left. I think you’re going to fail this test, by the way.”

I fix him with what I hope is a Serious Stare. “It’s not any of your business, but I’m not going back to him. I just want to get us into his band, that’s all.”

“You keep telling yourself that. But you’re right, it’s not any of my business. So that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.” Which is way more than he’s ever said on it. Harrison passes me the book and picks up his bag from the floor.

“I didn’t ask your opinion on it to begin with,” I mutter. And I don’t know why Harrison’s so anti-Trevor all of a sudden. They were never BFFs or anything, but they always got along fine. “So if he does want us to join the band, are you game?”

“You know, Casey, you do have a brother who’s already in a band. A good one, too, or so I’ve heard. Why don’t you talk to him?”

Ha. That’s funny. “There’s no way Eric would ever—
ever
—let us be part of his precious Manic Banshee.”

“Just ask him, okay? Before I get stuck spending my free time with Mr. Flippy Hair, Holland’s very own drug kingpin, and Shadow Boy.” Harrison scoops up my bag and hands it to me.

“Shadow Boy?” Only Harrison can make Johnny Grimaldi sound like some kind of superhero.

“Because he follows his brother around like a shadow. Obviously,” Harrison says.

“Fine, I’ll ask. But if Eric laughs in my face, you owe me rides for the rest of the year.”

“Like you won’t guilt me into those anyway.”

As we pass the checkout counter, I spy Trevor. He smiles at me.
I smile back until I realize what it is I’m doing. Then I just smile to myself. I might be dead-set against getting back together with him, but having him pick me over Amanda, or anyone else, is more satisfying than it should be.

“. . . till you find your dream!” I belt out to the empty seats in the last row of the theater.

“Good, Casey,” Ms. Sharp says, as I exit stage left. “I want to run the end of Act Two, Scene One again,” she announces to the group.

I know exactly which scene that is—the romantic one between Maria and the Captain. Amanda stands just as Trevor passes her. He falls into step next to her and says something. He looks serious, not flirty, thankfully. Amanda doesn’t say anything back. When I pass, I give her arm a squeeze. She looks worried, and I’m guessing it’s because this is the third time Ms. Sharp’s called this scene today. Trevor shoots me a lazy smile over Amanda’s head.

I sit next to Harrison, who’s two rows in front of Oliver. Even if we haven’t said anything to each other this entire rehearsal, every part of me is aware of exactly where Oliver is. I consider getting up and sitting with him, but that would look weird after already having chosen this seat.

So instead, I get comfortable and watch Amanda stumble through this scene. I wish Ms. Sharp would just let it go for today. It’s clearly not clicking, and maybe once Amanda has time to process what she needs to do differently, it’ll get better. Trevor frowns when Amanda screws up a line. He’s such a perfectionist, and I know exactly how
little patience he has for mistakes. Good thing I’m pretty much the same when it comes to acting, so we never had any problems. Onstage, anyway. But I feel for Amanda up there.

Something scratchy bumps my hair and falls over my shoulder. It’s paper, crumpled into a little ball. What in the world?

I flip around in my seat and Oliver looks straight up at the ceiling.

“Did he just throw something at you?” Harrison asks.

I unfold the paper to see writing.
Assassin?
is all it says. I hide a smile behind my hand as Harrison peeks over my shoulder.

“What does that mean? And why is he throwing notes? What is this, third grade?” Harrison says.

He’s throwing notes because he doesn’t have my number. It’s kind of cute, actually. I flatten the note on my armrest and find a pen in my backpack.
Nice try
, I write.
Think sexier
. Then I ball it up, turn around, and toss it back.

Not a minute later, a ball of paper lands in Harrison’s lap. He opens it.

“What the hell?” he says at the same time I read the words.
Naked assassin?
it says.

My body goes so warm that it’s almost like I just stepped into a sauna. I snatch the paper away from Harrison and stuff it into my bag.

“Is there something I should know, Casey?” Harrison asks, smirking.

“Nothing I want you to know.”

“Then it must be something good.”

I ignore him and stare straight ahead, just in time to see Ms. Sharp
toss her script to Hannah in a huff of irritation. She throws up her hands, effectively ending the torturous scene between Amanda and Trevor. Hannah calls the next scene since Ms. Sharp is too busy muttering to herself to do it.

Amanda falls into the front row by herself. I’m about to slink out and join her when Trevor slides into the empty seat on the other side of me.

“Hi,” I say. I give Trevor a suspicious look. But not too suspicious, because I still want him to ask us to join his band.

“Do you have something in your eye?”

I blink. “No. Yes.” I rub my right eye. So much for looking suspicious.

“So, what are you up to this weekend?” Trevor leans back and puts his feet against the empty seat in front of him.

I can feel the wind from Harrison’s head as it whips around.

“Nothing much,” I say, not looking at him.

“I’m thinking about going to Battle of the Bands Saturday night. You going?”

Now I look at him. That familiar face—not just those eyes and that smile, but the dimple in his left cheek and the six freckles on his nose. I used to trace constellations with those freckles. A million memories rush through my head, and I can’t speak. Worse, I forget all about how much we don’t belong together. And anything I feel for Oliver. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” I say, like it’s no big deal.

“Awesome. See you there.”

Then he’s gone, and I’m trying to get over the fact that I’ve just
erased all the work I’ve done getting him out of my mind.

“Casey! What’s wrong with you?” Harrison whisper-yells at me the second Trevor leaves.

“Nothing. We’re just going as friends,” I say, partly to reassure him and partly to reassure myself. I can stay in control here. It’s for the band, for my future. Nothing more.

Harrison narrows his eyes. “Trevor doesn’t have friends who are girls.”

“Sure he does.” I can’t think of anyone off the top of my head, but he’s got to. “Besides, it’s not like I’m going to hook up with him or anything.” Lies, my subconscious is telling me. All lies. Except they don’t have to be, if I set those feelings to the off switch, where they should be. Then it’s just me, being smart and using this situation to my advantage.

That’s all.

I’ve got most of my closet spread out across my room (again) in search of clothes that will make me look irresistible and band-worthy when my phone chimes.

Have need 4 cinnamon rolls. Pick you up in 30?
It’s Amanda.

I type out a yes and turn my attention back to my clothes. I still have time to pick something out. If he’s dead-set on trying to get me back, then it won’t really matter what I wear. I could probably show up in my mom’s reject flared jeans from fifteen years ago and he’d still agree to anything I ask for. But I never do anything half-assed, and with that in mind, I test a bunch of different outfits until I stumble on the perfect combination.

I study my reflection and test out how I look while singing some Violent Femmes (who I’ve been listening to a lot this week). I look totally kick-ass
and
I’m finally getting what I want—or wanted, technically. I’m actually happy, like I’ve won some huge battle. More than happy—freaking thrilled. I launch into the next verse, holding an
imaginary microphone in my hand the way Amanda and I did when we pretended to be Hannah Montana as kids.

Eric peeks through the open door. “You are seriously deranged.”

I sing even louder, adding a high kick to my little performance.

“Deranged,” he repeats as he shuts the door.

“Wait! Eric, hang on.” I follow him out to where he’s stopped in the hallway, decked out in his garlic-scented, stained work uniform.

“Make it quick,” he says. “I’ve got a late-night practice to get to.”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you.” God, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I promised Harrison, though, and the faster I can get a no from Eric, the faster I can get us into Trevor’s band-to-be. “You ever think about having a girl in Manic Banshee? You know, maybe to sing on a few songs?”

He blinks at me. “Are you asking to join my band?”

“Well, yeah. And Harrison, too. You know he can sing. And he’s got a background on the sax.” No need to mention that Harrison wasn’t particularly talented in that area.

He laughs. “Case, you’ve heard our music.”

That I have. It sounds like a train crash mixed with a little nails-on-chalkboard.

“What the hell would we do with a sax player?”

“He can drum. Maybe even play guitar.” Now I’m just making things up.

Eric runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “We’ve got all the musicians we need. And, no offense, kiddo, but you couldn’t keep up with our songs.”

I’m sorry, what?
I
couldn’t keep up with his barely coherent lyrics? “Right. Well, we’ve already got an offer with another band. But thanks.” At least, we will after tomorrow night, once I get Trevor to agree.

“Then why did you ask me?” Eric shakes his head. “Never mind. I’ve gotta get a shower.”

“Wait!” I grab his dirty sleeve, and then wish I hadn’t. I wipe some mysterious red liquid from my fingers. “Can I grab a ride with you tomorrow night? To Spotlight for Battle of the Bands?”

He holds up a hand and strides off toward the bathroom.

I’m going to take that as a yes.

I’m waiting in the park by the swings at noon on Saturday. For Steve-o Grimaldi, of all people. It’s overcast and chilly, and Eric’s old bomber jacket—the only thing I could find in the hall closet that matched my future as a rock star—isn’t exactly the warmest thing in the world. Also, I’m hoping Steve-o gets here fast, before Eric finally wakes up and finds out I’ve taken his favorite coat and refuses to drive me tonight. He’s a little overprotective of this thing.

At 12:15, I spot Steve-o strolling into the park, right behind a mom with two little kids. He looks like he’s just rolled out of bed himself, his too-long dark hair squashed flat on one side, and when he gets closer, I can see the pillowcase creases on his left cheek. And his bloodshot eyes. It was a questionable choice, asking Steve-o to get me a fake ID, but Spotlight is strictly twenty-one-and-over and I literally couldn’t think of anyone else who’d know how to do that. Steve-o has
the Holland Performing and Visual Arts High School fake-ID market cornered. Between that and his other business interests, the guy’s probably a secret millionaire.

He yawns and scratches his sad excuse for beard scruff when he reaches me. “’Morning, Fitzgerald,” he says.

“It’s afternoon. So I brought the money. Where’s the ID?” I hold up the fifty bucks—my entire week’s allowance, which means I’m completely broke now.

“You’re all business today.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.

I cross my arms. “That’s why we’re here. I don’t know about you, but I’ve got stuff to do.” Be nice, Casey. He could veto my whole plan to join the band. “Sorry, I’m just in a hurry, that’s all.”

“I was hoping we could have a little talk about my brother.”

Ugh. “What about?” Never mind that I know exactly what it’s about.

“He’s got a thing for you, you know.” Steve-o smiles his creepy smile.

“Yeah . . .” This was a mistake. I would’ve been better off getting Harrison to drive me to Bloomington and finding some random college student to make a fake. Steve-o’s never really liked me, and I have no idea why. “Trevor’s okay with that?”

Steve-o shrugs, which could mean anything from yes to no to who cares. “So, you like him or what?”

I say the only thing I can think of that won’t make Steve-o mad. “It doesn’t matter, because I’m going out with someone else.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Who? Your little runt friend?”

Okay, rude much? Also, Steve-o is completely clueless if he thinks Harrison is into me. Then again, Amanda did try to set him up with Rosalita, so maybe I am the only one who knows the truth. “No.”

“Someone from school?”

I shrug. Steve-o’s friends with Trevor, but I guess guys don’t really talk about this stuff. Or care about whether their brothers want to go out with girls who have long histories with their friends. Somehow I think being a guy is much less complicated than being a girl.

Steve-o whistles, like I’ve impressed him or something. “College guy? Or some loser from South County?”

Steve-o’s got a lot of nerve calling anyone from the regular high school a loser. Nice—I have to be nice. “It’s new. I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it. Can I have my ID?”

He finally pulls the ID from his pocket and hands it over. There’s something blue under his fingernails, but I don’t think I even want to know what it is. “You theater types are so damn judgmental. Johnny’s a good guy, you know. He’s not the fuckup you think he is.”

“Right.” I’m too busy examining the ID to say anything else. He used my school picture from last year’s yearbook. I’m not looking so hot in it, since I was already dealing with mono but didn’t know it yet. Otherwise, the ID looks good. Surprisingly good. I hand over the money. “Thanks for this.”

Steve-o pockets the bills and pushes his stringy hair behind his ear. “What do you need it for anyway? You going to the show tonight?”

“Maybe.” I don’t know why I’m being so cagy with him. It’s not like he won’t see me there with Trevor.

“I’ll see ya there.” He starts to walk off, but stops. “Johnny’ll be there too, just in case you change your mind.”

Not likely. But since I’ve been nice to Steve-o, I might as well put in a good word for me and Harrison. “Yeah, you know, Harrison and I are thinking of joining a band.”

He looks me up and down, and snorts, like I’ve just told a joke.

I just smile back. He’ll see tonight, when I show up in my most rock-star-appropriate outfit. And no one would deny that I can sing.

They’ll be begging me to join.