The After Girls (8 page)

But Max caught her eyes. “From the top,” he echoed, looking straight at her. “I’ll try to be better with my cues this time.”

And she knew that that was the only apology she’d get.

• • •

That night, she leaned against the back wall of The Grove with Max and Carter, adjusting her earplugs, pushing them in tighter, as the lead singer of Death Star let out a long piercing wail and strummed on an electric guitar with
way
too much distortion. The floors were dirty and the lighting dim, and the stale smell of sweat and Natty Light filled the air. Around them, the crowd of people, all twenty or so of them, looked about as bored as she was. Apart from a group of girls who must have been the Girlfriends. They banged their heads almost in perfect tandem with the three blond-haired, pock-marked boys of Death Star jumping up and down on stage. That was the thing about The Grove. It was her favorite, for sure, but they weren’t always as selective as they could be in their lineups.

Max was standing there, arms crossed in front of him, in serious pre-show mode. He’d been nicer since her breakdown, nice for Max, at least. Carter turned to her, stuck his tongue out, and wiggled his head back and forth in a mock-Kiss tribute. She forced herself to laugh, doing a few head bangs herself. But she knew it came out as fake. She just couldn’t help it.

River Deep didn’t go on for another hour at least.

The Grove was the first place they’d ever played. She’d been fifteen, they’d just started the band, and she’d finally begun calling her violin a fiddle. Her hair was honey brown then, natural. Two tiny, generic holes in her ears were her only piercings. She barely even knew what makeup was, and Max was nothing to her. Just the nerdy guy in her English class who also hated Chaucer but liked Keats, and wanted to start a band. She was first-string violin in the orchestra, so it only made sense. Once they’d found Carter, the only one weird enough to try his hand at the mandolin (it still looked so strange against his stretched-out body, like it had been made for an elf or a fairy), they were set.

That first night, they’d opened for another local band who also had no following. Astrid and Ella and a few friends of Max and Carter were the only people in attendance. And yet, Sydney had been seduced by the colored lights and the feel of the stage and the excitement of the unexpected, the not quite knowing how it would turn out, how long she should hold the end note, the happy look on the faces of her friends when they heard something that they liked, the smile Max gave her when she got the riff just right. She’d been hooked on all of it ever since.

Astrid always loved their shows, and she especially liked their early stuff, all quiet and basic because they didn’t really know how to write. Ella saw things more practically. She thought the new stuff was better, more complex, had a greater chance of getting them into the larger festivals, but Astrid didn’t see it that way. She still had a thing for that first one that Sydney had written with Max, even though Sydney told her over and over that it was far from their best.

Now, two years later and so much had changed, sure. She had a whole list of things that just weren’t as good and easy as they were back then. But the only thing she really wanted, the one thing that she really missed, was for Astrid to be out there in the crowd, just one more time.

“You okay?” Carter asked, waving a hand in front of her face. “You look a little dazed. Nervous?” he asked.

Sometimes Sydney wondered if he liked her. She wondered if things hadn’t happened with Max, whether anything would have, could have happened with Carter. Her mom had always wanted them to date. So had Ella. She supposed that there was no reason why things couldn’t happen still. But as the low lighting picked up his chocolaty eyes and the slightest smattering of freckles along his forehead, she knew for sure that they wouldn’t. Carter always did the right thing, was always so good. She never seemed to like that.

“I’m fine,” she said, and as she did, she saw Ella and Ben walking in.

Ella walked slowly towards her and gave her a hug, long and tight. Sydney could feel her arms shaking around her.

“Are you okay?” Sydney asked as she looked her over. Ella was pale. She almost seemed scared. “Did something happen?”

Ella looked down at her purse, fished around but then looked back up. “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just that it’s the first show since …”

“Since Astrid died,” Sydney interrupted. “I know,” she said. “You don’t have to remind me.”

Ella just stared at her — deer in the headlights.

Next to them, Ben and Carter started talking about football. The two had always been friendly — they’d been science partners in 8th grade or something — but in the past couple of years, their friendship had turned into a full-on bromance.

“Did you at least bring it?” Sydney asked.

Ella narrowed her eyes, and then it seemed to dawn on her. “Oh,” she said. “Yeah.”

“Sweet,” Sydney said, trying to sound at least somewhat cheerful. “Bathroom break.”

The walls were covered in Sharpie phone numbers, cracked paint, and Xeroxed flyers for shows that had already happened and beginner guitar lessons. Ella pulled the nail polish remover out of her purse, and Syd walked into the first stall, jerking on the roll of toilet paper and scrunching it into a ball.

She grabbed the remover from Ella, poured a little on the paper, and began to work on the X on her hand. It was a trick they’d cultivated long ago, after they’d fully pissed off the bouncer by covering the backs of their hands in so much Vaseline that his pen wouldn’t even work. This way, they took their underage Xs with smiling, innocent faces and scrubbed them off when safely out of sight. You only had to be sixteen to go to shows at The Grove, and once the marks disappeared, no one gave you any trouble.

Syd scrubbed harder, and the paper in her hands began to turn black as her skin cleared, turning just the slightest bit red. When the X was nearly gone, at least gone enough to pass in a dark room, she poured some more remover and handed it to Ella.

“I don’t know,” Ella said, somber. “I’m not sure if I want to drink tonight.”

Sydney crossed her arms. She knew that Ella would never adopt the party-girl persona that she so readily embraced, but still, Ella had always had fun at her shows. When their set was done, they’d all drink a beer together and imagine that Sydney had finally made it big, trading fantasy stories of cute, bespectacled groupies and sketchy tour buses that would inevitably come along with fame.

“Geez, El,” she snapped. “What the hell happened?”

Ella looked down, then shrugged. “It’s just been a rough week,” she said.

“I know,” Sydney said. “All the more reason to drink.” Sydney forced a smile and held the wad of paper out to her.

Ella shrugged again. “I don’t really work that way, Syd.”

“It’s been hard for me, too,” Sydney said. “Obviously. But this is our first show of the summer, and it’s our only show before the fair. I just want to have a good time. Please.”

Ella hesitated.

“
Please,
” she said. “I need this.”

“Okay,” Ella said. “Alright.” And she took the wadded up tissue. “You’re going to be great,” she said, as she scrubbed her hand. “I know you are.”

“I hope so,” Sydney said, and after a moment, they walked back out. They headed straight to the bar and ordered their first beers.

• • •

It felt good to be up on stage again. The three of them were six songs in; they had just a couple more to go. Sweat beaded on her brow, and her heart felt like it was beating right along with the strumming of Max’s guitar. The lights were bright on Sydney’s face, red and blue and shining strong so that the crowd in front of her became one mass of swaying, vibrating bodies, and she could tell that they liked what they were hearing. Sydney wasn’t drunk, really. She wouldn’t be until later, after their set was over. But she’d had just enough to make her blood pulse fast and her body feel warm and light, the music natural and
alive
, as if her bow were simply an extension of her hand.

The problems she’d had in practice seemed to disappear beneath the lights. She didn’t need to count; she just felt, whipping her bow back and forth, back and forth, faster and faster and faster across the strings, until powerfully, and with a final quick stride, the song was over, and the crowd burst into applause, Ella’s cheering voice among them.

“Thanks,” she said into the microphone, between big gulps of air. She looked over to Max, and he was smiling right at her, bright and wide. “Perfect,” he mouthed, and it was moments like this that proved to her that she’d never quite be over him. When he smiled at her like that, when they were up on stage, when he kept up with the rhythm of her movement. When he let her lead, when he followed faithfully behind, when he really believed in her, as she knew deep down that he did. It almost felt like the two of them were the only people in the world.

Max leaned in towards the microphone. “Let’s hear it for Syddie,” he said, to more applause, and in spite of the sweat on her face, the heat in the room, she swore that she blushed, beamed hotter.

The crowd stilled, and there was a moment of pretty silence. Max broke it.

“Now we’re going to slow it down a bit,” he said, turning to her. “This one’s the first song that we ever wrote.”

Sydney took a breath to steady herself. Here it was: Astrid’s favorite. It certainly shouldn’t be hard. She and Max had written it in a couple hours one night when they’d first started the band. It was quiet and slow, unlike most of the others. Simple rhythms; the chorus just the melodic coo of her fiddle. It had never been anybody’s favorite but Astrid’s. But they almost always squeezed it into the lineup just for her.

Now, in the midst of the lights and the set and the crowd and the real, actual night, Sydney wished that she’d asked Max to leave it out. Astrid wasn’t here to hear it. She was far away, away from them, away from all that she’d loved, all that they’d loved together.

But Max’s guitar was already strumming slow. In a few seconds, his voice rang deep.

Spring left quickly; summer’s all around.

Sydney leaned towards the mic.

The sun shines brightly on the ground.

Max took a quick breath, glanced over.

You and I will swim through creeks.

Syd trilled back, light, careless. Trying to sound that way, at least.

Thirteen happy, pretty weeks.

Sydney pulled back and Max kept strumming. The chorus was just her and her fiddle: slow, melodic. No words necessary.

She pulled her bow across the strings, feeling it move, vibrate. Hearing it ring. This was harder, this playing quietly. She wished she could go back to the ones from before, angry and energetic and fast, but instead, she moved slowly, easing her bow back and forth, staying legato, dark, sad. Just like she was supposed to. Just like Astrid had liked.

She held the last note until Max’s voice was back.

Autumn leaves crunch beneath our feet.

Sydney leaned forward again.

Though we fight, you still seem sweet.

Max looked right at her then.

I don’t want to let you go.

And for once, it wasn’t him that she thought of.

Stay with me through winter’s cold.

Sydney tugged on the bow, and it made a quiet, low moan. Back and forth. Up and down. Ella’s eyes caught hers and she knew that they were on the same page. She wished that Astrid could be there, too. She wished that the song didn’t have a different meaning for her now. She felt the heat rise up through her cheeks, and she couldn’t do this now, not during their first show, not in front of everyone. She had to show them that she was okay.

She held back all she could, and Max went on.

Murky snowdrifts, frosted windowpanes.

She only had to get through this. They were almost done.

Tell me why we had to change.

Max’s voice got louder, right on cue.

I wish I hadn’t let you go.

Syd leaned close, sang almost in a whisper.

Now we’re broken. Winter’s cold.

She pulled back for her final notes. She moved into the upper octaves, but she still stayed soft. Climbing higher, her fiddle seemed to weep. She was almost done.

Her eyes caught Ella’s once again, but she looked away as soon as she could. She willed herself to get through this without breaking down.

In moments the fiddle solo was over. She let her arms fall. She leaned into the mic again. She and Max would sing the last two lines together.

Every season, every day, I will hold you dear.

Even though you’re far away, I will hold you dear.

The strumming stopped, the crowd quiet for a minute, and before the applause even started, before they even knew it was over, she felt a tear tip over the edge.

She wanted to run, she wanted to flee the stage; she didn’t want anyone to see her like this. She hadn’t been able to cry since Astrid died, and now here they were, her first tears falling, right up on stage.

Not now, she thought. Not now.

But it was no use. She felt more tears coming, strong.

Before she could move, the lights cut out. She was bathed in darkness. She couldn’t see a thing. She couldn’t help it, she let her shoulders fall as the sound of movement rung around her, the impatient yells of “What the hell?” from the crowd.

She let them come; she let her body shake. She felt an arm around her shoulders, and when she turned she could barely make out Max’s face.

A gruff voice rang out on the intercom. “We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please wait patiently, and do not try to leave.”

Max’s arm squeezed her tight. “It’s okay,” he said, rubbing his hand down her arm. “You were perfect,” he said. “You were great.”

And she felt his finger underneath her chin, tipping her face up to his. He pressed his lips to her lips, and she tasted the salt of her tears when she parted hers.

He pulled back in a second, and he wiped his thumbs beneath her eyelids, along her cheeks. “I’m okay,” she said, turning towards the back, rushing to get the last bit of tears off her face.