The Art of Lainey (17 page)

“Please tell me he’s not in the band,” I say.

“He’s not.” Micah is looking across the room at a pair of girls sitting behind a card table selling T-shirts and stuff.

A flash of jealousy sparks through me. I can’t believe he’s checking out other girls while we’re supposed to be acting like we’re a couple. “So, is Amber prettier than me?” I blurt out, mentally kicking myself as soon as the words leave my mouth. It’s one of those things you think, but never actually mean to say, but once it’s out there you’ve got no choice but to own it.

“Relax, Lainey,” Micah says. “It’s not a competition.”

I think of
The Art of War
tucked inside my purse. “It’s totally a competition,” I mutter under my breath. “It’s a battle.”

But Amber isn’t my enemy.

Right. It doesn’t matter if Micah’s ex is hotter than I am, so then why do I want him to like me better? I feel a twinge of shame. Maybe I
am
shallow. Kendall is all about collecting “fan club members” as she calls them, but I’ve never been one to lead on boys I wasn’t interested in. Again, I wonder if being without Jason is wrecking my self-esteem.

The lights in the club dim and the stage lights flare to life again. “Come on.” Micah urges me forward and I stomp on the toes of the guy in front of me.

“Sorry,” I mutter. People from the back of the club and the bar area are flocking to the small rectangle of space in front of the stage, jostling me from all sides. I’m not sure where Micah wants me to go. I try to turn around and ask, but then I feel his hands on me. Fingertips, really. Barely grazing my sides, right below where my rib cage ends. I let him guide me through the people. When we stop moving, my arms are actually resting on top of the stage. Micah is directly to my right. To the right of him, stacks of black amplifiers hum with energy.

The crowd starts clapping and whistling as the opening band, Arachne’s Revenge, walks out onto the stage. The drummer is an overweight guy wearing a backward baseball cap and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. The guitarist and bassist (I can never tell which is which) are both lanky and tall. One has dark skin and dreadlocks. The other is pale with unruly, curly blond hair. The lead singer is a Kendall-pretty girl who looks a few years older than me. She’s wearing a black-and-red kimono with a layer of black mesh
peeking out from beneath the hem. Her heavy combat boots are half unlaced, but she glides across the stage like she’s part swan and part panther.

“Wow,” I say. I’m impressed and she hasn’t even started to sing.

“I know, right?” Micah’s eyes follow the girl as she walks from one side of the stage to the other, stopping to ruffle her bassist’s (I think) dreadlocks. He tugs on one of her pale fish-bone braids and winks, as if they’re sharing a secret joke.

The girl heads back to center stage and sidles up to the microphone. “What’s up, Hazelton?” she asks. The crowd roars in response. The guy standing next to me, whose toes I smashed, reaches out to touch the singer’s boot. She smiles down at him but steps back out of his reach.

The first two songs aren’t bad. The lead singer has a decent voice but it’s being swallowed up by the screaming guitars. Still, it’s way better than one of those shows where the band dresses up like grim reapers and throws buckets of pig guts into the audience.

Then the drummer leaves the stage and returns with a dual keyboard setup. A guy wearing a staff T-shirt brings the lead singer a violin.

“This is called ‘Wake Up Dreaming,’” the lead singer says. Her voice is a mix of throaty and little girlish. “Someday we hope to perform it with a full symphony.” Around me, people are pulling out their cell phones, lighting up the screens and holding them above their heads. The girl
counts out a beat and the whole band begins to play at once. It’s one of the songs Micah played on the way to Mizz Creant’s. The song that almost made me cry.

The bright lights blink off and suddenly the stage is awash in rotating blue circles. I can feel vibrations from the amps, from the floor. I swear I can even feel the individual notes moving through the air. My blood hums in my veins. I look over at Micah. He’s got his eyes closed.

The music pitches and swells, violin and guitars, drumbeats and thudding bass. As I sway back and forth in front of the stage, it’s like being in the eye of a tornado, where it’s calm, but everything is going crazy, whirling around me. I can’t stop looking at Micah, at the way the lights reflect off his mohawk, at the way he’s completely lost in the storm of overlapping chords.

I see every part of him, tiny pieces I never knew existed. The slight bend in his nose, the wedge-shaped scar on his right temple, the outline of his bicep hiding beneath the pyramid tattoo. His lips part, just barely, when he exhales. As I imagine the invisible mist of his breath hanging in the air, I inch closer to him. Here, in the strange blue light, while the bass pulses and pounds, all I can think about is touching him. Our fingertips brush. A shock wave courses through me. I want to grab him and pull him into my calm spot, closing my eyes and kissing him while the world spins topsy-turvy around us.

My thoughts feel hot inside my head, like they should be radiating a laser beam across the club, but Micah’s eyes
are still closed, his body loose. He’s oblivious to the fact I’m thinking about kissing him. He has no idea my eyes are skimming their way down the lines of his body. His cheekbones. His beard stubble. The ridge of muscle connecting his jaw to the center of his chest. The faintest trace of sweat glistens where his neck meets his right shoulder. I want to touch my lips to it.

This is crazy. It’s Micah. I don’t like Micah. He doesn’t like me. We have about as much in common as, well, nothing. I sneak another glimpse at him. He’s still completely entranced by the song. He’s still completely kissable. It has to be the beer, or the music, the violins and guitars and electronic pulsing, the whole otherworldly quality to this song. Or maybe it’s just because I’m not myself here, and I don’t have to obey the rules of Lainey.

Micah’s eyes snap open and he looks over at me, as if he can finally sense the strange intensity of my thoughts. My heart does a somersault in my chest. I mutter something about needing air even though I know he can’t hear me.

Turning, I thread my way through the crowd. The music is crescendoing now. Louder and louder. I feel it pounding in my skin, my blood, my ears, my head. Every beat is punctuated with the split-second image of Micah and me kissing. His lips, white-hot on mine. I plunge forward, swimming through swaying arms and sweaty torsos.

I swear he says my name, but I don’t turn around. I’m imagining it. I have to be. There’s no way I’d be able to hear him over the music. Besides, I don’t dare look back. If I do,
he’ll know. He’ll see everything reflected in my eyes.

I escape out into the night, embracing the breeze that cools my skin and dries the damp tendrils of hair at the nape of my neck. My heart gallops painfully in my chest, a tiny horse trying to burst through my rib cage. The music fades away as the song comes to an end, but I am still drowning in spiky hair and glimmering sweat. And lips, those barely parted lips.

Stop.
I will the image from my head.

Me. Micah.

Kissing.

Impossible.

So then why do I want it so much?

I
suck in breath after breath of warm night air, waiting for my heartbeat to slow, waiting for my whole body to stop tingling.

What the hell
was
that?
Get a grip, Lainey. The idea is not to fall for your fake boyfriend.

A handful of kids hover right outside the doors to the club. Two are smoking; the rest are clearly too young for the fourteen-and-over show. They’re hanging around, peeking through the door of the club whenever someone goes in or out, probably hoping the bouncer will eventually take pity on them and let them in. One of the smokers whistles at me.

Ignoring him, I turn and wander half a block up the street, just far enough away to feel alone. This is a busy area of town, but it’s after ten and all the stores are closed. The only things open are The Devil’s Doorstep and Alpha, the pizza place across the street. Gathering my dress around me, I carefully lower myself to the rough sidewalk. I lean my
head back against the dirt-encrusted glass window of a vintage clothing store and pull
The Art of War
from my purse. I need more ancient Chinese wisdom to make it through the night.

The clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy but does not allow the enemy’s will to be imposed on him.
Right. I’m supposed to be tricking Jason and Amber with this little charade. I’m not supposed to be tricking myself.

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.”