Authors: Gail Nall
“Where’s Trevor?” Kelly asks.
“He’s coming.” I’m slightly annoyed that he’s not here already. Maybe I should’ve stayed up there. I contemplate going back. But only for a moment, because the risk of losing a tooth is
not
something I really want to take on tonight.
Eric, guitar in hand, takes center stage behind the mic, and the crowd erupts. Okay, I had
no
idea that people were this into Manic Banshee.
“Your brother is so hot, Casey,” Kelly says into my ear.
I give her a look that I hope is a mixture of revulsion and pity.
The band launches into a song I’ve heard nine million times in my basement and while waiting for a ride outside the practice rooms at school, and I still don’t know most of the words to it. Mostly because Eric’s screaming them and the music nearly drowns out the vocals. Honestly, if Eric wasn’t my brother, I wouldn’t have thought Manic Banshee was anything special. But the crowd shouts the lyrics as if they’re the second coming of Nirvana or something. I show my sisterly support by ditching the disgusting beer so I can jump up and down and yell along with everyone else.
“Taaaaayyyyyyyyke meeeeeeeeeeee dooooownnn!” Eric screams into the mic. Clearly, I’m the one who inherited the singing talent in our family.
Oliver and Kelly are moving along with almost everyone else in the crowd. The bassist, Arlo—the one with all the piercings and who I know for a fact takes his kid sister on regular outings to the mall Disney store—never lets up, and Ike looks like he’s going to pound his drums into the stage.
“They’re really good,” Oliver says, his lips disconcertingly close to my face again.
“That’s my brother,” I reply. I am oddly proud to be related to Eric, probably for the first time ever. I’ve heard the buzz around school, and I knew they were starting to book more gigs, but this is kind of amazing, really, the way people are so into it.
When Eric screams, “Take me down!” one last time and the music
stops, my ears are fuzzy with the sudden quiet. I go up on my tiptoes as they launch into the next song, looking for Trevor. He’s way up front, pushing and shoving with the rest of the crowd.
When the band finishes its last song and leaves the stage, I pitch my voice up into my head register and yell as loud as I can. My ears ring and I can just barely make out what Oliver’s saying.
“So this is what was next on your list,” he says. “Which is . . . what, exactly? And where’s Harrison?”
“He’s not here.” I don’t offer any other explanation.
Oliver raises an eyebrow. “And you and Trevor . . . ?”
Kelly peers around Oliver and Jenna and tilts her head to try to hear us.
“What?”
He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I thought you were done with him, that’s all.”
“I am,” I shout. There’s something about that raised eyebrow that’s seriously annoying me. None of this is any of his business, anyway. I’m not about to explain that I’m here only to get into a band. I shouldn’t have to. Part of me wants to show him that—to pull his face down to mine right here in the middle of everyone.
But I don’t.
Oliver doesn’t say anything. I think he actually shifts away from me.
“What? What’s going on? I can’t hear,” Kelly yells. She’s missed the whole conversation. Which is definitely for the best.
“Nothing,” Oliver says to her.
He’s standing closer to Jenna than to me right now, as if the thought of me and Trevor getting back together sickens him.
“Eric
killed
it.” Trevor appears next to me. He’s running his hands through his damp hair.
“I know, right?” I say.
He rests a hand on my arm. “Having a good time?”
“Yeah.” Except I’m super distracted by his warm hand searing through my skin. Or maybe I’m still fuming at Oliver’s not-so-silent judgment of my actions.
The next band starts to play. They’re completely different from Manic Banshee. Their songs are mostly instrumental, and the music is more laid-back.
“Hey.” I poke Oliver.
He leans toward me but keeps watching the band.
“Can you maybe not mention to Amanda that you saw me here?”
He shakes his head, reminding me of Mom right before one of her
I’m so disappointed in you
lectures. He can judge all he wants, as long as he keeps it to himself. “Why?”
I don’t answer. I can’t, not with Trevor standing right here.
Oliver sighs. “Won’t say a word.”
“Thanks.” I make a mental note to ask Kelly, Jenna, and Tim the same before the night is over. When I get home, I’ll have to figure out the best way to tell Amanda without getting a look of pity and a serious
I don’t know if this is the best thing for you
lecture.
After the last band finishes and Manic Banshee’s declared the winner of Battle of the Bands (Eric will be insufferable now), Oliver
immediately disappears. And Trevor asks if I need a ride home.
I study his face, trying to figure out his motives. But I do need a ride, unless I want to hang around and wait for Eric. It would definitely give me the opportunity to straight-up ask him if Harrison and I can be in his band. So the intelligent part of my brain first processes that he had only the one beer, and then asks another smart question, “Did you bring your car?” Because no way am I riding with any Grimaldis, especially in that boat they call a vehicle.
“I told Johnny and Steve-o to bring their own damn ride,” he says in a way that makes me think he had this planned all along.
I send a quick text to Eric as I follow Trevor through the crush of people toward the door. We squeeze through, and the chilly air outside immediately replaces the hot and humid from inside. I instinctively cross my arms. As we move around the corner of the brick building, the wind picks up and Trevor wraps an arm around my shoulders for the second time tonight.
“Cold?” he asks.
I nod. We pass the side door, where a few guys from one of the bands are loading a drum kit into a van. The lot is packed, and Trevor’s red Honda is parked almost at the very end, boxed in by at least three other cars.
“I’m glad you came tonight,” he says as he unlocks the doors.
“Me too. I haven’t seen Eric’s band play . . . in a while.” Truth is, I’ve only ever seen them perform at school functions and in practice.
Trevor opens the door and I duck inside, happy to be out of the wind. He slides into the driver’s seat and turns the car on. I reach over
and crank up the heat.
“You always did like it hot,” he says.
That double entendre did not slip by me, but I let it go. “And I think you must’ve been born in Antarctica.”
“No, Minnesota.”
“You forget I know practically everything about you.”
“I could say the same thing, Lobster Legs.”
I smack him on the arm. “That was a second-degree sunburn! It freaking hurt. And it was because
you
forgot to bring the sunblock.”
“Sure, blame it on me. Lobster Legs.” He checks over his shoulder. “I think we’re blocked in.”
I hold up my hands to the heating vent in front of me, trying to thaw out.
“Here, let me.” He takes my left hand in between his and rubs warmth into my fingers. It’s not new—he must’ve done this a thousand times over the past couple of years—but it feels weirdly intimate right now.
I look away, through the windshield, where people stream through the parking lot toward their cars. I wonder if Oliver’s left yet. And I wonder if he’s mad at me. If I could just explain it to him, maybe everything would be okay.
Trevor reaches for my right hand. “You look really distracted. You worried about the show?”
Not even
. But it’s easy to say yes, so I do.
“For what it’s worth, Ms. Sharp made a huge mistake.”
It’s nice to hear someone say that. “Thanks.”
“You’d already have the lines memorized, the blocking down, and be hitting every note.”
I know he’s referencing that disaster of a scene he and Amanda had the other day. I won’t say this to Trevor, but I’m a little worried that Amanda isn’t handling the pressure all that well. “She’s working really hard” is all I say.
“Hmm. I guess.” He pauses and catches my eye. “You sure that’s the only thing bothering you?”
I can’t exactly tell him about Oliver. Or about The List. Not to mention that everything sort of floats to the background when he looks at me like that. And now all I can seem to concentrate on is how brown his eyes seem in the security lights and how warm his hands are as they hold mine.
So brown. So warm.
This is exactly how it starts, every single time.
I search for something smart to say, something to break the tension and put some distance between us, but it’s like my brain has up and taken five from my head. I need to do something
now
, or I’ll get pulled back in.
“Why now?” I finally sputter.
“What?” He moves his right hand to push a strand of hair out of my face.
“This. All of this. Why now?”
He drops his hand back to mine and closes his eyes for a second. “You always do this. It’s like you get off on picking fights with me.”
“I do not! I just want to know why—” I don’t get to finish because
his lips are on mine. And now all I can think about is Trevor’s hand covering my hand and his hair tickling my face and how he still tastes like chocolate chip cookies, but mixed with beer.
“I’m still mad at you,” I say when he pulls away.
“No, you’re not.” He drops my hand and wraps his around the base of my neck, drawing me in again.
I can’t do this . . . can I? Would it really be so awful if we got back together? Especially if I join his band. Then he wouldn’t be such a distraction—he’d be more of an inspiration. And it would be so easy. We’d just pick up right where we left off. There’s nothing awkward about being with Trevor. In fact, it’s more like going back home.
But the past few months haven’t been for nothing. I
have
to let him know where I stand before we take this any further. I break away. “Trevor?” My voice comes out all high-pitched and breathy.
“Hmm?” His right hand moves around to cup my face and he’s running his thumb over my cheekbone.
I have to say it now before I lose all ability to think straight. I grip his wrist so he has to stop distracting me. That gets his attention. “If we’re going to do this again, I need you to stop . . . doing what you always do.”
“What’s that?”
A spark of annoyance flickers inside me, but he’s moved his hand back to my face, and I have to work extra hard to focus. “You know what I’m talking about.”
He smiles, and someone’s passing headlights light up the green flecks in his eyes. “I’d do anything for you.”
And so I let myself fall, again.
All rational thought floats away like it does every single time. This feels so . . . comfortable. Like nothing in my life has changed. I crave normal so badly right now that I don’t even try to think. I want to drown in this feeling and never come back up for air.
Oliver
, a voice says somewhere in my head. But I don’t let the confusion back in. Instead, I reach my own arms around Trevor’s neck and kiss him even harder, pushing away any doubts.
He takes the hint, and helps me climb over the gear shift. We’ve done this so many times that we don’t even break contact. He moves the seat back at the exact same time I sit with one leg on either side of him. It’s like a really well-rehearsed play, and as usual, we know all the lines.
“Trevor,” I finally say when he pulls me so close that there’s not even a millimeter of space between us. “We’re in a parking lot.”
“I don’t care,” he says as he runs his hands under the hem of my shirt and across my bare skin.
“I don’t care either.” I catch his lips again, desperate not to lose that feeling I’ve chased to this point.
I’ve got my hands wrapped in his hair and his are somewhere around my bra strap when someone knocks on the window.
Maybe if I don’t look up they’ll just leave. Trevor pulls one hand away and fumbles for the window switch. The motor whines for just a second, like he’s stopped it at barely a crack.
“Um, excuse us,” a familiar voice says from outside the window before giggling. Kelly.
I open my eyes and crash back to earth. Back to my life as it is, not as it was, and slowly turn my head. Sure enough, Kelly’s right there, peeking in the window. Behind her, Jenna and Tim are splitting a bag of Skittles, but right next to her at the window is . . . Oliver.
“Sorry, it’s just that we’re parked there,” Oliver says, voice as smooth as water. He’s pointing at Kelly’s lime-green Volkswagen Beetle, which is one of the cars we’re blocking in. He’s not looking at me, but I’m still hyperaware of the fact that my skirt is all hiked up and, of all things, I’m
sitting
on Trevor. I shift to try to fix my skirt, but succeed only in making it worse.
“Yeah. I’m kind of boxed in here,” Trevor says, one arm still around my waist.
“I can see that.” Oliver finally looks my way. I can’t tell if he’s angry or not bothered at all or disappointed, or—worst of all—pitying me. “But not by the cars.”
Trevor glances into his rearview mirror. “Give us a minute and we’ll be out of your way.”
Oliver moves back toward Tim and Jenna without looking at me again. Kelly grins and before Trevor can get the window up, she whispers through the crack into my ear, “I knew you two would get back
together. I want
all
the details. Don’t make me wait to hear it from Amanda.”
A million emotions curl like a snake in my stomach at the mention of Amanda’s name. I nod at Kelly. It’s about all I can manage right now. As they all head toward Kelly’s car, Oliver doesn’t even look back at me, and somehow, that hurts more than anything.
When I turn to Trevor, he’s smiling at me, all lazy and sexy, and every thought of Oliver and of Amanda’s probable disappointment flits away. I peel myself off him and slide back into my seat.
“Sorry,” he says as he moves his seat forward. “You know, that guy has the worst damn timing.”
“That’s for sure.”
As he backs the car out, I sit on my suddenly freezing fingers and process the jumble of emotions in my head. Sheer joy at reclaiming part of my life that had gone missing. Victory at some game I didn’t even realize I was playing. Embarrassment. Hope. Guilt. That last one is
not
fair, though. I am not going to feel guilty. There is definitely something between me and Oliver, but I don’t know what. It’s exciting and scary and different . . . and not at all what I need right now.
And Amanda will understand. Especially after I explain to her that maybe this is what’s supposed to happen. Every time I try to end it with Trevor, we find our way back, like that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. I tried to tell her that, after she hooked up with him, and now I can prove it to her. And this time, he’s promised to stay focused. Although, honestly, I don’t know if I should believe that. Amanda would tell me not to, I know. But it’s impossible to say no to at least
part of my old life when it’s literally holding my hand.
And if I can stop thinking about what’s in my head for three seconds, maybe I can make this an even more successful night than it already is.
“So, hey,” I say as Trevor turns out of the parking lot. “When are you guys starting that band?”
He shrugs. “Soon. We gotta work out the details.” He reaches over and puts his hand on mine, familiar and perfect.
“Do you really write songs now?” he asks.
“Uh-huh . . .” I don’t elaborate.
“You want to come by on Monday after rehearsal? Maybe bring some?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say like this isn’t the second-best thing that’s happened to me today. “Okay to bring Harrison?”
“No problem. Just don’t forget those songs.” Trevor shoots me a smile across the streetlight-lit car and threads his fingers through mine.
And I know everything will be okay.
First thing Monday morning, I tell Amanda.
“Oh,” she says, once I recap Saturday night. She doesn’t ask me if I’m sure this is what I want. She doesn’t remind me of how many times Trevor flirted with other girls when he was with me. She doesn’t tell me she’s worried about me. Just
oh
and then she’s shuffling stuff around in her backpack, avoiding my eyes. “I have to finish my pre-calc homework, so . . .”
I sit there and blink at her. At first, I think she’s lying to avoid discussing whatever’s bothering her, but when I peek at her paper, she really
is
doing pre-calc. Which is impossible, because the Amanda I know has every single piece of homework done before her nightly piano hour. Although it does remind me of the other day in Physics, when she was completely unprepared.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, kind of tentatively.
“It’s fine,” she says. Something in her voice tells me not to push it.
“I don’t know what’s going on with her,” I say to Harrison at lunch. “She’s barely talked to me all morning, and it seemed as if she was catching up on homework or reading before the start of every class. I didn’t expect her to be happy for me, really, but silent is kind of weird.”
“I think the show is freaking her out,” Harrison says.
Down the table, Amanda’s got her lunch pushed aside in favor of the
Sound of Music
script. Harrison’s got to be right. She’s overwhelmed with this role. I’ll bet she spent all last night committing the last several scenes’ worth of lines to memory.
Although way down deep, I’m afraid it’s because she still has a thing for Trevor.
“The play. That’s got to be it,” I say to Harrison. “Trevor—”
“If I hear another word about Trevor the Magnificent, my head might actually explode,” Harrison says.
While Amanda studies her script and ignores her food, and Harrison helps Chris eat an entire grocery store tub of pimiento cheese, I relive Saturday night in a constant replay in my head. Partly to kill
off any remaining thought of Oliver—who’s sitting farther down the table and hasn’t said a word to me all day—and partly because it just feels good to have something go right for a change, and partly because, well, it wasn’t exactly unpleasant.
“I heard Manic Banshee won Battle of the Bands again,” Chris says as he shoves an entire Snickers bar into his mouth.
“Yeah. Eric hasn’t shut up about it.”
“I need your brother to sign something so that I can sell it on eBay when they’re all famous and stuff,” Chris adds through a mouthful of chocolate. “What’s with the pink hair, by the way?”
I don’t answer him. Instead, I peek down the table at Amanda. And despite the fact that she’s sitting near Oliver, I pick up my unopened Jell-O cup and plop it down on her script before taking the seat next to her.
“You’ve got to eat something.” I twist the streak in my hair around my finger while I wait for her to take the Jell-O. And ignore Oliver’s eyes on my back.
“Nothing looks good. I’m not hungry, anyway.” She scans the cafeteria.
“Who are you looking for?” I ask.
Her face flushes. “Trevor,” she finally admits.
I pick up the Jell-O and flip it over, watching the yellow mold plop, plop, plop its way down. “He doesn’t have this lunch. Why? Do you still like him?” I ask her, point-blank. After what we’ve been through, I think honesty is the best policy for us from here on out.
“I wouldn’t do that to you again,” she says, which doesn’t actually
answer my question. “I just . . . it was already weird at rehearsal, with what happened. And then it got weirder when I was trying to distance myself from him. I don’t know what to do now that you’re back together with him. We have all these scenes together, and he . . .” She looks down at the script and doesn’t finish her thought.
A twinge of jealousy unfolds in my heart. Which is stupid, considering that
I’m
the one who’s having scenes with him in real life. I bite down on my lip before I can remind her of that fact. She’s trying to be honest, too, even if she’s not admitting she still has feelings for him.
“You’re going to be fine. Don’t worry about me. You’re a professional, Trevor’s a professional,” I say. “You just have to be the character, not yourself.”
Amanda knits her fingers together. “I’m trying to do that. But it’s not easy.”
“I believe in you. If you’re this worried about getting it right”—I point to her script—“there’s no way you’ll screw it up. You’re going to be the best Maria this town has ever seen.”
She gives me a grateful smile and even opens up the Jell-O. She goes back to studying her script, while eating this time.
I try to catch Oliver’s eye. It would be nice if I could just explain things to him, but he’s too busy not looking at me, which I guess is how it’s going to be now. I go back to my fantasies about Trevor and try not to mourn the loss of the one person I could talk to about anything.