Poseur (8 page)

“Oh.” Janie nodded, hoping she’d come off as the sort of girl who knew all about long stories. Even though she didn’t. Her
own story, if you could call it that, was pretty short. Not to mention pointless.

“My name’s Evan,” he extended his hand.

“Jane,” she replied. “Jane” sounded more sophisticated.

“Jane,” he repeated, sounding solemn. Janie laughed. Was it just her or did he sound a little like Tarzan?

“What’s so funny?” Evan furrowed his brow.

“Nothing.” She smiled. “It’s just, like,
you Evan. Me Jane.
”

He seemed confused. In a desperate attempt to ram the joke home, Janie thumped her chest and released a Tarzan-esque yell.

Ahhhh-ee-yah-ee-yaaaaah-ee-yah-ee-yaaaah!

There was a long, excruciating pause. The Baja Fresh janitor looked up from his mop. In the near distance, a burrito wrapper
crinkled.

“Oh-kay . . .” Evan nodded like maybe she was crazy. He picked up his tray and lifted his chin. “Late.”

Janie hurried back to her table and checked her phone: one missed call from Amelia. She looked at her untouched taco and debated
what to do with her mouth. Talk or eat? If she ate, she’d obsess over her train wreck of a conversation with the boy named
Evan. If she talked, however, she might starve. Okay, so maybe the choice was obvious.

She picked up her phone and punched
SEND
.

“Creatures of Habit booked a show at SPACELAND!” Amelia exploded in greeting. Janie’s jaw dropped a little. Spaceland was,
without a doubt, the coolest music venue in L.A., having launched such music legends as Elliott Smith, Death Cab for Cutie,
the Foo Fighters, Jurassic 5, the Shins, the White Stripes, Jet, Supergrass, Modest Mouse, and Weezer. The list went on and
on. As did the line to get inside. Not that she had ever been inside. The closest she’d come was the strip of broken sidewalk
outside the main entrance. Janie had stared at the drab stucco exterior, wondering if she’d found the right place. If it wasn’t
for the compact neon
SPACELAND
sign on the roof, the building may have resembled an abandoned, possibly haunted motel. Of course, she was there on a Sunday
at the unglamorous hour of 2:45 p.m. Bright sunlight and Sunday quiet have a way of exposing nightclubs for what they are:
sad little windowless boxes. If only she could see what Spaceland was like on a
Saturday night,
when dark concealed the cracks and neon lit the sky. If only she could pass through those heavy, barnlike doors, down that
black throat of a hallway, and into the pulsing, reverberating world within.

But of course she couldn’t.

“How did you book a show at Spaceland?” she asked. “Don’t you have to be twenty-one?” Unlike the majority of kids her age,
Janie had yet to procure a fake ID.

“You have to be twenty-one to
go,
not to
play,
” Amelia explained.

“Oh,” Janie replied, still feeling confused. Weren’t new bands supposed to start low profile? Weren’t they supposed to get
some practice in first, then improve their technique, build a fan base, and slowly,
slowly
work their way up?

Amelia seemed to read her mind.

“Chris says he likes to throw new talent into the deep end. It’s all about sink or swim.”

“Who’s Chris?”

“Chris
Zane,
” Amelia clarified, as if that made things clear. “The music producer?”

“O-oh.” Janie pretended to recognize the name.

“We met him at Paul’s aunt’s engagement party —”

“You went to a party?” Janie interrupted, failing to conceal the hurt in her voice. Since when did Amelia go to parties and
not invite her?

“J!” Amelia groaned in frustration. “We went to perform! It wasn’t like a
party,
party. It was
work.
”

“Oh,” Janie said. “Right.”

“So,” Amelia continued, “after the set, Zane comes up to us and he’s, like, listen. You guys are
ready to go.
And we’re, like, what? And then he takes out his phone and puts in a call to Spaceland, like, right
there.
Like, in front of us! It was so . . . awesome!”

“Wow!” Janie warbled in a small voice.

“Ew,” Amelia replied. “That wow sucked butt.”

“I’m sorry,” Janie sighed. “It’s just . . . I guess I just wish I could come.”

“But you
can
!”

“You have to be twenty-one.”

“Dude, don’t you get it?
You’re with the band!
”

Janie stared into her basket of tortilla chips. The chips pointed at her like golden arrows of destiny.

“Hello?”

“Sorry.” Janie tried to recover. “I . . . I think I’m still in shock.”

Amelia laughed. “Listen. Will you make me that dress? The one you drew at my house last weekend?”

“The London Vampire Milkmaid dress?” Janie flipped to the sketch in question. As she examined the drawing, her heart sank.
“I can’t. The materials alone would cost, like, two hundred dollars.”

“We’ll raise the money!”

“Yeah, right.” Janie rolled her eyes. Amelia was only, like,
the
worst spendthrift on the planet.

“Well, it’s our only option,” Amelia declared. “I have to have that dress.”

“You know what I could do?” Janie mused. “Start a Special Study.”

“A what?”

“It’s this new thing at Winston. We’re allowed to create our own classes and, like, they can be whatever we want them to be.
I could start, like, a Dress Amelia Fund!” Janie laughed at the notion. “Problem solved.”

“That is . . . ,” Amelia replied, “totally brilliant.”

“I was kidding.”

“Well, obviously you don’t call it the Dress Amelia Fund. You say it’s Costume Design or something. And then you collect dues.
Major
dues. It’s not like those rich Winston biznatches can’t afford it.”

“I don’t know,” Janie hesitated.

“Janie,
please
?” Amelia whimpered. “I just invited you backstage, at Spaceland, so you can spend a whole night doing nothing more than stare
at Paul’s ass.”

“Okay, okay, okay!” Janie blushed. “I’ll propose a Special Study.”

“Yay!” Amelia cheered.

“I can’t promise anyone’ll sign up,” Janie added.

But her best friend had already hung up the phone.