Being Friends With Boys (23 page)

But if Lish thinks something’s up, that means someone else does too. She had to hear it from somewhere, right? So does that mean Oliver’s heard it too? And is
that
why he’s been so bizarre? God. He doesn’t have to act like I’m a leper. This is so stupid.

Unless—my stomach crashes—he somehow thinks I want it to be true?

I shove the note into my bag and move in the direction of psych, though part of me considers skipping. The whole thing is stupid, obviously, except that Oliver clearly doesn’t think so. If that’s what he’s being weird about. I mean, it could be something else. Maybe he doesn’t even know. But he’s obviously tweaked about something. I need to find out more about what Lish heard, and from whom. If it’s not a big deal, then I shouldn’t make a big
deal out of it with him, because then it will just be more awkward for both of us.

So this time I’m the one who’s unable to look over at his side of the room when I slip in just before the bell, because I don’t know how to arrange my face. We continue ignoring each other during class, and when it’s over I hover around Ms. Neff’s desk, pretend I have a question for her, just so he doesn’t have to work so hard at avoiding me this time. I don’t like acting like this, and I don’t like him acting like this, but I don’t know how to fix it yet, so.

Speed walking to the lower lot, I text Lish,
CALL ME ASAP
. I probably won’t get to talk to her until after practice. All I can do is pray she’s not hanging out with Oliver and the guys after school. Even though she said my “secret” is safe, I can just picture her trying to let on to Oliver that she knows all about what’s going on. If—god—she hasn’t done that already.

It’s not until I’m walking up the three short concrete steps of Sylvia and Taryn’s house that the wave of nerves sweeps over me. I stand still a second, taking deep breaths. This is going to be completely different than singing with Sad Jackal, and I haven’t had a lot of time to process it. These are cool girls who I barely know, not my best friend from fifth grade. What if I mess up? What if they decide they don’t really like me as much as they thought they
did? What if the stuff they do isn’t something I can sing well?

But I can’t stand here like an idiot. I press the doorbell.

Some girl I’ve never seen before answers. She’s holding a giant plastic cup and sipping out of it with a bendy straw, which she talks around.

“Are you Charlotte?”

“Yes.”

She holds open the door. “They’re downstairs.”

“Are you playing too?” I ask.

“I’m just part of the entourage.”

She leads me to the dim kitchen, papered with vintage cookbook pages. On the opposite side, a door opens onto some stairs. Taryn’s head appears at the bottom.

“Hey hey! We’ve been waiting for you!”

I head down and let Taryn hug me. Over her shoulder, I see her synthesizer set up. Sylvia’s sitting on a stool, tuning her guitar.

“So, what do you think?” Taryn says, spreading her arms wide.

“This house is awesome. How many people live here?”

“Right now, four of us. Veronica you just met. There were five but Megan and Ginger broke up. Believe it or not, renting this place is cheaper than on-campus housing.”

I pretend to follow what she’s saying.

“You’ll meet everyone in a little while. In fact, I don’t know where they are.” She squints at Sylvia.

“They went to get some food, remember?”

Taryn sighs, looking at me. “We have a lot of craziness in this house, if you couldn’t tell.”

I have no response to this.

“So . . . what is it you had in mind for us to play?” I ask.

“Mostly we do covers,” Sylvia explains. “We’re an homage band, really.”

“But an homage to the
ladies
.” Taryn’s eyebrows go up and down.

I’m trying to remember what “homage” means, and also what cover songs I know. Probably Trip would strangle me for not thinking of any.

“Anyway,” Sylvia says. “We only do songs sung by women, but we like to go all over the place with it. Dolly Parton. Rihanna. Neko Case. Katy Perry. Courtney Love. We wanted you on board because I can’t sing worth a damn—”

“And apparently I can’t either,” Taryn finishes, “because we’re not getting anywhere.”

“Um, I don’t think I can sing like Katy Perry,” I say.

“You don’t have to,” Sylvia says. “The way we mix things up, you can barely recognize the original.”

“Which is the beauty of it!” Taryn claps.

Sylvia stands up and brings a sheaf of papers over to me, along with a wireless mic. “Here’s lyrics.”

I flip through the pages. Over half the songs I’ve never even heard of. It is funny that there’s a Taylor Swift one in there, though. And an eighties band Mom used to like.

“I might know this Heart one a little,” I tell them. “Can we start there?”

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Sylvia agrees.

When Taryn begins playing, it doesn’t sound at all like the cheesy song I remember, but when Sylvia starts, I know a little better where I am.

My first line comes out raspy and unsure, so I take another deep breath, try to calm down. My brain is divided between the song and the memory of Mom singing along in the car, Jilly harmonizing, me pretending to play the guitar. The windows down, all three of us happy. When I get to the chorus, it’s hard not to close my eyes, clench my fist, and squeeze the words out with deep passion, the way Mom would in the front seat.

Upstairs, there’s the sound of people tromping in over our heads. I make myself keep singing.
“These dreams,”
I croon while the four of them come down and plop on the couches and watch me. One of them gives me a huge grin. Even though I’m still trying to concentrate, I can’t help smiling back.

I get to the end. Taryn and Sylvia fade out. The girls on the couch applaud.

“That was terrific!” one chirps.

“Good call, TeeTee,” another says to Taryn, but pointing at me.

Taryn is beaming at me. “That was
perfect
.”

“Don’t hold back on the cheese, either,” Sylvia says. “I saw you clench your fist at that one part. Follow that kind of instinct. That’s the sort of thing we want.”

Taryn bounces on her toes. “Can we please please please do ‘Drown Soda’ now?” She puts her hands together in prayer under her chin, batting her eyes at me.

“Okay, but I don’t really know how it—”

“Just do it like you’re talking, if you want. Or whatever. And remember we asked you to be here,” Sylvia says.

The girls on the couch all encourage me too. They shift around, get more comfortable, draping arms or legs over each other, like a pack of kittens. Being here, among these girls, I feel this wild sense of abandon.

Taryn starts playing again, a bagpipe sound. Sylvia nods at me to come in, and I do:
“Oooh yeah, he wants to take you . . .”

The next hour is absolutely great. The more I ham it up, the more the girls on the couch all cheer. By the end, I’m jutting my hip way out in the air and making emotional hand gestures. When we finish the last song, I take a deep bow, flinging my hair back over my head.

“You are an absolute doll,” a freckle-faced girl squeals at me. “Come over here and tell us all about yourself.”

“Yes, do.” Taryn drapes her arm around my neck and leads me over to the couch. “It’s so loud at the club, we never really get to talk.”

I feel like I’ve got a head rush, the kind you have after a really good pillow fight. It’s hard to know what to say.

“Well, what do you want to know?”

“Tell us about Sad Jackal. How did that start?” Taryn leans in.

I tell them about Abe and Oliver, and the three of us knowing each other since middle school. I tell them about Trip moving here last January, and how the three of them formed a group. About the poems I wrote for Mrs. Stenis, and Oliver wanting to use them for songs. Then me coming in to organize all the gigs this summer too.

“Wait now.” Sylvia stops me. “He takes your lyrics? And sings them himself? Doesn’t give you any credit?”

I shake my head. “It isn’t like that. Oliver and I have just been friends for so long, and he knows I—”

Freckle Face tsks. Even Taryn looks like I’ve made some kind of mistake.

I stammer. “It—it’s not like he tells people he wrote them.”

“Not in front of you.” Freckle Face snorts.

I think of Oliver’s vague, not-wholly-true answer to that guy in the parking lot Monday. I have never once not trusted him.
But being surrounded by all these disapproving girls, a creepy feeling comes over me.

I don’t want to turn traitor on my friend, though. My friend who’s stuck around through all sorts of changes in our lives and could’ve ditched me at any point along the way, just like Lish did.

“Well, I sing with them now, so—”

“You sing great,” Taryn says for what feels like the twelfth time. “I just think you shouldn’t automatically give all your talent away like that.”

“Especially not to a bunch of dumbass high school boys,” one of the girls adds.

“Any boys.” Sylvia.

“Boys aren’t so bad,” Taryn chirps. “We heart Fabian, right?”

Fabian, whom I still haven’t had the nerve to call or text back. God, he must think I’m terrible.

“Fabian’s different,” roomate Veronica says. “Fabian is transcendent.”

“There are plenty of good guys out there,” Sylvia says, cutting off the chatter. “The thing is”—she turns to me—“you’re acting like a sidekick to this Oliver guy. When, really, you are the superhero.”

Sidekick.
It’s funny to hear that word in Sylvia’s mouth. I’ve always thought of myself that way, with Oliver. Been proud of it, even. But now it sounds like a bad thing.

When I get home, I run up to my room to call Lish. She sent three texts while I was at practice, all of them saying,
Where R U?

“I’m glad you’re not at dinner,” I tell her when she answers.

“No, but we’re about to be, so I can’t talk long. But, you know, ohmygod EEEEEEE.”

I have to pull the phone away from my head, she’s so loud.

“Ohmygod EEEEE
nothing
. Who told you that we were?”

“You don’t have to act innocent with me.”

“I’m not acting innocent,” I spit. “There isn’t anything to be acting innocent about. We are not together. Never. No way.”

“Please. I see how he practically walks away whenever you come over. I mean, you two are so far undercover that even Eli looked at me like I was crazy.”

“You said something to Eli?” I try not to screech.

“I figured he already knew.”

“And that’s ‘keeping my secret safe’ how?”

“How am I supposed to know who knows what?
You
won’t say anything.”

“I’m telling you, there isn’t anything to know.”

“Oh crap, my mom’s calling me. I gotta run.”

She cannot hang up now. “Listen to me, Lish. You have to tell people that it’s not true. Okay?”

“Well, that’s gonna be a little hard.” It’s almost like she’s laughing at me. “Everyone saw you two up there at the dance.”

So that’s it.

“Just because we sing together doesn’t mean—”

“Listen, my mom is about to have an aneurysm. I’ll be on later if you want to chat some more.”

“I mean it, Lish. You have to help me out on this.”

“Okay, but right now I gotta go.”

She hangs up, and I know she still doesn’t believe me.

I jet downstairs, where Darby is in her favorite position: hunched in front of the glowing computer.

“Have you heard anything about me around school in the last couple of days?”

She doesn’t even look up. “What
haven’t
I heard about you around school? I told you, everyone thinks you’re boss now.”

“I mean have you heard anything about me and Oliver being girlfriend and boyfriend?”

Now she turns around. She has the most evil grin. “I knew it. I
knew
it. I told Sadie she was full of shit, but man!” She pounds her thigh with her fist.

I grab her by the shoulders. “Whatever you’ve heard, whatever people are saying, it isn’t true. Do you understand me? No way are me and Oliver together. He’s like my brother or something. Even
thinking
about dating him is giving me the creeps. I know how he treats his girlfriends, for one.”

She squints, weighing what I’m saying versus what she’s
heard. “So . . . he didn’t kick Trip out of the band in order to get you in?”

“What? God. No. I was there the whole time, anyway.”

“And he didn’t break up with Whitney because he couldn’t resist you anymore?”

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. “Absolutely not.”

“So you aren’t screwing each other’s brains out in between rehearsing songs?”