Exit Stage Left (15 page)

“Hot,” I say to my reflection that night. I’ve nailed this rock vixen look—short black skirt, black tights with one carefully made hole in the knee, black boots, a tight long-sleeved Manic Banshee shirt, big earrings, red lipstick and black-lined eyes, and super-straight hair with a streak of pink. I’ve even painted my nails a glittery blue. Trevor’s going to double-take so hard when I walk into Spotlight tonight.

“Casey, come on, already!” Eric yells up the stairs. “You’re making me late.”

He went on and on earlier about how this Battle of the Bands is a big deal, and how more than half of the bands on tonight are from Bloomington or Indy—all hoping for the five-thousand-dollar cash prize for the winner. I grab my phone and fly down the stairs. Eric’s already outside in his beat-up old Buick. I yank the rusted passenger door open and slide in.

He looks at me and laughs.

“
What?
” I pull down the visor and check my face in the cracked
mirror.

“Who are you trying to impress? Not that I mind the shirt at all, but the rest of it.” He waves a hand at me. Then a smile creeps across his face. “Wait, you’re meeting someone.”

I play innocent. “No. Maybe. So what? And why are you even noticing anyway?” Most days, I could walk out the door in a bathrobe, and all Eric would say is “Got five for gas?”

“It’s a little hard not to notice when your baby sister’s made up like a groupie.”

I punch him in the arm. “Not nice, jerk-off.”

“About time you were done with that prick Blakeman.”

“What do you have against Trevor?” I ask, just as his phone rings.

He throws it at me without answering my question. “Tell me who it is.”

I catch the buzzing phone. “Um,
please
?”

“Jesus H., Case. It’s probably Ike. Just look, okay?” He huffs out a breath as he squeals through a left turn. “Please.”

“All right, then.” I peek at the phone. “It’s Dad,” I say in a flat voice.

“Then answer it. It’s one in the morning over there.”

I shake my head and drop the phone into the dirty cup holder in the console, just as it stops ringing. I talk to Dad only when I have to—on our scheduled weekly calls. I don’t make time for people who can’t be bothered to make time for me.

“You’re acting like a baby about this whole thing,” Eric says. He pulls up to a red light, spits on his fingers, and rubs at a smudge on
the windshield.

“That’s unsanitary,” I tell him.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“That’s because I don’t want to talk about it.” I cross my arms and slouch in the seat. I don’t get why it’s so easy for Eric to forgive him when Dad left us both.

Eric eyes me in the glow of the stoplight. “You need to get over it. He felt guilty about leaving. Still does because you make him feel that way. You’ve put him through hell, Casey, and it’s not fair.”

I ignore him and choose to watch downtown Holland pass by in a blur of closed stores and empty office buildings. Eric doesn’t say anything else, which is the way I want it.

He pulls up to Spotlight, which is pretty much the only venue in town unless you count the tiny room at the bowling alley where Herman and the Hell-Raisers play Willie Nelson covers every Friday night. I’ve never actually been to Spotlight since technically, I’m not old enough, and well, most nights I was memorizing lines or practicing scales or hooking up with Trevor.

But not anymore. Now I’m 100 percent focused on getting my life back into order. And that starts with getting into Trevor’s band. I just need to remember that it doesn’t start with kissing Trevor.

I shiver a little in the thin, long-sleeved shirt as I wait for Eric to shrug into the bomber jacket I’d borrowed earlier.

“Not a chance,” he says when he sees me eying it.

Such a gentleman. So I wrap my arms around myself and follow him to the side door. He knocks and then turns to me. “You have to
go in around front.” He points to the line of people snaking into the parking lot.

“Come
on
, Eric. It’s freezing out here.” Not to mention that I keep replaying this scene in my head where some burly bouncer takes one look at my fake ID and calls the police.

The door opens, and Eric steps inside. “Around front,” he says. “Look, I’ve gotta help set up. I don’t have time to argue with you.” He pulls the door shut, right in my face. Just as I’m about to give him a well-deserved middle finger, the door pops open again. “Find me after if you need a ride home, okay? And text me if you don’t.”

I give him two middle fingers, which feels really rock-badass. Although maybe it would’ve been more effective if he hadn’t already shut the door again. And I’m breaking out into a whole new layer of goose bumps, so I cross my arms and speed-walk to the end of the line.

I crane my neck to see if I can spot Trevor. The line takes forever to move forward. The longer I stand there, the more nervous I feel. It’s kind of like that time Amanda had her one moment of rebellion and decided we needed to sneak into a second movie when we were twelve. It was the last Harry Potter movie, even though we’d already seen it twice. We didn’t get caught or anything, but I felt exactly like I do now.

Amanda. I promised her I was done with Trevor. But there’s a reason I don’t feel comfortable about her knowing where I am tonight, because no matter how I spin it, I know exactly what she’d say.

I look down the line and don’t recognize a single person. Just as I’m wondering how in the world I’m going to pull this off, I’m at the
doors. The burly bouncer guy is even burlier than I’d imagined, and he’s holding out his hand. I fish the ID out from between my phone and its case, and hand it over.

All those acting skills are coming in handy right now. My hand didn’t shake, and I’m giving the bouncer an I’m-so-bored-with-this-whole-ID-thing look. He grunts, slides it through a reader, and hands it back. And I about melt into a puddle of relief right there in the doors of Spotlight.

But I don’t. Instead, I flash him a grin and then push my way into the crush of people inside the bar. There’s no way I’m going to spot Trevor in all of this. I pull out my phone and send him a text. Then I square my shoulders and start moving through the crowd. And I let the moment sink in.

I, Casey Fitzgerald, former drama queen, just got into a bar on a fake ID to see a show with Trevor and what is probably every college student between here and the Ohio River. I don’t see a single person I know from Holland, which makes the whole thing even crazier and more exciting than it already is.

“Casey!” Trevor shouts from somewhere behind me.

I turn around and collide with a girl carrying a beer. The brown liquid blends into her torn black shirt. I’m trying not to stare, but she has even more piercings than the bassist in Eric’s band. And that guy has holes in his ears I can see right through, so that’s saying something.

“Watch it,” she spits. “You’ve ruined my shirt.”

“Sor—” I catch myself. “Whatever.” Then I disappear into the crowd toward Trevor before she can kick my ass.

“Hey,” I say when I finally get to him.

“Hey, yourself.” He hands me one of the drinks he’s holding, then glances down at my outfit and smiles—in a good way. Score. Take that, Eric.

I sniff my drink. Beer. When I take a sip, I almost choke. Must be the One-Dollar Special tonight.

“So, um, is that band playing later?” I ask, while I cough quietly and point at the T-shirt under his jacket. It reads
Misfit Turntable
in spiky letters, and it has a picture of an old-fashioned record player with devil horns. It’s a little offbeat. I wonder if Oliver would ever wear it.

And I wonder what Oliver would think of me being here with Trevor.

Trevor shakes his head. “That’s what we decided to call ours.”

“Great name,” I say as innocently as possible. I kind of can’t believe he’s already got shirts made up for a band that doesn’t really exist yet, but whatever. “You know, it’s my dream to be in a band, which is why Harrison and I are going to join one.”

“Really? I thought your dream was to play Cosette on Broadway.”

“Éponine,” I correct him automatically. Everyone knows Éponine is the best role in
Les Mis
, besides Fantine. But there are Fantine girls and there are Éponine girls, and I’m totally an Éponine girl. “I mean, it was my dream, you know, before. But my
other
dream is to front a band. Like, ever since I was a little kid.”

Trevor nods and looks over my shoulder. I sip the skunky beer for fortitude, then have to fight to keep my face from giving away exactly
how awful it tastes.

“I write songs too.” When desperate, lie.

His attention snaps back to me. “You do? Since when?”

I shrug. “For a little while now.”

“You’re crazy talented, you know that, Casey Fitzgerald?” He wraps an arm around my shoulder.

I should shrug him off, but I don’t. It’s like something I’ve been craving that I didn’t even know I missed until now. If I don’t think about the play, it feels like nothing’s changed. I make a mental note to jot down a few songs tomorrow to show him. It can’t be that hard.

“If you’re not busy tomorrow, you should—” A chord from a bass guitar cuts him off. “Hey, it’s starting. Let’s move up closer.”

He was thisclose to asking me to join his band, I know it. “Sure,” I say.

He grabs my hand and leads me through the crowd. Trevor pushes through everyone until we’re just a few rows back from the stage.

“Are you ready for The Possum?” The lead singer of the band onstage screeches into the microphone. I bite my lip so I won’t laugh. I mean, really, who names their band The Possum? Although biting my lip was probably not the smartest thing to do while wearing dark red lipstick. I rub my teeth with my finger to get rid of it before Trevor thinks I’m bleeding from the mouth or something.

The Possum launches into something that sounds vaguely like “Sweet Home Alabama.” I sneak a glance at Trevor. This isn’t something we ever did when we were together, so I’m not entirely sure how to act. And now that I think about it, it’s not like we ever really did
much of anything. Sure, we’d see a movie sometimes (which usually ended in hooking up) or go to the park (which ended the same), but mostly we just hung around his house (which, again, ended the same).

He’s bouncing in rhythm with the song. His hair swishes back and forth, hiding his face. So I bounce along with him, careful not to spill the gross beer on myself.

“Oops, sorry,” I say when I bump into the guy next to me.

“Hey,” Steve-o Grimaldi says, lit cigarette between his lips. Or I think he says, since I can’t hear him over the music.

I leap away, only to find myself face-to-face with Johnny Grimaldi.

“Heeeeey,” he says.

“I’m here with Trevor,” I shout. I loop my arm through Trevor’s, which more or less makes it impossible for him to keep jumping up and down with the song. He doesn’t pull away, though, thank God.

“Trevor?” Steve-o looks completely confused for a moment. Then I guess whatever’s left of his brain cells springs into action, because he punches Trevor in the shoulder.

His twin, however, just nods and then disappears. I never thought I’d feel bad for Johnny Grimaldi, but I know what’s it like to have your best friend get together with the one person you really like. Or used to like. Or are very, very confused about.

I dodge the business end of Steve-o’s cigarette as he moves past me to stand on the other side of Trevor. Which leaves me standing next to . . . Oliver?

Casey?
he mouths.

“What are you doing here?” I yell over the music. I drop Trevor’s
arm so I can scoot closer to hear Oliver. It’s starting to feel like all of Holland High is here after all, which is taking some of the badass sheen off the night. Although I shouldn’t be surprised to see Oliver, given his choice of shirt wear.

“. . . with them . . .” is all I hear him say. I lean forward and spot Tim, Jenna, and Kelly, of all people. I wave at them and wonder how I didn’t know Kelly had a fake ID. What has everyone been doing while I’ve been spending my time memorizing lines and studying vocal technique?

Better question: Does Oliver know I’m here with Trevor? My insides twist up on themselves.

“This band is awful,” Oliver says, so close to my ear I can feel his breath. I ignore the tingles that creep up my arms and nod just as the microphone explodes in feedback.

Oliver’s looking over my head. “. . . Trevor?” he finally says.

“Um, yeah,” I yell back. I shrug and hope that conveys that Trevor and I aren’t together. But Oliver knows our history, and I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what he’s thinking.

The muscles around Oliver’s mouth tighten. He doesn’t approve, and something about that makes me happy. The Possum finish with an off-key attempt at an old Pearl Jam song and leave the stage.

“Manic Banshee’s up next,” Trevor says. He spots Oliver and gives him a nod.

Oliver nods back at Trevor. “Who’s Manic Banshee?”

“My brother’s band,” I say, practically yelling since my ears are still ringing from the Possum. “They’re great. Real hard-core, you
know?” I congratulate myself on sounding like I know what I’m talking about.

“Right,” Oliver says.

“Yeah,” I reply.

“You’re into that?” Oliver asks me.

I shrug. “I like a little of everything. I’m versatile like that.” I’m also really good at making things up on the spot.

“I know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. And I’m not sure if he’s talking about that afternoon we listened to Violent Femmes or if he’s getting in some kind of dig at me.

“You want to move back?” Trevor asks me, as Eric and his friends take the stage. “It’ll get crazy up here when they start.”

Seeing as how a mosh pit would completely ruin my carefully chosen outfit, I nod. Oliver says something to Jenna and Kelly, and they both turn and start pushing back through the crowd, leaving Tim up front. I follow the three of them. It’s not until we stop about halfway back that I realize Trevor’s not behind me.

I stand on my tiptoes and spot him still up front with the Grimaldis.