Mia the Melodramatic (11 page)

“This place is packed,” Eric shouted over the pulsating music.

I nodded in agreement. People were crowded in so tight against each other, it was hard to tell where one Mohawk ended and another began.

He pointed across the room. “There’s Henry and his girlfriend Alana over in the corner. Look, I think they saved us seats. Follow me.”

I elbowed my way through a surge of people as Eric disappeared into the crowd. Thankfully, his shirt was a turquoise buoy in a sea of black leather, so I kept him in my sight. I pushed my way to the center of the room, where Eric had abruptly stopped.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Did you get pierced by that guy with the safety pins stuck in his face?”

“No, but Alana brought her friend Stephanie with her, and she’s sitting at our table. I hear Stephanie wants to go out with me, but I can’t stand her.”

Eric, the nicest guy on the planet, “can’t stand” somebody? This
girl must really be a witch. Standing on my tiptoes, I tried to look past the crowd to get a glimpse of her, but, unfortunately, even I wasn’t tall enough.

Eric turned to me and pleaded, “Can I ask you the biggest favor in the world?”

“Considering you’re my ride home, how can I refuse?”

“Will you pretend to be my girlfriend, so Stephanie leaves me alone tonight? I don’t have the heart to blow her off, but I don’t have the stomach to go out with her either.”

“If we’re dating, does that mean you’re buying tonight?” I asked hopefully.

“If you do this for me, I’ll buy you the biggest espresso they’ve got.”

I grimaced. “Ugh, no coffee. But I’ll definitely take a lemonade.”

“Deal,” Eric said, holding my hand firmly. “Now pretend you like me.”

Considering he was currently the best-looking guy west of the Mississippi River, I didn’t think I’d have to do much pretending.

We continued to push together through the masses when an eerily familiar voice shrilled, “Eric, over here!”

We broke through the crowd and I froze like a Popsicle on the North Pole. Sitting at our table was Stephanie Rasco, Cassie Foster’s best and cruelest friend. Ever since I’d defeated Cassie for student council president last year and Tim had broken up with Cassie to date me, Cassie and her friends had hated me with a deep passion. And because I wasn’t the kind of person who enjoyed being the object of such hostility, I’d kept my distance from them. But now, here I was, supposedly dating the guy Stephanie wanted to go out with? It wasn’t exactly my idea of flying under the radar.

I figured I had two options: keep holding Eric’s hand and we could suffer Stephanie’s wrath together, or cut Eric loose and let him drown alone.

Before I could decide what to do, Stephanie’s bright green eyes narrowed in on Eric’s hand clenching mine, and a look of surprise mixed with loathing crossed her freckled face. I guess my decision had been made for me—Eric and I would sink or swim together.

“What took you so long?” Henry shouted. “Do you know how hard it was to save these chairs for you?”

“Sorry we’re late, but my girlfriend Mia always takes forever to get ready,” Eric replied, deliberately enunciating the word “girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend?” Alana asked, shooting a dirty look at Henry. “Henry didn’t tell me you were dating anyone.”

Henry stammered, “Uh, that’s because—”

Eric interrupted him. “Henry probably didn’t say anything because Mia and I really only started dating recently, but we’ve known each other forever. I guess it was inevitable we’d end up together. I mean, we even picked out the same color shirt tonight without talking about it. Some things are just meant to be, I guess.”

Eric laughed casually, and I suddenly realized what a good actor he was—even I believed how ecstatically happy we were together.

Stephanie watched me like a cat eyeing a mouse. “I thought you were going out with Tim Radford.”

Eric turned toward me and though his body language remained relaxed, I could see a flicker of fear in his eyes. Realizing I needed to act fast to save Eric from a night in Stephanie’s clutches, I quickly replied, “Tim’s in Maine and Eric is here, so what Tim doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Well, aren’t you the player?” Stephanie sneered. “How do you keep track of all the guys you’ve been with over the past year—notches on your bedpost?”

“Careful, Stephanie,” Eric said as he held out a seat for me. “That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.”

I sat down and smiled at Eric as lovingly as I could while trying to avoid the daggers Stephanie was throwing at me with her eyes. Eric sat in the chair beside me just as Zoë approached the table.

“I can’t believe my freaking luck!” Zoë said, plopping down into the chair next to Eric. “Half my band is sick with food poisoning. I told them not to eat the beef in those burritos at the Taco Hut tonight, but did they listen to me?”

“What are you going to do?” I said.

“Considering we’ve only got me and my drummer, I guess we’ll have to cancel,” Zoë sighed. “This totally bites. When am I ever going to get a crowd this big to hear me sing again?”

“Maybe I could help,” Eric suggested. “I play the guitar.”

“You play acoustic guitar. We need a bass player.”

Her gaze shifted toward Henry, who held up his hands. “Don’t look at me. I listen to music—I don’t play it.”

“Come on,” Eric said, banging his head to an imaginary beat. “I know how to play bass. Let me be in your band tonight. It’ll be good for my acting résumé to play the part of a rock star.”

“We’re not a rock band—we’re punk,” Zoë said. “And if you don’t stop that, you’re going to get brain damage.”

Eric whipped out his air guitar. “I’ll stop if you let me join the band tonight.”

He played a riff, his fingers gliding over the pretend strings. Zoë rolled her eyes. “Fine, you can play in the band tonight,” she said, “but wrinkle up your shirt first. You look like the entertainment director on a cruise ship.”

“This is going to be so much fun!” Eric said, jumping up from his chair.

“And stop smiling!” Zoë snarled. She stood up and then motioned toward me with her head. “Come on, Preppy. Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“If we’re going to play, we need four people in the band because that’s what the Flying Squirrel is expecting.”

“But I don’t play an instrument,” I sputtered.

“And you can’t sing, either—I’ve heard you try enough times this summer. All I need is a body up there so the Flying Squirrel pays
us. I’ll turn your mike off and you can pose as my backup singer. Besides, you and Eric look like the Bobbsey Twins, so people will think you’re wearing costumes. I mean, why else would anyone willingly go out in public dressed like Easter eggs?”

“You’re joking, right?” I said, clutching the bottom of my chair. “I’m not going up there.”

“If I had to sing Sinatra with your dad,” Zoë said, “you’re going to pretend to sing the Sex Pistols with me. Now come on—we’re up in five.”

I firmly held onto my chair, hoping it would slow me down as Zoë dragged me to the performing area. When we reached the front, she hissed in my ear, “Either let go of the chair or I will make sure it permanently becomes part of your anatomy.”

I let go of the chair.

“Good decision,” she said, flicking her head toward the skinny guy behind the drums, who was busy writing on a piece of paper. “This is Nolan. Don’t mind him—before we perform, he always does a crossword puzzle to settle his nerves. Nolan, meet Eric and Mia, your band-mates for the evening.”

Nolan looked up from his newspaper. “Do either of you know the word for a Danish coin?”

“Krone,” I replied, “with a ‘K.’”

Nolan wrote it down. “Cool. It fits. How’d you know that?”

“I have a lot of experience in trivia,” I mumbled, wishing I was back at the Academic Quiz Bowl answering questions in front of a bunch of brainy geeks instead of singing for an audience that could easily rip my ears off with their teeth.

Zoë raised my microphone so it was level with my mouth. “We’re mostly a cover band. We play some Rancid, the Strokes, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and bands like that. You ever heard any of their songs?”

I shook my head.

“That figures,” Zoë said. “I’ll tell you what—just follow my lead
and you’ll be fine.”

She swung a guitar over her chest and yelled into the microphone, “One, two, three, four!” Then she struck an ear-splitting chord on her guitar and started screaming some words to an amazingly rapid beat. Without any hesitation, Eric started playing in synch with her while Nolan pounded away at his drums.

I stood stupidly beside Zoë, trying my best to figure out what the heck she was saying. But before I could even belt out a few la la la’s, the song was over and Zoë was screaming another fast-paced song into the microphone.

Not knowing what else to do, I decided it was time for the old watermelon trick. Back in elementary school, whenever I stepped on stage during a chorus performance, the sight of the audience immediately made me forget the words to songs I knew by heart. So I’d mouth the word “watermelon” over and over again to make it look like I was singing. And it worked amazingly well. I’d always end up with an “A” in chorus and my parents would buy me an ice cream sundae after the show to celebrate my enthusiastic participation.

I looked over at Zoë and attempted to match her expression. I narrowed my eyes, curled my lips into a scowl, and tried to look as menacing as a junkyard dog. Of course, the closest I’ve ever been to a junkyard dog is my neighbor’s ferocious Chihuahua, so I had to improvise a bit. Moving my head around in what I hoped looked like head-banging, I began mouthing the word “watermelon” over and over again. After about the tenth song—I lost track because they all sounded alike to me—my head was pounding and my jaw was sore, but I hadn’t been dragged off stage and beaten to a pulp yet, so I was feeling pretty good.

As Eric slammed out a chord to start another song, Zoë began singing. After a few lines, she clutched her stomach and I did the same, thinking this had something to do with the song. Then she bent over and wrapped her arms around her gut. OK, a little weird, but who was I to judge the actions of a punk rock singer? I leaned
over and wrapped my arms around my stomach, too.

While Nolan took off on a drum solo, Zoë whispered to me, “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know.” I shook my head and it banged between my knees. “I was just doing what you were doing. I thought you were acting out the words to the song. Like how love hurts or something.”

“This song’s about road kill.” Zoë’s face contorted in pain. “I got to get out of here, Preppy. I don’t think it was the beef in the burritos that was bad. I think it must have been the beans.”

“What are you talking about?”

Zoë’s face turned whiter than Wonder Bread. “I’m saying that if I don’t get off this stage this instant, there will be beans bursting from every part of my body. Do you get it now?”

“Uh, yeah.” I grimaced. “I get it.”

“But I promised the Flying Squirrel we’d sing a 12-song set,” Zoë said, pursing her lips together like she was fighting to hold back the beans with every ounce of will-power she had. “If we don’t, we won’t get paid. We only need to sing one more song. Think you can you handle it, Princess?”

“Uh, me sing punk in front of a bunch of people who look like the zombies from
Night of the Living Dead?
I don’t think so.”

Zoë lurched forward and I could tell she was about to blow the beans, so I quickly changed my mind. “Fine. I’ll do it. Just get out of here before you detonate.”

“Just remember,” Zoë said as she ripped off her guitar and jumped off the stage, her butt cheeks clenched together, “You better not sing Kool and the Gang if you want to make it out of here alive.”

“What the...?” Nolan said as Zoë escaped out the emergency door, setting off the alarm.

“What’s going on?” Eric shouted over the shrieking siren.

“Zoë’s another casualty in the battle of the bean burrito,” I replied. “She asked me to sing one more song so her band can still get paid for the gig.”

“Whoa,” Nolan said. “I’m totally psyched I chose the chicken enchiladas today.”

“Yeah, this kind of gives new meaning to your band’s name, doesn’t it?” Eric asked.

“Totally, dude,” Nolan said, nodding solemnly. “Now Barf Bags rule in more ways than one.”

Eric looked at me. “So, are you going to do it or not?”

“Well, it’s either face these guys,” I said, motioning to the audience with more ink on them than the phone book, “or face Zoë.” “I see your point,” Eric said.

As soon as the alarm went silent, Nolan attacked his drums in an ear-splitting solo, trying to buy us some time. But I could tell the audience wasn’t going to be stonewalled much longer. They were getting ugly, and based on what they looked like, they didn’t have far to go before they turned grotesque.

“When Nolan’s done, just start yelling out whatever you want as loud as you can,” Eric said. “Nobody cares if you’re out of tune—all you got to do is look angry. We’ll follow your lead.”

I looked helplessly at him. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Yes, you can. Just focus on something that makes you really mad and then sing about it. But you better hurry—because you’re on.”

Eric’s guitar shrieked an opening chord. I wet my lips and turned to the audience. When my gaze settled upon Stephanie’s sneer, I suddenly had my inspiration! After years of putting up with her put-downs, I finally had my chance at revenge. This was the perfect opportunity to let Stephanie know what I really thought of her. Plus, if I sang fast enough, she wouldn’t even know what I said.

Taking a deep breath, I yelled to the lightning-fast beat, “
My name is Mia and I used to be meek, but now I’m going to finally speak. I don’t like snobs and I don’t like you, so why don’t you get a clue? You are nasty and you are mean, and your eyes are the color of putrid green. Stop your gossip, stop your lies, you have cellulite on your thighs! I wish you’d leave, just go home, and leave everybody else alone!”

Nolan pounded out a riff and I gasped for air. That felt great! What else did I hate? I took a step toward the microphone and screamed,
“I don’t like lobsters and I don’t like sailing, but most of all I hate e-mailing. I don’t like Tim being away from me and spending all his time with Felicity! His notes are boring, his messages lame, I want Tim back home from Maine!”