Authors: Paula Stokes
N
ext Saturday afternoon, I board a plane to Chicago. I’m by myself because Arachne’s Revenge ended up on an earlier flight than mine. Apparently, Janne tried to get us all together but there were no more seats. No big deal. I don’t need to be there as early as everyone else and go through sound check and all that.
After I forgot the other night at Amber’s house, I pretty much gave up on the idea of explaining April 5th. Everything seems back to the way it used to be between us—no point in screwing that up with a bunch of heavy shit. Besides, I think there’s a statute of limitations on deep dark secrets, and this one expired. I can tell her next year, maybe.
I plug my earbuds into my phone. I’ve got
Crow Black Dream
downloaded, and I smile at the thought of my sister and her Mickey Mouse ears hairdo as “Waiting Beyond” starts to play. She was so positive the song was meant to be uplifting, but it still sounds dark and melancholy to me.
When the plane lands at O’Hare, I follow a stream of college kids and businessmen through the giant airport, marveling at the high ceiling and cavernous hallways. This place is like ten times as big as St. Louis’s airport.
I don’t have checked luggage, so I duck out of the steady stream of travelers and plop down in a seat at a mostly empty gate. Amber said to call her and she’d tell me how to get to WyldNytes, the club they’re playing at.
I wait patiently as her phone rings twice, three times, four times, voice mail. Sighing, I hang up and text her:
Hey. I’m here. How do I find you?
Five minutes pass. And then another five minutes. I google WyldNytes on my phone and put the address into my GPS. The club is in an area of the city called Wicker Park, a long way from the airport, but it looks like I can get close if I take the El to the Damen stop. I text Amber again and let her know I’m hopping on the train.
When the next train roars into the station, I grab a seat in the last car. I count the number of stops before I get off. Twelve. I kill time by checking out the people sitting around me. I wish Amber were with me. Sometimes we play this game where we try to guess people’s stories just by looking at them.
The girl across from me is shockingly thin, with collarbones sharp enough to cut meat. Her dark hair is wrapped into a tight bun and she’s wearing jeans and a black sweater even though it’s sixty degrees outside.
Ballet dancer
, I think. I study the pinched expression on her face. She just got passed over for a lead role. The girl catches me staring, so I move on to the guy sitting next to her. Cornrows. Basketball shorts. High-top shoes. It’d be too easy to call him a rapper or an athlete. I decide maybe he’s an undercover cop. But he’s starting to make friends out on the street and now his loyalties are being tested.
I wonder if Amber feels like that—caught between her new life and her old one. She keeps assuring me everything is fine, just like it always was. But these are major changes for her. I think about her timid voice when she said she was scared. It suddenly occurs to me I haven’t been as supportive as I should be. Too busy playing the role of the jealous asshole. Well, all that changes now. Or whenever I manage to find her.
When the train stops at the Damen station, I weave my way through the crowd and plunk down on a bench. I pull my phone out to text Amber again but I’ve got a message waiting.
Sorry, M. Janne says your best bet is to take a cab. Sound check is done but we’re having a last minute jam session to iron out a few kinks. Love, A.
In St. Louis if you need a cab you call one and they pick you up. I don’t know the first thing about hailing a cab in Chicago. I mean, I’ve seen it in movies. You just step out in the street and wave your hand. But when I exit the station and try that move, the first two cabs drive by without slowing and the third one almost runs me over.
After two more failed attempts, I decide to just use my GPS and walk to the club. The brisk wind swirls between the buildings, blowing my shirt out from my body and my hair forward into my eyes. I rub my hands back and forth over my forearms. Probably should have worn a sweatshirt. Oh well. I’ll have Amber to keep me warm later. My lips quirk into a smile as I think about it.
Another gust of wind blows a crumpled paper bag from the top of an open trash can out into the street. I watch it pitch and roll across two lanes of traffic like an urban tumbleweed. I can tell when I’m getting close to the club because there are groups of kids dressed in jeans and concert T-shirts all heading in the same direction.
WyldNytes turns out to be a two-story brick building, butted up close to restaurants on either side. The front windows are papered over with flyers for upcoming shows. Just seeing that reminds me of my favorite club back in Hazelton. When I slip inside, I immediately feel even more at home. The dim lights, the buzzing of the crowd, the scent of smoke and sweat and beer—it all speaks to me on the most basic level.
A bouncer pats me down, scans my ticket, and then directs me to the floor seating. I stop outside the entrance to the lower part of the club and text Amber again.
I made it. Where are you?
Amber appears from a hallway a few minutes later. She’s got her hair in two fishbone braids and is wearing a shimmery blue dress that I’m betting someone picked out for her. “Micah!” She swoops me into a hug.
I squeeze her tightly, lifting her a few inches into the air before letting her go. She giggles and then directs me to follow her backstage. Man, I love the sound of her laugh.
The backstage area has a couple of couches, a TV, and a table of food. The rest of Arachne’s Revenge are sprawled out on one of the couches—Nate and Damien playing video games while Eli just kind of sits back in the corner and takes in the scene. Assorted people I’ve never seen before are milling around the room, most of them with laminated badges clipped to their belt loops. I try not to think about going backstage with my dad. This is Amber’s night. I can’t make it about me.
She lowers her voice. “You’re not going to start something with Nate, are you? I’m nervous about the show and it would help if I didn’t have to worry about you too.”
“I promise I’ll be good.”
“Perfecto. Come meet Janne.”
I give Nate and the other guys in the band a nod as Amber half drags me across the room to where a tall blond guy with slicked back hair is talking on a Bluetooth headset and gesturing wildly with one hand.
He holds up one finger to us and I immediately decide I don’t like him. Which is not like me—I generally don’t care one way or the other about most people. But really, does this guy think we’re going to interrupt his important phone call?
Amber and I wait patiently while the guy goes on and on about getting wine delivered somewhere later. Then he turns to us and smiles one of those
Hollywood Insider
barracuda smiles. “Heeeey,” he says, drawing out the word as he shakes my hand. “I’m Janne Masterson. You must be Amber’s friend Micah.”
And now I like him even less.
“Boyfriend,” Amber says and gives Janne a look.
“Yeah, hon.” He dismisses her words with a wave of his hand. “Just not for the press, remember? Arachne’s Revenge will sell more records if boys can fantasize about that sweet little mouth of yours.”
I cough into my hand. “Don’t you think the music will sell itself?”
“Sure, kid,” Janne says. But he’s looking at something on his phone and not paying attention to us anymore.
“I bet you’re starving,” Amber says quickly. She yanks me away from Janne toward the table of sandwiches.
I grab one that looks like roast beef and then gesture toward Amber. “Anything for your sweet little mouth?”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t let him get to you. Magazines aren’t exactly lining up to interview me. If they ever do, I’m not going to lie and tell anyone I’m single. But why argue with him when it’s a nonissue, you know?”
“Right,” I say. Her reasoning makes sense in a nonconfrontational kind of way. I’ve just never known Amber to be nonconfrontational before.
A guy wearing a backward cap and a Bottlegrate T-shirt enters the room with a case of beer. “You want?” He offers a can to Amber.
She shakes her head. “Come on. All these people are stressing me out.” She heads for a door in the corner of the room. I follow her through it and we end up in an alley behind the club. We both lean back against the building, looking forward at nothing in particular. Another fast-food-bag tumbleweed bounces past us.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” I say after another few seconds. “The way he talks about you like you’re a thing?” I take a bite of my sandwich and a few crumbs of bread fall to the ground. A speckled bird comes to investigate.
“That’s how these people are. Musicians are just commodities to them. We make songs. They sell songs. Everyone makes money.”
“It sounds kind of soulless.” The bird pecks at my boot. I offer it another morsel of bread.
Amber shrugs. “Most jobs are soulless when you really think about it. I’d rather put up with Janne and have a job doing something I love than wait tables for the rest of my life.”
“Oh, you’d rather be someone’s puppet than work hard like my mom, you mean?”
“Micah! That’s not what I meant at all. Come on.” Amber rests her hand on my arm. “You know this is all I’ve ever dreamed of, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be perfect. And that’s okay.”
“Which one of us are you trying to convince?” I take another bite of my sandwich and toss the rest of my bread to the ground.
“You, I guess.” Amber smiles down at the bird as it attempts to fly away with a hunk of bread that probably outweighs it. “I believe it, Micah. I really do.”
“I hope so.”
The back door to the club opens behind us and Janne sticks out his head. “Amber.” He beckons to her without even acknowledging me. “It’s almost time to go on.”
She gives me a quick kiss. “See you after the show.”
“Yup.” I follow her back inside, watching as she falls in line behind the rest of the band. I want to be happy for her, but I hate seeing her at everyone’s beck and call. Maybe
that’s
what is really different about her. She’s thinner, blonder, and more polished. But she also seems . . . tame. The Amber I fell in love with would never let assholes tell her what to do.
A
rachne’s Revenge goes on to some scattered clapping but not much else. The floor section is only half full and people are doing more talking than paying attention to the stage. The two kids next to me say something about how they’ve never heard of them.
Amber and the rest of the band quickly win over the crowd though. They start with their song “The Island,” a Goth-rock number about star-crossed lovers. The song is full of angry guitar, but Amber’s sultry voice carries over it, thanks to a stellar job by the sound team. Boys whistle. Girls look adoringly at Nate, and I still don’t get it. I mean, he’s the freaking bassist. They could at least go all gaga for Damien. That guy can really shred.
Arachne’s Revenge launches into their second song, and by the end of the first chorus, the front section of the crowd is all facing toward the stage, many of them swaying along to the music.
My favorite part of the show is when Amber plugs her violin into her amp for the song “Wake Up Dreaming.” It’s different from most of the rest of their songs since it’s got a lot of classical music interspersed with the guitar parts. Eli does most of the instruments on a synthesizer, but Amber plays the lead violin herself. That song manages to sweep me away every time I hear it. For almost five whole minutes it’s like nothing in the universe exists except for music. Sometimes I wish I could really live in a place like that.
Arachne’s Revenge plays for another twenty minutes and then Amber comes out to join me for Bottlegrate’s set. They’re originally from Chicago and the crowd goes wild nonstop while they’re onstage. For most of the set, I stand behind Amber, my arms wrapped around her waist, my chin tucked against her shoulder. After a while, the fabric of her dress makes my skin feel itchy and I raise my head up a little, pressing my jaw to her temple.
She leans back into me. “I love you, you know,” she says as one song ends and the guitar riffs fade into the soft buzzing of the nearby amp.
“Love you too,” I say. Instinctively. Without thinking.
And then, as the next song begins in a flurry of angry chords, I wonder: If you say something without thinking, does that make it . . . thoughtless?
Maybe Amber isn’t the only one who’s changed.
No, that’s crazy. We might be struggling a little bit, but I still love her—I know I do. I’m not phoning it in. I’m not taking her for granted. Maybe we throw those words around a little too much so they’ve lost meaning. But the feelings behind them are still there.
Aren’t they?
For the next few minutes, the guitarist and lead singer of Bottlegrate walk circles around the stage, and I walk circles around the idea that Amber and I are broken. Things were fine before she went away. Things were fine while she was gone. But since she got back, everything has seemed a little off. A little . . . different.
She’s
a little different. But different doesn’t have to mean bad, does it?
Amber squeezes my hand as the song ends. “I’m so glad you came.”
This time I swallow back the automatic reply. “Yeah,” I say finally—an affirmation of nothing. Amber doesn’t seem to notice.
After the concert, we all head back to the hotel—Amber and me in one cab and the rest of the guys in the other.
“You were fantastic,” I tell her, a little gushy. Trying to make up for thoughts that feel like a betrayal. “‘Wake Up Dreaming’ gets better every time I hear it.”
She grins. “You’re just saying that.”
I tuck a sweaty lock of white-blonde hair behind her ear. “No I’m not.” I wrap my arm around her and pull her in close. “You’re the best.”
She buries her face in my chest. “You’re the best too.”
I press my lips to the crown of her head. See? Fine. Everything is fine.
So why do I feel so phony? Amber slides the cab driver a couple of twenties when we reach the hotel. I follow her inside to her room. It’s not quite rock-star quality but it’s got a huge king-sized bed and a giant flat-screen TV on the wall.
“I feel really sticky and gross.” She gestures toward the bathroom. “I’m going to take a quick shower, okay?”
“Want company?” I cringe inwardly at my own words. I’m still trying to convince myself that nothing is wrong. But that’s bullshit. Something is messed up and whatever it is, hooking up won’t make it go away.
“Maybe,” she says, a slow smile spreading across her face.
But then her phone buzzes with a text. For once, I’m actually kind of relieved.
“Shit.” She turns away from me and digs it out of her purse. “Looks like our shower is going to have to wait.”
“Why? What now?”
“Janne wants us all to come to his suite for a little after-party.”
“So tell him we’ll drop by later.”
She gives me a look like this is another one of those times when it’s best not to argue with Janne. Again, I can’t reconcile this new obedient Amber with the impulsive girl she used to be. I get that she doesn’t want to mess up her chance at making it big, but shouldn’t it be about the music? Does she really have to jump through every damn hoop some record company douchebag holds in front of her?
“Come on.” She looks pleadingly at me. “We’ll only stay twenty minutes, I promise. He probably just wants to show me off to some reporters or something.”
“Fine.” I glance at myself in the mirror, mopping some sweat from my forehead and spiking my hair back up with my fingers. “Let’s get it over with.”
Janne’s room is
almost
rock-star-ish, with glass and metal furniture and a Jacuzzi in the bathroom. By the time Amber and I arrive, the other members of Arachne’s Revenge are already there, along with what looks like half of Chicago.
“There she is.” Janne twines an arm through Amber’s. “Come on. There’s a guy from
Rolling Stone
here that I want you to meet.” He points across the crowded room. She gives me an apologetic look over her shoulder as Janne tows her toward the back of the sunken living room.
I watch as a throng of studded leather and expensive suits swallow her up. The rest of the guests mill around, chatting loudly and intellectualizing about the modern art hanging from the hotel suite’s walls. Once again, I’m surrounded but completely alone.
Sighing, I step out onto the balcony for some fresh air. Amber’s drummer, Eli, is out here too. He’s leaning over the railing, staring out into the night.
“Some party,” I say, pulling my cigs from my pocket.
“Yeah,” Eli says.
The single word hangs between us for a few moments. I light up and inhale deeply. “Heard you might end up quitting the band.”
“Commuting to practice from Stanford is going to be kind of tough,” he says. “Besides, this is more Amber’s dream than mine.” Eli’s gray eyes study me thoughtfully. “I’d ask where she was, but I’m sure I know.”
“Janne? Is he an asshole?”
“Kind of. But he’s a rich, connected asshole.”
“He talks about her like she’s meat, you know?”
“Yeah.” Eli rattles out a soft drum solo on the balcony railing. He’s got a Roman-numeral eight tattooed on his left hand with a blade through the middle.
It reminds me of one of Stacee’s tattoos. When I get home, I should probably get around to emailing her back. Or else deleting her email. I’m still undecided on that.
“You don’t need to worry though,” Eli continues. “He’s not hitting on her or anything.”
“What about Nate?”
“He’s not hitting on Nate either,” Eli says in a perfectly deadpan voice.
He catches me mid-inhale and I choke on a mouthful of smoke. “You know what I mean,” I say, once I quit coughing.
Eli shrugs. “Nate hits on everything that’s remotely female. I try to stay out of his drama.”
I pick this moment to glance back inside. Amber is tucked into the far corner of the living room, watching the people mill past her. Nate cuts through the crowd with two glasses of wine. He reaches her side and offers one to her. I wait for her to reject it, but to my surprise she takes it from his outstretched hand and swirls the wine around in the glass like she’s some kind of expert.
“Wish I could do the same,” I say wryly. “Talk to you later.”
I duck back inside and stroll casually up to them. “What’s going on, guys?” I ask loudly. Amber jumps and nearly spills her wine. I slip the glass out of her fingertips.
“Hey, boss,” Nate says. “No need to share drinks.” He gestures toward a server dressed all in black patrolling the living room with a tray of wineglasses. “Plenty for everyone.”
The fingers of my other hand curl into a fist. I resist the urge to punch him in the face. “We’re good,” I say, just as Amber says, “I can get my own.” She turns toward the server.
I grab her arm. “Since when do you drink?”
She shrugs. “I don’t think one glass is going to hurt anyone.”
Nate looks back and forth between us, his dark eyes curious. “It’s a party. Why not let your girlfriend have a little fun,” he says. “No need to be such a Boy Scout.”
“Yeah.” I smile tightly, wishing I hadn’t promised Amber I wouldn’t start anything tonight. “Actually, I’m going to need to borrow
my girlfriend
for a few minutes.” I tug Amber toward the balcony. Nate follows us. I hold up a hand. “Sorry. Scout meeting. You’re not invited.”
“Micah,” Amber warns. “You said you wouldn’t—”
“I just need a word.” I step back out into the night. Eli takes one look at us and decides to duck back inside. I shut the French doors behind him.
Amber backs up against the railing, her arms crossed over her chest. Behind her, the Chicago skyline glitters in the night. A soft breeze blows the bottom of her dress around her legs. She gathers the fabric in one hand.
“So,” I start. “Pick up any new habits while you were in
Cali
?”
“Jesus, Micah.” She rolls her eyes. “Hypocrite much? I mean,
you
drink!”
“No one in my family is a recovering alcoholic,” I point out.
“One drink is not going to turn me into my dad,” she says. “It’s no big deal.”
“It used to be a big deal. If it’s not now, how come you didn’t tell me?”
“Maybe I didn’t want you to worry about me while I was away.”
“But you’ve been back in town for over a week.” When she doesn’t respond I continue. “Come on, Amber. I thought you weren’t a sheep.”
She lifts her chin defiantly. “I’m feeling like you just want me to be
your
sheep instead of anyone else’s.” Her voice takes on a sharp edge and for the first time in a month, I see a hint of the old Amber in her.
I lift up my hands in surrender. “Hey. You’re a big girl. I’m just a little worried.”
“That’s sweet, but I’m fine, really,” Amber says. “Everyone in the music industry drinks, okay? It helps take the edge off. Maybe you don’t get it.”
“Right,” I say tersely. “Because your life is so much edgier than mine.”
“I don’t really know what your life is like, Micah, because suddenly you don’t talk to me anymore.”
“That’s because you can’t go a whole minute without checking your phone.” Now I’m the one raising my voice. A couple of people just inside the balcony pause their conversation to look out at us.
“It’s not my fault I have obligations now.”
“You don’t have to jump every time someone tells you to,” I say. “You used to think for yourself.”
“And look where that got me,” she says. “Suspended. Juvie. I finally have a chance to be someone now.”
“Yeah. I’m just wondering if it’s someone you actually want to be.”
Amber bites her lip. “Look,” she says, catching a glimpse of the people staring at us. “I know you don’t like these people. I shouldn’t have brought you here. Why don’t you head back to the room and I’ll meet you after I make rounds and say good-bye? We can talk in private.” The breeze whips her hair back from her face.
I watch the tendrils of blonde dance on the wind. “I’m not just going to leave you here alone with a bunch of predators, especially if you’re going to drink.”
“I won’t drink, okay? And I’m not alone,” she reminds me. “The guys will look out for me.”
Ouch. “Yeah, I’m sure Nate will be all over that job,” I mutter.
“I already told you, there’s nothing going on with him.” She huffs. “Your jealousy is getting old.”
“Fine. See you later.” I yank open the French doors that lead back into the suite. She’s right—about everything. She’s not alone. It’s not my job to tell her what to do. And like she said, I definitely don’t like these people. “Be careful,” I say. Then I leave her on the balcony.
Back in the room, I flop down on the king-sized bed and try not to feel like a total asshole for leaving Amber upstairs. I debate going back, but between Janne and Nate, someone would probably get punched if I do, and even though I’m pissed at her, I don’t want to break a promise.
What I really want to do is leave. I check the bus and train schedules on my phone, but of course nothing is departing for St. Louis before six a.m. and I don’t have enough cash with me to pay for either fare. My mom would probably come get me if I called her, but she’d never let me hear the end of it.
I exhale deeply and roll onto my side. Amber’s luggage is tossed haphazardly around the room—a matching suitcase and overnight bag. They’re made of bright blue canvas with navy trim. They look like some other girl’s stuff, one more thing someone else picked out for her.
Everything
about Amber seems like some other girl’s stuff now. Why can’t she see that?
I watch the clock for a few minutes and then decide to jump in the shower. Hopefully she’ll be back by the time I’m done. I slide off the bed and grab my own overnight bag—a plain black backpack with rock band patches sewn onto it by my sister. I have to say, it looks exactly like me.
My brain spins as the hot water courses down over my face. Her retort to my sheep comment stung a little. Am I just like Nate and Janne, trying to tell her what to do? No, that’s bullshit. I’m allowed to be worried about her drinking and pretending it’s no big deal, when she’s always said she’d never drink. I don’t know the whole story with her dad, but I know she’s got some messed-up memories because of his issues.