The water running.
And the unmistakable sound of Miranda puking her guts out.
Harper would know it anywhere.
The toilet flushed and the water kept running-the ever-considerate Miranda would be brushing her teeth now, Harper figured. Gargling mouthwash. And then, right on cue, tiptoeing back to bed.
“You okay?” Harper whispered, rolling toward the edge of the narrow bed to give her friend more room to stretch out.
Miranda smiled ruefully. “Just too much to drink. Sorry for the gross-out factor. Go back to sleep.”
But she knew very well that Miranda never threw up when she drank. Harper was self-absorbed, but she wasn’t blind. And what she saw was Miranda stuffing her face last night-and unstuffing it in the morning. She didn’t do it all the time, not as far as Harper knew, at least. She didn’t even do it often-though more often than she had in the fall, before their nightmare year had really begun.
Harper could say something. Miranda always did whatever she said; it formed the basis of their friendship.
But this weekend was supposed to be about making things up to Miranda, celebrating her, not bashing her and her stupid choices. Not driving her away again. Besides, who was she to force Miranda to face reality, when she was doing everything she could to avoid it herself?
Harper took a deep breath and reached out an arm, fully intending to shake her best friend awake. But then her arm dropped to her side, and, feeling suddenly groggy and overwhelmed, she closed her eyes, hoping for sleep.
This… thing, this problem that Miranda had, it wasn’t an emergency, she told herself. She decided to wait until the time was right.
More to the point: She chickened out.
She chose the same no-risk, no-gain approach she took to all her problems these days: ignored it, and hoped it would go away.
Beth was nearly asleep on her feet. They’d crawled out of bed at 7 a.m., hoping to beat the inevitable crowds at the All-American Band Battle registration area. But that was wishful thinking. Judging from the way they looked-and smelled-some of these bands must have camped out in the auditorium all night; Beth and the Blind Monkeys were at least fifty people back in line, which so far had translated into a painful hour of scoping out the competition.
When they finally made it to the small metal folding table at the head of the room, a sullen girl with thick purple eyeliner and matching purple dreads handed Beth a stack of forms without looking up. “Band name?” she asked, sounding almost too bored to bother taking another breath.
Beth looked around at the guys, waiting for one of them to speak, but none of them did. Apparently, she was now groupie, roadie, and form-filler-outer. So much the better. The more responsibilities she had, the more they would need her. “Blind Monkeys,” she said, half proud to be a part of something and half embarrassed by the knowledge that, in fact, she wasn’t.
The girl scanned her clipboard, then sighed in irritation. “Not on here. Did you send in your preregistration forms?”
“Of course-” Beth started to say. Then she caught the glance exchanged between Fish and Hale. “Guys?”
Fish twirled a strand of his long, blond hair; Hale just stared at her blankly. “Did you mail it in?” She’d filled out the forms, signed their names, bought the stamps, put it all together-all they’d had to do was take it to the post office to send it off. She and Reed would have done it themselves, but the guys had volunteered.
“We may have…” Fish scuffed his toe against the shiny hardwood floor. “There was this girl…”
“And the pizza, dude, don’t forget the pizza,” Hale added, his face lighting up at the memory.
“Yeah, and then this guy, and we had to get the truck for him-”
“And the girl was hot, man,” Hale explained, punching Reed’s shoulder. “Smoking hot, you know?”
Reed ran a hand across his face, mashing it against his eyes. “You didn’t send it in,” he said, without looking. It wasn’t a question. “Let’s go. We’re screwed.”
At the sound of Reed’s hoarse, gravelly voice, the girl at the table finally looked up. Her eyes widened, and her surly expression morphed into a half smile. “Not so fast, boys,” she told them, fingering the black, studded collar that hugged her neck. “You come a long way for this?”
“We were on the road all day yesterday,” Beth said. The girl didn’t appear to notice. She was too busy staring at Reed. And he’d noticed.
“Can’t believe the shitty van made it the whole way,” he told her, flashing a rare smile. “We’re probably stuck here for good.”
The girl leaned forward, giving all of them a good glimpse of the dark crease at the base of her neckline. (Could it still be called a neckline when it dipped nearly to her navel?) “That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” she said.
“Maybe not,” Reed agreed, reaching back and rustling the back of his head, which made his wild black hair fly out in all directions. Beth couldn’t help admire the way his sinewy biceps moved between his tight, black T-shirt-and she wasn’t the only one.
She’s flirting with him, Beth thought in disgust. And, what was worse-he’s flirting back.
“I’m Starla,” the girl said, extending a hand to Reed. When he took it, she didn’t shake, just gripped his hand firmly, holding it in midair for a too-long moment. “That’s Starla with a star.” She turned his hand over and, grabbing a ballpoint pen, illustrated on his palm:
STAR LA
Beth felt like she was going to be sick.
“Reed,” he told her, without snatching his hand back.
“And I’m Beth,” Beth said, stepping closer to her boyfriend. She wanted to wrap an arm around his shoulder, the universal sign for He’s mine and yon can’t have him, but she was afraid of looking petty. And what if he stepped away?
“I might be able to slip you guys into the schedule,” Star la said.
“You won’t get in trouble?” Reed asked.
How sweet, Beth thought sourly. He’s looking out for her. She wasn’t usually the jealous type-but then, until recently, she hadn’t been the Reed type either. Things change.
“I’m sure it’d be worth it,” the girl assured him. “After all, you could be ‘America’s Next Superstars,’” she said with mock enthusiasm, mouthing the contest slogan.
“Never gonna happen,” Reed promised her, though he leaned over the table and began filling out the forms she’d handed him.
“Have a little hope. Reed Sawyer,” Star la said brightly, reading the name upside down off one of the forms. She pulled out a handful of buttons, each bearing the label #32. Two went to Beth, who handed them off to Fish and Hale. Star la took the third one and pinned it onto Reed’s shirt just below his breastbone. Beth noticed that her fingernails were painted black and a small, thorny rose was tattooed along the length of her inner wrist. She caught Reed noticing it too. “This is Vegas.” Star la slapped her hand flat against his chest. “Anything can happen.”
“How can you watch that shit?” Kane flicked his hand toward the TV, where a bright blue squirrel was chasing a talking bird through the magic forest.
“The question is, how can you not watch it?” Harper asked, stretching her legs to the ceiling, then flopping them back down to the bed with a satisfied sigh. “It’s Saturday morning. These are Saturday morning cartoons. Had you no childhood? Have you no soul?”
Kane shrugged. When he was a kid, he’d spent Saturday morning helping his brother clear up the remains of last night’s partying before their father came home. As for the dubious existence of his soul… it wasn’t a question for a hungover Saturday morning in Sin City.