“I’m coming, I’m coming.” I run as fast as I can in four-inch heels on loose gravel. Which is impressively fast, I must say.
I pass the rest of the squad and football team circled around Jarrod’s car, which pumps techno music through the lot. They’re still dressed in their uniforms, which they’ll wear all night, if tonight is anything like past game nights; it’s important to show our team pride around the city, Bianca says. Yeah, because what the citizens of Los Angeles can’t get enough of is high school football.
“Hey,” Jarrod calls to me. “You guys are coming to my house after the concert, right?”
“Course,” I say. “Who isn’t going?”
My answer elicits cheers from our friends. Jarrod better have some carpet cleaner handy, because his place is getting trashed tonight.
“Hey! Hey, you, Indiana, or whatever.”
I spin around and find the leather jacket guy giving me a wide smile. “Good, I thought I’d have to tackle, tackle, tackle you!” He mimics our cheer, a shit-eating grin on his face.
My friends must recognize our heckler too, because they circle around me.
“You know that guy?” Bianca hisses in my ear.
“No,” I say, offended, then call over to him, “Hey, don’t you have animals to torture behind a Dumpster or something?”
“Taking a break,” he says without missing a beat.
“Want me to mess this guy up?” Jarrod asks.
Bianca pushes Jarrod back and marches in front of me to face the guy. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but next time you chirp us during a game, we’re getting you kicked out.”
“Kicked out?” He claps his hand over his mouth. “You wouldn’t!”
“You better watch how you talk to us,” Jarrod says, taking a big, macho step closer.
“Indie, hurry up, we’re gonna be late!” Devon calls.
“Look,” Bianca says, catching Jarrod’s arm, “as much as I’d love for you to get better acquainted, we have a party to go to, because we have, like, lives. Come on, guys. Don’t waste your time on this loser.”
“Are you all just gonna, like, let her boss you around like that?” Leather Jacket Guy says in a perfect Bianca impression.
The weirdo makes a valid point; I hate him slightly less. But I’m running late, so I leave the petty, immature fighting to my friends.
“Finally,” Devon says as I get inside the car. “Who were you talking to?”
“Some loser.” I flip the vanity mirror down to check out my hair. It’s a good thing I’m going to a concert where wild hair is acceptable, because it’s Krazy with a capital K: about ninety percent frizz and ten percent curl.
“I don’t like him,” Devon says.
I flick him an incredulous look. “You can’t seriously be jealous.”
“I don’t want you talking to him.”
And I don’t want my boyfriend telling me who to talk to. I normally wouldn’t think twice before telling him exactly that, but we’ve been bickering too much lately. We need a good night.
Devon fiddles with the buttons on the dash until a Jay-Z song blasts through the speakers. “Yeah!” His head bobs in time with the music. “Hope he does this song tonight. It’s wicked.”
I smile and gaze out the window; the guy is gone. “Yeah, really wicked.”
Sweat collects in places I didn’t know was possible. Beer is sloshed down the front of my tank top, which clings to my body like I’m an extra in some sort of Girls Gone Wild video. And I smell—bad.
Which all might be super embarrassing if twenty thousand other screaming Jay-Z fans weren’t in the same exact situation as me.
“Having fun?” Devon yells into my ear.
And ow, that was loud, but I nod and smile, because I am having fun. Sure, rap’s not my favorite, but it hardly matters when you’ve got floor tickets to the sold-out concert everyone in school’s been talking about for ages. The energy in the stadium alone would be enough to make any rap hater have a good time. And Jay-Z hasn’t even come out yet.
The lights dim suddenly, and a slow beat—not unlike the ones common in slasher movies—blasts through the speakers. The crowd hushes. Random images flash across giant screens set up in all corners of the building. Smoke billows from the very pores of the stage. An explosion sounds, eliciting gasps from the audience, and then floodlights pour blue light across the stage, and Jay-Z is there. The stadium erupts into savage cheers just as the first notes of his latest song begin.
Jay-Z strides across the stage—Jay-Z is right in front of me, holy crap, Jay-Z’s red sneakers just walked past me!—and the crowd surges forward, so Devon and I get smushed up against the stage. Which would be totally painful if I weren’t so freaking happy about being smushed up against my boyfriend at a Jay-Z concert. This is the best—best—night of my life.
So what if we hardly get to talk, and when we do get a chance, conversation is stilted and awkward like it never was before. And so what if at intermission we have to stand in line for approximately seventeen minutes to get a bottle of water, and then Devon doesn’t even pay for mine. And really, I don’t mind when Devon sees his football buddy, Ian, and runs off so they can smash their chests together in a testosterone-fueled greeting, then go on to badly sing Jay-Z lyrics for what feels like forever while I twiddle my thumbs by the concession stand.
Mere blips. I stand by my statement: best night of my life.
“Indigo!”
I search the packed lobby for the face belonging to the vaguely familiar voice calling my name. I do a double take when my eyes land on Leather Jacket Guy, leaning casually against a wall with his hands jammed in the pockets of his black pants. A chill ripples through me.
He followed me.
Leather pushes off the wall. For a moment I lose sight of his black waves among the sea of bodies crowding the lobby, and I panic. When he pops up again, it’s nearly right in front of me.
I gasp, clapping a hand to my pounding heart. “Did you follow me?” I ask, trying to keep my eyes on him while simultaneously scanning the lobby for Devon.
“I’m here for the music,” he answers.
I snort, despite my fear. One look at his smirk and I know he’s lying.
“Does your mom know you’re out this late?” he asks.
“Okay, getting creepy there, Leather Jacket Dude,” I say. “Should I memorize your features for the police lineup now or later?”
“I’m just saying, it’s late.”
“And? I’m not twelve.”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t check in with your mom. Innocent suggestion here.” With that, he gives me a little wave and disappears back into the crowd.
My throat goes dry. My missed phone call from Mom, the fact that she didn’t call back, didn’t show up to the game—something’s wrong. really wrong. I frantically dig my phone out of my purse and punch in Mom’s number.
It rings ten times before going to voice mail.
I try once more, but my luck doesn’t get any better. Finally, I stow my phone and search for Devon. I spot his blond hair in a group of guys and cross the lobby to give his arm a violent shake. He glances at me before holding up the universal “one-minute” signal. I shake him harder.
Releasing a heavy sigh, he reluctantly turns to me. “Ind, I was in the middle of—”
“I need to go home.”
“Home? What are you talking about? Are you drunk?” He makes to turn back to his friends but I yank his arm.
“The guy from the football game you told me not to talk to, he was just here and he said some really creepy shit and now I’m worried about my mom.”