I put on my coat, and we climbed up the stairs.
“Grayson, the band was great,” Jazz said, leading the way down the dark alley.
“Glad you could enjoy it before the migraine hit.”
We emptied out onto the street. A light dusting of snow was already on the ground, and flakes seemed to be falling sideways on us.
“Jazz, would you mind if I talked to Wren for a moment? Alone?” he asked. She prodded me toward him.
“No problem. I’ll wait by the corner,” she said to me. “Bye, Grayson.”
We watched her walk toward the street lamp. Finally Grayson spoke.
“If Jazz has a migraine, then I have dengue fever,” he said, shrugging his shoulders against the cold. “Did I do something?”
“No, Grayson.”
“Then what is it? I thought we were having a good time,” he said.
“We were, I guess, then . . .” I trailed off, not knowing what to say. The truth made me sound pathetic.
“Come on, come back.”
“Gray, I suck at parties, okay? I thought I could deal, but it’s just not me.”
“Wren, it’s a party, not a pop quiz. What’s to deal with?”
How could he understand? He was the party.
“I don’t know half the people in there, and the people I do know I can’t stand.”
“And what half do I fit into?”
I toed the snow collecting at our feet. “Jazz wants to leave, and you’ll be playing another set soon, and then what would I do? Call me later if you want. Or I’ll just see you next week, at work,” I said, backing away from him.
“You’re sure we’re okay? You can get home all right?” he asked, stepping from one foot to the other.
“Yep. No worries.” I gave him an awkward wave and caught up to Jazz. What was I doing? Why was I walking away from him?
“Are you sure you want to leave? I’m fine leaving solo,” Jazz said, linking her arm through mine as we braced against the cold.
She’s not my girl. Just a friend.
“Yeah, totally.”
TWELVE
GRAYSON
WAS I DESTINED TO WATCH WREN WALK AWAY?
Why couldn’t it always be like earlier tonight, when I saw her in the crowd? That smile. Pow, like an electric jolt from across the room. I’d had to concentrate on not losing my sticks, focus on the song, play for her. That smile made me feel like Keith fucking Moon.
The snow fell faster. I closed my eyes and let the flakes it my face. Part of me held out hope she’d change her mind and come back.
The other part of me was cold.
I walked back to Andy’s, trying to shake the feeling that I’d done some douche-bag thing to screw this up.
Things had been good . . . hadn’t they? Why didn’t I kiss her again? She was right there, in front of me. I could taste the sweetness of her breath, would have licked the acai from her bottom lip.
Until Luke and his besties with testes and in-your-face sociopathic stare conveniently got in the way. What was he up to?
I didn’t realize how cold I really was until I walked back inside. My face and hands were numb. I stomped the snow off my Vans. I’d need another acai shot just to warm up; otherwise I wouldn’t be able to hold my sticks. Then I realized the fire I’d felt about playing earlier had more to do with Wren being there than hanging out with my so-called friends.
“You so want to nail that girl.”
Luke was at the foot of the stairs, holding on to the railing.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, not in the mood for a Dobson mindfuck.
“Grayson, come on. I know the Barrett work over when I see it. She seems a little pure for you, don’t you think?”
Before I knew what was happening, I was down the stairs, my hands on Luke’s chest, shoving him across the small walk space between the stairs and the door, until he hit the back wall. Shock flashed in his eyes when I put my forearm across his neck, pinning him. He turned his face sideways. I leaned into him with all my weight, got right in his face.
“Stay outta this, Dobson,” I said through clenched teeth. I held him against the wall, panting harder than if I’d just run a full field clear.
“Are you done?” he asked.
I held him there, fighting every urge to crush his windpipe, until my breathing returned to normal. I backed off.
He grabbed my wrist, twisted my arm back behind me until a jagged pain shot through my bicep to my shoulder. My cheek met the wall, hard.
“What’s happened to you, Barrett? You’re as flabby as a chick,” Luke breathed into my ear.
“Screw you.”
He gave my arm another twist, just to the edge of pain, and let go.
“Dude, ‘besties with testes,’ really?” I asked, shaking the pain out of my arm.
Luke leaned back on the stairwell, grinning.
“You didn’t like it? Thought it was catchy, myself. So what’s up with the quiet chick if she’s not a thrill or kill?”
Thrill or kill. Two words I hadn’t used to describe a girl since the spring. This was Luke code—kill meaning a great hit, thrill meaning a great lay. Hearing him saying it in reference to Wren made me ashamed I’d ever thought it was funny. I wanted to deck him.
“Why can’t you believe I’d be friends with a girl?”
Luke walked over to the dryer and pushed aside a leather jacket.
“Ah, Logan and his Stellas. Don’t think he’ll mind if we grabbed a few,” he said, pulling two bottles out of the case. Logan preferred his beer from the bottle and would notoriously hoard his own secret stash during parties. It was something we kidded him about, but whenever the keg was tapped out he became the most popular guy in the room. After three years, we knew all of his hiding places.
Luke used the edge of the stairwell to pry off the caps, then handed me one of the bottles.
“Drop the friends bit. You were about to taste her tonsils before I broke it up.”
“Fine. Why did you do that?” I asked, tipping the bottle to my mouth.
He swigged his beer. “Because you never could juggle a girlfriend and find hits at the same time. And Wren seems like the kind of girl to get serious with. And I need you not to be serious.”
“Really?”
“Grayson, come on, why are you here? You’re not that good a drummer. Are you forgetting the summer of debauchery? The five of us crossing Europe, big finish in Amsterdam?”
“Not interested.”
Luke’s eyes sharpened. “Rosse buurt was your idea. Beer, coffee shops with legal weed, chicks behind glass ready to do anything you want. And you’re giving it up just because you got in trouble for the term-paper thing?”
“That ‘term-paper thing’? You make it sound like all I got was detention.”
“I know you’ve been through some heavy shit the past few months, but that’s all the more reason to—”
“I’m out.”
He stared at me, searching my face for some hint that I was messing with him.
“You can’t back out. My old man changed his mind about financing my airfare—he set up an internship for me at the stock exchange next summer. Wants to brainwash me; thinks liberal arts is for pussies. So I have to get serious about this again.”
“Hey, here’s an idea . . . why don’t you just get a job?”
“Yeah, keep up a four-point-eight GPA, get us to another championship, and hold down a real job. Even I can’t do all that. C’mon, Grayson, you’re the one who got the best hits. Andy, Dev, and Logan suck at that part. You can’t tell me you’re satisfied with the minimum wage you get from being a . . . wow, I can’t even say it . . . wa . . . wa . . . wa . . . waiter. The hunt used to get you high.”