But Vicky’s band blew me away.
In a flapper-style dress and gold heels, she strutted around the stage like Tina Turner on steroids, her hair cascading down her back, her eyes flirting with the crowd, her voice never faltering. Behind her, the guys played their instruments madly, building a wall of sound for Vicky’s vocals to rest on top of.
Everyone in the club pressed closer to the stage, and the cameras came out. The room filled with bright sparks of light.
Vicky marched to the front of the stage and held the mic up to her bright-red lips, almost like she was kissing it. The words came out of her like a cannon shot.
“Hey there. Yeah, you. You with the eyes.
Do you like what you see?
Do you like my chest?
Yeah, do you, do you?
Do I pass your test?
Yeah, do I, do I?
Do you like my hair?
Well, here’s the thing, baby…”
Here she leaned forward, like she was about to tell the audience a secret, and she snapped out the last line:
“I don’t care!”
The room filled with whoops and cheers as the Dirty Curtains slammed through the final chords of the song. When it was over, Harry was visibly covered in sweat, and Dave chugged about half a bottle of beer, his hand shaking. But Vicky looked as crisp as if she’d just emerged from a day at the spa.
“Hey, Start,” she said into the mic, batting her false eyelashes. “We’re the Dirty Curtains. And we like you.”
“We like you, too!” shouted a voice from the back of the room.
Vicky chuckled. “Well, you’re about to like us just a little bit more. Boys, let’s go!”
Harry smacked his drumsticks together, and they were on to the next song.
I was so captivated by Vicky’s performance that I didn’t even notice Pippa approaching me until she was standing right next to me in the booth. She was wearing a black slip dress and a large hairclip with jewels and feathers. She had a cocktail in her hand, which made me suspect that whatever sort of anti-partying ethic her parents had tried to instill in her over the past few weeks hadn’t worked that well.
“Hi, Pippa.” I felt my heart beat faster.
“Hiya,” Pippa replied, blinking rapidly. “Um, Vicky’s doing great, isn’t she?”
I nodded and waited for her to go on, because no way Pippa had come over here just to tell me that Vicky was “doing great”—which was, by the way, the understatement of the year.
“Look, Elise, I just wanted to say … well, thank you.”
“For what?” I asked.
“For this.” Pippa gestured around the room. “Thank you for giving Vicky the chance to play.”
I shrugged. “I’m not doing her a favor or anything,” I said. “She’s incredibly talented. She deserves this.”
“Obviously,” Pippa agreed. “But people don’t always get what they deserve.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot. After a pause, she spoke again. “Vicky is my best friend. I’d do anything for her. Anyone who makes Vicky this happy is good with me. No matter what.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “And I’m sorry,” I added, “about the whole Char thing.”
“Oh.” Pippa’s cheeks flushed a little. “Yeah.”
“But you know,” I went on, hoping that Pippa could handle a little honesty, “it wasn’t all my fault. Char kissed me first. I just kissed back.”
Pippa’s face drooped, like the idea of Char kissing me physically hurt her. “I know,” she said. “I mean, I figured. I guess I told myself it was all your fault so that I could keep believing it wasn’t what Char wanted. I think I just … wanted him to be something that he isn’t.”
“Me, too,” I said. “But he isn’t.”
“But I really think,” Pippa said, perking up, “that he could be. You know?”
“What?”
“Obviously Char made mistakes. And so did I, and so did you. But I just know that if I give him some time to think it through, and explain to him why he hurt me, he will be better next time.”
“Seriously?” I said.
Pippa’s eyes were bright with feverish intensity as she said, “Listen, Elise. I have met a million guys, and I have never felt about any of them the way that I feel about Char. Everything about him is perfect. I mean, except for some of the things he’s done to me. But I honestly, honestly believe I can fix that part.”
I said nothing. Because I didn’t believe that at all. People are who they are and, try as you might, you cannot make them be what you want them to be.
Side by side, Pippa and I watched the rest of the Dirty Curtains’ set together. Vicky had the audience in the palm of her hand. She shone brighter than any camera flash in the whole club.
When the last song drew to a close, the room burst into applause. Vicky pointed at me and shouted into her mic, “Thank you, DJ Elise, for booking us to play, and for being Glendale’s hottest DJ!”
I blushed and rolled my eyes, but the applause somehow grew even louder as all eyes and cameras turned to me.
“We love you, Elise!” Vicky called.
The crowd picked up the cry. “We love you, Elise! We love you!”
I let this go on for another few seconds before I started up the turntables again and pressed play on the Pulp song “Common People.” There was a collective shriek of excitement, and then the room exploded back into motion.
I looked out over the crowd and breathed in deeply. All this was mine.
In a way, Amelia Kindl had been right when she once said to me, “I saved your life.” She was right, but not in the way she meant it. When she saw the suicide note on Elise Dembowski’s Super-Secret Diary and called my father, she set into motion the chain of events that led to me being in the DJ booth tonight. And that, in a way, had saved my life.
I was playing the Justice vs. Simian song “We Are Your Friends,” and everyone was jumping and flailing and singing along—“Because we are your friends, you’ll never be alone again, well come on!”—when Harry approached the DJ booth. “Hey!” he yelled up to me. “Is it okay if I…?”
“Of course!” I waved him up.
He climbed in next to me. “You are doing such a good job,” he blurted out at the same time that I said, “You guys rocked!”
We both laughed.
“Seriously, you were awesome,” I said. “I had no idea the Dirty Curtains were so good.”
“Me neither!” Harry beamed. “And you know what? There was this old dude in the audience, and he’s in some famous seventies band, and he told Vicky he thinks the Dirty Curtains could really be going places, and he wants to introduce us to his manager! Is that insane or what?”
I cracked up. I couldn’t help myself. I looked across the bar to my dad, who was chatting with the bartender. “You’re right,” I said to Harry. “That’s insane.”
“Okay, now let’s talk about how this is the best party I have ever been to in my entire life,” Harry said. “Like, even better than my seventh birthday party when my mom bought me a Star Wars cake and we played Pin the Light Saber on the Jedi. Okay, just kidding, that was actually my thirteenth birthday.”
I laughed again. “Hey, Harry,” I said, and then I stopped.
“Yes, Elise?”
I swallowed. “Do you want to go to a way less exciting party tomorrow night?”
“With you?” Harry asked.
“Yeah. It’s called the Glendale High Freshman/Sophomore Summer Formal. It’s in the school gym.”