Moving Neutral (17 page)

When the ride finally returned to the ground, I practically flew out of the chamber, stumbling on the steps as I ran down them. Blake and Jesse were standing at the entrance, waiting for us, and I watched as Blake’s smile faded in an instant when he saw me.

He turned to April, fists clenched. What did you say?

I didn’t hear her response, because I was already walking away.

Casey, I heard Blake calling behind me, but I didn’t stop. To my relief, when I got to the end of the pier, there were half a dozen taxis waiting to take tourists back to their hotels. I hopped into one of them and was about to shut the door when Blake stopped it with his hand.

He climbed into the back seat with me.

Where to? The cab driver said, looking at us in the rearview mirror.

The airport, I said, at the same time Blake said, just drive around.

Which is it?

Drive around, Blake said firmly. Casey, listen to me. Give me five minutes, and if you still want to go to the airport, then I won’t stop you.

I glared at him, eyes blazing, thinking about the email from my parents. Send the check, I should have written back. Blake will be done with me by Labor Day.

What did she say to you? he asked, staring at me like he couldn’t possibly comprehend what I was angry about. But I thought about his reaction to April before the ride -- he knew exactly why I was upset.

I kept silent, ripping out the frayed threads of Sophie’s expensive cutoffs with my fingers.

Listen, he said carefully. The record label likes the publicity we get when people think April and I are dating. But we’re not. And I’ve told her a hundred times I’m not going to do these stupid photo ops with her, okay? he paused, watching for my reaction. Is that why you’re upset?

I shook my head.

Then what? he said, sounding genuinely confused.

I felt tears coming to my eyes, and blinked to hold them back. She said I’m a groupie, I said, trying not to let my voice show how upset April had made me. She said it like I’m some skanky, gross girl who you’re going to be done with in about ten seconds, I paused, feeling my chin start to quiver. She said you won’t ever be seen in public with me.

But when I looked at Blake, he was smiling, his shoulders shaking as if he were holding back laughter. Looking at him made me even angrier.

What? I snapped, turning my head out the window again.

Blake got control of himself quickly, his voice barely concealing his amusement as he responded. Casey, he said. You’ve been living on our tour bus for two weeks and we’ve barely even kissed. You’d be, like, the worst groupie ever.

I glared at him.

Come on, Casey, he said, his voice turning serious. It’s just April being insecure and jealous, he said quietly. That has to be obvious to you.

It was most certainly not obvious to me. The idea that April, who looked like Kate Moss at 19, could be jealous of me was beyond absurd.

That’s ridiculous, I said.

Please, Blake said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. Have you seen the way she acts around you?

I tried to see it his way, but still, it was impossible. I should be jealous of April, not the other way around.

But thinking about it, I wasn’t jealous. April was stunning and famous, but I wouldn’t have traded places with her, even if I could have. Maybe she had everything, but I had enough.

I have Blake, a tiny voice in my head reminded me. And April doesn’t.

Suddenly leaving for the airport felt a little silly.

As if sensing my weakening resolve, Blake pushed harder. Casey, he said, moving across the car seat, so close that I could feel his breath on my cheek. I don’t care what April thinks is going on between us, and neither should you, he paused. It’s none of her business, honestly. But if you think I’m embarrassed to be seen with you because I want people to think I’m dating April, his voice was loaded with sarcasm, like it was the most impossible idea he’d ever heard. Then I’ll bring you onstage tonight and tell the whole audience you’re my girlfriend. Would that make you happy?

I was dumbstruck. I stared at Blake, not even able to form words.

And then I leaned forward, my eyelids fluttering closed as I kissed him, feeling his arms wind around me as his body relaxed, relieved. He ran his fingers through my hair and kissed me back, urgently, as if he knew too how rare and stolen this moment was.

When we finally paused, I sat quietly, my cheek resting against his shoulder, feeling the soft, worn cotton of his shirt.

I’m your girlfriend?

He grinned, brushing the hair out of my face with one hand. I guess so, he said. Do you want to tell the tabloids, or should I?

No, I said. It’s fine. You don’t have to tell anyone, I tried to be reasonable. If you guys get publicity over those stupid articles with April, I don’t really care.

They were, after all, my favorite band. I snuggled closer into Blake’s chest, one thing that April had said still bothering me.

It’s just, I looked down, worried about breaking the moment, but I had to ask. Have you done this, with other girls? I felt a lump climb into my throat, and I pushed to get the words out. Have there been a lot of them? I asked, my voice catching on the last word as I tried to act like it wasn’t humiliating to ask.

Blake lifted my chin with his hand and met my eyes. Casey, he said quietly. There were some, yeah, of course. But this is different. You’re not just some groupie -- you never were.

I looked out the window, his words suddenly making me feel guilty. Maybe Blake had been interested in other girls, but I was the one who’d built our whole relationship on a lie. Anything April could throw at us paled in comparison to the one thing she didn’t know.

Don’t let her get to you, okay? Blake said to the top of my head. She’s really good at it.

Okay, I said quietly, thinking about April’s icy voice, the way she always knew how to make me feel like I didn’t belong. I squeezed Blake’s hand to reassure him. I’ll try.

I couldn’t help but feel satisfied when Blake and I showed up at the show that night, holding hands, and I watched it register on April’s face. She looked like she’d swallowed a bug, her face going pale and cold. She didn’t make eye contact with Blake or me, just turned back to the television in the green room, where she was watching a commentator count down the twenty sexiest stars over forty.

Sophie, on the other hand, looked genuinely relieved. As soon as we were out of earshot of the others, she stopped me with one hand, drawing me into a side room near the stage.

Listen, you can’t take April seriously, she said.

It’s ok, I stopped her, feeling like I couldn’t discuss it for another second. Are you guys ready for the show? I asked, changing the subject.

Almost, she said. You’re going to love it tonight -- you actually have a seat.

I usually watched the shows from backstage, just beyond the side curtains, so no one would see me. There was never enough space, and half the time I’d end up sandwiched between amps or lighting fixtures that no one was using, trying not to trip over stray cables.

For this one, though, the seats usually reserved for the record label to give out -- like the ones Matt Andrews had gotten from his stepmom -- were only half claimed. Everyone had wanted to go to the bigger shows the nights before. Sophie told me that my seat was almost in the center of the front row, right in front of where Blake sat with a tan acoustic guitar.

The guitar, he had told me days ago, was his present to himself when he turned nineteen. Thinking about it made me remember that Blake’s twentieth birthday was coming up -- he’d mentioned it the first morning, in the bagel shop, and never since. But it would fall on the day of the New Orleans show, just over a week away.

And it would mean less than a month before I started school. That’s great, I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. I’ll sit down and get out of your hair -- good luck tonight.

Sophie walked back to the green room, and I found my way into the main arena, surprised at how small the venue was. I’d gotten so used to the bigger shows that it felt strange, right before the band went on, to be able to hear myself think.

My seat was next to Derek, the band’s manager, who smiled at me as I sat down in the chair that was marked with my name. I folded up the piece of paper that said Casey Snow, and slipped it into my pocket.

What time is it? I asked him, wishing for the thousandth time that I’d thought to bring a watch when I packed my overnight bag for the concert.

They’ll go on in ten minutes, he replied, guessing my question. How great is this? No opener.

The opening bands for the tour were always random local acts -- some were pretty good, some were mind-blowingly bad. For the two nights in Chicago, it had been a hipster emo-type band, two guys about Derek’s age in corduroy pants, fedora hats and glasses like Jesse’s. But the opener in Vermont had been a guy singing folk music in a voice that was about two octaves too high for a normal adult male, and every few minutes he’d stop singing and the audience would be forced to watch a projector screen that was playing what looked, to me, like the screensaver on a laptop. In absolute silence.

I giggled. Do you get to screen them, or is it a surprise every show?

Derek rolled his eyes. If I could pick them, I would. I keep telling the label that April hates when they get paired with weird experimental stuff.

I’d begun to realize that to the record label, April was the band -- everyone else was just secondary. Which seemed funny, because Blake was the one who wrote every single song, music and lyrics.

Derek seemed to spend most of his time making sure April was happy, but he also didn’t seem to mind having me around as much as she did. If anything, he was always friendly to me when he saw me backstage before a show, or when I was called on to beg him to stop the tour bus for french fries in the middle of the night.

Don’t tell anyone, he said suddenly, his eyes glinting with excitement. But the label is thinking about recording one of the acoustic shows, to release a DVD. If this one goes well.

That’s amazing, I said, smiling too. Why can’t you tell them?

He rolled his eyes. April hates these shows. Her voice doesn’t sound as good without all the boosting we do for their big shows, he said. But it doesn’t even matter, we can correct it afterwards.

I looked at him, trying to process what he’d said. What do you mean, boosting?

He shot me a weird look, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t have. I don’t mean anything, he said defensively. But listen, if you try to leak this, it’ll only hurt Blake. Moving Neutral would still be playing local shows for twenty-five people if it weren’t for April.

Leak it? I let the words sink in, staring at Derek incredulously. Did he really think I was going to, what, tell the tabloids that April lip-synced? Was that even what he was telling me?

I wasn’t sure. I thought about listening to her, a few nights before, without any microphones or recordings. She still had a great voice, I thought to myself. It just wasn’t . . . as great.

I turned back to Derek. No-- I said emphatically, wanting to reassure him. I would never -- I just didn’t know what you meant.

He seemed satisfied, and as the audience started to quiet down for the show, he leaned into my ear and whispered, you should really talk to Blake about doing the reality show. April says she’ll only sign on if the whole band does it, but she could change her mind.

I stared ahead as Blake walked onto the stage, and the audience erupted into applause.

The last night that Blake and I spent in Chicago felt bittersweet. We’d be on the bus with everyone else until New Orleans, where Moving Neutral had two shows. I tried not to be disappointed, thinking about packing our bags in the morning.

You would have thought we’d do something cheesy and romantic, like lighting candles and listening to Celine Dion songs, for our last night alone. But Blake wasn’t like that, and it was one of the things I liked best about him -- most of the time when we were together, it just felt like he was my best friend.

So we stayed up late watching a horror movie on HBO, the kind of movie that Madison and I loved to scare ourselves silly with. Blake laughed at me every time I screamed, and when the movie was over, I wouldn’t let him turn off the lights.

I just need a few minutes to recover, I said, my voice still hoarse from screaming every time the killer jumped out from some creepy hiding place.

Blake didn’t seem to mind staying up. Standing up from the bed, he went over to the couch and opened the case that contained his acoustic guitar, which he’d brought back to the hotel after the show. He pulled out the guitar and plucked each string to tune it, listening carefully to compare the sounds.

I sat up on the bed, pulling my knees up to my chin and watching him, wondering what song he would pick.

I’ve been working on something new, he said quietly. It doesn’t have lyrics yet. His fingers began by picking out a melody, switching to strumming as the chorus picked up. He played for about thirty seconds before patting the strings with his fingers to silence them. I don’t know, it’s hard to tell if it’s any good before we’re in the studio.