Saint Anything (5 page)

“Hey. You came.”

I turned around, and there was Eric, the guitar guy. He was in jeans and a plaid shirt that looked like it came from a thrift shop, this time with a tuner in the front pocket. It looked like he’d gotten a haircut.

“I was intrigued,” I said.

He smiled, as if this pleased him. “We’re trying some new stuff tonight we’ve been working on. It’s a bit meta, so I’m hoping the crowd can keep up.”

I nodded, not sure what to say to this. Turned out I shouldn’t have worried, as he kept talking.

“We’ve been through a lot of evolution as a band lately, which I think is necessary. Music isn’t stagnant, right? So you can’t be, either. Last year, we were really focused on a more rockabilly-slash-bluegrass-slash-metal sound. I mean,
nobody
was doing what we were doing. But then, of course, everyone started copying our sound and approach, so I had to think out of the box again. I’m telling you, it’s a lot of work, fronting a
good
band. Anyone can lead a crappy, unoriginal one. Most people do just that. But I—”

Suddenly, I felt a hand grip my arm and begin to pull me away from him. I stumbled over my own feet, startled, before I realized it was Layla. She was wearing a blue dress and flip-flops, her eyes lined in a dramatic cat’s eye.

“I’m doing this for your own good,” she announced as I looked back apologetically at Eric. “You do not want to get sucked into band discussions with him. You’ll never escape.”

With this, she deposited me at a bar stool, then climbed onto the one beside it. A moment later, Eric joined us, looking disgruntled.

“I was
talking
,” he said to her.

“You’re always talking,” she replied. “And she’s
my
friend. I invited her.”

I felt myself blink. Now we were friends? Eric glared at her, then helped himself to a piece of pizza, leaning back against the bar.

“You been here before?” Layla asked me. I shook my head. “It’s a pretty good place, other than the fact that everything is always sticky. You want a slice?”

Before I could answer, she’d grabbed two paper plates from a nearby stack and put a slice on each. As she slid mine toward me, she said, “Pizza is key to this band’s popularity. The thinking is if you feed them, they will come.”

“They come for the
music
,” Eric said.

“Keep telling yourself that.” She smiled at me, then took a big bite, glancing up to the stage, where her brother was now behind the drum kit, adjusting something. “So how was the first week at Jackson? Be honest.”

I swallowed the bite I’d been chewing. It was delicious, even better than I remembered. “Not so great.”

“You just move here?”

“No. I transferred from Perkins Day.”

At this, she and Eric glanced at each other. “Wow,” he said. “That’s big money.”

“And a really good school,” she added, shooting him a look. “Why’d you switch?”

From the stage, there was a cymbal crash, followed by some feedback. I said, “I just needed a change.”

Layla studied my face for a second. “I hear that. Change is good.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “I’m hoping so, anyway.”

She looked past me then, suddenly distracted. Following her gaze, I saw a girl a few years older than us coming in, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, her hair in a high ponytail, pushing a wheelchair. Seated in it was a woman in a velour tracksuit. She was the oldest person in the club by at least twenty years.

Like always when I saw a wheelchair, I thought of David Ibarra. It was just one of the triggers capable of bringing his face—which I knew well from all the newspaper photos and online stories I’d sought out in the days and then months after everything happened—and then everything else rushing back. See also: the sound of squealing brakes; anyone riding a bike on the street; and, to be honest, the sound of my own breath. He was always only a beat from my consciousness. Despite my mom’s party line, my knowledge of him and the need to recall it regularly was like my penance for what Peyton had done, the sentence
I’d
been given.

The fact that he’d been just days past his fifteenth birthday when the accident happened. A soccer player, a forward. The fact that the impact crushed his spine, leaving him able to use his arms and upper body, but wheelchair dependent. I could list the fund-raisers that had been held to purchase him a high-tech chair—community yard sales, a benefit concert—as well as the civic organizations that pitched in to make his parents’ home fully accessible with ramps, wider doors, and new hardware. I sought this out because I felt like I should, as if it might lessen the guilt. But it never did.

“They’re here,” Layla said now to Eric, jerking me back to the present. “Come on.”

They both got up, crossing over to meet the lady in the wheelchair just as the girl pushing her reached the center of the club. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I stayed put, watching as Eric pulled a table into place and Layla took over the wheelchair, pushing the woman carefully up against it. A moment later, her brother appeared, carrying a can of Pepsi and a glass of ice. He fixed the drink, then put it on the table as the older girl sat down.

Layla looked at me, motioning for me to come over, as if all of this was just the most natural thing ever. And maybe it was, because I went. When I got to the table, she said, “Hey, Mom. This is Sydney. Remember, I told you about her?”

Her mom looked up at me. She had a round, kind face and blonde hair that had clearly been styled for the occasion, and was wearing red lipstick. She stuck out her hand. “Tricia Chatham. So nice to meet you.”

“You too,” I said.

“You want some pizza?” Layla asked. “It’s still hot.”

“Oh, no, honey. I brought my own snacks. Rosie, can you get my bag?”

At this, the older girl reached behind the chair, unlooping one of those big, colorful, quilted purses from the handle. This one was pink with roses. She unzipped it, then put it on the table, and her mom reached in, rummaging around for a second before pulling out a can of cheese puffs. Without prompting, Layla’s brother took it, popping the top, then handed it back to her.

“That’s Mac,” Layla said, pointing at him. “And this is my sister, Rosie.”

I said hi, and Rosie nodded. I noticed that all three women had the same light hair and green eyes, but distributed differently: stretched wide on the mom, pinched tight on Rosie, and on Layla, just right. Mac had clearly gotten his dark hair and eyes from their dad.

“When’s the music starting?” their mom asked, taking out a handful of cheese puffs. “Some of us have TV to get back to.”

“Mom, we set the DVR,” Rosie said.

“So you say.” She ate a puff, then looked at me. “I don’t trust technology. Especially when it comes to my shows.”

“She really likes her TV,” Layla explained to me. Then she turned to Eric, raising her eyebrows.

“Right,” he said, nodding. “We’ll get ready.”

He and Mac walked off toward the stage. Meanwhile, Layla grabbed two more chairs, pulling them next to the table, then gestured for me to take one before sitting down herself.

“So, Sydney,” her mom said, taking out another handful of puffs. “What’s your story?”

“Mom,” Rosie said, rolling her eyes. She was sitting very straight, legs tightly crossed. “God.”

“What? Is that rude?”

“If you have to ask, the answer is probably yes,” Rosie replied.

Her mom waved this off, still looking at me. I said, “Um, I just transferred to Jackson. But I’ve lived in Lakeview since I was three.”

“She used to go to Perkins Day,” Layla added. Rosie and Mrs. Chatham exchanged a look. “She needed a change.”

“Don’t we all,” Rosie said in a low voice.

“Perkins Day is an excellent school,” Mrs. Chatham said. “Highest test grades in the county.”

“Mom used to work in school administration,” Layla explained to me. “She was an assistant principal.”

“Ten years,” Mrs. Chatham said. She offered me the can of puffs, which I declined, then held it out to Layla, who took one. “Still be there, if I hadn’t gotten sick. I loved it.”

“She has MS,” Layla said. “With other complications. It’s the worst.”

“Agreed.” Mrs. Chatham offered Rosie the can. She shook her head. “But you take what you get in this world. What else can you do?”

In reply, there was a burst of feedback from the stage, and we all winced. Rosie said, “Great. I already have a headache.”

“Now, now,” Mrs. Chatham said. “They’ve been working on some new stuff. It’s apparently very meta.”

I smiled at this, and she caught me and grinned back. I’d had a hunch before; now it was sealed. I was so, so glad I’d come.

Eric, now behind the microphone with his guitar, tapped it with a finger. “One, two, three,” he said, then played a few chords. Another guitar player, tall and skinny with an Adam’s apple you could see from a distance, climbed up on stage. “One, two.”

Layla rolled her eyes at me. “They already did sound check. I swear, he is such a diva.”

I looked back at Eric, who had turned to say something to Mac. “So you guys dated?”

“In my salad days, when I was green in judgment,” she replied. I looked at her. “That’s Shakespeare. Come on, Perkins Day, keep up!”

I felt myself blush. “Sorry.”

“I’m kidding.” She reached over, grabbed my arm, and shook it. “And yes. We dated. In my defense, I was a sophomore and stupid.”

Eric was back at the microphone, counting again. “He doesn’t seem that bad.”

“He’s not
bad
.” She reached up, pulling her hair back. “He’s just got a huge ego that, left unchecked, is a threat to society. So I try to do my part.”

“One, two,” Eric repeated, tapping the microphone. “One—”

“We hear you!” Layla yelled. “Just start.”

Mrs. Chatham hushed her, but it worked: after announcing themselves as “the new and improved renowned local band Hey Dude,” they began playing. I was no musical expert—and certainly did not have high standards—but I thought they sounded good. A bit loud, but we were sitting close. At first, I couldn’t make out what Eric was singing, although the melody was familiar. As soon as the chorus began, though, I realized I actually knew it by heart.

She’s a prom queen, with a gold crown,
and I’m watching as she passes by . . .

I leaned over to Layla. “Is this—”

“Logan Oxford,” she finished for me. “Remember him? In sixth grade, I had his poster on my wall!”

I’d had a notebook with his picture on the cover. As well as every song he ever recorded, a copy of his documentary/concert movie
This One’s for You
, and, although I was hugely embarrassed to admit it now, the kind of crush that made me imagine scenarios where we were married. Oh, the shame. And now it was all flooding back in this big, sticky club. I wished Jenn had come. She was even more nuts for him than I was.

“I don’t get it,” Rosie yelled across to us. “They’re playing retro top forty now?”

“I believe,” Mrs. Chatham said, picking up her Pepsi, “that it is supposed to be an ironic take on the universality of the early teen experience. But I
might
have that wrong. I will admit to tuning out at some point.”

“I loved Logan Oxford,” Layla sighed, eating another cheese puff. “Remember his hair? And that dimple, when he smiled?”

I did. Rosie said, “Didn’t he just get busted for drugs?”

“Look who’s talking.”

I felt myself blink. But Rosie, hardly bothered, just shot her the finger.

“Ladies,” Mrs. Chatham said. “Let’s be ladies, please.”

To say I was taken aback was a huge understatement. Who
were
these people?

Hey Dude was wrapping up “Prom Queen” now and, after a bit of a bumpy transition, launched into “You+Me+Tonight.” My inner thirteen-year-old was swooning as I looked over at Layla, who was singing along. She said, “Remember this video? Where he was in that convertible, driving through the desert all alone?”

“And the lights appear far in the distance, and then suddenly he’s on that busy street?” I added.

“Yes!”

“I wanted a car just like that for
years
,” I said.

She sighed, propping her chin in her hands. “I still do.”

The music just kept going, bringing every one of my awkward early teen memories with them. After another Logan Oxford song, they played one by STAR7 (“Baby, take me back, I’ll do better now, I swear”) and then a medley by Brotown, one of which I distinctly remembered slow dancing to for the first time. There were a few shrieks of feedback, and Eric kept getting too close to the microphone and muffling his own voice, but by the time they were done, a decent crowd had gathered at the base of the stage, most of them girls. When two brunettes ran past our table, singing along loudly and giggling, Layla narrowed her eyes.

“Uh-oh,” she said. “Eric might have
groupies
. Can you even imagine?”

“No,” Rosie said flatly.

He could, though. It was clear in the way he brightened, leaning into the microphone too close again before winding up the final chords with a flourish. The applause was actually loud, with a fair amount of whoops and whistles, and Mrs. Chatham looked around, smiling.

“Well, listen to that,” she said. “They might actually be on to something.”

Eric was waving to the crowd now, soaking it up, as Mac and the other guitar player left the stage. The brunettes pushed forward, getting Eric’s attention, and he crouched down, cupping his ear as one of them spoke. This time, Layla said nothing.

“Excuse me,” I heard a voice say from behind us. It was a tall girl with red hair, dressed in a tight black T-shirt and white jeans. “But, um, are you Rosie Chatham?”

Rosie looked at her. “Yeah.”

“I’m Heather Banks. I used to train at Lakewood Rink when you were there?”

The expression on Rosie’s face was not exactly welcoming. Mrs. Chatham said, “How wonderful! Were you working with Arthur?”

“No, Wendy Loomis. And I was just taking lessons, not competing.” She looked at Rosie again. “I just have to tell you . . . you were amazing. Where are you skating now?”

“I’m not.”

“Oh.” Heather blushed. “I didn’t realize. I’m—”