Since You've Been Gone (30 page)

“It’s okay,” she said immediately, easily, and I knew she meant it. It was something that still amazed me about her—how quickly she was willing to forgive. Since everyone in my family—including the cat—was a grudge-holder, I couldn’t quite believe it sometimes.

“Next time, right?” I gave her a quick smile, and I could hear how I was forcing my voice to be cheerful. But Sloane just smiled back at me.

“Sure,” she said easily. She spun the track wheel once again and then clicked the center button, and “With You,” her favorite Call Me Kevin song, began to play.

“Did they play it?” I asked, nodding toward the stereo.

“Third song,” she said, as she smiled at me and settled back into her seat, tucking her legs up underneath her. “And I think it must not have been on the set list, because the drummer was totally off until the bridge. . . .”

She started talking me through the night, moment by moment, the adventure she’d had without me, pausing only
to sing along to the refrain. And by the time the last chorus played, I had joined in.

“Penelope Entwhistle,” I muttered under my breath. I hadn’t had the same good luck this time, and I’d had to park in one of the ten-dollar lots. I’d gotten cash out of the ATM on the way over, when I’d realized halfway there that I couldn’t use my debit card, since the name printed on it wouldn’t match my ID.  And I had a feeling that leaving a paper trail was not the best idea, considering that I was about to break the law. “Penelope Entwhistle,” I said as I walked down the street on shaky legs toward McKenzie’s, trying to make it sound like it was a name I’d said for years and years. “Twenty-one Miller’s Crossing, Reno, Nevada. Eight nine five one five.”

I’d checked McKenzie’s website, and tonight was the only night they had a band playing. It wasn’t Call Me Kevin, of course—it was some band I didn’t recognize called the Henry Gales. But it had forced me into doing this tonight, since if there was a band, at least there would be something to do, and I wouldn’t just be at a bar . . . and what? I had no idea. I couldn’t even finish the sentence, as I’d never been in a bar that was only a bar. But if there was a band, even if it turned out to be a terrible band, it somehow made this feel more okay, like I was just seeing a concert. While pretending to be someone named Penelope.

After our run that morning, Frank had asked me if I wanted to hang out that night, and I’d said no. I didn’t want to tell him I was trying to do this, just in case it all went horribly wrong. I had launched into a series of excuses that didn’t even sound believable to me by the end—something about babysitting Beckett and catching up on reading for next year and helping my mother clean out the fridge. He’d just listened with raised eyebrows, then nodded. “If you’re organizing my surprise party, Emily, you can just tell me.” His birthday was in three days, and it had started coming up in conversation more and more.

“Right,” I said, trying to laugh this off. “Totally.” I would have worried that, after that, he’d expected me to do something for him, but I knew Collins had been planning something.

“Penelope,” I said to myself, as I noticed I was getting very close to the door guy. It was the same guy from two months earlier, although now he appeared even bigger, somehow, his phone looking tiny in his hand. I wondered if it was there so that he could call the police immediately when underage people tried to get into his bar. “Penelope Entwhistle. Twenty-one Miller’s Crossing . . .” I smoothed down my dress. I was wearing a similar version of what Sloane had picked out for me to wear, and as I put on makeup and high heels, it hit me that it had been a very long time since I’d dressed up. I’d gotten so used to spending my days in flip-flops and sneakers that my ankles were wobbling dangerously, no longer used to this.

There was no line at the door tonight, probably because it
was a Thursday and there was no major band playing a secret show. Just the door guy. I made myself walk closer to him on legs that were shaking.
Penelope
, I said over and over in my head.
Reno. Eight nine five one five.

“Hello,” I said as I got close to the guy. I was clutching my bag in one hand and my ID in the other, so tightly that I could feel the plastic cutting into my fingers.

“ID?” the guy asked, sounding utterly bored.

“Here you are,” I said, handing it over to him, hoping it wasn’t damp, as my palms had begun to sweat the closer I’d gotten to him. He shined his flashlight on it, then glanced at me, then nodded inside. “I can go?” I asked, not sure that we had finished our interaction.

“Yeah,” he said, handing me back my ID. “Have fun.”

“Thank you very much,” I said as I pulled open the door, unable to believe it had been that simple. I walked inside and looked around. I suddenly felt like I had a giant
UNDERAGE
sign above me, that it was clear to everyone there that I’d never been in a bar before and didn’t know what I was doing.

I took a few tentative steps in. I could see a small stage—more like a raised platform than anything else—along the back wall. There were booths on both sides of the room, and waitresses walking around with trays. And opposite the stage was a bar, with stools surrounding it, only half full. This wasn’t like the bar that was part of the country club where I’d worked, where I could grab the soda gun and refill the Cokes and Sprites my
tables ordered. That had pretty much been a long counter with a harried guy named Marty working behind it, making what seemed like an endless stream of gin and tonics. This was different. The surface was polished metal, and the shelves of liquor stretched up almost to the ceiling, and each shelf seemed to be lit with its own blue light.

I drifted a little closer to the bar, not sure what to do. Since the band wasn’t on yet, I felt like I had to do something—I couldn’t keep standing in the doorway all night, especially if I wanted to be inconspicuous. But the bar was so much more intimidating than I’d realized it would be. And did I even order from it? Or was I supposed to flag down one of the waitresses with trays?

“Watch yourself, hon,” one of the waitresses said as she passed me, and I stepped quickly out of the way. I let out a shaky breath and walked up to the side of the bar that had the fewest people sitting around it, then climbed up onto a stool and rested my purse on my lap. I wasn’t sure what happened now, but at least I wasn’t standing in the way.

“What can I get you?” asked the bartender, who had floppy blond hair and a V-neck T-shirt with an extremely deep V.

“Oh,” I said, glancing up at the blue shelves of liquor, like I was actually considering getting something up there. “Diet Coke, please?”

“Sure thing,” he said. “With rum?”

“No!” I said, more vehemently than I meant to. “I mean,
just, you know. Neat. Straight. Plain.” I was just tossing around words I’d heard people use in movies when they were in bars, hoping one of them would make sense to this guy.

“Sure thing,” he said, grabbing a glass, filling it up with a soda gun, and sliding it across the bar to me. “That’s five.”

I blinked at this, surprised, since I’d never paid that much for a Diet Coke in my life. I slid a five across the bar at him, but a moment later had another mini panic. You were supposed to tip bartenders, weren’t you? I had no idea how much. After a moment, I slid another five across the bar, and he picked it up.

“Thanks, love,” he said, pocketing it with a smile. “I’m Jared, by the way.  You live around here?”

“I’m Penelope Entwhistle,” I said immediately, and probably too fast, since he looked a little taken aback. “I’m from Reno?”

The guy nodded. “Nice,” he said. “The Biggest Little City in the World.”

I smiled like this meant something to me, wishing I’d done my Reno research before trying to pose as a native. I took a sip of my five-dollar Coke and pulled out my phone, wondering when I could leave, when this would have met Sloane’s criteria and satisfied her list. Surely she didn’t expect me to be here all night, did she? I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to afford it, if every drink was going to cost me ten dollars.

A blast of reverb sounded from the other end of the bar, and I saw three skinny guys had taken the stage, dragging on their amps and looking winded. “Hey,” one of them said, wincing
at the microphone’s feedback. He had curly blond hair and a guitar slung around his neck. “We’re the Henry Gales. Thanks so much for having us.” The drummer counted off  “One, two, three, four,” and they launched into a somewhat shaky first few chords before they found their rhythm.

I realized after half a verse that I knew the lyrics, could anticipate what was coming next. It took until the chorus for me to recognize that they were playing “Truth in the Dark,” a song that had been on Frank’s last running mix. And though I hadn’t admitted it to Frank, I actually really liked the song, and found myself mouthing the words of the chorus along with the band. I picked up my phone and took a picture to show Frank later. I knew I could have texted it to him, but I had a feeling that would lead to lots of questions I didn’t really want to answer at the moment, questions like
Why are you in a bar?

I felt myself lean back into my chair, taking a sip of my Diet Coke, realizing with some surprise that this might actually be fun.

An hour later, the band had announced the end of their set after a drum solo that had gone on just a little too long, and I felt like I’d be more than able to cross Penelope off the list. I nodded at Jared as I slid off my stool and headed toward the door, the last song they’d played—I was pretty sure it was about Kansas, though the lead singer could really have worked on his enunciation—repeating in my head. I was making my way
toward the exit when I noticed a blond girl near the doorway, talking to one of the waitresses. They were both looking at me. I glanced away, figuring that maybe their eyes had just landed on me for a second, but when I looked back, they were both still staring. And now the waitress was pointing directly at me.

My heart started to thud, and it was like all the other times I’d been scared in my life had just been for practice, because this was the real thing. Somehow, someone had found out that I was underage, and I was going to get hauled into jail. It would go on my permanent record, and then I’d never get into college—

The blond woman nodded and started walking right toward me, and I realized that I only had a tiny window to make it to the door, so I hustled across the room as fast as I could in my dress and heels. I had just stepped outside, the bouncer looking up at me, when I heard someone yell, “Hey! Penelope!”

Even though I probably should have just kept walking, I turned around and saw the girl was standing right behind me. This was actually happening. This was real.

She was petite, with long hair and a heart-shaped face, which didn’t seem to fit with the angry scowl she was currently directing right at me. “You thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you?”

“Look,” I said, taking another step away, feeling how wobbly my ankles were in the heels. “I’m really sorry. I just didn’t—”

“You didn’t think I’d find out?” She was suddenly right there, in my face.

“Find out what?” the bouncer asked, standing up, suddenly seeming more huge than ever. I braced myself for it, for her to tell him that I was underage, that they should call the cops.

“This is the skank who’s been hooking up with Jared.” I was so relieved to hear this that I felt myself smile, which I realized a second later, had really not been the right reaction. “You think something’s funny?” she asked.

“No,” I said quickly. “Nothing. I’m just—that’s not me.”

“Jared has been cheating on me with some
skank
named Penelope,” the girl yelled. “I know it. I’ve checked his phone, you know.”

“Not that Penelope,” the bouncer said, surprising me—and the girl, judging by her reaction. “That Penelope’s got, like, really big hair.”

“Carl,” the girl said, sounding crestfallen. “You
knew
about this?”

I took my opportunity to leave and hurried down the street, my heart still pounding hard, but not with fear this time. It was more like I could feel adrenaline coursing through my body as I headed toward my car. I had done it. I had gone to a bar and ordered drinks and been mistaken for a skank and almost gotten into a fight. It all felt strangely triumphant, and the only thing I wanted to do was tell someone about it. I pulled out my phone as I crossed the lot to the Volvo, texting as I walked.

Hungry? Diner in 15? I just crossed off #5.

Frank was already there when I walked in, sitting in a booth facing the door, a plate of fries for us to share in the center of the table. I’d texted Dawn, too, but she was out on a delivery and I found I didn’t mind that it was just me and Frank. As I got closer, he saw me and his eyebrows flew up. I caught my reflection in the glass window that faced the street, and understood why. I was wearing a short, tight dress and heels, too much makeup, and my hair carefully styled, when most other people in the diner were in jeans.

“Hey,” I said casually, sliding into the booth across from him and helping myself to a fry, like this was just a totally normal evening, like this was what I wore to help my mother clean out the fridge.