“Really?” He grinned. “My old stomping grounds. Does it still smell like Lysol everywhere?”
“You went to Jackson?” my mom asked. “I didn’t know that!”
“Sophomore and junior year.” Ames sat back, stretching his legs. “Then I was asked to leave. Politely.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” my mom said, taking a sip from her mug.
“You liking it?” Ames asked me.
I nodded. “Yeah. It’s fine.”
This had been my default answer whenever I was asked any variation of this question. Only once had I told the truth, and that was to Layla, a total stranger. I still wasn’t sure why.
Just then, I heard a buzzing noise: my mom’s phone, over on the counter. She got up, glanced at it, then sighed. “I totally forgot I’d committed to this Children’s Hospital event last spring. Now they keep nagging me about meetings and budgets.”
“Remember what we were talking about, Julie,” Ames said. “First things first.”
She gave him a grateful look. “I know. But I should at least bow out gracefully. I’ll be right back.”
With that, she was gone, padding up the stairs to the War Room. Which left me with Ames.
“So,” he said, leaning forward. “Now that it’s just us, tell me the truth. How are you really?”
He always smelled like cigarettes, even if he hadn’t just smoked one. I eased back a bit. “Okay. It’s a change, but I wanted to do it.”
“Bet it’s been hard to follow in Peyton’s less-than-ideal footsteps. My little bro felt the same way.”
I nodded, picking up a cookie and taking a bite. I wished my mom would hurry up and come back downstairs.
“You know,” he continued, “if you ever need to talk, I’m here. About Peyton. About anything. Okay?”
No thanks, I thought. But out loud I said, “Okay.”
By the next day at lunch, I was already dreading the final bell. I had no idea how often Ames came over in the afternoons, but I was certain I did not want to see him, much less talk to him, especially if my mom wasn’t around. Thinking this, though, I immediately felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t done anything except creep me out. And that wasn’t a punishable offense.
I knew I could say something to my mom. But she had so much on her mind, and Ames was Peyton’s best friend. He’d been supportive during this last crisis, and every one since he’d been in the picture. Even when my dad was sick of hearing about Lincoln and the warden and Peyton’s appeal, Ames listened. I didn’t want her to lose him, too. Especially since I had nothing specific to point to, just a feeling. Everybody has those.
There had been a time when I told my mom everything. Even after Jenn came into the picture, and then Meredith, I’d always considered her my best friend. We just saw things the same way. Until we didn’t.
It started with Peyton’s initial busts, how surprised I’d been to hear her defend him, even when he did the indefensible. No matter the offense, she could find some reason it was not entirely my brother’s fault. And then there was David Ibarra.
In those first days after the accident, as my parents dealt with bail and lawyers, all I could think of was this kid, just a little younger than me, lying in a hospital bed. I knew from the reports I both came across and sought out that he was paralyzed and not expected to walk again, but there were not that many more details, at least initially. I had so many questions. I couldn’t help but ask them.
“Shouldn’t we apologize?” I said one day. “Like, in the paper, or make a statement?”
She gave me a heavy, sad look. “It’s an awful thing that happened, Sydney. But the law is complicated. It’s best if we just try to focus on moving forward.”
The first time I heard this, it made me think. By the fourth or fifth, I saw it for the party line it was. I looked at David Ibarra and saw shame and regret; my mother saw only Peyton. From that point on, I was convinced that no matter what we looked at, our views would never be the same.
My fourth day at Jackson, I was sitting at lunch with a turkey sub, flipping through my math textbook, when I felt somebody slide onto the wall a bit down from me. I heard some clicking noises, followed by the plucking of guitar strings. When I glanced over, I saw a guy in black glasses, jeans, and a vintage-looking button-down shirt, a guitar in his lap, strumming away.
He wasn’t playing a song as far as I could tell. It was more bits and pieces: a chord here, a short melody there. Every once in a while, he’d hum for a second, or sing a phrase, sometimes pausing to jot in a notebook beside him. I went back to my textbook. A few minutes later, though, I heard a voice.
“Oh, Eric. Really?”
I looked up, and there was Layla. She had on shorts, an oversize floral-print T-shirt, and strappy sandals, her blonde hair loose over her shoulders. As I watched, she put her hands on her hips, cocking her head to one side.
“What?” the guy said. “I’m practicing.”
“Oh please, you are not,” she replied. “You’re running your tired game on this poor girl, and it’s not going to work because I already warned her about you.”
He stopped playing. “Warned her? What am I, a predator now?”
“Just slide over.”
He did, looking displeased, and she plopped down between us, turning to face me. “I’ve been looking for you. I should have known Eric would find you first, though. He’s got a nose for new blood.”
“Okay, you really need to stop now,” Eric said.
Layla flipped her hand at him, as if he were a gnat circling. To me she said, “I’m not saying I believe you are a girl who would fall for this act; I wouldn’t insult you that way. But I was. So I’ve made it my mission to spare others my experience.”
“We,” the guy said, doing one big strum for emphasis, “have been broken up for over a year. I think you can stop now.”
She turned to look at him, again tilting her head to the side. Then she reached out and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “You need a haircut. Shaggy Hipster doesn’t suit you.”
“Don’t touch me,” he grumbled, but it was good-natured, I could tell. He went back to playing, leaning over the guitar, and she smiled, then turned back to me.
“Eric’s in a band with my brother,” she told me. “They’re pretty awful, actually.”
“Her brother,” Eric corrected her, “plays drums in my band. And we’re in transition.”
“They can’t keep a guitar player.” She nodded in his direction. “Too much ego in the room.”
“Someone has to be the leader!” Eric said.
Layla smiled again. “Anyway. They’re playing Friday night, at Bendo? That club on Overland? It’s all ages. Free pizza if you get there early. You should come.”
I was shocked at this invitation. We’d met only once; she owed me nothing. And yet I knew, immediately, that I would go.
“Sure,” I said. “That sounds great.”
“Perfect.” She got to her feet, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Oh, and one more thing. If you want company at lunch, we sit over there.”
She pointed to the right of the main building, where there was a circle of benches around a spindly tree. On one of them, I saw the guy from the pizza place—her brother, I now understood—peeling an orange, a textbook open beside him.
“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”
“No pressure,” she added quickly. “Just, you know, if you want.”
I nodded, and then she was walking away, sliding her hands in her pockets. As I watched her go, Eric cleared his throat.
“Our band is not that bad,” he told me. “She just has high standards.”
I didn’t know what to say to this, so probably it was good that the bell rang then. He put away his guitar, I packed up my stuff, and then we nodded at each other before heading in our separate directions. All aft
ernoon, though, during two lectures and a lab, I kept thinking about what he’d said. High standards, but she’d invited me anyway. Maybe she’d regret it. But I really hoped not.
* * *
“I don’t know.” Jenn wrinkled her nose, the way she always did when she was suspicious. “Isn’t that a nightclub?”
“It’s a music venue,” I said. “And this is an all-ages show.”
She picked up her pencil, twirling it between her thumb and index finger. “I thought we were going to Mer’s meet on Friday.”
“That’s at four. This is three hours later.”
She wasn’t going to go. I’d known it the minute I brought it up. We were not clubgoers, never had been. But our “we” had already changed. My part of it, anyway.
I looked across Frazier Bakery, where we always went after school when we weren’t in the mood for Antonella’s. A sandwich, salad, and pastry place, it was that weird mix of chain restaurant and forced homeyness: needlepoint samplers, perfectly worn leather chairs by a fake fireplace, your food served on wax paper patterned with red and white checks, silverware tied with a bow. That day, I’d been talked into a specialized coffee drink by the very cute guy working the counter—DAVE! his name tag read—something he swore would change my life. Apparently, this meant I’d be way hyped up and keep having to pee. Not exactly what I’d expected.
“Just meet me there for an hour,” I said, taking another sip anyway. “If you hate it, you can leave.”
“Why is this so important?” she asked me, putting her pencil back down. “You’ve never been into clubbing before.”
“It’s not clubbing. It’s a band, playing a show.”
She adjusted her glasses, then looked down at the textbook in front of her. “It’s just not my thing, Sydney. Sorry.”
I knew Jenn well. Once she made up her mind, she didn’t waver. “Okay. That’s fine.”
She smiled at me, and then we both went back to work. The adult contemporary music overhead, Jenn’s blueberry scone and my piece of carrot cake, our booth by the window: it was all as familiar as my own face. But I found I couldn’t concentrate on my calculus, as much as I tried. I just sat there and listened to her pencil scrape the page until it was time to go.
So I was alone when I walked into Bendo the following evening and got my hand stamped by a bulky guy with a neck tattoo. I’d had a meeting for my English group project at lunch, so I was going in with only my casual invitation and a fair amount of trepidation. Not to mention a lie.
“You’re going out?” my mother asked me when I came downstairs after dinner, having changed my outfit twice before going back to my first choice. She looked at her watch. “I didn’t realize you had plans.”
“Just meeting Jenn and Meredith at Frazier for dessert,” I said. “I’ll be back by ten.”
She looked at my dad, who was sitting next to her on the couch, as if he might object to this. When he didn’t, instead keeping his eyes on the twenty-four-hour local news channel and a report about school redistricting, she said, “Maybe make it nine thirty.”
I felt a flicker of irritation. Unlike Peyton, I’d never done a thing to warrant suspicion. Even though I was, at that moment, lying, I still resented it. “Seriously? Mom, I’m a junior.”
Now they both looked at me. My mom raised her eyebrows at my dad, who said, “Do I need to remind you that we make the rules?”
“Come on,” I said. “I’ve had a ten o’clock curfew since I got my license.”
“Your mother wants you home earlier,” he replied, turning back to the TV. “Do it tonight, and then we’ll talk.”
Now my flicker was a full flame. I looked at my mom. “Really?”
She didn’t say anything, just went back to the magazine in her lap. I stood there a minute, then another. Then I turned on my heel and left. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been angry with my mom. All I’d felt lately was pity and sadness, along with an overwhelming need to protect her. This feeling was new, and it made me uneasy. Like more was changing than I was ready for.
Once inside Bendo, I had no idea what to do with myself. It was a big space, with painted black walls and a bar running down one side. Up front was the stage, where a drum set, microphones, and amps were set up. I’d expected it to be crowded, so I could lose myself quickly, but there was only a handful of people there, most of them gathered around a row of pizza boxes that lined one end of the bar. I felt like it was so obvious I didn’t belong there that I should leave before I embarrassed myself.
“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 hai
r 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.”