See All the Stars Page 10

  6. Matthias had recently seen them at FlipFest, so while he would still need to take a few pictures for his site, he could mostly hang back with me and chill since he wasn’t doing a full-on review.

  Matthias usually “borrowed” his dad’s truck when he went to shows, which was easy since Ricky Cole was always passed out on the den couch by nine. It was a short drive across the river from the West Shore, and since the CAT buses never ran when you needed them, and certainly never at night, short-term auto theft was practically mandatory. Tonight, however, I had the Subaru since I’d driven it earlier to Ret’s, where I was supposedly staying. It wasn’t a total lie. We had hung out after school. And sometime before it got light, I would drop Matthias off at home and then ease the car into Ret’s drive, slip in through the back door, and burrow into her bed smelling like nighttime and somebody else’s cigarettes.

  Now, Matthias beside me in the passenger’s seat and a bootleg recording pumping through the speakers, I rolled down the driver’s side window to let the night air rush in as we drove across the bridge that spanned the Susquehanna. Below us, the river sparkled dark and choppy and mysterious in a way it never did during the day. Driving across the bridge always felt like a kind of alchemy, like I was crossing from the known into the unknown, and I might transform in the process. Even though we were just going to the East Shore, just going to the same strip of bars and restaurants downtown, I still felt a tingle across my skin. Fit to Be Thai’ed, Cordelia, the Crow. One by one, Matthias was opening the windows into his life, allowing me to peer through. He reached across the seat and rested his hand on the bare skin just above my knee.

  “Is that a new skirt?” he asked.

  Earlier, getting ready at Ret’s, I had let her dress me up. I liked long dresses that didn’t draw attention to my awkward, coltish legs. But Ret insisted that my usual “hippie shit” had no place at a rock show, so I slipped on her denim skirt and black tank top, and I let her sling a studded belt low across my hips. She finished off the look with a thick coat of Three Alarm Fire gloss and thin stripes of black eyeliner. You look amazing, Ellory. Matty is going to go wild.

  I could feel his eyes flicker across my legs. I felt like I was wearing a Ret costume, but I also felt good, an edgier version of myself. Like a bit of Ret’s confidence had come woven into the fabric of her clothing.

  “It’s Ret’s,” I said. “I borrowed it for tonight. You like it?”

  He shrugged, lifting his hand from my knee. “Sure. I always like what you wear.”

  I didn’t know if that meant I kind of hate it, but I’m too polite to say it to your face or I wish you’d dress like this all the time. I wasn’t sure how to ask, and then the moment was gone, retreating into the distance with the bridge and the churn of the river.

  I turned onto Second and pulled the Subaru into an open spot a little ways down from the Crow. I cut the ignition and sat still for a moment, just taking it in. Across the street, two older couples were leaving an Italian restaurant hand in hand. A few places had set out heat lamps, and their patios were filled with late night diners and groups lingering over glasses of wine. Sally’s was doing a good business; I could hear the husky voices of older men shouting along to live music inside, and a cluster of guys in their twenties was standing around out front, smoking. Down the sidewalk, a shoulder-slumped man with a long, gray beard sat collecting change in a cup.

  A group of college girls in tight jeans, tight tops, and stilettos that they obviously weren’t used to wearing stumbled past us on the sidewalk. One girl tripped, shrieking, and caught herself against the hood of my car with a two-palmed thud. For a moment, her bright blond hair flashed across the windshield. The Subaru was parked, motionless, but I gasped, as if we had crashed, certain for one heart-thudding second that something had gone horribly, irrevocably wrong. Matthias grabbed my hand.

  “Sorry!” the girl half shrieked, half laughed as her friends pulled her up, away from us, onward down the street toward whatever establishment would honor their fake IDs.

  “I almost had a heart attack.” I turned toward Matthias, red heat flooding my cheeks.

  “Freshmen. Friday night. You get used to it.” He gave my hand a squeeze, then let it go, turning to unclasp his seat belt and open the car door. “In two years, that’ll be you.”

  Two years. College. “That will never be me.”

  There was no way I was staying in central PA, drinking my way through four years at Dickinson or Penn State. The only place I wanted to go was Portland, all the way across the country in the rainy, coffee-soaked, flannel-wrapped Pacific Northwest. I’d never been, but there was something about the mythology of the place, its indie bookstores and hipster doughnuts and the ever-present rain clouds fleecing the sky. Or at least that’s how I imagined it would be. Every time I thought about college, I pictured myself on Portland State’s grassy campus in the middle of downtown, drinking coffee and reading a book about late nineteenth-century metalworking against a soundtrack of nineties classics. Nirvana. Silverchair. Soundgarden.

  “You are going to college, aren’t you?” Matthias was out of the car now, his arms resting on the roof, peering down at me through the open passenger’s side door. I grabbed my bag from the backseat and joined him outside. Beep beep. Locked.

  “Of course I’m going to college. Just not here. Not in a halter top and stilettos. I think there’s a ban on attire that basic in Portland.”

  “Oregon?”

  “I’m thinking Portland State.” I tried to make it sound casual, dropping my keys into my bag as he swung around the back of the car to meet me. I could feel my heart thudding against my chest. I could see us in Portland, together. Matthias, sprawled out on the grass, his head resting in my lap while I read my book, the latest release from a not-yet-discovered West Coast indie band pulsing through his earbuds. He would love it, I was sure.

  Now that the image was there, it was impossible to unsee us in Portland. But in that moment, walking across Second Street, I wanted to take back any mention of college. I wanted it too bad—the city, the two of us together there.

  “Portland’s cool,” he said, lacing his fingers between mine, leading me down the sidewalk toward the Crow. And then the conversation was over. I guess he wasn’t ready to talk about college either, even though he’d brought it up. I let out a slow stream of breath. We hadn’t even stepped inside the Crow yet. There were probably a few crucial steps separating our first rock show from my college lawn fantasies.

  At the door, Matthias leaned in to shake hands with the bouncer, a stone-faced guy with a full sleeve of tattoos, a big gut, and a flashlight for checking IDs.

  “Hey, Frank.”

  “Didn’t know I’d be seeing you tonight, Matty. I don’t think Rob’s around.” His voice was warm, unexpected. I stood next to my boyfriend, trying not to shift back and forth on my feet, trying to look cool. Older. Hadn’t Matthias said he’d given them a heads-up about me? I let my eyes wander up and down Frank’s sleeve. The focal point was a sacred heart pierced by a nasty-looking dagger. Blood poured down the sides. I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

  “Nah, we’re here for the show. Frank, this is Ellory. The girl I was telling you about.” His words were easygoing, but there was something tight underneath. I stuck out my hand, and Frank clasped it.

  “Ah.” He nodded briskly. “Welcome to Crowbar.” Some tacit understanding had passed between them, and I was on the outside. Probably because the understanding had to do with me. “Tickets?”

  Matthias opened his wallet and pulled out two folded sheets of paper. I waited while Frank stamped both our hands with something that looked like Bugs Bunny smoking a carrot, or maybe a blunt. Then, Matthias touched my shoulder, ushering me through the door and into the club.

  Inside, the room was packed with people waiting for drinks, mostly college kids and twenty-somethings with shaggy hair and black jeans. Red and green string lights flickered above the bar, illuminating signs for Pabst Blue Ribbon a
nd Jim Beam. I looked away, around the rest of the room. A few tables were jammed against the opposite wall, and a sign for the restroom flickered at the far end. I didn’t see a stage or any evidence of a band.

  “Music’s downstairs.” Matthias took my hand and steered me away from the bar, through a door to the left.

  “Who’s Rob?”

  “What? No one.”

  I paused ahead of Matthias on the stairs, and he almost walked into me. I turned to look up at him.

  “Seriously, no one. Just a friend of Frank’s. Sometimes we all get a drink together after the show. But tonight—” He paused to lean down and kiss the top of my head. His lips were a soft press of heat against my scalp. “—I am here with you.”

  I knew he was lying to me. But I’d waited long enough to get here. I wasn’t about to ruin it before the music even started. I tried to push Frank and Rob out of my mind. As I continued down the stairs, I could feel Matthias’s eyes following me, fixed on my long legs in Ret’s ridiculously short skirt and my yellow hair flying out against her black top. Suddenly, I longed for the comfort of my own clothes. With the back of my hand, I rubbed at my lips until the red gloss smudged away.

  I pushed open the double doors that led into the room at the bottom of the stairs. The band on stage was putting away their equipment, and some song I didn’t recognize was blasting through the speakers from the DJ booth.

  “Perfect timing.”

  “What?” I screamed at Matthias against the music.

  He leaned down to cup his hand over my ear. “I said perfect timing. That’s the second opener packing up. Here.” He reached into his pocket and produced two sets of ear plugs. Then he brushed back my hair, and I tilted my head to one side. His hand was cool and dry against my ear, my hair, my neck. With the little pieces of foam in place, the din in the room was suddenly muffled, softened around the edges. Matthias leaned forward and spoke directly into my ear. “My Name Is Molly’s going on next. Better, right?”

  “Better.” Strangely, I could hear him more clearly now.

  “Be right back.” He ducked toward the small bar in the back of the room.

  I dug my phone out of my bag and checked Hot Vampires, our current group chat. I scrolled through the night’s messages, which started with an APB from Jenni to come over for scary movies and ginger spice martinis at eight. The rest of the texts were for my benefit.

  BEX LANDRY

  You’re missing some classic slash and spurt action over here, Ellory.

  RET JOHNSTON

  Boo Ellory, leaving us all alone.

  JENNI RANDALL

  It’s scaaary!

  RET JOHNSTON

  Not as scary as Ellory’s foray into crime.

  JENNI RANDALL

  It starts with sneaking out. Where does it end?

  BEX LANDRY

  Corrupted by Rock and Roll: The Ellory Holland Story.

  RET JOHNSTON

  Will we ever see the West Shore’s good girl gone bad again? Dun dun duuun…

  Jesus. It was only like the third Friday I’d spent with Matthias since we got together. Just a few hours ago, Ret had been dressing me up for tonight, squealing over how good I looked. Now they were all giving me shit for ditching them.

  ELLORY HOLLAND

  Sorry, ladies. Necessary anthropological deep-dive.

  I pressed send, but I guess the universe didn’t want me to defend myself. I only had one bar down here, and the message wouldn’t go through.

  I shut off my phone and looked around. There were the plastic palm trees on either side of the stage, just like Matthias had described, lit up with more string lights. The room was full enough to look busy, but it wasn’t packed like it had been upstairs. I dropped my useless phone back into my bag and hooked my thumbs around the top of Ret’s belt, feeling its strangeness and weight around my hips.

  We weren’t the only underage people here. I glanced at the faces around me, careful to not get caught staring. I didn’t recognize anyone, but there were two girls standing together, with spiky hair and nose piercings, who didn’t look older than fourteen, and the place was scattered with pimply high school guys. I guess the bouncer had a few friends. But there were college kids here too, and couples and groups of guys in their twenties and thirties. The floor was sticky, and the air smelled a little like beer and a little like disinfectant.

  In a minute, Matthias returned from the bar with a couple of sodas. He handed one to me, then reached into his pocket and brought out a silver flask.

  “I only buy soda here.” He poured a long stream of something brown into his cup. “The price for keeping up my good reputation with the bouncers.”

  “I thought you said you go drinking with Frank.”

  “Sure, but not here. Not under his roof.”

  Matthias’s East Shore world was like an onion. The kitchen, Sally’s, the Crow. The errands for Cordelia I still didn’t understand. Every time I thought I saw something clearly, he’d peel back another layer. But just a little. Not far enough that I could really get a good view.

  He tilted the flask toward me, offering.

  “No thanks. I have to get us home later, remember?”

  He nodded and slipped it back into his pocket. We were there at the Crow, just like I’d wanted, but everything felt off. There were West Shore secrets—his parents, his house—and East Shore secrets. Most days, I thought Matthias saw me. But sometimes, I didn’t know what he saw. Sheltered. Baby. If you added up all the things he wouldn’t show me . . . I wasn’t sure I saw him, either.

  I sipped my whiskeyless soda and kept my thoughts to myself. Matthias brushed his lips against my shoulder blade just as My Name Is Molly strolled onto stage, and the crowd started clapping and shouting. When the music started, Matthias tossed our cups into the trash and stood behind me, wrapping his arms around me, folding me back into his chest. I let myself sink into him until I was buzzing with the energy of the crowd and the band and the drummer, who had a bright pink streak in her hair and the most beautiful arms I’d ever seen, long and lean and strong. And Matthias. His heat. His breath soft and sticky-sweet in my hair. His hands squeezing my arms, my waist, holding me to him, holding me close.

  I could feel the music pinging something inside me, something alive and new and partly belonging to him, partly belonging to me. I went to the Crow because I wanted in on my boyfriend’s secrets, but I didn’t feel on the inside of anything other than the music. Maybe that was the only thing that mattered. I didn’t want to think about secrets anymore. I wanted to be there, with him and the music and the heat of the club. I let myself get lost in it.

  Five songs into the set, he took out his phone and snapped a few pictures. Then he pressed his lips to my ear. “Gotta run to the bathroom. You’ll be okay for a sec?”

  I nodded.

  “Be right back.” He kissed my hair right where it covered the top of my ear, and a shiver shot through me. I turned around to watch him go. He walked toward the bathrooms in the back, then swerved right and ducked up the stairs. I was alone.

  I crossed my arms tightly against my chest. Suddenly I was back at Dave Franklin’s party, standing in the middle of the living room floor, lying about looking for the bathroom.

  “You probably want to skip the one down here,” he’d said. “There is another, shall we say, more hygienic option on the second floor.”

  Except this time, he was the one lying. I tried to listen to the band. Maybe he wasn’t lying. Maybe the bathrooms upstairs were cleaner here too. Anyway it’s not like he needed my permission. I stared straight ahead and focused on the drummer until I couldn’t see anything else, the beads of sweat collecting along her forehead, her lips pressed into a neon knot, her arms slicing wild streaks through the air again and again and again. A few minutes later, Matthias was back, his arms locked tightly around mine like he’d never been gone at all.

  14

  NOVEMBER, SENIOR YEAR

  (NOW)

  She’s i
n front of me before I even realize she’s in the hallway, long limbs and ever-so-slightly out-turned feet blocking my path to fourth period. Bex.

  It’s not as if I’ve made it through eleven weeks of school without ever seeing her or Jenni, but my routes are solid. They’ve been mostly avoidable, and it’s not like they’ve come looking for me. Not after I blew Bex off the day before school started. And not that Jenni would ever come looking. I shove my hands in my hoodie pockets, and my fingers close around the folded triangle of notepaper I plucked from the bottom of my locker earlier today.

  “I’ve been trying to catch you all week,” she says, but her body says otherwise. Her fingers twist her backpack straps around her hands, and she looks poised to run. “Ellory?”

  “Hey,” I mutter, forcing my chin up to face her. Directly behind her shoulder is the open door to math class, safe passage to an hour of blissful boredom. All around us, students are walking toward open doors. When they near Bex and me, they give us a wide berth, a tide of bodies parting like we’re the island and they’re the stream.

  All I want to do is follow them toward class, slip into my seat a minute early, unfold this week’s note beneath my desk. Bex has lunch now. She should be headed up two more floors to the sky dome, not that I have her schedule memorized or anything.

  “Listen.” Her voice is determined, but I can see a russet flush rising in her deep brown cheeks. She wraps and unwraps the black straps around her hands. She doesn’t want to be talking to me either. “We’re going to see my grandparents in Montreal over the break, so we’re hosting a kind of pre-Thanksgiving at my house on Sunday. It’ll be mostly dance team, a few of my parents’ friends. It would be nice if you came.”

  I don’t know what to say. I can feel my eyebrows arching toward the ceiling.

  Bex lets the straps fall to her sides and shoves her hands in her pockets. I know that trick; your fingers can’t fidget if they’re tucked away. “My mom asked about you,” she says. She drops her voice to a stage whisper. “I told her you didn’t need any handouts, but she thinks I’m not making an effort.”