Saint Anything

  She swallowed, wincing, then wiped a hand over her mouth. “I swear, I don’t see how this night could get any worse.”

  I could. Because right at that moment, Ames appeared in the open doorway. I was so startled by the sight of him, I thought for a minute I had to be imagining it. When he spoke, I knew it was for real.

  “Well, look at this. It’s a party.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but, unfortunately, Spence spoke first.

  “Now we’re talking!” He turned, looking at Ames, and held out the bottle to him. “Welcome, comrade. Drink?”

  “No,” I said, answering for him. Still regrouping, or trying to, I said, “It’s not a party. They’re just recording a demo.”

  Ames made a point of looking at the bottle, as well as Spence slumped against Layla, before turning his attention back to me. “Your mom didn’t say anything about this.”

  “She’s been distracted,” I replied. “And anyway, they’re almost done.”

  “I wish,” Irv said. The guys were wrapping up the song now, having actually made it through the entire thing. “Although we’re further along than we were, I’ll give you that.”

  I didn’t like the way Ames was surveying the room, taking it all in: Layla on the couch, the guys on the other side of the glass, Irv in his seat at the controls. Then, finally, me. “Let’s talk outside,” he said. “Okay?”

  Layla was watching me as I followed him out into the workout room, where he gestured for me to take a seat on my dad’s workout bench.

  “So,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Want to tell me what’s going on here?”

  “I did. They’re recording a demo.”

  “And drinking,” he added.

  “Spence is drinking,” I corrected him. “I don’t even really know him.”

  “And yet he’s here, in the house, while Peyton and Julie are gone.” He cocked his head to the side. “I have to say, Sydney, I’m surprised. This is not like you.”

  “They’re my friends; they needed a studio. It’s not that complicated.”

  “And that guy playing drums? Who’s he?”

  I blinked, caught off guard. “Why?”

  He shrugged, then leaned back against the wall, studying my face. “Just curious. I saw you with him the other day, in the parking lot of that strip mall off Mason. You seemed pretty close. Very close, actually.”

  It took me a moment to catch up. In the lag, he was watching me, the slightest of smiles on his face. “Are you going to tell my mom about this?”

  Instead of answering, he looked back into the studio, where Spence was now stretched out across the couch, eyes closed, the bottle on the floor beside him. Layla was nowhere in sight, which I assumed meant they had indeed moved on to her song.

  “I don’t know,” Ames said finally. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  I wanted to know now. Then I could accept my sentence and the reality of the repercussions. But I knew Ames. Now he finally had the upper hand, and he wasn’t going to relinquish it any earlier than necessary.

  “Sydney.”

  Glancing at the studio, I saw Irv filling the doorway, looking out at us. “Yeah?”

  “We need you.”

  I looked at Ames. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’m right behind you.”

  I went back in to find Layla on the other side of the glass, headphones on, a microphone in front of her. Eric was at the board, getting things set up so that Irv could record again. Behind me, I could hear Spence snoring.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “We need backup vocals,” Eric told me, still futzing around with some dials. “No time to layer them in. So you’re up.”

  “Me?” I said. “I don’t sing.”

  “Everyone can sing.”

  “Let me rephrase that,” I told him. “I don’t sing well.”

  “It’s not opera,” he replied. “We just need to fill out the sound. You know the song, right? Paulie Prescott, ‘Four A.M.’?”

  Of course I did. After I finished swooning over the safe boy-next-door Logan Oxford, Paulie Prescott was my first bad-boy crush, or as bad as you could be wearing eyeliner while performing concerts at malls. “Four A.M.” was his biggest hit, a half-rap, half-sung description of driving home after a night of partying and fighting and wanting to call a girl, but deciding she deserved better. It was just the kind of thing that, at thirteen, you wanted some lovesick rebel to sing about you. I’d had it on repeat for weeks.

  “I think I remember it,” I said.

  “Great.” Eric stood up, turning to face me. “Now, we’re doing it acoustic, very quiet, in contrast to the original production. Remember all those big guitars? It was all swagger, or fake swagger, actually. So for this, we’re turning it on its head, going light, ballad-esque, more of a love song than the original ego-driven recitation of various acts of valor that may or may not have actually happened.”

  Beside me, Ames blinked. “Whoa.”

  “Exactly,” Eric told him. “So we’ll just have you come in during the chorus, behind Layla, to convey the routine aspect of this, that it’s not just one girl who’s felt it, but many. But just for two lines: ‘You’re sleeping only a mile from here/But it feels so far away.’ The two following—”

  “‘While I want to see you, touch you, feel you/In my dreams I’ll let you stay’?” So much for pretending I didn’t know it by heart.

  “Right. For those, I want only Layla, for contrast. See, your lines are about the truth of this situation: the wanting. The other are the ideal, the way girls wish guys really felt. Okay?”

  It was a testament to how familiar I’d become with Eric and his music discussions that none of this seemed over the top to me. Ames, however, exhaled as Eric went back into the recording room, then said, “Man. I’ve heard that song a million times. Never thought of it that way.”

  “Nobody does,” Irv told him, adjusting something on the board.

  I turned back to the glass, looking in at Layla, who was nodding as Eric talked to her, explaining all this again. Mac was back on the drums, saying something to Ford, when I felt Ames move closer, putting his hands on my shoulders. He gave a light squeeze, then left them there while saying, “So you’re singing? I can’t wait to see this. Nervous?”

  “No,” I said, although I was. I shifted slightly, trying to get out from under him, but he was too close, and now squeezing again.

  “You’ll be great. Just relax.”

  I swallowed, doing the exact opposite and tensing up, hoping he’d take the hint and back off. But no. He was still right there, his fingers lightly on my shoulders, when Mac looked up and saw us.

  Seeing his face, I had a flash of Layla’s, all those weeks ago at the courthouse. But while her expression, as a stranger, had been a question—You okay?—Mac’s was different. Like he knew I was not, and because of that, he wasn’t, either. He was just getting to his feet when Eric spoke.

  “Okay, Sydney. You ready?”

  I pulled away quickly, then walked into the recording room, where Eric was setting up a microphone. As he waved me behind it, Layla leaned into my ear.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s staying tonight. But he wasn’t supposed to come until ten.”

  “Huh.” She adjusted her headphones. “What are the chances. Is he going to tell your mom?”

  “He says we’ll talk about it.”

  She made another pointed look as Ames gave us a thumbs-up. “I’d stay if I could, I swear. But I’ve got to get home to my mom.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. Then I turned, glancing behind me at Mac, who, as I expected, was watching me. I only had a second to try to convey that he shouldn’t worry, I was all right. But just in case, I said it, too. “It’ll be okay.”

  At that point, despite everything,
I still believed this. This confidence stayed with me as we ran through a quick rehearsal, then started to record. I could almost forget about Ames on the other side of the glass and whatever might happen later; right then, there was only the music. Eric’s guitar, and Ford behind it. The haunting sweetness of Layla’s voice moving over the words I knew so well, and then my own, blending with it if only for a moment. Through it all, Mac was behind me, keeping the beat, holding it all together. Later, I’d look back at this as the last time things felt perfect, and be so grateful for it. Some people never get that at all.

  * * *

  “Do we have it?”

  We all waited, silent, as Eric punched a few buttons, his brow furrowed. Then, finally: “Yep. We’ve got it.”

  “Hallelujah,” Irv said, speaking for everyone. “Can we go eat now?”

  “You’ve been eating the whole time,” Layla pointed out.

  “I’ve been snacking,” he corrected her. “It’s mealtime.”

  “Actually, it’s go time,” she said. “Rosie’s waiting for us. Let’s get packed up, okay?”

  Mac nodded, then headed back into the recording room, where he, Irv, and Ford began dismantling the instruments and equipment. Upstairs, I could hear Ames moving around as Layla turned her attention to Spence, still crashed out on the couch. He hadn’t budged since falling asleep.

  “Luckily, he sobers up fast,” she told me, walking over and shaking his shoulder. “Spence. Wake up. Time to go.”

  “Just five more minutes,” he mumbled into the cushions.

  Layla shook her head, then picked up the vodka bottle from the floor. She began to twist the top on, but then changed her mind, opening it and taking a swig. Then she handed it out to me.

  I’d go over this moment again and again in the coming weeks. It was just such a stupid thing, a handful of seconds. And yet it was a pivotal point, the shift between before and after. I don’t know why I took the bottle, tipping it up to my mouth. Maybe it was the long night. Or what still might lie ahead, with Ames. Whatever the reason, I did it, taking one big gulp and closing my eyes, tight, as I swallowed. When I opened them, my mother was in the doorway.

  Like Ames, she’d just appeared. As I looked at her face, everything crystallized: the smooth glass of the bottle in my hand; Spence’s foot, hanging off the couch; the guys moving in my peripheral vision, talking amongst themselves; Layla beside me, equally surprised. That bottle, again, in my hand.

  “Sydney?” Like she wasn’t sure it was me, either. The crease between her brows was deeper than I’d ever seen it. “What is going on here?”

  “Mom,” I said quickly, putting down the bottle. This seemed important, although I already knew it wasn’t going to make any difference. “It’s not . . . They were just using the studio.”

  “You’re drinking.” A statement, although she sounded so incredulous, it might as well have been a question.

  “I wasn’t, actually.” She shifted her gaze to the vodka, then to Spence, snoring softly on the couch. “I mean, I just took that sip. Just now.”

  “You’re drinking,” she repeated. She looking into the recording room. “Who are these people in Peyton’s studio?”

  “My brother’s band,” Layla said. My mom looked at her. “Mac. You met him at the pizza place? They needed to record a demo, and Sydney—”

  “I told you, remember?” I cut in.

  “And I said no.” Her voice was clipped, each syllable sharp. She looked at me. “You deliberately disobeyed me, Sydney. And you have alcohol here in our house, not to mention people I do not know.”

  “Mom—”

  She raised a hand. Stop. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s been a long, bad night. Just get these people out of here. Now.”

  Layla was instantly in motion, going over and giving Spence a hard enough shake to finally wake him up. “Wha—” he mumbled.

  “Come on,” she told him. Then she walked over to the board, hitting the intercom. “Speed it up, fellas. Time to go.”

  Eric, his back to us, sighed. “We’re moving as quickly as we can. This is delicate equipment.”

  “Go faster,” she snapped, then dropped her hand. Hearing this, they all stopped what they were doing and looked at us, finally seeing my mom. Mac’s eyes went wide. It was strange to see him surprised. The next thing I knew, he was heading our way.

  Oh, God, I thought, both grateful and terrified as he came through the door. Layla was busy with Spence, so it was just me there with my mom when he joined us. “Mrs. Stanford,” he said. “This isn’t . . . Sydney was just doing me a favor. I shouldn’t have put her in this position. It’s my fault, totally. I’m sorry.”

  He said this so genuinely, so truthfully, that I felt something inside my heart shift. Each time I thought I’d felt all I could for him, there was more.

  I slid my hand down his arm, wrapping my fingers around his. “You don’t have to say that,” I told him.

  “I want to,” he replied.

  “I’m sorry, but who are you?” my mom snapped.

  “Mac,” I said. “Layla’s brother. My friend.”

  “Boyfriend,” another voice said, from outside the door. Ames. “Either that or just a guy she makes out with in parking lots.”

  “What?”

  I turned, slowly, to see Layla frozen behind me. She was looking at our still-joined hands the same way my mom had the bottle, as if she couldn’t quite believe her eyes.

  “I saw them,” Ames said to my mom. “I wasn’t going to tell you, figured Sydney would. But I guess now you know.”

  “Now I know,” my mom repeated. To Mac, she said, “Is that your alcohol?”

  “No,” he replied. “It’s not.”

  She looked at me. “I want these people out of here, Sydney. Do you understand me?”

  “Mrs. Stanford—” Mac said.

  “Do not talk to me.” She kept her eyes level, dark and furious and solidly on mine. “Just get out of my house, and take your friends with you. Now.”

  Mac kept my hand in his a moment longer. Then he unfolded his fingers and let me go.

  As they’d come in and set up, there’d been constant conversation: directions of equipment placement, discussion of Eric’s agitated disc, all the back and forth of a group of people trying to get something done together. While they packed up, no one spoke. I knew, because I was listening as I stared into my mom’s eyes, still focused on mine. After so long in my own invisible place, I was squarely in her sights. Just not the way I’d wanted to be.

  Distantly, I was aware of everything else that was happening: Layla brushing past me without a word, tugging a stumbling, sleepy Spence behind her. Eric’s and Ford’s quick, cautious looks. How surprisingly light Irv’s large hand felt as it touched my shoulder briefly. And, finally, Mac, the last one to leave us. Only then did my mom look away from me, her eyes following him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do the same. I was not punished yet, had no idea what would happen next. But already all that space left in my heart, open after being clenched tight for so long, was narrowing. When the door shut behind them, I felt it close.

  CHAPTER

  19

  WE WEREN’T in a courtroom, and nobody asked me to rise. But I still knew a sentencing when I saw it.

  My mom, sitting across the table, cleared her throat, then looked at my dad. It was seven a.m. the next morning; a half hour earlier, he’d come into my room and told me to wake up, get showered, and come downstairs. The first part was easy, as I hadn’t slept all night. This, though, was going to be hard.

  “Sydney,” he began as I crossed my legs tightly under the table, “I don’t think we have to tell you that we are very, very disappointed in you right now.”

  I said nothing. I knew I wasn’t to speak yet.

  “Your mother specifically told you that your friends could not use the studio
,” he continued. “Still, you invited them to do so. You are underage and know the rules of this house. Yet there was alcohol here, and you were drinking.”

  I couldn’t help it. “I only—”

  He held up his hand, but it was my mom’s glare that stopped me midsentence.

  “You know how concerned and worried we both are about your brother and his situation. It’s frankly unfathomable to us that you would choose to add to our burden, to this family’s burden, with this kind of behavior.”

  “I wasn’t trying to burden anyone,” I said quietly, studying the tabletop. “I just wanted to help a friend.”

  “This is Mac?” my mom said, enunciating his name like you might the word herpes or molestation. “Ames tells us he’s your boyfriend.”

  I felt my face flush, angry now. “Ames doesn’t know anything about me.”

  “Clearly. He came over expecting to watch a movie with you and found a party instead.”

  “It wasn’t a party!”

  “Sydney! There was a drunk boy here!”

  “That’s Layla’s boyfriend, and I didn’t invite him. I hardly know him!”

  “Well, that’s reassuring,” my mom said.

  “That’s not . . .” I stopped, forcing myself to take a breath. “Mac and Layla are my friends. Mac’s band had a chance to enter a showcase and needed a demo. We have a studio.”

  “A studio,” my mom added, “that we said they could not use.”

  “But at first, you did!” I pointed out. “That night we ordered the pizza. You were open to it. And then Peyton called, and he got angry with you, and just like that, everything changed.”

  “This is not about your brother,” my dad said to me.

  “For once!” I said. They both looked surprised: my voice was higher, louder than I’d realized. “Everything is about Peyton, all the time. And that’s okay, I get it. But this was one thing, for me, that I wanted.”

  “You wanted to have your friends over, drinking, unsupervised, in our home,” my mom said. “Well, that’s great. Just wonderful.”