“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—”
“She got injured,” Mrs. Chatham told her. “Knee issues. But before that, she did two years with the Mariposa touring show.”
“Wow! That’s amazing! So you were, like, one of the characters?”
“I need something to drink,” Rosie announced, pushing out her chair. Then, as we all watched, she just walked away, leaving the poor girl standing there, watching her go.
“It’s a sensitive issue,” Mrs. Chatham said in the awkward silence that followed. “You understand, I’m sure.”
“Oh, totally!” Heather said. “I, um, just wanted to say hello. You all have a good night.”
“You too, honey,” Mrs. Chatham replied. Once the girl was gone, she looked over at the bar, where Rosie was talking to Mac. Now that I looked at her, I realized she did have a skater’s body: small, muscular, and compact. She kind of reminded me of Meredith, although older and with a rougher look to her.
“Rosie has issues,” Layla explained to me.
“Everyone has issues,” her mother said. “Now, go see if she’s okay.”
Making a face, Layla got to her feet, leaving the table. I wondered if I should follow her, but that meant leaving Mrs. Chatham alone. So I stayed put. After a moment of silence, she said, “It’s good that you came.”
I wasn’t sure if this was her reading my mind or she meant from her point of view. I said, “I was nervous. Not knowing anyone and everything.”
“But now you do.” She smiled at me. “And I’m glad to see Layla making a new friend. She’s had a tough time lately.”
“I heard she and her boyfriend just broke up?”
“Second one in three months.” She shook her head. “Boys this age, they can be brutal. But they’re not all bad. At least, that’s what I keep telling her.”
Just then, Mac appeared, carrying a fresh can of Pepsi. He was in jeans and a faded SEASIDE PIZZA T-shirt, and looked like he’d broken a sweat playing. Not that I was looking closely or anything.
“That’s my boy,” said his mom as he popped the tab and refilled her glass. “Thank you.”
“You need anything else?”
“Not a thing. Sit down.”
He did, right next to me, which was slightly unnerving. At the pizza place, there had been distance between us most of the time: the door, the counter, or him standing while I sat. Proximity let me notice things I had not before, like his long lashes and the slight freckling across his nose, as well as the thin silver chain I could just see peeking out from the neck of his T-shirt.
“Cheese puff?” Mrs. Chatham asked Mac, holding out the can.
“Really, Mom?”
“What? It’s calcium!”
Mac rolled his eyes, looking up at the stage. To me Mrs. Chatham said, “He’s so healthy these days. It’s no fun whatsoever.”
“Neither is early-onset diabetes,” he told her.
His mother sighed, then held the can out to me. When I hesitated, she said, “See what you’ve done? She can’t even bring herself to take one. You’ve given the girl a complex.”
Mac looked at me. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I felt my face get hot. Which made sense, as he was better looking than Logan Oxford at his peak and Dave! at Frazier combined. “I’m not, um, much of a puff fan anyway.”
God, I was an idiot. I didn’t even know what I was saying. Thank God Layla picked that moment to return to the table.
“Eric’s looking for you,” she informed her brother. “He has, and I quote, ‘notes and feedback for you vis-à-vis your performance.’”
“Great,” Mac said flatly, getting to his feet. The silver chain disappeared again, out of sight. “Mom, you staying for the next set?”
“Oh, honey, I’m pretty tired,” Mrs. Chatham said. “And my show comes on at ten, so . . .”
“I told you,” said Rosie, who had rejoined us. “I set the DVR.”
Hearing this, I suddenly remembered that I was also supposed to be somewhere at a certain time. I looked at my watch: it was just after nine. “I should go, too, actually.”
“Let me guess,” Layla said. “You’re addicted to Status: Mystery, too, and do not trust entirely reliable technology to function properly in your absence.”
Rosie snorted. I said, “Um, not exactly. Usually I can stay out later, but there’s been some stuff going on. My mom kind of wants me to stick close. So I told her I’d be home early tonight.”
It wasn’t until I finished this monologue that I realized how long and unnecessary it was. I had no idea why I’d felt the need to explain myself quite so much to people I had only just met, and by the way they stood there looking at me when I concluded, they didn’t, either. Whoops.
“Well, you go, then,” said Mrs. Chatham finally, saving me. “But don’t be a stranger, okay? Come by the house anytime.”
I nodded, then got to my feet. “Thanks.”
“We’ll walk you out,” Layla said, nodding at Mac. “This parking lot can be a little sketchy. Back in a sec, Mom.”
Mrs. Chatham waved, and I followed Layla through the increased crowd toward the door, Mac behind me. Sandwiched between them, I could see people appraising us as we made our way outside, and I was sure I looked like the mismatched piece, the part that did not belong. But that was not a new feeling. And at least here, with them, it made sense.
“Where’d you park?” Layla asked once we were in the lot. I pointed. As we walked over, passing a few people grouped around their own vehicles, she said, “Wow. Nice ride. Is that a sport package?”
I looked at my car, which was a BMW that had been my mom’s before she decided she wanted a hybrid SUV. “Maybe,” I said, feeling wholly ignorant. “I’m not—”
“It’s an ’07,” Mac said, glancing inside. “Automatic. So I’m betting not.”
“Looks like it does have some upgrade, though. See the wheels?” Layla let out a low whistle. “Those are sweet.”
I must have looked as clueless as I felt, because a second later, Mac looked at me and said, “Oh. Sorry. Our dad’s just really into cars.”
“In our house, you get a mandatory education on the topic, like it or not,” Layla added. “And once you know all that stuff, you can’t not notice. Believe me. I’ve tried.”
“Hey, dude!” I heard someone yell. We all turned to see Eric at the club’s entrance, looking annoyed. “If you’re not too busy, I could use my drummer?”
“He’s not yours,” Layla hollered back. “A band is a collaboration, last I checked.”
“Whatever.” Eric threw up his hands, then turned to go inside. “We’re on in five. If he feels like joining us.”
Layla laughed, and Mac shot her a look. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just so easy to set him off. And you have to admit, he is pretty insufferable when he gets in his diva mode.??
?
“True,” Mac replied. “But you’re not exactly helping.”
It was nine fifteen now. I really had to go. I unlocked my car, the lights flashing, then stepped forward to open my door. “Thanks for the invite,” I said to Layla. “It was really fun.”
“Good,” she said. “And Mom’s right. You should come out to the house sometime. I’ll teach you about your car. Even if you don’t want to learn.”
I smiled. “Sounds good.”
“See you at school, Sydney.”
She waggled her fingers at me, then took a few quick steps to fall in beside Mac, who was already heading toward the club. The lot was much fuller than when I’d gotten there, with more cars still arriving. For some people, the night hadn’t even really started yet. Hard to believe, when it had already been my most eventful in, well, ages. I watched the Chathams walk across the lot, keeping my eyes on them until they folded into the crowd by the doors. Then I raced home, praying for green lights, pulling into the garage at 9:35. I went inside with my apologies ready, only to find the downstairs empty. My mom was already in bed, my dad shut away in his office on a call. I’d done the right thing. I always did. It just would have been nice if someone had noticed.
CHAPTER
5
THE FLYER was sitting on the table when I came down for breakfast Monday morning. I saw it as soon as I walked in the kitchen, but it wasn’t until I got up close that I could read what it said.
FAMILY DAY: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20TH,
1–5PM. INFO EXT. 2002 OR
[email protected] “What’s this?” I said to my mom, who was at the stove, pushing some bacon around in a pan.
She glanced over her shoulder. “It’s coming up at Lincoln in a few weeks.”
“But Peyton doesn’t want me there,” I said. “Right?”
“It’s not that he doesn’t want you. It’s just . . .” She trailed off, sighing. “I’m hoping this opportunity might change his mind.”
When my brother was first sent to prison, he had to submit forms for each person he wanted to visit him. My mom and dad were no-brainers, of course, as was Ames, and my mom assumed I’d be as well. But despite the fact that minors and children were allowed—even encouraged, as Lincoln believed connection with family was very important for inmates—Peyton said no, he didn’t want me to see him there. And I was so, so glad.