“DON’T ANSWER IT,” Joel groans the morning after his birthday party, but I wiggle away from the warmth of his body to grab my ringing phone off the nightstand.
“Hello?”
My dad chuckles into the line. “Morning, sleepyhead.”
I collapse back against my mattress and groan. “What time is it?”
“Almost noon. Late night clubbing?”
An amused chuckle answers him. “Dad, what do you know about clubbing?”
“What do you think I’ve been doing with all my time since you moved out?”
I laugh hard, waking Joel back up. He turns his face toward me and mumbles, “Who is it?”
“Is that a boy?” my dad asks.
“My gay friend, Dad,” I quickly answer, emphasizing the last word for Joel’s benefit. “We had a sleepover last night after a birthday party.”
“Gay friend?” my dad asks.
“Gay friend?” Joel mouths.
“Leti, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Whose birthday was it?”
“My friend Joel’s,” I answer, and Joel’s eyebrow lifts.
“A boy friend?”
“Yeah, a boy, space, friend,” I say, rolling away from Joel so that I’m facing the edge of the bed. He brushes my hair away from my neck, and then his warm breath is on my neck and I’m struggling to listen to my dad.
“—just wanted to see when you’re coming home for Easter,” he says, and Joel’s satin tongue curls behind the tender lobe of my ear. My eyes flutter closed, and I bite my lip between my teeth. “Dee?” my dad says, and I roll out of bed, padding out of Joel’s reach.
“Yeah. I’m coming home the Wednesday before Easter,” I say, watching Joel stretch out on my bed. His arms lift over his head, pulling his stomach muscles tight. When he catches me staring, he winks at me, and I spin toward the wall.
“I was thinking chicken cacciatore over garganelli pasta this year. Think we can figure out how to make it?”
The first Easter after my mom left, my dad attempted to cook Easter dinner, but the ham was burnt, the mashed potatoes were runny, and the green-bean casserole was charred to a crisp. We were both sitting at the table staring at our food, thinking of my mom, when he abruptly stood up and dragged me to the kitchen.
“Alright, we’re going to make a linguini ala pomodoro caprese,” he said, and at eleven years old, I had no idea he was just making shit up. We ended up boiling a bunch of miscellaneous pasta, cutting up fresh tomatoes and peppers, and mixing everything with a store-bought tomato sauce. My dad and I ate every last bit, swearing it was the best meal we had ever eaten, and in truth, it was. It was also the best Easter I’d ever had.
Every year since, we’ve attempted to make something especially complicated, and even on the years we’ve failed miserably, we’ve laughed our asses off and have eaten the scraps.
I smile at my lavender wall. “Yeah, I think we can manage. That sounds amazing.”
I wrap up the conversation with my dad and turn back toward Joel, glaring at him. I point a finger at his smirking face and say, “You are evil.”
“And gay apparently,” he says, and I can’t help laughing. “Are you really leaving next Wednesday?” he asks, suddenly more serious.
“Yeah. Heading home for Easter.” I walk back to the edge of the bed and smirk at him. “Why, are you going to miss me?”
“Nope,” he teases, tugging me back onto the covers, “I plan on being tired of you by then.”
For the next few days, he makes it his mission to spend so much time with me that we’re sick of each other by the time I have to leave. He sleeps at my apartment, he cooks me breakfast, we spend evenings on the couch watching movies. I watch him play guitar, he complains while I struggle over homework, and we spend more time in my bed than anywhere else in my apartment. Even the shower is no longer a safe zone, which is why we’re late to auditions on Saturday. By the time we get to Mayhem, the first guitarist is about to start without us and Rowan scolds me with her eyes but encourages me with her smile.
“If I can’t stay in bed,” Adam gripes, tripping Joel as Joel walks to his seat, “neither can you.”
“We weren’t in the bed,” Joel says with a smug voice and an even smugger smile. I muss his precious mohawk before taking the seat beside him. He glares at me, I blow him a kiss, and Shawn clears his throat.
“Can we get started now?”
We all quiet down, and after being patient with four guitarists who looked much better on paper than they sounded in person, Adam goes outside for a smoke break. The rest of the guys follow, and I slide into a seat next to Rowan.
“Listen to this,” I say, playing her a song on my phone.
Her head nods to the beat. “I like it. Who’s it by?”
“The next auditioner.” My grin is downright giddy, and Rowan catches my good mood, her blue eyes lighting up. “His name is Kit. I have a good feeling about this one.”
I got the email from Kit on Wednesday while I was walking back to my car from class. By the time I got home, I was overflowing with excitement and practically tackled Joel to get him to listen. He agreed that the song was awesome, and I immediately sent an email to Kit to give him an audition time.
“I think Shawn’s head might explode pretty soon if we don’t find somebody,” Rowan says, and I laugh. The last guy couldn’t even figure out how to plug in his guitar. Shawn plugged him in, patted his back, and then immediately sent him on his way, shaking his head when the guy tried to talk his way back onto the stage.
“If this next guy doesn’t work out, I’m just going to learn to play the guitar myself.”
Rowan chuckles, and then she grins at me and says, “Sooo, you and Joel . . .”
When a knock sounds at the door, I seize the opportunity to bound out of my seat, not bothering to respond to my meddling best friend. Rowan thinks Joel and I are more than what we are, and no amount of arguing is going to convince her otherwise. My heels echo off the floor as I escape to the front door, and I swing it open wide to find Queen of the freaking Groupies.
Long black hair highlighted with dark blue highlights cascades down to a loose black tank top—low cut and showing copious amounts of lacy black bra. The girl’s black jeans—which are more ripped up than any pair I’ve ever seen Adam, Shawn, or Joel wear—are practically painted to her legs. She’s built like a freaking runway model with boobs. Complete with stacked bracelets, a tiny diamond nose ring, and combat boots, she’s the definition of rocker chic.
I resist the urge to slam the door in her face.
“The band isn’t here to sign shit or take pictures,” I say, wondering how the hell she heard they would be here today.
“Okay?” she asks, a perfectly shaped eyebrow lifting to emphasize her confusion. “I’m not here for autographs or pictures . . .”
“Great.” I begin closing the door, but she slaps her hand against it.
“Are you Dee?” When I just stand there staring daggers at her, she wedges her combat boot against the door and holds out her hand. “I’m Kit. We spoke over email?”
“You’re Kit?” Rowan asks from behind me as I dazedly shake Kit’s hand.
Kit’s eyes light with realization, and she laughs. “Oh, sorry. Yeah. I have four older brothers who thought Katrina was too girly of a name.”
“And you’re here to audition?” Rowan asks.
Kit pulls a guitar case from where she’d propped it outside against the wall. She shoots us a smile and says, “I hope so. It is okay that I’m a girl, right?”
“Yeah,” Rowan rushes to say, but I’m skeptical. The song I listened to sounded amazing, but it’s hard for me to reconcile the expectation I had in my head with the girl standing before me.
“That depends,” I answer. “Are you a girl that can play the guitar?”
“I think so,” Kit says with a perfectly straight face. “I mean, it’s difficult since my vagina is constantly getting in the way, but I’ve learned to manage it just like any other handicap.” Her brows pull down in a frown, and she says, “Sadly, I don’t get special parking.”
A long moment of silence passes between us, but then I can’t help laughing. Kit’s lips turn up at the corners and I lead her inside.
It isn’t until we enter Mayhem that the first glimpses of her nervousness begin to show. With her guitar propped against the stage, she rubs her hands over her back pockets and stares around the room. “So it’s just going to be us?”
“No—”
I begin to tell her that the guys should be back in at any moment, but then the back door opens and they all step inside.
“Guys,” I say as they close the distance between us, “this is Kit. She’s up next.”
They’re all staring at her, and I gauge Joel’s reaction, suddenly very aware that we are auditioning a girl, with all girl parts. Long legs, perky boobs, and as she so kindly pointed out, a vagina. If this works out, the guys could soon be practicing, performing, and touring with a girl.
Joel steps beside me and wraps his arm around my shoulders. “We thought you were a dude.”
Kit smiles. “Yeah, I gathered that when your girlfriend tried to close the door in my face.”
Since Joel doesn’t correct her, neither do I. I’m perfectly content letting her think Joel is taken.
“Have we met before?” Shawn asks, staring at her with a slight squint to his deep green eyes.
Kit stares back at him for a moment before a little smirk sneaks onto her face. “We went to the same school.”
“What year were you?”
“Three under you.”
“Didn’t you used to come to our shows?” Mike asks, and Kit stares at Shawn for a moment longer, like she’s waiting for something. When he only continues staring at her like she’s a face he can’t place, she turns to Mike.
“Sometimes.”
The rest of the guys—with the exception of Shawn, who falls uncharacteristically quiet—continue asking her questions, and Kit finishes the introduction, telling them that she was in a band in college but that they broke up after graduation because some of them wanted to get nine-to-five jobs. Once everyone is all out of questions, she grabs her guitar and takes the stage. The rest of us seat ourselves at the table while she hooks her guitar up and does a quick sound check.
“Do you guys remember her?” I ask the guys when we sit down. The question is for all of them, but I’m staring right at Shawn.
“A little,” Mike says.
“She looks really different,” Shawn says, almost to himself. He’s staring up at the stage, and I allow my gaze to travel there too. Kit is getting set up in record time, like she’s done this a thousand times before.
“Did she used to wear glasses?” Joel asks, his head tilted to the side as he tries to place her face.
“Yeah,” Shawn answers. “And she didn’t have the nose ring, or . . .” he trails off when he notices we’re all looking at him. “Her brother Bryce was in our grade, remember?”
The guys start reminiscing over some senior prank Bryce played, and Kit eventually leans into her microphone and asks, “What do you want me to play?”
“Your favorite song,” Adam shouts to the stage, and Kit thinks about it for a moment before smiling down at her guitar and stepping back. With her hair, her outfit, and the guitar strapped around her neck like it’s just another accessory, she looks like she belongs there.
When she starts playing “Seven Nation Army” by the White Stripes—a song we’ve heard more times than we can count by now—we all begin to groan, but she quickly starts laughing and steps up to the microphone. “Just kidding!” she says, and then she starts playing a song I’ve never heard before but that the guys all seem to approve of. They sit straighter in their seats, watching her play it, until Adam lifts his hand for her to stop.
“Do you write your own stuff?” he asks, and when she nods, he tells her to play us something.
When she passes that test, the guys join her onstage. They all glance her way periodically as they play—all of them but Shawn, anyway, who seems dead set on not looking in her general direction. Afterward, he thanks her for coming and her face falls.
“She’s perfect, right?” I ask when she’s gone, wishing we could have told her she was in the band before she left. She walked out the door seeming so unsure of herself even though she knocked the audition out of the park.
“What do you guys think?” Shawn asks, and Adam speaks my mind.
“I’m wondering why we’re even talking about it.”
“Can we cancel the other auditions?” Mike asks, his stomach rumbling right on cue. “Please? If we don’t, I’m going to scream like a little girl.”
Rowan laughs, and Shawn says, “She was off on the third song.”
“What planet were you on?” Joel asks. “She was perfect the whole time.”
“Seriously Shawn,” I complain, “what’s your problem?”
He stiffens and scratches the back of his neck. “Nothing. I just want to make sure we don’t make a mistake.”
“You’re going to have to pick someone sometime,” I tell him.
“So we vote,” Adam says. “All in favor of what’s-her-name, raise your hand.”
Everyone but Shawn raises their hand, and then he sighs and raises his too.
Later that night, I’m sitting with Joel on my couch when I ask him, “What was Shawn’s problem today?”
I called Kit right after six hands went up in the air in Mayhem, and she sounded super excited on the phone, but I can’t get Shawn’s complete lack of enthusiasm out of my head. We’ve spent weeks looking for a guitarist, and he acted like finally finding her was the worst thing to ever happen.
“What is Shawn’s problem ever?” Joel asks, flipping through one of my notebooks. We’re at opposite ends of the couch, separated by a mountain of homework, since, under the arrangement I made with my professors in order to extend my Easter vacation, I need to finish all of my assignments and turn them in before I leave to go home. Like I haven’t been struggling enough with this crap as it is.
“He was being weird,” I argue.
“He’s always weird.”
I turn my attention back to the over-warm laptop resting on my crisscrossed legs, giving up on the Shawn conversation. “Do you think Kit is pretty?”
Joel’s gaze swings up from my notebook, and when I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, he gives me a one-sided grin. “Not prettier than you.”
I roll my eyes at him, trying to control the smile threatening to bloom across my face. “So you think she’s pretty,” I challenge, giving my attention back to my laptop.
“I prefer heels over combat boots.”
“So you noticed what she was wearing.”
Joel laughs and leans forward to close my laptop. “I think if you want to have make-up sex, you should just say so instead of picking a fight.”
“You’re an ass,” I say.
“You’re a—”
I flick a threatening finger into the air, and he grins.
“What, are we not fighting anymore?”
I glare at him, and he chuckles, settling back against the opposite arm of the couch as I open my laptop back up.
“I was going to say ‘a goddess among men.’ ”
With my attention back on my screen, I snort out a laugh. “By all means, continue then.”
“A rose in a garden full of weeds.”
“What else?”
“A . . . plum . . . on a tree full of . . . bananas . . .”
I chuckle at my laptop. “Maybe leave the songwriting to Adam.”
“Made you smile,” he teases, and I quickly whitewash my expression. “Still smiling,” he says again, and I shoot him a look, rolling my eyes at the way he’s grinning at me, but he’s right—there’s no disguising the smile on my face and it’s pointless for me to keep trying.
Joel and I fall into a comfortable silence while I type my paper and he divides his attention between his phone, the TV, the cookies on his lap, and my notebook. Eventually, my paper-writing is interrupted by him asking, “Did you draw this?” He holds my notebook out for me to see, and I pale when I realize he’s stumbled onto one of the high-fashion designs I sketched during class. I never intended for anyone to see those—him least of all.
“Yeah,” I answer, all of my energy concentrated on not freaking out.
“Dee, this is really good.” He continues flipping through the pages, and my fingers itch to yank the notebook out of his hands. It’s like he’s reading my freaking diary right in front of my face, but I know doing anything about it will just make it an even bigger deal than it already is. “Damn . . . this one is hot.”
Too curious to resist, I peek over at him and say, “Which one?”
Joel turns the notebook toward me again, and this time it’s open to a sketch I did of a dress. It’s basically just a slightly longer and more fitted version of the shirts I’ve been making, but it would require some measuring and sewing, neither of which I’ve ever really done before with the exception of those last-minute birthday capes and a sixth-grade home sciences project that can’t even count because Rowan did most of my work.
“You should make this,” Joel says.
“I can’t.”
His brow scrunches. “Why not?”
“I’ve never made a dress before.”
“That’s a shitty reason to not try something.”
When I don’t respond—because how can I?—he goes back to flipping through pages, and my stomach coils into another knot with each and every sketch he looks at.
“Aren’t you still trying to pick a major?” he asks with his focus still glued to my notebook.
Guessing where he’s going with his question, I answer, “Fashion isn’t a major at my school.”
“Then maybe you’re at the wrong school.” When he glances my way, I’m nibbling on the inside of my lip, wondering if he’s right and trying not to wonder about it. “I think there’s a fashion school here in town, actually. You should apply . . .”
“Know what I think?” I ask, and he flashes me a smile since he knows I’m going to say something smart. “I think you think too much.”
Joel gives a little chuckle and says, “I’ve also been thinking about what to draw you for your birthday. Am I allowed to think about that?”
“It’s over a month away . . . but yes.” If all he ever thought about was buying me presents, we’d be a match made in heaven.
“What do you want me to draw?”
“I don’t know . . . something special.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Make it a surprise.”
“I think I can do that,” he says with a soft smile. I go back to typing, and he adds, “You’re going to miss me so much while you’re gone.”
I am, but that’s for me to know. “You’re going to miss me more.”