4- the music
The music thumps fast and deep and loud. It’s an amped-up Zero 7 remix that most people here haven’t heard but I’m particularly fond of. Mel, owner of The Strip Mall, gives me a lot of leeway to play what I want. Over the past six months, I’ve proven that the place won’t empty out if the people can’t mouth along to the songs. Quite the opposite, actually. Friday night attendance has increased, from what I hear. They keep me on the schedule, so I must be doing something right. A bunch of my classmates come, and the club has become popular with the Somerset College kids who think anything played on the radio is garbage. They think I’m “enlightened,” which I think is hilarious. All I do is play music I like.
I hold one half of my headphones to my ear and queue up my next track. The songs transition seamlessly, thanks to a swirly filler beat I put in between songs that shifts and builds to the next. Transitions are when everything could go wrong, and the only part of my set that’s all me. I move to the pulse of music, filling up those empty, hungry parts of the night, of me.
The energy of the packed dance floor floods my veins, pounds through my bones, but there’s a weird agitation to the floor tonight, as if everyone is dancing slightly off beat. The clientele is usually docile, but two guys have already been kicked out—one for threatening the bartender and another for punching a guy who bumped into his girlfriend. A few others got stern warnings. None of this is typical. The Strip Mall’s bouncers usually stand around bored out of their minds. Tonight, they’re prowling the floor, watching the crowd with sharp eyes.
My gaze flickers over the unsettled floor as I fade in a six-minute house remix I made myself last week. I signal Deno, who works the booth with me, to adjust the pre-amp settings. There’s some weird feedback going on.
Aside from Deno and Lacey, no one knows I am Sparo, the Friday night DJ. It blows my mind, honestly. I never let anyone near enough to look at me closely, but just in case, the lighting is set up to make it hard to get a good view at the girl in the booth. Plus, my outfit is pretty intense. Six-inch platform boots make me super tall, and my transformation includes an array of wigs, massive green sunglasses, and about three pounds of makeup. If my dad saw me in full Sparo gear, he’d die. Thankfully, he’s given up asking to see my set. “A lot of teenagers,” and “very loud music,” were both effective in deflecting him. Instead, I make him playlists for his iPod.
Most patrons are looking more at one another’s asses than at me, but I thought someone eventually would see through my disguise. I figured Deno would blow my cover or people would figure it out, since we’re together so much in and out of school, but no. It helps that Deno is always here. The Strip Mall is his second home. He assists three other DJs and fills in whenever the owner has an empty shift. He could have his own set if he didn’t prefer working behind the scenes.
Someone appears at the booth for another song request. I glance over and see Kiera Shaw, writing her song on the Post-it note Deno gives anyone with a request. She would lose her mind if she knew Sparo is me—Angie Dovage—the “little freak” she likes to spew verbal bile on. It’s been three days since her lunchroom humiliation. I’m over it, but I cannot wait until I don’t have to see her face every day.
Kiera hands the yellow Post-it over and tries to peek around him to get a look at me. Deno deftly blocks her view, but I’m not worried. Sparo looks way older than seventeen and nothing like me, anyway. My shoulder-length hair is hidden under a vivid purple wig and huge headphones. Angie doesn’t wear lipstick, but Sparo’s lips are slicked up Blow-Pop pink. Sparo’s clothes are flamboyant, weird, colorful, while Angie wears dark, don’t-notice-me clothes. I like to think maybe somewhere in between Sparo and Angie is me.
Deno hands me Kiera’s request with raised brows. It doesn’t matter what she requests or how many Post-its she hands Deno—I’m not playing her requests. I ball it up and flick it to the floor, and Deno firmly waves her off. She makes a pouty face, says something to Deno, and then huffs away. A smile tugs at my lips. It’s not nice of me, but I do enjoy denying her. She shouldn’t get everything she wants.
She returns to her group of friends. A guy comes up behind them with a cup in each hand. He hands one to Kiera, and the smile falls off my face.
It’s him. Reece. Here with Kiera Shaw. We share a few classes and lunch, but we haven’t spoken since his first day. His mom, or someone, drives him to school, I guess, because that champagne Lexus rolled by while I walked to the bus stop every day. It had been a relief and a disappointment to not face him every morning. I wasn’t sure if he was giving me space after the lunchroom incident, or if he decided I was too much of a social liability, or if he was just busy. Whatever the reason, I must have misread him. Maybe that connection I thought we had was another thing my head invented.
Still. I hadn’t thought he’d want to hang out with Kiera after what she said. He’d appeared upset at that. But that’s the problem these days: few things are what they appear.
My teeth gnash. I guess Kiera does always get what she wants. She sips her drink and starts to dance, like on him. He does shift away, but whatever. He’s here with her. The next song I was planning on was a chill tune, perfect for slower dancing, but instead, I queue up something angry and fast. Probably not going to ease the edgy vibe in here, but I won’t make it easy for Kiera.
Deno notices the change in the playlist and gives me a puzzled look.
I shake my head, but Deno can see my scowling brow above my glasses. His gaze traces the general path mine had just been on, and his brows go up. Kiera. Her friends. Reece. Obviously, Reece. Deno is thick sometimes, easily distracted, but can tune in at the most inopportune times. He leans in close. “You can’t play techno for the next hour and a half just to keep those two from dancing.”
My face burns. I should have hidden my reaction better. I shouldn’t have reacted at all. Denial isn’t an option with Deno. “Watch me,” I say.
But instead of frowning, he lets out a chuckle. “My-oh-my. I’d say it’s confirmed that our little Angie has finally found a boy she likes. A sporty boy.” He sighs. “I just lost a bet, you know.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask who he made a bet with, but it’s undoubtedly Lacey. I start up the next track, a sexy downtempo tune that’s impossible to not slow dance to. “Fine. Now we can stand here and watch them make out. Happy?”
He looks out on the crowd again. The smile on his face twists with mischievous delight. “Not about losing a twenty-dollar bet, but cheer up, kid. Your boy’s not making out with anyone. He’s headed straight for you.”
I wobble on my platform shoes. “What?”
Deno stretches. His grin goes Cheshire wide. “I need to take a piss. Be back in five. Or ten.”
“No! Don’t you dare—” I grab for his arm, but he skips out of my grasp.
“Thank me later,” he tosses back, just before disappearing.
Reece doesn’t come around the side like he’s supposed to and, with Deno gone, there’s no point. He’s so tall, he doesn’t have a problem leaning over the speakers and mixer to get my attention.
“Hey,” he says—shouts.
I hold up a finger, finish setting up a transition sequence that totally could have waited, before tilting my head at him. Even with my big, green glasses, he’s got a pretty good view of me, which makes me nervous. I will kill Deno when he returns.
Reece’s eyes are amused, like he knows I’m stalling. “I want to make a request.”
Without speaking, I hand him the Post-it pad and a pen. His fingers brush mine, and I swear he does it on purpose. He wouldn’t be the first guy here to do it, but he’s the first to send tingles marching up my arm.
Reece scribbles something on the pad and hands it back to me. I stare at him, jaw slowly hinging open. In the six months I’ve been a DJ here, no one has requested this song. Given what I experienced with him at the bus stop a few days ago, his request is more than a little unsettling. The song on the Post-it, sprawled in slanted Sharpie, is Black Wing.
“You want me to play this?” I look at him, unable to hide my surprise.
A smile plays at his lips. “Do you know it? It’s a little obscure. The guys I came here with said you had an extensive library, so…” He gives a slight, self-conscious shrug.
The guys I came here with. So he didn’t come with Kiera. My heart does an uncomfortable flip in my chest. I have this song. I love this song. I’ve remixed it twice myself. It is obscure, and one of my favorites. But still…
“Black Wing.”
I really hope this song isn’t some sort of message. I swallow thickly. “Do you want the original or one of the remixes?”
“Which remixes do you have?” He grins. “Never mind. You choose.”
I nod and turn away from him. This is usually when the civilians—even the odd ones—move along, go back to the dance floor, but Reece leans closer and cocks his head at me. He smells like Pepsi and fresh air and all I want to do is lean in and breathe deep. “Hey, you look kind of familiar,” he says. “Do I know you?”
What? We’re done here. If he sees through my disguise… I’m not ready for that. I wave him off, trying to keep my voice from revealing my jumpy nerves. “Go. Play with the other kids.”
He backs up, but his black eyes continue to study me like I’m a weird vanity license plate he’s trying to decode. I swing back to my laptop with gritted teeth.
Sloppy. I almost missed the end of the song. Almost had dead air. My fingers fly over the mixer, fading in a makeshift beat to bridge to the next song.
Deno returns, making a show of adjusting his pants. He grins, eyebrows raised and palms out as if to say Where’s my thank-you?
“Yeah. That was great,” I snap at him. “Very professional.”
“Admit it. You’re secretly thrilled I did that.”
Maybe I am. I’m also relieved that Deno isn’t being weird about it. It’s pretty obvious now that I am interested in Reece. Seriously, I couldn’t have bungled that more. “Don’t ever do that again. Or you’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me.”
Damn it, he’s right. He’s the one who talked the owner into giving me a shot here. If anything, he could probably fire me.
“I still think he’s weird,” he says.
He’s not wrong.
“Hey, you must have done something right. He’s not dancing with Kiera.”
I don’t look up. I can’t. Won’t. “What’s he doing?”
Deno’s brows draw together in confusion. “Why don’t you just look?”
He’s not being a smart-ass this time, so I do. Reece is no longer with Kiera, and it’s disturbing how happy I am about it. He’s on the other side of the room, talking with a couple of seniors on the hockey team. Kiera glances at him once, twice, then flips her hair and doesn’t look at him again. She’s never worked for a boy’s attention. Eventually, he’ll come back to her. They always do.
But Reece Fernandez doesn’t appear interested in getting Kiera’s attention. He mimics the other boys’ loose postures, leaning back against the bar. One of them raises a cup and laughs at something Reece says.
My mouth is dry and my hands shake a little, but I queue up Reece’s song. It’s something I never do—play a request right after receiving it—but here I am, sending a message to him.
Reece tips back his Pepsi like it’s a beer and splays his fingers over the rim of his cup. I puzzle over some bizarre hand gestures between him and the guys he’s talking with until I deduce the topic is sports—hockey, naturally.
His song starts. Reece’s head whips up. He looks at me from across the room, and I feel it like a touch. His teeth flash white in a smile that sends a pleasant tingle straight down to my toes. It’s all I wanted, his eyes on me. His smile, for me.
In that moment, there’s nothing else. Nothing but flashing black eyes and a slow smile and the hectic thud of my pounding heart.
But prowling in the back of my mind is another scene.
Reece surrounded by inky feathers and curved talons. Long, sleek beaks caressing his cheeks, playing with his hair, plucking gently at his coat.
“Black Wing.”
He smiles then, too.