A blast of reverb sounded from the other end of the bar, and I saw three skinny guys had taken the stage, dragging on their amps and looking winded. “Hey,” one of them said, wincing at the microphone’s feedback. He had curly blond hair and a guitar slung around his neck. “We’re the Henry Gales. Thanks so much for having us.” The drummer counted off  “One, two, three, four,” and they launched into a somewhat shaky first few chords before they found their rhythm.

I realized after half a verse that I knew the lyrics, could anticipate what was coming next. It took until the chorus for me to recognize that they were playing “Truth in the Dark,” a song that had been on Frank’s last running mix. And though I hadn’t admitted it to Frank, I actually really liked the song, and found myself mouthing the words of the chorus along with the band. I picked up my phone and took a picture to show Frank later. I knew I could have texted it to him, but I had a feeling that would lead to lots of questions I didn’t really want to answer at the moment, questions like Why are you in a bar?

I felt myself lean back into my chair, taking a sip of my Diet Coke, realizing with some surprise that this might actually be fun.

An hour later, the band had announced the end of their set after a drum solo that had gone on just a little too long, and I felt like I’d be more than able to cross Penelope off the list. I nodded at Jared as I slid off my stool and headed toward the door, the last song they’d played—I was pretty sure it was about Kansas, though the lead singer could really have worked on his enunciation—repeating in my head. I was making my way toward the exit when I noticed a blond girl near the doorway, talking to one of the waitresses. They were both looking at me. I glanced away, figuring that maybe their eyes had just landed on me for a second, but when I looked back, they were both still staring. And now the waitress was pointing directly at me.

My heart started to thud, and it was like all the other times I’d been scared in my life had just been for practice, because this was the real thing. Somehow, someone had found out that I was underage, and I was going to get hauled into jail. It would go on my permanent record, and then I’d never get into college—

The blond woman nodded and started walking right toward me, and I realized that I only had a tiny window to make it to the door, so I hustled across the room as fast as I could in my dress and heels. I had just stepped outside, the bouncer looking up at me, when I heard someone yell, “Hey! Penelope!”

Even though I probably should have just kept walking, I turned around and saw the girl was standing right behind me. This was actually happening. This was real.

She was petite, with long hair and a heart-shaped face, which didn’t seem to fit with the angry scowl she was currently directing right at me. “You thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you?”

“Look,” I said, taking another step away, feeling how wobbly my ankles were in the heels. “I’m really sorry. I just didn’t—”

“You didn’t think I’d find out?” She was suddenly right there, in my face.

“Find out what?” the bouncer asked, standing up, suddenly seeming more huge than ever. I braced myself for it, for her to tell him that I was underage, that they should call the cops.

“This is the skank who’s been hooking up with Jared.” I was so relieved to hear this that I felt myself smile, which I realized a second later, had really not been the right reaction. “You think something’s funny?” she asked.

“No,” I said quickly. “Nothing. I’m just—that’s not me.”

“Jared has been cheating on me with some skank named Penelope,” the girl yelled. “I know it. I’ve checked his phone, you know.”

“Not that Penelope,” the bouncer said, surprising me—and the girl, judging by her reaction. “That Penelope’s got, like, really big hair.”

“Carl,” the girl said, sounding crestfallen. “You knew about this?”

I took my opportunity to leave and hurried down the street, my heart still pounding hard, but not with fear this time. It was more like I could feel adrenaline coursing through my body as I headed toward my car. I had done it. I had gone to a bar and ordered drinks and been mistaken for a skank and almost gotten into a fight. It all felt strangely triumphant, and the only thing I wanted to do was tell someone about it. I pulled out my phone as I crossed the lot to the Volvo, texting as I walked.

Hungry? Diner in 15? I just crossed off #5.

Frank was already there when I walked in, sitting in a booth facing the door, a plate of fries for us to share in the center of the table. I’d texted Dawn, too, but she was out on a delivery and I found I didn’t mind that it was just me and Frank. As I got closer, he saw me and his eyebrows flew up. I caught my reflection in the glass window that faced the street, and understood why. I was wearing a short, tight dress and heels, too much makeup, and my hair carefully styled, when most other people in the diner were in jeans.

“Hey,” I said casually, sliding into the booth across from him and helping myself to a fry, like this was just a totally normal evening, like this was what I wore to help my mother clean out the fridge.

Frank was still staring at me, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “And just what are you supposed to be?”

I gave him a pleased-to-meet-you smile. “Penelope Entwhistle,” I said. “Twenty-one Miller’s Crossing, Reno. It’s a pleasure.”

I saw understanding begin to dawn on his face, and I pulled out my phone and slid it across the table toward him, the screen showing the Henry Gales rocking out. Frank looked down at it and then back at me, his jaw falling open. “Okay,” he said. “Talk.”

“So,” I began, “I was at McKenzie’s—”

“The bar?” Frank asked, looking surprised.

“Yeah,” I said, blasé, like this was no big deal. Frank just looked at me evenly, and I felt myself break, laughing, knowing I wouldn’t be able to keep it up around him. “I know,” I said. “And I was terrified I was going to get kicked out. . . .” I took another fry, then leaned across the table and started to tell him the story.

9

BREAK SOMETHING

“How long is this going to take?” Beckett whined, kicking one sneaker against the other.