I’m about to say something, but Fiona nudges me out of the way of the mirror and wipes some black eye shadow under her own eyes. I guess she sees the confusion on my face because she says, “Don’t worry, Emily. I checked out the Romero band website and this is exactly how we should look.”
“Okay,” I say, and watch as she cuts some holes in her dress, and then approaches me with the scissors. “If you say so.”
We take a cab to the Electric Factory — a humongous old building converted into a concert space, just underneath the Ben Franklin Bridge. The parking lot is packed with kids and showgoers, singing lyrics along with car stereos to songs I don’t know. Fiona loops her arm through mine and takes off toward the entrance. No one else has makeup done like ours. More than a few people turn and stare at us. Fiona throws her shoulders back. She really does relish the attention. But I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it. In some ways, it’s nice to be invisible.
“Are we meeting Robyn and Adrian inside?” I ask. I have no idea how that’ll happen. Considering the size of the crowd outside, the place must be packed. I had thought that we would pick up Adrian and Robyn in the taxi, but Fiona gave the directions to the driver, and we sped right past Broad Street, where the dorms are.
Fiona threads her fingers into mine and squeezes. “Come on. Let’s see if we can find Yates.”
We go inside and it’s not nearly as crowded as I thought it would be. “Where is everyone?”
“Romero is the opening band, and most people don’t give a shit about the opening band. In a couple of months, when they make it big, all these people will be crowding to the stage. It’s ridiculous, how people judge talent. Or, rather, don’t judge. They just default to what everyone else thinks.”
The room is a huge raw rectangle, with a small balcony hanging over the right side. Speakers and lights dangle from the ceiling. An old crackly jazz song plays quietly through the space, dulling the voices of the people mingling and moving around for a good spot near the stage. There’s a bar in the back, and a folding table where a guy in tight jeans and a beanie sells T-shirts and CDs. Fiona walks toward the stage door.
Every time someone walks out, Fiona cranes her neck and rises on her tiptoes to see inside. But there’s no sign of Yates. Just a lot of burly-looking roadies and scantily clad girls in little camis and skirts. They look delicate and feminine, the exact opposite of us.
After a few minutes, the lights dim. The place is still barely half full. It all feels pretty anticlimactic.
Still, when I went to that summer radio concert last year with Meg on the Jersey Shore, we didn’t even bother going until the headliners would start … about three hours after the official concert start time. But the bad thing was we were stuck way out on the lawn. You couldn’t even see the bands play unless you looked at the JumboTron. They looked like tiny specks.
This place is much smaller, and it definitely changes the energy. About forty kids have gathered at the foot of the stage, anxiously staring up at a black velvet curtain, waiting for the show to begin. People with weird makeup and torn clothes, just like us. They don’t care at all that the place isn’t packed.
“Let’s see how close we can get!” Fiona says.
I’m about to suggest we stay where we are and wait for Robyn and Adrian, but Fiona takes my hand and pulls me through. It looks like a wall of people standing shoulder to shoulder, but somehow Fiona manages to sneak and snake her way until we are right at the stage’s edge. It’s about as high as where my ribs start. A few people give us the stink eye, but everyone makes room for us. The lights go completely dark. Feet stir around just under the edge of where the curtain skims the stage.
“Oh my God, we are so close!” I shout.
“This is going to be awesome!” Fiona shouts back.
A bass guitar strums out a low, fast beat. The people behind me start to growl at the curtain. Growl? I look at Fiona, embarrassed and caught off guard. She laughs and growls right in my face.
I turn and look over the five rows of people standing behind me. The rest of the place is empty, uninterested people waiting for the headliner, mingling toward the back of the venue. At least if Robyn and Adrian come in late, they’ll figure out where we are pretty easily.
And then, I turn back around, take a deep breath, and growl. I growl, and I don’t even know what for, but I growl. Though I think it might sound more like a purr. Fiona takes my hand and starts jumping up and down to the strumming beat, growling super loud. I let her bounce me along with her, and soon my growl grows so loud and low that I can feel my throat start to hurt in the best way.
The curtain lifts and the stage is empty, except for the drum set.
The strumming continues from some unseen place, thumping like a fast heartbeat. I look left and right for the source, for the hiding guitar player, but all I see are three muscular shirtless boys struggling with a pulley offstage. And then a large plywood helicopter is lowered from the stage. It’s like a prop from a low-budget movie — hokey, but that’s the point, I think. The crowd goes absolutely crazy for it.
Inside the helicopter are the band members — five adorable punk-looking boys with guitars, a keyboard, and a set of drumsticks attached to them like weapons. When the helicopter crashes to the stage floor, they climb out and survey the crowd.
The crowd’s growling intensifies. People throw their arms up and shuffle forward, pressing into my back, pushing me closer and closer into the stage until I worry that I might actually be crushed to death.
“What’s going on?” I shout at Fiona. I spread my legs and try to anchor myself against the surge.
“It’s punk theater!” she screams back.
The lead singer commandeers the microphone — a tall skinny boy with white-blond hair, dressed in head-to-toe camouflage. “Get back, zombies!” he screams. And then the band puts on their “weapons” and, after a speedy countdown of “three two one” tapped out on drumsticks, they rock intensely. And by that, I mean Romero makes the most insane, fast-paced, hardcore music that I’ve ever heard in my life.
Everyone around us begins to dance and thrash like wild. I’m nervous at first, but then I let the whole thing take control of me and shake along with it (the music) and them (the crowd zombies), until I’m spinning and jumping and generally just freaking out. Fiona grabs me and we smile and scream in each other’s faces, and even though I’m supposed to be dead, I’m more alive than ever.
Four songs into the set, I am dripping with sweat. In the quiet space between one song ending and another beginning, I long for more. The lead singer announces that this is the last song and everyone awws. A hand taps my shoulder and I turn around. Robyn is standing behind me, totally pissed off. Adrian lurks in the background behind her, trying his best not to get pulled into a pit of pogo-ing zombies.
“Why didn’t you pick us up?” Robyn says to me. Her hands are shaking.
“Umm …” I tap Fiona for her, because she’s just out of Robyn’s reach.
“Hey,” Fiona says, and turns back toward the stage.
Robyn leans in past me and grabs at Fiona’s shoulder. “What the hell? Why didn’t you come pick us up?”
“I thought we were meeting here,” Fiona says.
I think Fiona’s lying about that, but I don’t say anything.
“Don’t you check your phone?” Robyn says.
The finale gets started. Everyone is dancing. Everyone but the four of us. I understand why Robyn is upset, but I hate her for stealing this last song from me. I don’t even have her cell phone number, so what do I have to do with these messed-up plans? Fiona holds her cell up to her ear in the noise and shrugs, like, How am I supposed to hear that?
Robyn shakes her head and storms off with Adrian.
I feel bad, because I know exactly what’s going on. The unwanted feeling. So I chase after them. Fiona follows me, grudgingly. Robyn stands over by the wall, arms folded. Adrian is right next to her.
Fiona cozies up to him. �
��Do you hate me as much as Robyn does?”
“I don’t care,” Adrian says, in a long, slow drawl that shows he obviously cares. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his shorts. He doesn’t want to melt. And in a way, I kind of don’t want him to melt, either. I know Fiona has no intention of making out with him tonight. She’s after Yates. I feel a bit bad that she’s essentially leading Adrian on, flirting with him so that he won’t be mad at her anymore.
“Listen, I’m sorry that plans got messed up. We can still have a good time.” Fiona throws her hand up for a high five. When neither Adrian or Robyn slaps her back, she slaps her own hand. Hard and annoyed. “Fine, whatever. Let’s just go.”
I can’t believe Fiona’s going to leave without seeing Yates first. I know she doesn’t want to, but I’m glad she offers.
The last song ends, the crowd cheers. When the lights go up, and the zombie people go back to being normal again, Yates appears at the stage door. “Hey, guys!” he calls out. He waves four yellow plastic wristbands in his hand. “Do you want to come backstage?”
Any sympathy that Fiona might have had for Robyn and Adrian vanishes from her face. “Hells yeah, we do!” Fiona says. She strips her arm from around Adrian and skips toward the door.
The opportunity seems to rid Robyn of most her gloom, though Adrian seems more skeptical. We all follow Fiona anyhow.
The backstage area is much less glamorous than I imagined it would be. It’s just a windowless room no bigger than our classroom. The boys from the band are there, stripping down to their underwear and changing into dry clothes. A battered leather couch is shoved against a wall, next to a cooler filled with beer. I decide not to take one even though my throat is raw from growling. I feel uncomfortable drinking in front of Yates, since he’s still our teacher and all. But Fiona helps herself without asking.
“So, you made that helicopter?” she asks Yates, cracking a beer open. “It was so rad!”
I’m impressed, too. Yates, the same guy who makes those incredible photo-paintings, can also make a helicopter prop for a punk band.
Yates’s face tightens for a second, but then he turns his back to Fiona and looks more relaxed. “Yeah. I guess I’m Romero’s resident special effects guy.” He looks at me, sitting on the couch. “Did you guys like the show?”
“What I saw of it was cool,” Adrian says, and shoots Fiona a glare.
“Does Romero ever have shows in New York?” Robyn asks the band. “It’s too bad CBGB closed, because I could see you guys playing there. My friend’s dad owns a couple of bars on the Lower East Side. Maybe he could book you some shows.” The lead singer breaks off and starts talking to Robyn, near the door. I watch Fiona watching them, her lip curling a little.
“What did you like best about the show?” Yates asks me.
I feel put on the spot, like I’m in class or something. “I don’t know … everything?” I say, and then fall onto the couch.
“Come on,” Yates says, smiling at me. “When I first saw these guys, I didn’t know whether to rock out or run screaming. So, tell me. I want to know what you think.”
“She loved it,” Fiona says. Then she drops into my lap like a kid and kisses me on the cheek. “But you should have seen how freaked out she was when I was doing her makeup. She had absolutely no idea what Romero meant.”
Fiona’s laughter rings in my ears. My face gets hot. She’s right. I don’t know what it means, and I’m definitely not going to ask now, now that I’ve been called out in front of everyone. I know Fiona thinks it’s cute how much I don’t know, but in front of everyone else, it’s incredibly embarrassing.
Yates sits down next to me. “I had no idea, either, Emily, so don’t feel bad. But the band is named after George Romero, director of those creepy Night of the Living Dead zombie movies. I could get you a CD if you wanted. All of you,” he says, even though he’s only looking at me.
I manage a thin smile. “Thanks.”
We all hang out for a while longer, talking while some music execs drop by to chat with Romero, and then everyone goes to the wing of the stage to watch the headliner band perform. They’re good, but no Romero. None of the fans are dancing or anything. They just stand there, rocking ever so gently to the beat. The music is quiet and pretty, but too measured.
Even though I keep my eyes on the band, I can still tell that Yates is looking at me. And Fiona’s on my other side, watching him. It makes me insanely uncomfortable. I wish I could just disappear. I don’t understand why Yates isn’t paying more attention to Fiona. She can get nasty when someone takes her spotlight. I’ve seen it firsthand with Robyn. I don’t want her anger to move over to me.
After a while, Robyn, Fiona, and I leave to use the bathroom. Even though the room is lit with red lightbulbs and the mirror is dirty and cracked, I can still see that my makeup has run all over my face from the sweat. I rip a length of rough brown paper towel from out of the dispenser and wet it under the faucet.
“I think Yates likes you,” Robyn teases as she perches herself up on the sink next to me.
Fiona goes inside an empty stall and shuts the door fast.
I give Robyn as hard a look as I can. “He does not.”
“I’m serious! I keep catching him staring at you. You can’t tell me you don’t feel it.” Her head dips back and she smacks her forehead. “I mean, he’s been flirting with you ever since that first day of class. Remember?”
I close my eyes and splash water over my face. “No,” I say. And then, “You’re wrong.” I make my voice as defiant and stern as possible, so Robyn shuts up and Fiona knows that I am not asking for any of this.
The stall door swings open without the sound of a flush. Fiona walks to the sink and washes marker ink from her hand. In the mirror I see the outline of the toilet drawn on the side of the stall door. “Robyn’s right,” she says. “He likes you.” Her voice sounds surprisingly even.
I feel like I’ve unintentionally betrayed her.
“Don’t look so sad,” Fiona says, in that Big Sister voice.
“But —”
“Yates isn’t my type. He’s too … introverted. I mean, can he speak in a normal voice, or does he always have to mumble like that? And sure his work is cool, but he’s also a huge suck-up. He’s so afraid to break the rules, he barely wants to be seen with us. Come on, dude. It’s not that big a deal. No one’s going to tattle on you. Live a little.”
“I … I feel weird. I mean, he’s still my teacher.” And also, as of a few hours ago, Yates and Fiona were inevitable. Is she really over him that quickly?
“You were telling me to hook up with him before!”
“I know … but that’s someone like you,” I say.
Fiona shakes her head knowingly, and leans into the mirror to apply some more lipstick. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you make it happen. Just follow my lead.” She stares at Robyn as she presses her lips together to spread the shiny red around.
We return to the backstage area. My mind is swimming. Fiona liked Yates so much, but she basically gave me her blessing to pursue him. Not only her blessing, but her help, too. Honestly, this makes me feel so amazing. If a guy can’t come between us, I guess we really are friends. Friends for real. It’s almost a stronger bond than I have with Meg. It’s crazy to think how far we’ve come in so short a time. How far I have come.
Yates stands up and makes room for me on the couch. As I sit down, I feel like everyone’s watching. Fiona makes a beeline for Adrian in the corner, where he’s chatting with some of the boys in the band. My heart skips a beat for him, thinking maybe now he has a chance with Fiona. But instead, she pushes past him and touches the arm of Romero’s lead singer, the same boy that Robyn was talking to before. Robyn stops dead in the middle of the room and watches, her mouth ever so slightly open.
Fiona inches closer, tickling his cheek with her long lock of blue hair. “You should let me do some backup growling on your next record. I’m really, really good at growling.”
“We’re leaving,” Robyn says.
“No. Guys, stay. Come on.”
Adrian shoots daggers across the room. “I’d rather poke my eyes out with a dull pencil.”
“Listen,” I say, and lead them away from Yates. “Please stay. You know how she gets sometimes.” I don’t want to sound like I’m talking bad about Fiona, but it is the truth. “She likes attention.”
“You can tell Fiona I said ‘screw you,’” Robyn says to me, but so loud it carries across the room.
If Fiona hears, she certainly doesn’t show it. Her face is locked against the lead singer’s. She guides his hands onto her hips. She growls for him.
I don’t kiss Yates.
There are a few times when I think it might happen, when we’re talking but not actually having a conversation. At least not one that’s registering. It’s more like we’re both spitting out words to pass the time until one of us has the courage to lean in.
But neither of us does.
He says to me, “This TA thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” and he sighs and raises his arms up for a stretch, lacing and cracking his fingers and giving me a glimpse of those horseshoe tattoos on his inner biceps. I feel lucky.
But I don’t want Yates to risk getting in trouble. The attraction — the urge — is there. But it’s held back by the caution. There isn’t even a place for us to be alone backstage. There are no secrets here, and this would need to be a secret.
So I try to enjoy the flirtation of it all, the fact that I have his attention, until finally the show ends and the after party breaks up and Fiona and I go back to her apartment. For once, I understand completely why Fiona’s obsessed with having all eyes on her. It does feel like a drug, or like helium, making you lighter.
We’re both pretty tired. Fiona kicks some random stuff on her floor into a pile near the wall, and then unfolds a foam chair into a thin twin mattress for me. She lends me a pair of pajama pants and wraps a spare pillow in a T-shirt, because she can’t find any clean pillowcases in the linen closet. It’s too hot for a blanket, so I use a sheet.
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