“Oh, come on.”
“I couldn’t stop shaking, I was pitchy . . .”
“That’s just nerves. They’ll look past it.”
“I don’t think so.” I shake my head. “The guy who auditioned before me was perfect. Solid band material.”
Annie flicks her hand. “Perfection is overrated.”
I don’t bother to point out the irony of Annie, perfection personified, uttering those words.
“Anyway . . .” I sigh. “I’d like to forget the whole thing ever happened, if that’s okay with you.”
“That is absolutely not okay with me. Why don’t you ask Levi for a second chance?”
“Sure,” I say. “Because one time wasn’t enough trauma for me. I need to relive it.”
“Victoria Cruz.”
“It’s over,” I say, forcing a shrug. “And I’m fine with it.”
Annie leans back in her seat and shakes her head at me. “You always do that.”
I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of asking, but I can’t help myself. “Do what?”
“You clam up when you’re upset.”
“I don’t ‘clam up.’ I just don’t want to dwell on the negative. It’s unhealthy.”
“And stifling your emotions is healthy?”
“When did you become a shrink?” I don’t point out that she would make the worst shrink imaginable. She’s a ticking time bomb of anxiety.
“We can figure this out,” she urges. “We can look for Levi during lunch. We’ll stake him out.”
“No. No way.”
“We can make it look like you ran into him by accident!”
“Annie. No.” I try to sound as firm as possible, like I’m disciplining a dog for chewing up a pair of shoes. Maybe Annie will respond to that since she won’t listen to human logic. Besides, I can’t imagine anything more embarrassing than stalking Levi and begging him for a second chance. It would be the most pathetic of pathetic moves.
“Why are you giving up on this?” she asks me. “I thought you wanted it.”
“I did. I do. But it’s not meant to be.”
“You can’t sit around and wait for things to happen. That’s your problem. You complain about things, but you don’t do anything to fix them.”
“I auditioned, didn’t I?” I retort. “I auditioned and I failed, end of story. Now drop it. Please.”
Annie purses her lips and sticks her chin in the air, the way she always does when she gets huffy. “Whatever you say, Victoria.”
* * *
We take our lunches outside today. Annie is momentarily distracted by the latest school gossip, so she drops the topic of my audition failure. I’m thankful to avoid another lecture on pursuing my dreams at all costs. Today Annie’s on about how a teacher caught Ethan Ackerman passing Brittany Moore a dirty note during class.
“He’s so skeevy,” Annie says as she offers me a crouton.
“They are dating,” I point out, popping it into my mouth.
“So? Can’t they wait until after school to skank it up?”
“What did the note actually say?”
“Something about having sex in the bathroom.” She shudders.
It’s still hard for me to wrap my mind around anything sex related, considering I haven’t even kissed anyone yet. Talk about sexually stunted. Annie shares my lack of sexual experience, but she knows more than I do. She’s like a walking Wikipedia. Her brain stores all kinds of information, like how to waterproof your shoes and the names of every Barry Manilow album.
It’s been exactly two minutes since I’ve thought about the audition, thanks to Brittany and Ethan. Everything is as it should be.
Then Krina shows up and the world is unpredictable again.
Annie is the first to look up, eyes bulging as she takes in Krina’s Mohawk.
“Hey,” Krina says, like her appearance at our lunch spot is a normal occurrence. She plops down on the grass in front of me and Annie without asking permission.
“Hey . . . ,” I manage to reply, and Annie nudges me.
“Oh, right,” I say. “Krina, this is Annie. Annie, Krina’s the drummer in the band.”
“Nice to meet you,” Annie says formally.
Krina nods and pops the tab of her soda. The two couldn’t look more different. Annie is polished and prim, while Krina is . . . Krina. Multiple body piercings, grungy appearance, devil-may-care attitude. It’s like watching the sun meet the moon.
The three of us sit there in horrible silence. Inside, I’m screaming, begging Krina for answers. If she’s here to tell me I didn’t make the band, she should do it quickly. Dragging it out like this is just cruel.
Annie abandons her salad to gawk at Krina. “I helped Vi with her audition,” she suddenly announces, and I literally feel like I want to die.
Now Krina will know that my audition wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment mess, it was a rehearsed mess. That’s even worse. It tells her that the kind of screwing up I do takes practice.
“Is that so?” Krina asks. She looks Annie up and down with amusement, the way you would look at a child who’s got a finger up his nose.
“Yup,” says Annie. “She’s got an amazing voice. She’d be a great addition to your band. To any band, really. She’s in high demand.”
Shut up, Annie. Please shut up. I try to zoom the message to her telepathically, but she barges ahead. She’s trying too hard, and I feel like a rundown house being pitched to a reluctant buyer.
“How did you feel about your audition?” Krina asks me.
Is that a trick question? Does what I feel matter? I want to pretend it never happened. I want to jump into a DeLorean and warn the past Victoria never to record the Lady Gaga song.
“I think it was . . . okay,” I reply carefully.
“I’m sure it was way better than okay,” Annie cuts in. She turns to Krina. “Victoria constantly underestimates herself.”
“I do not,” I argue. “I’m realistic.” I wish Annie would stop playing therapist, especially in front of Krina.
“What did you guys think of Vi’s audition?” Annie asks her. Just like that. So blatant, so to the point.
“You don’t need to answer her,” I tell Krina quickly. “I know it wasn’t . . . my best.”
Krina leans in, and I get a close-up view of the smoky black liner rimming her eyes.
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this,” she says to me in a low voice, “but you’re one of our top choices.”
“What?” I grab her wrist to steady myself. “You’re serious?” She eyes my hand warily until I yank it away.
“It’s not a done deal,” she warns.
“How do we make it one?” Annie asks.
Krina gives a throaty laugh. “Are you her agent or something?”
“Overbearing friend,” I answer before Annie can open her mouth again.
Krina twirls a metal ring around her thumb, looking from me to Annie. “I’m going to be honest.”
I nod, inwardly cringing. People only say that when bad news is coming.
“You’re talented,” she says. “That’s not a question. But you’re inexperienced. You need to work on your performance and managing your nerves.”
What can I say to that? Krina’s right. I’m a nervous wreck onstage.
“The voice is what matters,” Krina says. “And you have that.”
“So, what now?” I ask.
“We’re still figuring things out. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”
“Then why are you?” Annie asks.
Krina raises an eyebrow at her, which miraculously silences her. I’ve never seen anyone shut Annie down that easily. She turns back to me. “Because you can do better than what we saw.”
I look at her doubtfully.
“Look,” Krina continues, “if anyone asks, I didn’t tell you this, but we’re going to the Cave on Friday. I think you should be there.”
“What’s the Cave?” Annie asks.
“A
bar. Downtown.”
I wring my hands together. “But . . . I’m fifteen.”
“Your point?” Krina asks.
“How do we get in?”
“You don’t have a fake ID?”
“I, um . . . no.”
She closes her eyes and I feel like a world-class loser. “I’ll get you one. This guy I know charges fifty bucks.”
I’m not this girl. I play by the rules. But Krina is acting like it’s no big deal, and she’s watching me with that expectant look on her face, and this will help me make the band.
“Okay . . . ,” I say slowly, against all my better judgment. My mind is already running through the excuses I’ll have to give my parents about where I am on Friday.
“Okay,” Krina echoes. “What about you, Agent Annie? You in?”
Annie’s eyes widen with fear or anxiety or both. “Me?”
“You don’t have to,” I reassure her.
Annie will not set foot in this bar. She’s more of a goody-goody than I am, and even I’m not sure I can go through with all of this.
This is why I’m so shocked when she raises her hand to stop me and says to Krina, “Yeah. I’m in.”
Chapter Eight
“CROOKED CROWN”
—THE ANNIVERSARY
Krina finds us again at lunch on Friday, but she doesn’t stop to sit down. She drops an envelope onto the freshly manicured grass in front of us and walks off without a word. I grab it and slide it under my lunch tray.
“She’s so cool,” Annie says wistfully as she stares at Krina’s retreating form. “Do you think we’ll ever be that cool?”
I follow her gaze. “Definitely not.”
We’re so uncool that we don’t open the envelope until after school at Annie’s house. It’s the fear of Principal Tishman materializing out of nowhere to catch us with the incriminating IDs.
I tell my parents I’m sleeping over at Annie’s. Annie’s parents go to sleep at nine o’clock every night without fail, and their room is on another floor in the house. Annie assures me that we’ll be able to sneak out with no problem.
Annie lives up in Queens, in an older area dotted with picturesque brownstones and tree-lined streets. Her family is wealthy enough to afford the Evanston tuition, but not wealthy enough to live on the Upper West Side. Mom always says Annie’s family está forrado, which means they have enough money to not worry about money.
We’re holed up in Annie’s immaculate room, double the size of mine. There aren’t any posters tacked onto the walls, only framed pictures and shelves sagging under the weight of her trophy and plaque collection. Annie tears into the envelope and takes out the IDs, studying them with narrowed eyes.
“These are pretty good matches,” she remarks.
“Do they look like us?”
She passes mine over to me. The woman in the picture has slightly fuller lips and tanner skin, but we share the same wavy dark hair and brown eyes. She stares confidently into the camera without smiling. Her name is Natasha. Natasha Benitez. Natasha looks like someone who, unlike me, doesn’t give a damn. I wonder where Natasha is now, at this moment, and if she still doesn’t give a damn. Or has she been beaten down by life? Fallen victim to the treadmill like everyone else?
“Can I see yours?” I ask Annie, and we switch cards.
Annie’s ID belonged to a Mara Cheng, a pretty girl wearing heavy liquid eyeliner and a nose ring. Annie is not allowed to get any body part pierced until she’s eighteen, so she MacGyvers her way around the situation by cutting up a paperclip and clamping it around her nostril.
“We need to memorize this information in case the bouncer asks us any questions,” Annie instructs. “If we’re doing this, we’re going to do it right.”
In ten minutes we embody Mara and Natasha. Natasha is from Miami, Florida, a Leo, born on August third. Mara is a Sagittarius from Boston.
“Look what I bought for you,” says Annie, after she’s quizzed me multiple times on Natasha’s birthday. She pulls a pink box out from under her bed and tosses it to me. I open it and find a pair of what looks like chicken cutlets inside.
“They’ll make your boobs look much bigger,” she says.
I gape at her. “Have you lost it?”
“I’m trying to make you look twenty-one!”
“You realize there are twenty-one-year-olds with A cups, right?”
“Yes, but with some added cleavage the bouncer is less likely to stop you. You have a young face, you know.”
The cutlets are cold and jiggly in my hands. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Fine,” she replies. “Don’t blame me if you get thrown out.”
To argue is futile. I roll my eyes and stick the cutlets into my bra, actual boobs shivering on contact.
At a quarter to nine the Lins come to Annie’s room to wish us good night, and I can’t look into their faces. Annie and I have never done this before. We’re not good at being regular teenagers who don’t respect their parents. I actually like my parents a lot, even though they annoy the crap out of me. And I’ve known Mr. and Mrs. Lin for half my life, so I feel just as guilty lying to them, too.
When they finally leave Annie’s room, I can feel the oxygen returning to my lungs. We wait until we can hear the Lins ascend the creaky carpeted stairs and shut their bedroom door. Then Annie and I change into our preplanned outfits of crop tops, skirts, and boots. We trace our eyes with heavy black liner and wear vampy lipstick. Annie even adds bronzer to my cheekbones to replicate Natasha’s tan. When we examine ourselves in Annie’s full-length mirror, she nods in approval.
“We look like Mara and Natasha,” she declares.
I’m not so sure about that, but we definitely don’t look like Annie and Victoria.
It’s a liberating feeling, pretending to be someone else. It feels like anything is possible tonight, because it’s not Victoria’s night, it’s Natasha’s. In a strange way, I want to make her proud.
When we leave Annie’s house, I tell her, “I’m surprised you’re doing this.”
“Me too.” A nervous look flashes across her face, then quickly dissipates. We hold hands so we don’t lose our balance descending her front stoop.
“I mean, I’m doing it to get into the band,” I press, “but what’s your excuse?”
Annie hikes her purse onto her shoulder, looks straight ahead, and says, “Maybe tonight I want to take a break from being Annie.”
It never occurred to me that Annie might feel trapped sometimes too.
Chapter Nine
“LEFT HAND FREE”
—ALT-J
The Cave is loud, and I hear the thumping bass line and chatter of voices from blocks away. A long awning leads to a set of steps that descend into the underground bar. Sitting on a stool by the entrance is a surly-looking man with glazed, bloodshot eyes. I stop abruptly outside his range of vision.
“What’s wrong?” Annie slows beside me.
“I changed my mind,” I say. “Let’s go back to your place.”
“What?! Why?”
“Come on. We’ll wipe this makeup off, get in our pj’s, and watch crappy rom coms.”
Annie plants a hand on her hip. “You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Clamming up. Besides, I paid for these IDs, and we’re using them.”
Everything is too foreign, too overwhelming. The dark street corner, the smell of booze, the noise. I’m so far outside of my comfort zone that I can’t even see my comfort zone anymore. It’s a distant speck on the horizon.
“I don’t think I can pull this off,” I confess. “Can’t we get arrested for this? How the hell am I supposed to pass for twenty-one?”
“You have no reason to be nervous, okay? We studied. We’re prepared. Now tell me. What’s your name?”
“Natasha,” I say in a small voice.
“Say it like you mean it.”
I suck in my breath. “Natasha.”
“Yes! You are Natasha Benite
z! And do you know what Natasha Benitez would do right now?”
Natasha wouldn’t run home and watch TV all night. Natasha isn’t scared of anything. I pull my shoulders back and puff out my chicken cutlets. “Natasha would walk into the bar like a boss bitch.”
“Exactly,” Annie confirms, hiking up my skirt by the waistband. “Listen. When you pull out your ID, don’t say anything. Keep a neutral face and act like you’ve done this a hundred times before. Follow my lead.”
Annie marches down the steps and I trail behind her. She pulls the ID out of her purse and hands it to the bouncer, her eyes locking onto his face. The bouncer gives it a brief glance and waves her through without a word.
“Come on, Natasha,” she calls to me over her shoulder.
I stop in front of the bouncer and grit my teeth into a smile. He opens his palm without smiling back. I fumble before giving him Natasha’s card. My motions are jerky and awkward, my chicken cutlets slippery with sweat.
The bouncer doesn’t wave me through right away like he did with Annie. He pauses—why is he pausing? He looks up at me, then down at the ID. I try to play the part of a calm twenty-one-year-old woman.
“You from Miami?” he asks me.
His tone is casual, but I know what this is. A test.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I’m from Miami.”
“Me too,” he says, and my heart skitters. “Where in Miami?”
Fan-freaking-tastic. Of course the bouncer’s from Miami. I swallow hard and pray my face isn’t showing my insides self-destructing. This is what I know about Miami: Humidity. South Beach. The Dolphins. Do people in Miami live on the beach? Or is the beach more of a tourist destination, like Miami’s equivalent to Times Square?
“Coral Gables,” Annie says from the doorway.
The bouncer looks at us skeptically. I manage a weak smile.
“Coral Gables,” I repeat. “What about you?”
“Kendall.”
“Oh, Kendall . . .” I say it with what I hope sounds like a tone of recognition. I’m grateful when a couple of other people bump up behind me so this agonizing conversation can end.
The bouncer hands the ID back to me. “Enjoy your night.”
The Victoria in My Head Page 4