How to Rock Best Friends and Frenemies

by Meg Haston

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures. We have to figure out a way to make your mom miss the date completely. He’ll think she stood him up, and he’ll break it off.”

  “Isn’t that a little harsh?” I pictured Gabe standing alone next to a hot-air balloon, weeping softly in a brand-new shirt made of wheat.

  “Do you want them to get married?”

  “Okay. She’ll miss the date,” I said quickly. “It’s just gonna be hard to figure this out on the same night we’re playing the dance.”

  “Kacey?” Paige’s scuffed black boots shuffled impatiently on the other side of the coat curtain. “Everything okay in there?”

  I pressed my hand over the receiver. “Fine! Everything’s great.”

  “I found a hot dress for the dance. And one for you, too!” A teal tulle-wrapped mini bobbed next to her boots.

  “Love it. I’ll meet you at the dressing rooms?”

  “Okaaay.” After a few seconds, Paige’s boots and the mini meandered off.

  “Hello?” I whispered into the receiver. “I’m back.”

  “Yippee,” Stevie muttered. “Just figure something out. We all know you’re great at coming up with plans that totally ruin other people’s lives.”

  “If I had any idea what you were talking about, I’d say you were being way too dramatic,” I said sweetly. “I’ll call you later.”

  “You better. Because I am not sharing a room with you.”

  I hung up on her and buried my face in the closest fur coat. My brain was jumbled with everyone else’s problems: Paige’s campaign. Mom and Gabe’s fling. Stevie’s fear that if we ever had to share a closet, she’d realize that my clothes were way better than hers. The poor animal that had given its fur for this ugly coat. For one night, for just a few hours, I didn’t want to think about anyone else.

  Well, about anyone other than Zander. And me. Together, on our very first (maybe) date.

  IT’S A DATE!

  JUST A FRIEND THING!

  COMPLICATED!

  Thursday, 7:45 P.M.

  The café was hot and more crowded than I’d ever seen it. I had to turn sideways and hold my breath just to squeeze past the bouncer who stamped my hand with a glow-in-the-dark icon of a coffee cup. The house lights were dimmed, and a spotlight haloed the empty stage at the other end of the room. The churn of the espresso machine and the sharp, intermittent squeal of the coffee grinder punctuated the steady hum of conversation.

  I clutched my shopping bags close and searched the crowd for Zander, trying to distinguish one silhouette from the next. Usually, I’d just look for the kid with the bright blue hair. But almost everybody’s hair was dyed some unnatural color or swept into a fauxhawk.

  “Hey, aren’t you the lead singer of Gravity?”

  I spun around, almost knocking two cornflower-blue mugs from Zander’s grip.

  “Oh. Hey!” I sputtered. “Hi.”

  He was close enough to trigger a wave of crush-shivers that rocked my core. But I didn’t take a step back. Probably because there wasn’t room to step. And it didn’t hurt that in the low light, his eyes were a fiery chrome color. I had to remind myself to blink. And inhale.

  “I thought you might be standing me up.” He grinned and handed me one of the mugs. “Careful. It’s hot.”

  “I got it. Thanks.” I slipped my fingers around the handle, but only because I was safety-conscious. Not because I wanted our hands to touch. “Sorry I’m late. I was helping Paige with some stuff for tomorrow.”

  “No problem. You look… I like that top thing.” He looked over my shoulder.

  I smiled into my coffee cup. “Thanks.”

  After helping Paige, I’d spent an extra twenty minutes picking out my new black leather camisole and boyfriend blazer. And taming my frizzy mane into a This is intentional, I swear messy bun. And conning the snobby salesgirl into letting me sample a non-tester perfume that smelled like buttercream frosting.

  “So I guess it’s standing-room only. That okay?” Zander nodded at the factory windows overlooking the street. There was just enough room for the two of us, plus my bags. Every inch of the left side of my body was pressed against every inch of the right side of Zander’s body.

  Which was probably why my left hemisphere was completely numb.

  “This is good.” I leaned against the chilled windowpanes and sipped my coffee, saying a silent thank-you that Stevie wasn’t there to tell me about all the coffee she and Zander had drunk together in Seattle.

  Ugh. Stevie.

  For the next two hours, I didn’t even want to think the name, let alone say it. I had the rest of the night to worry about her; the rest of the night to freak about keeping Mom away from Gabe and his hot-air balloon; and the rest of my life to deal with her if Operation: Date Sabotage didn’t work.

  “So your mom didn’t mind?” Zander looked straight ahead, at the stage.

  “What, about tonight? She’s working, like always. Ella’s with a babysitter, and I’ll be back before she gets home.”

  I peered around the café. Groups of people had staked claim to tiny black café tables meant for two. Coffee mugs and plates with half-eaten pastries on them littered the tabletops. I wondered if anyone else in the crowd was on a date-or-maybe-just-friends-hanging-out kind of thing. And if anyone else felt as nervous and sweaty as I did.

  “Looks like your guy is pretty popular.” I took another sip, telling myself to relax. This was no big deal; not even a date. It was just Zander! Dyer of bangs. Wearer of skinny jeans and ripped T-shirts. Just Zander, who I hung out with all the time. “What’s his deal?”

  “Burton Wells. He just graduated from U-Dub. Used to play a lot of local shows around Seattle. He’s a classically trained violinist, but he mixes classical music with hip-hop.”

  “Cool.” I nodded.

  “For sure.” Zander’s face lit up, and he turned toward me. “It’s totally unique. He’s got this one beat—” Zander rested his coffee mug on the windowsill and started rapping a fast beat on his thigh. “And then the violin comes in with that Mozart requiem—you know the one?”

  “Um, obviously not, you loser.” I giggled and set my mug next to his.

  “Yeah, you do!” His hands were flying now. “Come on, Simon. Weren’t you paying attention in music class? This is kid stuff! Think!” He hummed the first few bars.

  “Some of us aren’t music geeks!” I pointed out.

  “Duun dun dun duuuun dun,” he hummed, his eyes flashing with laughter. “It’s in that commercial where the baby’s driving the SUV!”

  “Oh! Wait! The SUV baby! I know this! Ummm—”

  “You got this!” He sped up the beat. “Time’s running out!”

  “REQUIEM IN B MINOR!” I slapped him on the shoulder.

  “D minor! But good enough!” He leaned into me. His lips might have been almost touching my hair. My heart might not have been beating.

  “D minor. Right. D minor.” I focused on the stage and hummed the next few bars. When I sneaked a glance at Zander, he caught me. Or I caught him. Either way, one of us was staring.

  I squeezed back.

  Zander coughed. “So, you know how Levi Stone’s playing the Goodman next week? I thought maybe Gravity could go, as like a band-bonding kind of thing.”

  I must have had a funny look on my face, because Zander’s eyes got wide. “Or, I mean, we could just go. You and me. If you wanted. Actually, I read on this music blog that he’s playing a couple of different shows around town. Supposed to get to Chicago tonight, actually. So we could go see him, like, over the weekend, and then maybe Gravity could—”

  “Yeah. That sounds good. You and me. Or the whole band, if you want. Either one,” I chattered. Stop. Talking.

  “Sweet.” Zander looked past my left ear and grinned.

  The lights dimmed, plunging the crowd into darkness. Despite the cheers and the clinking of coffee cups, it felt like Zander and I were the only two people in the world. In the universe. I
wished we could stay like that forever, our fingers so close I could almost feel his pulse.

  But the lights came up just a few beats later, revealing a lanky black man with dreadlocks, holding a violin. He was wearing a light-pink collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black jeans, and neon-green kicks.

  “What’s uuuuup, Chicaaaaaagoooooo?”

  The crowd cheered, and the dude onstage lifted his violin in one hand and his bow in the other, his arms stretched out like wings.

  “I’m Burton Wells, and it is an honor”—Wells lifted his instrument to his shoulder—“and a privilege to share this time, this space, and this music with you all.”

  “You rock, man!” shouted a girl hanging by the bar.

  Wells set his bow against the violin’s strings. “We’re all in this together, Chicago. Let’s make some magic!”

  Cheers rose again as an old-school Busta Rhymes beat pumped over the speakers. The beat ran from the floor through the soles of my feet and into my body. I looked over at Zander; his eyes were closed, a smile on his lips. I closed my eyes, too, as Wells lit into a fast classical piece I didn’t recognize. The sweet, high violin notes were in perfect balance with the heavy thump of the beat.

  We stayed like that for song after song, our eyes closed and our fingers grazing each other’s every few seconds. As the show went on, Wells’s energy level rose, and I cheated and opened my eyes once to refresh my image of him. Sweat glistened on his forehead and soaked through his shirt. He kept his eyes screwed shut as he played, and his entire body seemed to move with every stroke of his bow. He was totally at peace, 100 percent absorbed in the music.

  It had been too long since I’d felt that way about Gravity, or felt that way about music. Lately, I’d been so worried about Stevie and Zander and my mom and Gabe that I hadn’t focused on music at all. I hadn’t focused on how amazing it felt when I belted out a high note, or how exhausted and happy I was at the end of an awesome rehearsal.

  “Wooooohoooooo!” The audience hooted as Wells killed the last note in a song. Chest heaving, he bowed at the waist once, then twice. Then he nodded at someone offstage, who dragged a stool and a bottle of water to the center of the spotlight.

  “Thank you.” Wells rested his violin carefully in its case, then unscrewed the lid of the bottle of water and chugged the whole thing in a single gulp. “Thank you.” He wiped his brow with his forearm and adjusted the tiny mic on his shirt collar.

  “I want to take a second to bring a fan up here on the stage.”

  “Ahhhhhhhhhh!” Everyone in the café shrieked with excitement.

  “Hold up, people.” Wells laughed and raised his palm. “I’ve already got somebody special in mind. This is a fan who wrote me a letter a while back. She’s a student here in Chicago—Marisa Gonzales, are you and your mom in the audience tonight?”

  I heard a tiny shriek and popped up on tiptoe.

  “Can you see anything?” Zander tossed his bangs out of his eyes.

  A few seconds later, a little girl who couldn’t have been any older than eight climbed onto the stage with her mother. The girl turned to the audience and flashed a gap-toothed grin.

  “Marisa Gonzales, everybody!” While the crowd cheered, Wells bent down and gave the girl a hug, then shook her mother’s hand.

  “Marisa wrote me a letter not too long ago to tell me that she’d applied for a national music scholarship we set up through the Burton Wells Foundation. She said she wanted—actually, I’ll let her tell you.” Wells unhooked the mic from his shirt and held it out to the little girl.

  “To take violin lessons and learn how to play like you. I’m your biggest fan,” the girl said into the mic.

  “Awwww,” cooed the crowd.

  “That’s awesome.” Wells bobbed his head like he could hear a beat no one else could hear. “And do you know what’s even more awesome? We’re picking a scholarship winner from every city on my tour this month. And you’re the winner for Chicago! So now you’ll get those violin lessons for free, for as long as you want to play.”

  Everybody clapped. Marisa Gonzales’s jaw hit the floor. Marisa Gonzales’s mother screamed.

  “No fair!” I hissed to Zander. “She’s, like, in elementary! There’s no way she appreciates this.”

  “How did I not know about this scholarship thing?” Zander pouted. “I so want to learn violin right now.”

  “We’re gonna take a little break, but I’ll be back in a few.” Burton crouched next to Marisa. “Will you stick around? I think we’ve got some folks from Channel Two who might want to interview you.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said, a little too loudly. “I know she can’t appreciate that kind of exposure.”

  A purple-haired chick with a lip ring standing in front of me turned around and glared.

  “Not that this isn’t newsworthy,” I backtracked.

  My cell buzzed and I pulled it from my clutch. There were seven new texts.

  STEVIE: GOT A PLAN? WE’RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME.

  STEVIE: DO U KNOW WHERE Z IS?

  STEVIE: SERIOUSLY, SHEDD LADY. PLAN.

  STEVIE: IF THEY GET MARRIED, YOU’RE SLEEPING ON THE COUCH.

  STEVIE: AND I’M GETTING THE BIG CLOSET.

  STEVIE: OK. I WAS SEMI-KIDDING. BUT SERIOUSLY. DO U KNOW SOMETHING I DON’T????

  STEVIE: I’LL RUN AWAY BEFORE I SHARE A ROOM WITH YOU. WE HAVE. TO BREAK. THEM UP.

  “That’s not your mom up there, is it?” Zander shaded his eyes with his palm as the crowd herded toward the coffee bar.

  I shook my head. “No, that’s the lady from Channel Two. They’re Channel Five’s biggest compe—” I froze. “Ohmygod.”

  “What? Are you okay?”

  Slowly, I nodded. “Yeah.” I was okay. I was better than okay. Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was my chemistry with Zander. Maybe it was Burton Wells’s good vibes. But suddenly, I had the perfect plan.

  WHEN LIFE IMITATES ART

  Thursday, 9:20 P.M.

  When I got home from the concert, the townhouse was dark. The red answering machine light was blinking on the console table by the door. I stood there for a few seconds in my coat, grinning into the darkness like a complete moron. The music, the one-on-one time with Zander—everything had been perfect. Out of habit, I reached for my cell to call Molly, then stopped myself. What was I supposed to say? I just went on a non-date-but-who-are-we-kidding-it-was-totally-a-date with your ex? Screw Girl Code, I think he’s amazing?

  I ditched my coat and shopping bags in the entrance hall and punched the button on the answering machine before heading up the stairs. I’d texted Stevie to meet me here, but I probably had a few minutes before she arrived.

  “Hey, Kace, it’s Mom. It’s a little after nine, and I’m leaving the studio. I’m guessing you figured something out for dinner—I meant to leave money for pizza. Sorry. Picking Ella up on my way home. We’ll be there soon. Love you.”

  Good, I thought as I whirled around the banister and took the second flight of stairs to my room. Mom wouldn’t be home until at least 9:45. That gave me plenty of time to explain the plan to Stevie and—

  “Ahhhhhh!” I screamed when I opened my door and flicked the light switch.

  Stevie was bent over my desk, sifting through my record collection.

  “OH. MY. GODDDDD. How did you get in here, you psycho?” I snatched the Who album she was holding and wiped the cover with the hem of my shirt. My heart was thundering in my chest. “Seriously. How did you get in here?”

  With a flourish, Stevie produced a glinting silver key. “You Midwesterners are so predictable. Who actually leaves their spare key under the flowerpot?”

  “You just broke into my house,” I said, disbelieving. “You actually broke into my house.”

  She shrugged. “By the way, I only have twenty minutes. And I had to tell my dad I was emergency tutoring you as part of my community service.” She kicked off her moto boots and nudged them under my desk. “So if he asks
you how Slow Math is going… just play along.”

  I gritted my teeth so hard my braces started to throb. “Do you want to hear the plan, or what?” I reached over her and plucked the photo strip of Paige in her green seaweed mask from the bulletin board wall behind my desk.

  Stevie eyed the photos. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Okay. If we can pull this off, Mom will definitely have to miss the date with your dad.” I stuffed the photo strip in my back pocket. “Follow me. My mom will be home in a few.”

  We hurried down the steps to the second floor. “Her office is back here.” I opened the door next to the master bedroom and flipped the light switch.

  “Huh. Not bad.” Stevie clucked her approval.

  “I know.” Ella and I were under strict instructions not to mess around in Mom’s office, so it had been a while since I’d been inside. The room was small but inviting, with textured grass-cloth walls and a rich Persian rug she’d inherited from her mother. Leather-bound books, broadcasting awards, and framed photographs lined the built-in bookcases behind her desk. The floor-to-ceiling windows on the right wall looked over the soft glow of Clark Street and, beyond that, Lincoln Park.

  “Here. Check Levi Stone’s website on your cell.” I plopped down in the leather rolling desk chair and jiggled the mouse. “He probably has a contact e-mail on there.”

  “Levi Stone?” Stevie’s eyebrows shot up.

  I sighed. “Just do it.”

  “Fine. On it.” Stevie hopped onto the desk, knocking over a picture of Ella and me in the tub when we were little. She didn’t bother to pick it up, instead tapping away on her phone. Sighing, I straightened it myself.

  “I’ll take care of the actual e-mail.” I found Mom’s Channel 5 e-mail icon on the desktop and double-clicked.

  Password?

  I typed in my birthday and hit ENTER.

  Invalid password.

  Password?

  Next, I typed in Ella’s birthday.

  Invalid password.

  Our birthdays together. Mine first, then hers. Hers first, then mine.