A bunch of roadies are standing around smoking cigarettes. Normally I hate that smell. Tonight, I couldn’t care less as long as I can sit here safely.
I take a deep breath to calm down but end up inhaling cigarette smoke and begin to cough.
How bad am I hurt? I stretch my legs out in front of me. Both of my knees are skinned, but the right one is worse. Bits of skin are ripped away, and it’s all bloody. My elbow looks much the same. Purple splotches dot my skin. It reminds me of how I used to look when I started Rollerblading in first grade.
Tomorrow I’ll be covered in bruises, but at least I’m alive and nothing seems broken. Where’s that medical tent Tyler mentioned?
“You okay?”
I glance up to find a man looming above me, taking a deep drag from his cigarette. It glows red in the night.
Could I still do my self-defense moves? My body feels like I’ve been in a fight with the Hulk. At the moment, I doubt I could even take down Asshole Bob.
“Got somebody you can call?” he asks, tapping his cigarette. Ashes float to the ground.
“Yeah,” I say, swiping my phone screen on to text Sierra, only to discover a bunch of messages from her: Where are you? Have you made out with TJ yet? You guys would make such cute babies.
I roll my eyes at her texts.
Me: Meet me at the medical tent
Sierra: OMG are you okay?
Mari: I think so, but need a Band-aid
“Thank you,” I tell the man, rising to my feet.
After consulting the festival map on my phone, I make my way to the medical area, where I get into a short line. People from the fire department are providing first aid to the injured.
One lady with tears rolling down her cheeks is clutching her wrist. Another man is holding a compress to his forehead. A guy is hopping on one leg while he waits to be seen.
I glance down at my bloody knees. Looks like I got off easy compared to some people. Lollapalooza is bonkers.
Once I reach the front of the line, a firefighter treats my wounds with antiseptic and covers them with white bandages.
“Mari!” Sierra comes running up and throws her arms around me. “Oh no, you’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
She swipes on her cell and says in a matter-of-fact way, “I’ll call Mom and David. They can come pick us up.”
“No, don’t. I’m fine—it’s only some scratches and bruises.” I gently run a hand over my tender elbow.
“Are you sure?” my stepsister asks.
“I don’t want to miss the festival. And if I leave now, I might not find T.J. I may never see him again. I hope he’s okay.”
Sierra glances around. “Wait. Where is he?”
I look down at my hand. It’s still warm from where his was tucked into mine. “We got separated. I never got his number.”
Didn’t kiss him either.
She gives me a look. “Girl, you should’ve locked that shit down.”
“It’s not like I was going to stop dancing to ask for his handle.”
Sierra touches my shoulder. “You danced with him? How was it?”
My body tingles just thinking about his body brushing against mine. It felt so good, and if we hadn’t been interrupted, I’m not sure how I would have stopped. “Hot. It was hot.”
Sierra lifts her eyebrows. “Nice, girl.” She holds up her phone. “I’ll look him up. What’s his last name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
Sierra’s expression turns stricken. But then she quickly pats my shoulder. “I have an idea! Let’s message the Ryde driver.”
With quick fingers, I open the rideshare app and begin to type a message.
Hi—my sister and I were in your car with two guys a couple hours ago. Can you give me their contact info?
Hopefully he’ll respond. After all, I gave him a good rating and a tip. A few minutes later, the driver messages me back: Can’t give personal info of other riders. Company says so.
“That sucks,” Sierra says. She starts typing on her phone. I lean over her shoulder, watching as she pulls up Instagram and searches for the name “T.J.”
Results pop up on the screen. A ton of them. So many you’d think every guy in the world is called T.J. The name T.J. is the new John.
We scroll through the pictures, looking for anything resembling the cute blond surfer-looking guy I met tonight, but don’t see anyone. After Instagram, we try Snapchat, Twitter, and even Facebook.
“Search on Thomas Jefferson,” I say, but there is a surprising amount of people with that name too. Besides, isn’t Jefferson his middle name? Or maybe it is his full name, and T.J. stands for both his first and last names. Who the hell knows?
Sierra shakes her head. “We need a last name. That’s the only way we’ll find him on here.”
“He said he’s from Madison, Wisconsin,” I say, and Sierra starts the search all over again and still finds nothing. Maybe his profiles are private so you can’t search for him. Maybe he’s not online at all, like the few private people from school who claim they hate social media. Honestly, though, I bet they have secret accounts under pseudonyms.
“What bands did he want to see?” she asks.
“He mentioned this one band, If We Were Giants.”
Huddled over my phone, we look the band up online and find they aren’t playing until Sunday at noon.
“Did he say anything about tonight?” Sierra asks.
“He only mentioned the Foo Fighters concert. That’s where we got separated.”
“Let’s go back over there! Maybe he stayed put. Maybe he’s waiting for you!”
T.J.
“She said she wanted to see Shawn Mendes.”
I gaze at the huge crowd. There are literally thousands of girls here waiting for Shawn to come onstage. Thousands of girls he could have in a heartbeat.
“What does she look like?” Tyler’s friend Mike asks.
“Glasses and dark curly hair. Like, chestnut colored.”
“Chestnut?” Tyler gives me a look like he’s never heard anything so ridiculous, and I’m reminded why I never talk to him about painting.
“It’s all girls here. Tons of them,” Mike says, wearing expressions of both awe and horror, as if these women might have their way with him and then eat him alive, praying mantis–style.
Tyler scrubs a hand through his hair. “Man, I don’t think we’ll find her here. We’ll spend all night looking.”
I can tell my brother doesn’t want to spend his time at the festival helping me find a girl I just met. I need to figure out the quickest way to find Mari, and fast. Think, T.J. Think.
With all the weed smoke wafting through the air, thinking is tougher than it should be. I tilt to the side, a bit light-headed.
“Oh, I know,” I say. “Let’s text the Ryde driver.”
Tyler’s eyes go askance. “Er… He, uh, may not be happy with me.”
“How come?”
“Uhhh… I gave him a one-star rating and, uh, left a comment that he may have permanently damaged my brother’s junk.”
“He damaged your junk?” Mike asks, his voice suddenly high and squeaky.
“Dude, why’d you do that?” I ask Tyler.
“It’s the principle of the thing.” He shrugs. “It was a bad ride, so he gets a bad rating.”
I rub my eyes. “I thought it was a great ride.”
“Who’d you ride?” Tyler’s friend Chris walks up, carrying a beer in each hand. He passes one of the beers to Tyler, who takes a generous sip.
“T.J. met this beautiful girl earlier, and we’re trying to find her,” Tyler explains.
He thinks Mari’s beautiful? I don’t like that he looked at her that way, but I’m prou
d he approves.
Tyler goes on, “Teej was totally going to seal the deal with this girl. I know it.”
My face blazes hot at Tyler blatantly talking about my sex life, or lack thereof. It’s true, I’d like to sleep with her—I mean, I’d reeeeally like that, but is that even realistic?
Sierra said Mari is perpetually single. Why would she suddenly start with me? On the other hand, she grabbed my hands and started dancing all sexy with me. It was the hottest moment of my life. I need to continue said moment. If she were here, I’d pull her against me. My body suddenly feels all caveman-ish, like Me Tarzan, You Jane.
Chris gestures at the crowd with his beer. “Just pick somebody else.”
“Yessss,” Tyler says.
Chris and Tyler bump fists and chug their beers.
Tyler really thinks I should do that? Go find someone else? I don’t want to just pick anyone. I want to find Mari.
I open up Instagram on my phone and type in “Mary” and “Tennessee.” A ton of results pop up. I scroll through them, not seeing her picture anywhere. What if Mary isn’t her real first name? I search on Maryanne and Maria and Marina and several other possible variations like Mare and Mari and even Maree, which I’ve never even heard before, but why not?
When I type in Marigold, I’ve officially lost it. The only girls named Marigold are (1) Disney princesses or (2) three hundred years old. Not my type.
Next, I open Facebook and search again. Nothing. Maybe she has her accounts set to private?
Tyler takes another long sip of beer. “I can’t believe you didn’t get her number.”
“I was going to ask. Just not until later.”
“You should’ve asked for it first thing. Next time, you ask, okay?”
I fight not to roll my eyes. I love my brother, but he doesn’t get that he and I aren’t the same person. He’s the guy who’d strut up a cliff and dive into the ocean. Meanwhile, I would spend, like, ten minutes scoping out the terrain to make sure I wouldn’t bust my head open on pointy rocks, before deciding to go back down the cliff, sit on the beach, and draw pictures in the sand.
But if he dared me to jump off the cliff into the water? I probably would.
I worry I’ll never live up to everything he’s done. My grades and SAT scores weren’t as good as his, but I still managed to get into the University of Chicago business program like he did. I’m glad I’ve done that much at least.
What if I acted more like Tyler outside of school? More confident. The kind of guy who would ask for Mari’s number immediately. Maybe I’d be meeting up with her again right now, finishing the dance we started.
“Next time I’ll ask first thing,” I tell Tyler, not knowing if it’s the truth or a lie.
He smiles. “Good. You’re a catch, Teej.”
Tyler holds up his phone and snaps a selfie of us together, making sure to keep our beers out of the picture, then texts it to Mom.
I watch as she immediately writes back:
Tyler holds his beer cup out to toast with me. I tip my cup against his and we drink together. As I’m dropping my hand back down, Tyler catches sight of my arm.
“I like those bracelets,” he says, pointing at two of the leather cords I made. “I need one of those.”
Hearing my brother’s compliment feels like the last day of school, because I made these. But I’m not going to tell him. He may like the bracelets, but I can’t imagine Tyler Clark would be happy his brother’s secret hobby is making jewelry.
“I’ll get you some,” I say.
“Nice. Thanks, man.”
While Tyler’s drinking beer and goofing around with Chris and Mike, I take the time to think. How can I find Mari?
I rack my brain, searching my memory for clues. She never told me her last name, but she’s from Tennessee. She’s traveling… She said she’s in town to see Millie Jade.
That’s it! I’ll go to the Millie Jade show and search until we meet again. It has to be easier finding her there than at Shawn Mendes, who—when it comes to girls—seems to have the gravitational pull of a planet.
I call up the festival schedule on my phone and find Millie Jade isn’t playing until Sunday afternoon. Shit. That’s two days away. Plus I’m supposed to take the bus home to Wisconsin that night because Tyler has work on Monday morning and needs to sleep. Even if I find her Sunday, there won’t be any time left to spend with her.
“Let’s think strategically.” Tyler raises his beer cup toward the sky. “If you were a girl, where would you go?”
I shrug. “The Shawn Mendes concert?”
My brother shoots me a look.
“Let’s check the porta potties,” Chris says. “Girls always need to go to the bathroom.”
I don’t think that’s right, but I have no other leads.
That’s how I find myself standing outside of a long line of porta potties at Perry’s, watching who goes in and out like we’re cops waiting for speeding cars. Yeah, this isn’t creepy at all.
Tyler, Chris, and Mike don’t seem to care where they are, as long as they can drink beer and hear music. I don’t mind standing near Perry’s stage. The EDM band playing right now is really good. I add the song to a playlist on my phone.
“I don’t get it,” Chris says. “What’s so special about this girl?”
“It just felt right.”
“I understand that,” Mike replies.
Chris nudges Mike. “You are so whipped, man.”
Mike only shrugs and takes another drink from his plastic cup. “When you know, you know.”
“Mike’s been dating Ashley since sophomore year of college,” Tyler explains.
“I don’t get how you can lock yourself down like that,” Chris says. “I mean, there are so many choices.”
It seems gross that Chris is saying this as we’re watching women beside the porta potties. Though, a lot of my friends back home would agree with Chris—that it doesn’t matter who you’re with as long as you can fool around.
But I don’t believe that. My brother was right when he said to find a girl who makes my blood catch fire. Then I’d know what to do. Everything tonight felt so natural with Mari.
I don’t want to give that chance up.
“I’m worried about her,” I say. “What if she got hurt in that mosh pit?”
Tyler squeezes my shoulder. “If she’s hurt, I imagine she left and went home.”
I nod, hoping she’s okay.
“I think we’ve looked enough here,” Tyler says. “Let’s go back to the Foo Fighters, okay?”
Mari
With no luck at the Foo Fighters concert, Sierra and I make our way back to the Shawn Mendes show.
When we meet up with her group of friends, literally twenty different girls crowd around us, wanting to inspect my injuries and hear how I got caught in a mosh pit and fell.
“You must’ve been terrified,” her friend Megan shouts to me over the music.
“Oh, she was!” Sierra says, and then she tells Megan the whole story as if it happened to her.
Depending on who Sierra’s talking to in her group, she easily switches from Spanish to English and back to Spanish again. When she’s speaking Spanish, the only thing I understand is “T.J.”
I wish I could speak another language like Sierra. My stepmother, Leah, sent her to a Spanish immersion school when she was growing up, and now she’s at a bilingual high school, learning in both English and Spanish. Leah told her that knowing a foreign language is one of the most important things you can do for your future. I believe it. Sierra definitely uses Spanish frequently.
When I heard my dad was remarrying, I automatically figured I’d hate my new family, because that’s what happens in the movies, but nobody could dislike Sierra. I’ve always admired how friendly she is, how she manages to move from group to group
and fit right in.
The moment we met, she sat me down and asked question after question, wanting to learn all about me. She was open with me too, being up front that she’s bi. Coming from a conservative town and high school where hardly anybody is out, it made me happy to know my stepsister trusted me with her truth.
My parents’ divorce was the worst thing that ever happened to me, but meeting Sierra was one of the best.
“So you don’t know how to find T.J.?” one of Sierra’s friends asks. I don’t know her name.
“No clue,” I say.
“You’ve already searched online?”
“Obviously,” Sierra says, then begins speaking in rapid Spanish to one of her other friends. The entire time she’s talking, she’s keeping an eye on Megan.
Megan is Black, has gorgeous braids, including some pinks and purples, and is wearing a sporty camo halter dress and a thick set of combat boots.
“Why are you wearing those?” I ask her. “It’s so hot out here.”
“Better for mosh pits than sneakers,” she tells me.
That must be why T.J. wore them. It makes me feel like a music festival noob.
I don’t know Megan well—this is the first time we’ve met, but I see her on Sierra’s IG all the time. They make funny videos together, doing everything from dance routines to filming pranks. They did this one where they pretended to eat mayo right out of the jar in front of the boys’ basketball team in the cafeteria. The boys screamed because they were so grossed out, but Megan had swapped the mayo for vanilla pudding.
My stomach rumbles. I never ate dinner. Wait, didn’t T.J. say he couldn’t wait for deep-dish? Maybe he’s as hungry as I am.
Hoping to find T.J., we go to the Lou Malnati’s pizza stand to buy slices. While we wait in line, Sierra’s friends dance to the music. Sierra and Megan start doing naughty moves, which cracks us all up.
The Pick-Up Page 4