Who's That Girl

by Blair Thornburgh

“Then you move from carrot to stick.” Tess pounded a fist into her hand.

  “What? Like, beat him up?”

  “No, dummy. Bring out the big guns. Your secret weapon.”

  She nodded at the phone in my hand.

  “What, texting him?” I said. I noticed I had a text message from Dad—hey kiddo can you make sure yurt has tarp on? love Dad—but before I could forward it to Sam Huang, Tess grabbed it out of my hands.

  “No! The Talent Show Incident!” She held my phone up like a beacon. “Mention you have footage and he’ll have to do what you say. There’s no way he’d want that going public.”

  She had a point. I swallowed and looked from my phone in Tess’s hand to the wall above the TV, where there were twin posters: one with an alien, for a long-past Green Day concert, and one of a guy bowling that I was pretty sure was Richard Nixon. They looked totally out of place in the otherwise dignified setting of the living room, but for some reason, that made me feel way better.

  “Okay,” I said. “It’s on.”

  “Excellent.” Tess grinned, closemouthedly, and dropped my phone on the couch. “Now let’s make ourselves beautiful.”

  And we did, sort of, crowding into Bethany’s closet-sized bathroom so Tess could attack her hair with a straightener and I could mess up my eyeliner three times in a row. Outfitted and made-up, Tess grabbed her purse and I grabbed Bethany’s keys and ID and tucked them into the pockets of my jacket. I was ready, or as ready as I would ever be. And Sebastian had no idea what he was in for.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Young Lungs were playing somewhere called the Knitting Factory, which was only a couple subway stops away from where Bethany lived. From the looks of it, the Knitting Factory had nothing to do with actual knitting, though it probably could have been a factory at one point in time. As in: it was huge. And noisy. And very, very full.

  “This is great,” Tess said. “Look at all these people!”

  “My field of vision is a little limited,” I said from my position millimeters away from a patch of flannel covering the shoulder of a hipster girl with a side-mullet. I was getting jostled from behind as more and more people poured from the bar area into the part with the stage, which was less than comfortable for the swath of skin exposed by the not-quite-backless top I’d gotten at the vintage store.

  “Here.”

  I felt a firm tug on my wrist and sort of fell sideways, emerging with Tess into a little clearing that had appeared like an oasis in the middle of the crowd.

  “Better?” she asked. In her red T-shirt and dramatic eyeliner, she looked completely at home—actually, she was completely at home. Me, I was taking a little while. But I still nodded.

  Tess squinted a cat-lined eye at me. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Everyone here is very cool,” I said.

  “Yeah, you included,” she replied. “Hello? You’re Natalie. As in, from the song ‘Natalie.’ And you look incredible. And, coming from a lady-liking lady, that opinion is solid gold.”

  I smiled. It might be flattery, but then again, Tess never didn’t speak her mind. Besides, she wasn’t wrong: I’d seen myself before we left, and the drapey dark blue of the backless top did look solidly decent with my earrings and my hair.

  “When do you think the first opener is going on?” Tess asked, just as the house lights went off.

  “Guess that answers it,” she said, yelling to make herself heard over the cheer that rose from the darkened crowd. “I’m getting a drink. Do you want one?”

  “What?” I yelled back, because I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right and also because I wasn’t sure if she meant a Diet Coke or a drink drink.

  “I’m getting us some beers,” Tess called back, answering both of my questions at once and then disappearing.

  From what I could see from my relatively unobstructed position, the first band was a guy on drums, a guy on keyboard, and a girl with a guitar. The drummer counted them in with a couple clicks of his drumsticks and they launched into something electronic and spacey-sounding, not fast enough to dance to but not slow enough to stand still, either. Around me, the crowd was doing a kind of collective sway as the girl onstage stepped up to the microphone and started making bluesy vowel sounds of words I couldn’t quite understand.

  I had just begun a kind of slow-motion shuffle when the song cracked open and sped up, the guitar whirling and the girl shouting something about love love love.

  That made people dance. The bodies around me ebbed and flowed and I bobbed around like a buoy in a tidal wave. The anonymous sea of people was caught up in the band’s performance, the music was loud and pulsing, and I remembered that I really didn’t care. I didn’t care about the music because I wasn’t here to hear it, and I didn’t care about the people because I wasn’t here to impress them. I was here to confront. I was here to . . .

  “Nattie!”

  Somewhere on the banks of the dance floor, Tess was calling for me, but I couldn’t see her. Another chorus of love, love, love had started onstage, which, weirdly enough, reminded me of Dad’s text-message sign-off. I went for my phone so I could send the yurt alert to Sam Huang, but when I slid my hand into my jeans pocket, it was empty.

  My phone. I’d left it on Bethany’s couch.

  Panicked, I started to push my way back to the bar, where Tess was waiting.

  “There you are,” she shouted. She was clutching two plastic cups that seemed to be mostly foam and stuck one out to me. I shook my head no thanks and Tess rolled her eyes.

  “You’re no fun,” she yelled, taking a healthy swig from each of them.

  “Tess,” I said, voice rising. “I forgot my phone. It’s at Bethany’s.”

  Tess sucked her teeth. “Ooh. Yikes.”

  “Is it that bad?” The song was ending, and the crowd dissolved into applause that was just low enough on the decibel scale to let me get a word in.

  Tess immediately shook her head. “No. No way. It just means you have to be extra-persuasive. But you can do that, right? Especially with the entirety of the OWPALGBTQIA counting on you?”

  It took her a few tries to get all the letters right. She batted her eyelashes and went for another swig of beer. “Sure you don’t want some?”

  “I’m sure.” I didn’t like the idea of not having my faculties around Sebastian, because as much as I hated to admit it, he had a kind of alcoholic effect on me. I needed to stay as sharp as possible.

  The guitars started up again, and the rest of the opening band’s set passed in a blur of husky voice, angular instrument sounds, and flashing lights. It was all making my head hurt a little. I would bet that Joni Mitchell never had lighting effects at any of her shows.

  And just like that, it was over.

  “Thank you, Brooklyn,” the lead singer said. “We’re Plain and Tall, and we’re psyched for the Young Lungs!”

  “Woo!” Tess lowered one now-empty plastic cup and raised the second in a toast, which kind of annoyed me. We weren’t here to be excited about the band, after all. For all her talk about Operation Confrontation, she didn’t appear to be taking it very seriously now that we were actually moving forward.

  We stood like that, my feathery earrings practically swatting Tess in the face, as a couple roadies hustled onstage to swap out guitars and clear away the first drum set to reveal the second.

  “This is fun,” Tess said after a while, and took a long pull of her second beer. I crossed my arms.

  “You know,” I said, “we didn’t even have to go to this concert. I could’ve just . . . had Sebastian meet up with me somewhere in New York.”

  Tess wrinkled her nose. “You think he would’ve gone for that?”

  “No,” I admitted. This really isnt a gud time was not the kind of message you sent to someone you’d be happy to go out for coffee with. But now that we were here, the boredom of band-watching was making me antsy.

  “Plus”—Tess had a little blob of beer foam on her nose, which I didn’t both
er pointing out—“this is fun.”

  “You said that already.”

  “And this way,” Tess went on, like I hadn’t said anything at all, “you get to look at that.”

  She did a kind of vague wild-armed gesture in the opposite direction, but there was no mistaking who she was pointing at. My heart started up like I’d been defibrillated and my back felt a chill that had nothing to do with the absence of shirt: it was Sebastian, and he was smiling.

  “Hey,” he said into the microphone. “We’re the Young Lungs and we make music.”

  From the first notes of the guitar, the volume was louder than before—one of the roadies must have cranked up the amplifier—but it wasn’t coming through to my ears. All of my senses were occupied with Sebastian: his broad shoulders and green T-shirt, his new, long hair swinging around his chin, the occasional pause he made midlyric to lift his eyebrows or bite his lip. His movements were as fluid and relaxed as his stare into the crowd was intense. He was performing perfectly, and I was buying it completely. This wasn’t Sebastian from high school or the Almost Kiss or even Ruby’s Rock Club: this was an actual, bona fide rock star, and he was really, intensely hot.

  Right then, I wanted more than anything for my heart rate to slow down. I couldn’t focus on the plan for Operation Confrontation at all, because my hormones were chasing any nonimmediate, non–Sebastian-related thought from my head. The visions I’d had of me storming up, indignant but cool, and telling Sebastian to knock it off were replaced with scenes of him laughing, touching me, and looking into my eyes. The songs kept going, one after another, but never quite the one I recognized. I wasn’t dancing, but I wasn’t holding still, either. Onstage, Sebastian lowered his guitar and treated us to a little half smirk.

  “For a job that doesn’t pay much, this has got some truly excellent perks,” he said. “You are one good-looking audience.”

  A communal laugh bubbled up. I looked back at Tess, who was now leaning on the bar and giggling along with everyone else.

  “So, this one is for you guys. Girls. Or really just one.”

  Sebastian picked up an acoustic guitar from the stand next to his microphone and shouldered the strap. My heart leaped into my throat, because as soon as his fingers touched the strings I knew what was going to happen.

  “Well, there’s curves like madness in her hips

  And red like sin painted on her lips.”

  But it was different this time, the instruments quieter and more organic and the words sounding like Sebastian was just thinking of them, right there, right then.

  Somehow, I’d come to the middle of the crowd. Somehow, I was staring right at Sebastian. And somehow, I knew he was staring back at me.

  “Natalie—”

  I tore my eyes off the stage, looking into the crowd as a way to reset. I flicked from one strange face to the next. It seemed like everyone had their eyes front, faces lit up, and hands in the air. A girl in a jean jacket put her hand to her heart. Another one with a short crop of black hair was mouthing the words as they came out in Sebastian’s voice. A few were even jumping up and down in time. And all of them, I realized were female.

  I turned around, doing a full one-eighty of the space behind me. It was like a real-life version of Sebastian’s Pixstagram page, everyone entranced, enraptured, and capturing the moment on their cell phones. All those faces, all lit up and all looking at Sebastian. Like they knew him. Like they wanted him.

  “Why’d you break my heart, heart, heart . . .”

  Maybe I just had to forget what anyone else thought. Forget about this audience. Forget about the senior girls at school. Forget about everything except the Almost Kiss and the Face-Touching Incident and Sebastian and me.

  He’d written me a song. He’d been messaging with me for weeks. And he was, after all, kind of a sensitive guy.

  Maybe the heartbreak was real. But the song was over.

  “Thanks, Brooklyn.” Sebastian put down his guitar and ran a hand through his hair, like he was a little embarrassed at having to sing for all of us. Claps and cheers burst out all around me, and he leaned forward into the microphone.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  Maybe I was crazy, but I felt like his eyes were dead on me. And then he was gone.

  “Tess!”

  I yelled out her name even though it was useless in the confusion of rising conversations and piped-in music as the lights came up. I needed to find her because I needed to get Operation Confrontation going before I lost my nerve.

  “Natalie!”

  Tess was over by the bar, arm waving wildly like she was drowning. I hurried over, or tried to hurry over, which was basically impossible in the crush of people, and tried to formulate some plan of attack for Tess to perform an adequate distraction so that I could get backstage.

  “There you are,” I said, when I finally made it over. “Okay, so, um, I guess we should—”

  “Nattie,” Tess interrupted. “It’s fine. You don’t need a distraction. Because”—she singsonged—“look what I haaaave!”

  She held up something dangling on a lanyard—a big card with “Backstage Privileges” printed on one side.

  “What?” I snatched it out of the air. “Seriously? Where did you—”

  “Shh. Shh.” Tess put a finger first to my lips, then to hers, then to mine again. “I made a friend. It doesn’t matter.” She turned back to the bar area, where a girl with a mess of deep-purple hair gave her a little wave.

  “Not really my type,” Tess said, “but then again, I’m not going to reject the kindness of strangers. Now put it on. Ready?”

  “Yeah.” I slipped the lanyard over my neck, heart thrumming. The song still felt like it was in me, somehow, fizzing in my veins and sending little sparks of energy down my limbs. Phone or no phone, Tess or no Tess, I was the girl in the song. I wasn’t scared. I wanted to see Sebastian. Wanted to do more than see him, maybe. A shiver went down my bare spine.

  “Okay. Okay.” Tess smiled as wide as it was possible to smile without showing a single tooth and gave me a hug. “Good luck! Remember: the dance is December third. Two days after they play Atlantic City and the day before their Philadelphia gig. It’d barely be any time out of their schedule.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Are you—”

  “Tess,” I interrupted, or else this pep talk could go on for hours. “I’m fine. I know what I’m doing.”

  And for the first time, I think I actually believed myself.

  The murmur in the room crescendoed, and as Tess headed back to the bar, I pushed myself through the crowd toward the stage. I had no idea where the backstage door would be, but logic seemed to dictate that it’d be back, somewhere. At the lip of the stage, two guys in black T-shirts were standing like human pillars, arms crossed. I fingered the pass around my neck and went up to them.

  “Excuse me,” I said, forcing my voice to sound as Tess-like as possible. “Where’s the stage door?”

  “You’re joking, right?” said the one who was bald.

  “No,” I said. “I’m, um, with the band.”

  I held up the pass. The bald guy grabbed it, inspected it, and dropped it. For a moment, I thought I’d totally screwed it up, but then he nodded toward the back and motioned for me to follow. I did, weightlessly, my whole body feeling lit up with excitement.

  “Here you are.” The bald guy stopped by a peeling door in the wall and tugged it open. “Hope you get a good interview, Miss, uh—”

  He squinted at the pass, and I jerked it out of sight as soon as I realized he was looking for a name.

  “Thanks,” I said coolly, and stepped in, trying not to freak out. I had just effectively smuggled myself not only into a twenty-one-plus show at a New York City venue, but backstage. Who did I think I was?

  Then, of course, I remembered. I was Natalie. And Natalie was going to get what she wanted.

  Backstage was a
lot less glamorous than I thought it’d be. It was dark, and smelled like a basement, and had extremely inadequate signage. After a little fumbling around and wishing I had my phone to use as a flashlight, I located a door marked Green Room and, before I could think too much about it, pushed it open.

  Inside, the greenroom was not actually green, but a chipped beigeish color and stuffed with battered furniture and a greasy-looking light-up mirror. The air was chilly and tasted like cigarettes. A few guys—the other Young Lungs—were flopped on the deflated sofas, drinking beers, and it wasn’t until the door swung all the way open and hit the cinder-block wall that they looked up.

  “And you are?” one of them said.

  “Uh,” I said, immediately forgetting I was supposed to be cool. Somehow I’d forgotten to prepare myself for the fact that other people were in the band, and would obviously be backstage. “I’m, um . . . Natalie.”

  The bassist and the drummer didn’t move. Only the other guitarist, a skinny black guy with a knit hat and goatee, seemed to catch on.

  “No shit,” he said, and stubbed out his cigarette. “The Natalie?”

  “Uh . . .” No point in lying here. “Yup.”

  “No shit.” He rubbed his jaw. “You’re a real girl.”

  “Is that a surprise?” The words just popped out of my mouth. I resisted the urge to cringe. But the guitarist guy laughed.

  “A funny girl, too,” the guitarist sad. “I’m Ed. Hey, guys, check it—Natalie’s here.”

  Not knowing what else to do, I gave the single dorkiest wave I think I’ve ever done in my life. The other two guys gave me a look from behind their beards. Then they smiled. Then laughed.

  “Welcome, Natalie!” one boomed, fake-regally.

  “Yeah,” said the other one. “All hail Natalie.”

  “Guys, leave her alone.” Ed gestured at an upended crate. “Wanna sit?”

  “Oh, um, sure.” I sat. Ed cleared his throat.

  “Sebastian’s . . . out. With, ah, this . . . another—” He cleared his throat, frowning. “You know what? Let me just text him and tell him you’re here.”

  “Sure.” I could only imagine what it was like coming offstage after a show. Sebastian was probably exhausted, and right about now would be when he’d probably go outside for some alone time, take some pictures, send some Pixstagram messages. But I was here now, and we were going to talk.