“You want anything to drink?” Ed asked, pocketing his phone. “There’s shitty beer and Seb’s shitty sugar water. And Pop-Tarts if you’re hungry and share our lead singer’s childlike eating habits.”
“Oh, um,” I said. “No thanks.”
“Is she even old enough to drink?” said the bassist, who had those expander things in the lobes of his ears. He elbowed the drummer, who exhaled a plume of smoke and laughed. “When’s her curfew?”
“Can it,” Ed said.
“No, seriously,” said the drummer. “What’s the age of consent in New York? Google it. Just in case.”
“Seb’s probably gonna take her to senior prom or something,” said the bassist with a snort. “Bet he looks great in a tux.”
In fact, Sebastian had gone to senior prom with Kirsten Fisher, a hippie girl with blond hair down to her waist who’d left Wister and gone to teach yoga in Spain. And he had looked really great in a tux—powder blue—at least according to his Pixstagram. I opened my mouth to make a joke about it when I realized that, besides Ed, no one had actually spoken to me since I’d gotten there.
“Actually, I think I will take a beer,” I said, more loudly than I meant to. Ed leaned forward and fished a Budweiser out of the bucket.
“Cheers.” He twisted off the top and handed it to me.
“Thanks.” I took a tiny, terrible sip and held it between my knees.
“So what brings you here, Natalie?” Ed said. “Surely it can’t be the company.”
“Music’s not that great either,” the bassist said. “Tonight sucked.”
“My monitor was all messed up,” Ed said. “I couldn’t hear myself.”
“Could you not hear the rest of us, either?” the drummer said. “Because—”
“Can we not do this now?” Ed said, and glanced at me. “Save that shit for the bus.”
“Whatever,” the bassist said, and flopped back onto the couch. Next to him, the drummer was snapping a lighter under a cigarette. Noticing me staring, he lifted his eyebrows.
“You want, baby doll?”
“Don’t give the kid cigs, Colin,” said Ed. “That’s irresponsible.”
Kid. That was what I was to them. A kid in a too-big sparkly top whose biggest concerns were curfews and—I cringed, thinking of what I’d come here to ask Sebastian about—school dances. If I was going to go through with Operation Confrontation, I needed to talk to Sebastian away from these guys. Actually, first, I needed to find Sebastian, period.
“Excuse me,” I said, so loudly that the drummer stopped snapping his lighter. “Um, where exactly is Sebastian? I need to talk to him.”
They looked at one another.
“He, uh, he says he’s coming,” Ed said quickly, looking at his phone. “Just, uh . . . busy with someone. Something.”
Behind his cigarette, Drummer Colin was staring at me. “What’d you say your name was again?”
“Natalie,” I said for the second time. But this time it felt like it might be the wrong answer. Drummer Colin just looked at the bassist, who grunt-laughed.
“Yeah, sorry,” Drummer Colin said, on a puff of smoke. “It’s just, like . . . we thought it was just a song, you know?”
Heart pounding, I turned to Ed, who was the closest thing to an ally I had in this whole room. He shrugged.
“Hence my surprise,” he explained. “No idea that you were a real person. Let alone one who’d show up backstage and—”
“There she is!”
The greenroom door flew open. The bald-headed bouncer was back, and he did not look happy.
“Miss,” he panted. “You are not authorized to be back here.”
“What?” I looked around the room, as if anyone there was going to help me. “I mean, um, yes I am, I have this—”
I held out the backstage pass, and the bouncer grabbed it from my hands so hard it unclipped from the lanyard.
“What did you say your name was?” he said, studying the pass.
“Natalie,” Ed said. “That’s Natalie. We were just chatting.”
“Natalie,” the bouncer repeated, looking at the badge. “That’s not what it says here.”
My heart plummeted to my stomach. “I can explain,” I said hastily. “It’s just . . . I’m not . . .”
The bouncer crossed his arms. “You wouldn’t happen to have ID on you, would you, Natalie?”
“I . . .” Shoot! Shoot shoot shoot. I should have said Bethany, or at least looked to see what name was on the backstage pass.
“Miss, are you aware that this is a twenty-one-and-over event?”
“I’m—” I started to say, but the bouncer snapped his fingers at me.
“Your blond friend’s about to get her ass thrown out by the bartender, so now is not the time for you to lie to me.”
“Tess?” I said, voice cracking. I looked around—at the band, at the beer bottles, at the room that was totally empty of the one person I’d come all the way to the greenroom of a twenty-one-and-over show in New York City to find.
“Go get her,” bald guy said. “Now. Or I’m calling the cops on both of you.”
“But—”
But there were no buts. The bald guy clamped a hand on my shoulder and yanked me up from the crate, and none of the band guys moved to stop him.
“Bye, Natalie!” Ed’s voice called after me. “Cool to meet you!”
I didn’t even get a chance to answer. The bouncer steered me down the hallway, through the peeling-paint door, and back into the big concert room, which was now down to a few clumps of people and gave me a clear view over to the bar. As soon as she saw me, Tess rushed forward and threw her arms around my neck.
“Natalie!” she cried. “Natalie. Natalie. Natalieeeeee—”
“Shh!” I pried her off me, on high alert again. “We’re still very much in public, you know.”
I tried to look behind us, back to the door, but there wasn’t really anything to see. The greenroom was locked away again, and the bald guy was blocking my view, anyway. And it had all been over so fast.
“You the friend?” A bartender with a handlebar mustache glared at us. “Get her out of here.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “She’s just, uh—”
“She’s drunk,” he finished for me.
“Show’s over, ladies,” bald guy said. “Time to get out of here and go back to Jersey.”
Tess’s black-rimmed eyes went wide.
“Excuse me.” She jabbed in the general direction of the bald guy’s chest. “We are not from Jersey, I will have you know, Mr. . . . Man. We are from Phil-uh-del-fee-uh, PEE-AY! Do you know who we are? This girl . . .”
She grabbed for me, but I ducked.
“Tess,” I said, through gritted teeth. “Shut. Up.”
Only a handful of people were left now. The lights onstage were off, too. The band was probably done drinking their stupid beers and was already packing up all their stuff into the trunk of whoever’s car. Or maybe they had a tour bus now. And Sebastian was . . . I didn’t even know. Operation Confrontation was a total failure. But even worse than that—and I hated that I cared so much—was what the band had said. That to them, I wasn’t even real. To Sebastian, even.
“Come on,” I said, and wedged myself under Tess to help her stop weaving everywhere. “Let’s go.”
“But what about Sebassssstian?” Tess said, clomping along next to me. She whipped her head around to look back at the stage, but I gave her a pointed shove in the small of her back. “Did you taaaalk to him?”
I didn’t want to get into it, and Tess was not in a state to understand what had happened backstage. I barely understood it, and I was dead sober.
“Shut up,” I said. “I mean, let’s just go. I’ll explain later.”
Outside, Brooklyn was dark and sleety and orange from the streetlights. A few people were standing around, waiting for cars or shivering around cigarettes.
“Sorry,” Tess said, and lowered her voice. “Natali
e. It really is a great name, you know.”
She laughed, and wiped her sweaty bangs off her forehead, which took a couple of tries. I dropped her arm.
“Tess, how did you get this drunk?”
“Pff.” She shrugged, and almost missed her hip when she went to strike an indignant pose. “I am not drunk, Nata—Nattie.” She gave me a sweet smile. “I may have had a couple of beers. From my new friend V. Remember?”
As if on cue, the purple-haired girl from before appeared from the shadows.
“V,” Tess explained, “is the one who gave you that backstage pass. And she likes buying drinks. And she is also a lesbian. What are the odds?”
“One in four, maybe more,” V said in a raspy alto, and the two of them collapsed into giggles. V started poking Tess in the ribs, and Tess started laughing so hard she wobbled and almost fell. V, who was wearing only a T-shirt and fishnets under shorts, pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket.
“You guys want?” she said.
“No thanks,” I said.
“Don’t do that!” Tess gasped. “Smoking kills!”
Apparently being drunk brought out Tess’s self-righteous streak. V just laughed and clicked her lighter.
“Did you get the interview?” she asked.
It took me a moment to realize she was talking to me. “What?”
V nodded at Tess. “Your friend said you were on deadline. Had to get in with the Lungs to file by nine a.m.”
“Oh,” I said. “I, uh . . .”
“That was a lie,” Tess blurted out. “I lied to you about that. Sorry.”
V laughed again on a puff of smoke. “No big. I’ve seen them, like, five times now. Where are you ladies headed?”
“Uh . . .” I realized I had no idea. I had Bethany’s address saved in my phone, but my phone was at Bethany’s. And Tess was the one who knew where all the subways were. Did the trains even run this late?
“Crown Heights,” I said at last.
“Cool. I’m in Bushwick. Want to split a cab?” V said.
I had never taken a taxi before, not even in Philadelphia. But this was New York, and I was stuck, and presumably the presence of a driver as a potential witness would prevent V from murdering us and turning us into fodder for a new episode of Law & Order.
“Sure,” I said, as if I split cabs every day and knew what that meant.
“Cool.” V exhaled twin streams of smoke and lifted her arm into the air. Almost instantly, headlights appeared out of the mist and a cab heaved to a stop at the curb.
“Ladies.” V ground out her cigarette and opened the door. “Your chariot awaits.”
We piled into the backseat, V and I at the windows and Tess in the middle. V gave the driver her address and we lurched off into the night.
“So what brings you cuties to the big city?” V said.
“The concert,” I said.
“The concert,” Tess said, “and vintage shopping. Oh, and Nattie’s true love.”
V arched an eyebrow. Unlike her hair, her eyebrows were just regular black, although it looked like she’d drawn them on with charcoal.
“You don’t say?”
“Uh, not exactly,” I said. “I mean, it’s kind of complicated. I think it’s more lust than love, actually.”
“Even worse,” V said. “Or better. Who’s the dude or lady?”
I thought about Sebastian onstage, singing, and tried to imagine Sebastian backstage now, drinking a tall can of something sugary and caffeinated, running his hands through his hair, drumming his fingers on his jeans. In another world, I was still there, with him, kissing him, or touching him, or something more—
The cab hit a bump.
“Dang!” Tess lolled onto V with more force than necessary. “This car is crazy.”
“Totally.” V gave her a kittenish smile. Tess grinned, and together they laughed a secret laugh I didn’t quite get.
I folded my arms and stared out the window. Maybe if Tess hadn’t been such an idiot, I could’ve gone through with Operation Confrontation. I would have. I just needed more time. Now I’d missed my only freaking chance.
“Sorry,” Tess said, righting herself with my shoulder as an anchor. “Sorry, Natalie. Nattie. Sorry.”
“Natalie like the song ‘Natalie’?” V said.
“Egg-zactly like the song ‘Natalie,’” Tess answered for me. “Too cool to leave, too tough to tease. Boop.”
She tapped me on the nose. I rolled my eyes, not that she could see me in the dark.
“No way,” V rasped. “Wait. No way. You’re here to see your true love because it’s Sebastian Delacroix.”
“I didn’t say that,” I said, finally tearing my eyes away from the endless parade of bleak row houses and bright bodega awnings.
“She didn’t say it, but it’s true,” Tess said helpfully. “We are here for Operation Confrontation! Fighting the good fight!”
“That is crazy, dudes,” V said. Even in the dark, I could tell her eyes were lighting up. “How old are you guys, anyway, like . . . high school?”
“We are juniors. Juniors at the Owen Wister—”
“Tess.” I elbowed her.
“Sorry, sorreeeee,” she said. “Anyway, we’re both seventeen. But my birthday is in March, so.”
She gave a meaningful wink to V, who was ignoring her and tapping at her phone.
“Great idea!” Tess said, and grabbed V’s phone. “Let’s take a selfie!”
Before either of us could answer, Tess had pulled open Pixstagram, thrown out her arm, and tapped the shutter button.
“Smile!”
“Here.”
The cab stopped hard, and we all smacked into the plastic divider.
“Here,” the cab driver said again, in an accent I didn’t recognize. “DeKalb Avenue.”
“Thanks.” V popped open her door and slid out—she hadn’t even been wearing a seat belt—and handed a few crumpled bills to Tess, who dumped them into my lap.
“Text me!” Tess said, and threw V’s phone back at her.
“You bet. Great to meet you, too, Natalie.”
V winked, slammed the door, and disappeared.
“Where to now, please?” the cab driver said.
“Uh,” I said.
“Kingston and Pacific,” Tess said. “And step on it!”
“How did you remember that?” I said. Tess shrugged.
“I have very good information recall when I’m drunk,” she said, and tapped the side of her head. “Frees up the unused ninety percent of my brain.”
“That’s not even real,” I said. The cab pulled out, and I suddenly felt very, very tired. My legs hurt from standing up and my feet hurt from my shoes and my head hurt from, well, everything. Mostly the music. Right then I didn’t want to be Natalie or “Natalie” or anyone.
And, I realized, to Sebastian, that’s just who I was. Nobody.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
If Bethany had noticed us looking particularly forlorn that morning, she didn’t say anything. Even though it was technically a Saturday, we had to get up at the disgustingly early hour of seven thirty in order to catch a train to a train to the transit train that would get us home by a nonsuspicious morning time, and all around us the flower shops and bodegas and liquor stores of Brooklyn were cold and blue-colored and shaking off their padlocks for the morning. Tess was pale and slumpy on the too-bright subway car, clutching her head the whole way and only looking up to tell me when to get off and stand on another platform until we got to Penn Station.
“Blech.” Tess made a face at her coffee. “This is terrible.”
“Do you want me to throw it out?” I was sitting with my tote bag crammed under me as a cushion, since we apparently weren’t allowed into the waiting area with seats unless we had Amtrak tickets, and picking at the penitential bagel Tess had bought me for the train ride home.
“No.” Tess grimaced and slugged back another gulp. “I need the electrolytes.”
Now,
I knew, was not the time to point out that coffee did not have electrolytes. Instead, I rubbed the back of Tess’s leather jacket, which squeaked a little under my fingers.
“Muhh,” she moaned. “I feel like rotten death. I feel like I’m going to puke into this dishwater coffee.”
I withdrew my comforting arm as a precaution, but Tess just burped and took another sip.
“What even happened last night?” she croaked.
“Uh . . .” I wondered where to begin. “Well, we ate some falafel—”
“Ugh. That I remember,” Tess said. “Did not taste as good the second time.”
I winced and pushed on, eager to move off the topic of falafel barf. “So the Young Lungs played, and—”
“That’s right!” Tess’s eyes lit up, as much as they could behind their bleariness. “You talked to him. You nailed him down for the dance.”
I squashed a pinched bit of bagel into a bready pulp and exhaled hard. “No.”
“No?!” Tess said it so loudly a nearby one-legged pigeon squawked and flapped into a See Something? Say Something poster. “What do you mean, no, Nattie? That was the whole point of this mission!”
“I was a little busy making sure someone didn’t get arrested,” I said, but Tess was already up and off.
“We came here for one reason,” she said. “One very important thing we needed for OBGDP, and you screwed it up.”
I stood up and threw the bagel into the trash. “Oh, that was our one reason? Because it looked to me like we were just here to get wasted.”
Tess narrowed her eyes and slurped her coffee insidiously. Then, with a dramatic sniff, she closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her forehead.
“I can’t deal with this right now. I’m too hungover.”
“Yeah.” Having nothing to counter with, and having thrown my butter-covered prop in the trash can, I instead pulled out my phone. I had no reception, so I couldn’t text Sam Huang to tell him we were on our way back. But I could get Pixstagram, even if it took a while to load on the station Wi-Fi. And still, there was nothing. Nothing. Nothing new from the show, not anything. Sebastian’s latest posts were the same as they’d been last night: an untitled, artsy-looking shot of the underside of a suspension bridge and a picture of a single can of blue-raspberry flavored Hypr (“tour fuel for a poor fool #younglungs”). Idly, somewhat bitterly, I clicked on the hashtag—maybe someone had posted pictures from the show.
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