I take off the T-shirt I’m wearing and slip the sweater over my head. “Nothing’s going to happen. It’ll be fine,” I say.
“It does look hot on you, chica,” Rosa says, checking me out. I smile, and then she shoves me onto the bed and starts attacking my hair. By the time she’s done, it’s in the perfect messy bun, piled on top of my head with only a few wild curls escaping.
“There. Now you’re ready,” she announces, satisfied.
“Hard to argue with the finished look,” Margo says with approval, pulling on her hot-pink high-top Chucks. “Let’s go!”
Mrs. McHenry drives us to the station to catch the 6:35 p.m. train.
“Be careful, watch your wallets, and don’t take a drink from an open bottle,” she warns as we’re getting out of the car.
“Mooooom!” Margo groans. “How many times have I been to the city before?”
“It never hurts to be reminded,” Mrs. McHenry says. “Call to let me know what train you’re on coming home.”
We all wave as the car pulls away.
“My mom is such a freak,” Margo says.
“Not especially,” I assure her. “Helene is waaaaaaay worse.”
“Trust me, she’s not,” Margo says. “I can’t wait to go to college so I can escape from her freakiness.”
Agreed. It’s just everything in between that is such an ordeal.
“Can we make tonight a college-free zone?” I suggest. “It’s all anyone ever talks about. Especially parents.”
“I know!” Rosa agrees. “Where are you looking? What are your safeties?” She’s putting on different parent imitation voices for each question. “Have you visited anywhere yet? What’s your top pick?”
“What are you planning to study?” Margo continues. “Oh, so you want to be unemployed when you graduate?”
By the time we get on the train, we’ve sworn a pact that college and APs and Future Life Plans are strictly forbidden subjects.
Prom, however, is not.
“Madison Maguire said that Dan Bates is going to ask me next week,” Margo tells us. “I wish he’d hurry it up. I don’t want everyone else to get the best dresses first.”
There’s a junior girls secret Instagram feed where you post the dress you bought so no one buys the same one. In theory, anyway. Last year, three girls showed up in the same dress, and according to people who were there, security had to get involved.
I’m less worried about getting the right dress than I am the right date.
“I think Eddy Lau is going to ask me,” Rosa says. “He was hinting in physics. You know, asking if I had a date yet and stuff.”
“Do you want to go with him?” Margo asks.
“Sure,” Rosa says. “He’s funny. And cute.”
“Quiet, though.”
“Only till you get to know him,” Rosa says. “Which I have, because we’ve been lab partners this year. What about you?”
“Well …” I hesitate, afraid to tell even my best friends about my deepest wish. “I’m hoping that Jamie Moss will ask me.”
The silence after my revelation is deafening.
“Really?” Rosa sounds surprised. I mean, I know I haven’t exactly been going around talking about how gorgeous I think he is, but that’s only because I didn’t feel the need to state the obvious.
“Yes, really.”
She shrugs. “Cool. I hope he asks you.”
Margo is staring out the window. Her lack of comment is like a comment itself.
“What, Margo?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, tell me!”
She hesitates. “He just … doesn’t seem like your type.”
“What is my type exactly?”
“I don’t know. Smarter. Funnier. Not as … I don’t know. Just not Jamie.”
The way Noah looked as he sang “Whispering Courage” pops into my mind. I shake my head. He’s not the one who is supposed to be there.
It feels like there’s something she’s not telling me, but I don’t want to push it. Because we’re going to a concert and being in the city without my parents’ permission means excitement and possibility, especially tonight, when we’re on our way to see one of my favorite bands in the entire world.
When we get to Grand Central, I can almost feel my blood fizzing in my veins. We take the subway downtown, and when we get out, we look in store windows, admire street fashion, and take pictures of the guy with the sandwich boards telling us that the world is coming to an end in the next thirty days unless we all repent and accept Jesus as our Personal Savior.
“I guess if the asteroid hits before prom, it’ll be all my fault,” I joke.
“Not mine,” Margo says. “I’ve been learning catechism since I was six.”
We walk down the street, singing “It’s the End of the World as We Know It,” confident that even if the world might be coming to an end, our night is just beginning.
There’s already a crowd outside the Bowery Ballroom.
We wait in line, have our purses searched, and are asked to show ID. After seeing the birth dates on our driver’s permits, a bouncer attaches white wristbands, with “Under 21” in big red letters, to our wrists, making sure they’re tight enough that we can’t slide them off to exchange them with someone who is drinking age.
“I feel like Hester Prynne,” Rosa grumbles.
“Yeah, could they make our scarlet letters any bigger?” Margo says. “They could at least make them a cool color instead of making it look like we’ll need to be carted away in an ambulance.”
“They probably make them this obvious so we don’t end up being carted away in an ambulance,” I point out.
Margo gives me a dirty look. “Stop, Sammy. You sound like a mom.”
Hearing the word mom makes me nervous. I don’t want to think about moms while I’m wearing mine’s clothing at a concert I snuck out to.
The warm-up band, Oversized Aviators, has already started by the time we enter, but the place still isn’t even half full. Rosa, being cute and petite, is surprisingly good at weaving her way through crowds, so we follow her lead and manage to get within ten feet of the stage.
It’s crowded up this close, even for the opening act. I’m wedged between Rosa and an older hipster couple. Behind us is a group of guys from NYU who are either seniors or who have fake IDs, because they’re all holding drinks of an alcoholic nature.
“Do you think we can ask those guys to buy us a beer?” Margo says to Rosa and me between songs.
“Are you crazy?” Rosa hisses. “I’m not taking a drink from some strange guy.”
“But we could go to the bar with him and watch the whole time,” Margo argues.
“Yeah, and then the bartender will see our wristbands,” I point out. “Besides, I feel guilty enough being here when I’m not supposed to and wearing my mother’s illegally borrowed sweater. I don’t need to add underage drinking to my list of transgressions.”
“But maybe next time!” Rosa says brightly.
I laugh.
“You guys need to learn how to live a little.” Margo sighs.
“Us guys need to get into a good college,” I say.
“College?” one of the guys behind us shouts over the song that’s just starting. “What college do you go to?”
Rosa, Margo, and I glance at one another, and I can tell we’re all thinking the same thing.
“Barnard,” Rosa says.
“Ooh, smart girls,” he says to his buddies. “Watch out, guys. These girls are smart and cute.”
We’re also not drunk, which means that we’re much better at standing upright than he is.
“How is this guy going to make it through the whole concert if he’s already this wasted?” I ask Rosa and Margo.
“Good question,” Margo says.
“Are you into Oversized Aviators?” one of Drunk Guy’s friends asks us.
“They’re okay,” I say. “But we’re really here for Einstein’s Encounter.”
/>
“Yeah, they’re legendary,” he says. “Hey, do any of you girls want a drink?”
“Thanks, I’m good,” I tell him, giving Margo a warning glance in case she’s getting any ideas.
“Yeah, us too,” Rosa says, not even giving Margo a chance to open her mouth.
“Okay, later,” he says, heading for the bar, followed by Other Drunk Guy, who weaves behind him like a human metronome.
The place is getting more and more crowded as Oversized Aviators finish and we wait for Einstein’s Encounter to start. The hipster couple on my right is talking loudly about politics, and I overhear them mention the protest at Dad’s bank.
“NPR reported that Wallach and the mayor are bringing in the riot squad to clear the protest,” Hipster Guy says. “Fascists.”
My dad is one of those fascists.
“But what about the protesters’ rights?” Hipster Girl asks.
“The judge ruled that the First Amendment gives them a right to speech, but not to camp out,” Hipster Guy says. “Realistically, how long are they going to be able to stay there without tents?”
“Not long—especially if it rains.” Hipster Girl sighs. “Why does The Man always win?”
“Is that your dad’s company they’re talking about?” Margo asks.
“Quiet!” I hiss. “I don’t want them to know Dick and I are related. They side with the protesters.”
“So is your dad ‘The Man’?” Rosa snorts.
“I always thought he was just ‘The Dad,’ but apparently he’s also ‘The Man,’ ” I tell her.
I’d totally tease Dad about that, except I can’t tell him where I heard it. In theory, I’m not here.
The drunk guys return just as the lights dim, and Einstein’s Encounter takes the stage, opening with “Humor in an Elevator.” I’m in heaven. Davy Linklater is wearing black jeans and a T-shirt that says “Why?” which is so … profound. Not only is he gorgeous with an amazing voice, he clearly asks the big questions.
“This is epic!” Rosa shouts.
“I know!” I yell back.
Margo screams, “I love you guys!”
At one point, Davy actually smiles at us—or at least in our direction. Truthfully, I can’t tell if it’s for us or the drunk NYU guys, who have been getting progressively drunker during the show. The drunkest one keeps shouting out requests for songs by other bands. It’s beyond annoying.
But then I hear the opening chords to “Whispering Courage,” and I can’t help but be swept up in the moment and the music. I can feel the bass in my chest and I inhale the guitar chords with each breath. My hips move in perfect synchronicity to the beat of the drums, and I sing the chorus along with the other five hundred people here: “You don’t have to shout, or shoot, because your whispering courage will conquer them all.”
It’s the perfect moment.
Suddenly, something warm and slimy lands on the back of my neck. Rosa screams. Then the smell hits me.
“Oh my god. HE THREW UP ON ME!” Rosa is hysterical. “It’s all over my back!”
“You idiot!” Margo shouts at Drunk Guy, who is bending over, staring at the puddle of vomit on the floor with a stupid, dazed expression. “You got me, too!”
“He’s sorry,” Drunk Guy’s friend says. “Really sorry.”
“No, he’s not,” I snap. “He’s too drunk to even know he’s sorry.”
“I’m covered in puke!” Rosa wails, like this isn’t obvious to anyone with a nose.
“Let’s go,” I say, with one longing glance back at the stage.
We make our way through the crowd to the lobby, which isn’t at all hard despite the fact that everyone is dancing like crazy to a fantastic version of “Typing Liberals.” When you’re with someone covered in vomit, even the most packed crowd parts like the Red Sea.
I spot the merch booth and head that way.
“Look, you can get a band tee to change into,” I tell Rosa. “I might get one, too, because El Drunko got my back with spatter.”
“Me too,” Margo said. “It’s making me gag just to smell myself.”
Perfect plan, till we find out the cheapest T-shirt is twenty dollars. I can’t use my debit card. My parents see the activity on the card and it would be a giveaway that I wasn’t where I said I would be. The problem is, after paying for a bottle of water, my round-trip train ticket, and a MetroCard, I only have thirteen dollars left.
“Can either of you lend me seven dollars?” I ask.
“I don’t have enough, either,” Margo says.
“Can’t you use a card?” I ask.
Margo holds up her tiny cell phone case/purse on a strap. “I didn’t bring one. All I brought was money, ID, and my phone.”
Both of us look at Rosa.
“Don’t look at me. My mom told me not to bring a card in case I got pickpocketed. I have enough for one T-shirt. And I’m the one who needs it the most.”
We can’t argue with that. The back of her shirt suffered the direct hit, and Margo’s and mine only suffered collateral damage, however disgusting-smelling it might be. We’re just going to have to try to wash off the best we can and suffer.
Rosa buys a T-shirt from the girl at the merch booth, who somehow manages the incredible feat of scrunching up her nose in disgust while simultaneously looking down it at us. I’ll have to practice that trick in the mirror sometime—when I don’t reek of vomit.
We go to the bathroom and attempt to repair the damage. From inside the concert hall, we can hear the crowd going wild.
“I can’t believe we’re missing the best part of the show because of that … that …” Margo can’t even come up with an adjective bad enough.
I can.
I pull a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser. “Can you get my back?” I ask Margo. “I’ll do yours.”
We take turns washing each other’s backs, which leaves us with wet shirts, still smelling faintly gross and extremely uncomfortable to wear. But it’s better than nothing.
The magic is over. The spell is broken. I just want to go home.
April 7
OMG! IT’S SO EARLY. WHY AM I EVEN AWAKE? I AM SO TIRED.
Maybe it’s because Margo’s snoring—she has been snoring ALL. NIGHT. LONG. If it weren’t for the fact that I would end up in prison for murder, I’d stick a pillow over her face just to stop that hideous sawing. It’s like nails on a chalkboard to the third power. And the worst part? She stops just long enough for me to almost drop off again, and then … IT STARTS ALL OVER. Maybe I should take a recording and then do the pillow thing. No jury of my peers would convict me if they heard that racket. Seriously, Margo sounds like a ninety-year-old man.
That’s why I’ve given up trying to sleep. Between that and Rosa on the other side of me still reeking of puke, it’s no wonder I can’t sleep.
Couldn’t the girl have taken a shower when we got back? I was tired and miserable, too, but I still got under a stream of water and washed every olfactory-offending odor away. Rosa? She just crashed into bed and went straight to sleep, despite clearly bearing some of that drunk NYU guy’s upchuck somewhere on her. You’d think she’d worry more about germs and stuff. Maybe it’s a cultural thing.
So here I am, lonely and awake in the cold light of morning, writing about my crushed dreams. God, even I think I’m being lame.
Maybe when you look forward to something too much, it’s the Kiss of Death. From now on, I’m cultivating a “Meh” attitude, even when it’s something I’m really excited about. Otherwise I’ll jinx it and end up miserable, wet, stinking of puke, and terrified of my mom’s wrath. So not worth it.
It’s not that the Einstein’s Encounter concert was a total loss. I got to hear “Humor in an Elevator” and “The Catalyst of My Dreams” and I had one of the most spiritual moments of my life during “Whispering Courage”—at least until the vomitsplosion.
Sometimes I hate other people and think I’d be happiest if I could just stay the rest of my life alone
in a cave on a distant mountaintop—as long as I had Wi-Fi and food and running water and a comfortable bed. Okay, maybe not a mountaintop. Maybe I just need to be in my own room away from everyone for a while. Even my best friends, who drove me crazy last night.
Why am I any more of an idiot for liking Jamie Moss than Rosa is for liking Eddy Lau, or Margo is for wanting to go to prom with Danny Bates? They are so judgmental sometimes. Not to mention two-faced. Rosa told me she thinks Danny Bates is a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but she didn’t say anything about that when Margo said she thought he was going to ask her to prom. And Margo has laughed about what a Class A nerd Eddy Lau is, but did she say a word about that when Rosa said she was thinking about going to prom with him? Not on your life! But the minute I mention Jamie Moss, the two of them act all weird. What’s up with that? Telling me he’s not my type … I don’t even know what my type is, so what makes Margo such an expert?
Whatever. My biggest problem now, besides exhaustion, is dealing with Mom’s sweater. In between being mad about the snoring and the puke smell, I’ve spent half the night worrying about that. Okay, I just looked up ways to clean vomitous luxury garments. Dry cleaning seems to be the only option, but there’s no way to do that without Mom finding out.
If only I had my license! But I don’t. : ////
I’ll figure it out.
As soon as it’s a civilized hour, I call home to see what’s going on so I can figure out where Rosa’s mom should drop me in order to maintain the “AP study-group sleepover” fiction.
Mom is in a foul mood.
“Dad had to go into work again,” she fumes. “He was supposed to take RJ to his Odyssey of the Mind competition so I could go to the grand opening of Lickety Splits. You’re going to have to get a ride home from someone.”
“No problem,” I say. “Tell RJ good luck!”
“I will. I’m sorry to leave you to your own devices like this, but I’ve got to go right now if RJ’s going to make it on time.”
“It’s fine, Mom. I can get a ride home.”
“Make sure you let Scruffles out,” Mom says. “I’m not sure how long this Odyssey thing will run.”
In Case You Missed It Page 4