by Anna Hecker
“You won’t even have a chance to miss me.” He gives me a ketchup-y kiss before disappearing into the throngs.
As soon as he’s gone I check my phone again, but there’s still no message from Shay. I hesitate, then quickly type Text me? before standing back to watch the festival come to life.
The sun is almost gone now, and lights are beginning to blink on. The crowd in front of the Lip Smacker stage is a mass of glowsticks and blinking buttons, hairpieces that look like tiny fiber-optic waterfalls. The DJ whips the music into a spiral of sound that drops down suddenly into a single primal beat. “Everybody drop it now!” he yells into a microphone, over and over until the crowd is screaming along with him. I can’t help picturing myself in his place, wondering what would happen if I had a microphone, if I’d ever have the guts to use it.
Could I get one for Electri-City, I wonder? Could I use it for the crowd that’s five times the size of the one in the Silent Disco?
I shake my head. I’m being crazy. As soon as Derek comes back I’ll tell him I made a mistake; I can’t play Electri-City, not when my audition is the same weekend. I’ll ask if Jake can book Shay in my place. Then everybody wins, right?
“Miss me?” Derek cuts through the mass of bodies. He has an open bottle of champagne in one hand and a mischievous grin on his face. Just seeing him floods my body with longing.
“Derek …” I start to say.
“Cheers!” he interrupts me, raising the bottle in the air. “To your killer set today—and your next one, at Electri-City!”
He hands me the bottle. I can’t tell him now, not when he’s smiling this big and the night feels so full of possibility. I grasp the bottle and promise myself I’ll do it tomorrow.
“What, no flutes?” I joke. The last time I had champagne was at my cousin’s wedding two years ago. Mom told me the tall, thin champagne glasses were called flutes, and I dimly remember thinking this was hilarious after my first glass, and doing the Electric Slide after my second. I haven’t done much drinking since; Britt did enough for both of us in high school. But like Derek said, tonight we’re celebrating, and champagne feels absolutely right.
“Glasses are for snobs.” Derek raises the bottle to his lips and drinks. “This is more fun.”
He hands me the bottle and I take a swig, filling my throat with tart, tickling bubbles. I come away spluttering and laughing.
“Easy there!” Derek puts his lips over the rim, catching the overflow while patting me on the back.
“Let me try again.” I sip more slowly this time. “Wow. That’s actually really good.”
“Damn right.” Derek kisses the side of my neck. “Nothing but the best for my girl.”
My girl. He called me his girl. I glow on the inside, lit up with happiness and bubbles as Derek pulls a pack of gum from his pocket. He pops a piece in his mouth and closes his eyes as he starts to chew.
“Want one?” he asks, offering me the pack.
“With champagne? Doesn’t it taste funny?”
He shrugs. “So?”
I shake my head, grinning. “You’re weird.”
“You’re weird.” He takes my hand. “Want to dance?”
I nod, too happy to be self-conscious about my dancing, and we melt into the mass of bodies, pushing forward until we’re almost to the stage. The music is so loud here it feels like we’ve crawled into its mouth and let it swallow us whole, but for once I don’t care. I want to be in the very center of the action, to feel what people were feeling when they danced to my set.
“Hey!” Derek presses something into my hand. I look down and my face cracks into a smile. It’s a brand-new set of earplugs, orange and pristine in their cellophane packaging.
“You remembered!” I pull him to me and plant a big, sticky kiss on his lips. His mouth tastes like bubbles and peppermint and he says something back but it gets lost in the noise, and even with the earplugs the music is so loud it feels like it’s inside my body, a million decibels pouring through my veins.
Derek and I lose ourselves in the beat, passing the champagne back and forth as the DJ gives way to two lanky Swedish guys and then a tattooed Asian girl wearing a dress that looks like a disco ball. I swing my hips and Derek presses against them and spins me away, our bodies meeting and parting as the beat swells and skips and slows. Sweat soaks my dress. Derek’s hand inches down my back and his leg is between my thighs and I’m arched so far back I meet another girl’s eye upside down and she gives me the thumbs-up and mouths something that looks like: he’s hot!
I reach for the champagne and tilt the bottle to my lips, but all I find is air.
“It’s gone,” Derek tells me, popping another piece of gum into his mouth. In the flashing stage lights his eyes are wide and almost black.
I pout, my hips against his. “But I’m thirsty,” I say, my voice high-pitched and breathy and not my own.
“Then let’s get you some water.”
We push away from the stage, through thrashing, close-packed bodies, until we’re free of the throngs. The cool night air hits my face and post-dancing tingles race through me, making me feel like I’m made of stars.
“That was so fun!” I gush as we weave down one of the curved paths, night revelers brushing by us like moths. We stop at a concession stand and buy two bottles of water, the plastic so cool I press it to the back of my neck.
“Hey, you’re supposed to drink that,” Derek teases.
“Right.” I unscrew the cap and arch my neck as I drink, looking up past the lights to where a few brave stars twinkle in the sky. He drapes an arm over my shoulders and mine goes effortlessly around his waist, my hand slipping into his back pocket. I give his butt a playful squeeze.
“Hey!” He wriggles under my touch. “You really are bad.”
“So bad.” My voice feels thick and full. “And you like it.”
“Can’t say I don’t.” He nuzzles my neck and we wander through the festival, flowing like liquid as beats and lights compete for our attention from every stage. We wait in line to take a turn on the Ferris wheel, Derek’s hand warm in mine, his pulse flickering against my wrist like a butterfly.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” he asks when we reach the top. The festival spreads out below us, an electric patchwork quilt.
“It’s gorgeous,” I sigh. Our car swings gently in the breeze.
“You know this could be your life.” He traces my palm with his fingertip. “Playing festivals. Dancing all night. Drinking champagne.”
“You make it sound so glamorous,” I laugh, kicking my legs like a kid on a swing.
“It is glamorous,” he says. “All you have to do is say yes.”
“To what?” I ask, even though I know what.
“Electri-City.” He turns to me, his eyes dark and serious in the glittering night.
The question swirls around us. I want to drink in his eyes, the lights, the night. I want this to be my life. I want everything to feel just like this moment.
“You promise it won’t conflict with my audition?” I ask.
“I promise,” he says. “I’ll make sure they give you a later set.”
“And it’s just an hour?”
“Just an hour.” His thumb traces circles on my palm. “You know you can do this, Mira. You totally can.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?” He turns to me, a laugh bubbling from his mouth.
“Okay!” The laugh leaps to me and ignites. “I’ll do it!” I yell out over the treetops, pumping my legs to swing our car higher, my face flushing as I grasp his hand.
Derek’s smile is champagne-sweet. He tilts in to me, and just as his lips brush mine the Ferris wheel lurches forward and we throw our hands in the air, shouting and kissing and laughing as we zoom back to earth.
CHAPTER 21
When our feet touch grass again I find myself stifling a yawn.
“Sleepy?” Derek asks, rubbing my back in lazy circles.
“A little,” I admit.<
br />
His mouth twists into a reluctant half-grin. “I should let you go to bed.”
“Or you could come with me.” The words are out before I have time to think, my tongue loose from the champagne.
His eyes widen. “Are you sure?”
Am I? I look at Derek, his eyes dark and twinkling in the Ferris wheel’s lights, and think that I’ve never wanted anything more. All those nights in his bedroom this past week, kissing until my lips hurt and touching just a little bit more of him each time, left me aching for this moment, wanting more. My pulse picks up, takes off, and I put my arms around his neck. I give him a slow, deliberate kiss and feel the erratic patter of his heart.
“I’m sure,” I say.
He takes my hand and leads me past the stages and vendors and blurs of people like friendly ghosts. The Vision campground is full of vans and RVs, teardrop-shaped trailers and tents pitched in the back of pickup trucks. Derek stops in front of a blue-and-tan Chevy Astro van that looks like it drove here straight from the 1990s. He fumbles in his pocket and drops his keys twice before finally unlocking it. The champagne must have hit him harder than I realized.
“You sleep in here?” I ask.
“Oh, wait till you see. This thing was made for festivals.”
He opens the door and a string of soft Christmas lights blinks on, revealing a shag rug and mattress covered in silky pillows. Gauzy fabric hangs from the van’s sides, covering the windows. There’s even a small cooler and a plastic chest of drawers.
“Welcome to the VIP lounge,” Derek jokes, helping me inside.
“You weren’t kidding.” I kick off my shoes and sprawl out on the bed. “This is way better than our crappy old tent.”
“Damn right.” He shuts the doors and joins me, propping up on one elbow so his head is level with mine. For a long time we just lie there, close but not touching. Someone is playing a guitar outside and a small group sings along, off-beat and offkey but impossibly sweet. I try to memorize Derek’s face the way it looks right now: his eyes just a thin line of blue around wide, black pupils, lips working lazily over a wad of gum. His fingertip grazes my cheek, making me shiver.
“You’re different,” he says finally. “You know that?”
“How?” Tufts of hair stick up on both sides of his head, making him look like an owl. I reach over and smooth one out.
“You don’t want things from me all the time.” He takes my hand and kisses it, turning my insides to liquid. “You’re just cool.”
Cool. Just like I’ve always tried to be. Someone finally noticed.
“Are most people not cool?” I ask.
“Most people are a goddamn pain in my ass.” His eyes crinkle into a smile, and we both crack up.
“Like who?” I ask once our laughter subsides.
“Other promoters, DJs, ex-girlfriends … even my mom. Especially my mom.”
I think back to that afternoon in his bedroom, the accusing squawk on the other line. “What about your dad?” I ask tentatively.
“Out of the picture. Since I was five.”
His voice is matter-of-fact, but I can feel the bitterness beneath.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe.
“It’s fine. He’s a jerk.” He blinks hard. “Or at least, that’s what my mom says.”
“Do you remember him?” I ask.
He sighs. “Not from when I was little. But there was this one time …” He trails off. “It’s a weird, fucked-up story. You probably don’t want to hear it.”
“I do,” I tell him. I want to know everything about him, no matter how strange or painful or twisted.
“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “So one day, I was like ten years old, the phone rings and I go to pick it up and … hold on, I need to get comfortable.”
He lies back on the mattress and pulls me into him, so my head is resting against his chest and I can feel the flutter of his heart against my cheek.
“Anyway,” he continues, “I pick up and this older guy with a kind of twangy voice says my name. And I’m like, ‘Who is this?’ because we were getting a lot of calls from telemarketers but how would they know my name, y’know? And he’s like, ‘Derek, it’s your dad.’”
His heartbeat speeds up as he says the words. “Whoa,” I say quietly.
“Right? At first I was like, ‘I don’t have a dad, my dad hates us’—all this stuff my mom had always told me for as long as I could remember. And he goes—I’ll seriously never forget the way he said it—‘Didn’t you get my letters?’”
I can feel his voice vibrate in his throat, so close and full of pain. “So he was sending you letters?” I ask.
“Yeah, like the whole time. For years. And my mom was throwing them away.”
“That’s messed up.”
“Right?” He looks down so his eyes meet mine, blurring into one from the nearness of our faces. “No wonder I have trust issues.”
“Did you ever talk to him again?” I ask.
His eyes go sad. “Not really. I always thought it would happen when I moved out on my own. But I never ended up calling him. I kept telling myself it wasn’t a good time or whatever.” His laugh is bitter. “I guess my mom got to me more than I thought.”
“You know it’s not too late,” I say quietly. “You could still call him if you want.”
“Yeah.” He rolls onto his side so I’m looking up at the curve of his neck. “That’s the thing: I don’t even know if I want to. My mom never wanted me to get close to anyone but her. She was worried I’d get hurt. But instead I got trust issues.”
I kiss his neck. “I’m glad you can trust me,” I say.
“Mmmm. Me too.” He closes his eyes as I kiss my way up to his jaw, his cheek, his mouth.
“So tell me about you,” he says after we’ve made out for a while. “What’s your damage?”
I laugh softly. “I’m not damaged,” I say.
“Sure you aren’t.” He pulls back so he can look me in the eyes. “Everyone’s damaged. Even people with the greatest families in the world are messed up. Is your family the greatest family in the world?”
Outside there’s the flick of a lighter and a long inhale, followed by a bout of hacking coughs and muffled laughter. The smell of pot smoke seeps into the van, sleepy and sweet.
“Well,” I say finally. “You’ve met Britt.”
“Right,” he shrugs. “She seems okay.”
“Just okay?” I search his face for signs that he’s joking, but his eyes are wide and serious. “Everyone else thinks she’s amazing.”
“Aha.” His mouth curls into a sardonic half smile. “There’s the damage.”
I open my mouth to tell him he’s wrong. I’m not damaged; everything is cool. What comes out instead is my life story: how I’ve always been Britt’s little sister first and Mira second, how my parents dote on her and don’t know what to make of me, how Grandpa Lou was the only person in our family who took me seriously and now he’s gone and I miss him more than words can say.
Derek strokes my hand and takes it all in. It’s the first time I’ve told this story the way it really is, not the watered-down way I tell it to Crow and Nicky and Peter and everyone at camp so I can still sound cool, like I’m way past caring. It’s the first time I’ve ever told someone exactly how it is and exactly how it makes me feel.
Derek stays silent, but from the way he’s nodding I can tell he understands. Tears tickle my eyes by the time I finish, and he leans in and kisses them away. Then his mouth moves down the side of my face, inflaming every patch of skin it meets. He kisses my neck, and the moth-wing touches of his lips leave me trembling. By the time he lowers them onto mine I feel like an electric wire, taut and conductive.
I kiss him back hard, wrapping my legs around his waist like I did on the dance floor. Except there’s no dance floor this time, there’s nobody watching and it’s just the two of us horizontal behind the closed doors of his van. I kiss the side of his neck, tasting salt-sweat and skin, pulling
him closer. My dress rides up and I feel his hands on it, under it. I arch my back and there’s the skim of fabric over my face and then I’m in just my bra and underwear, goose bumps flashing across my skin.
“Damn.” Derek’s eyes go wide and I wonder if he sees me the way I see myself in the mirror, right breast obviously larger than the left even in Britt’s hand-me-down Victoria’s Secret Pink polka-dotted bra. “You’re beautiful,” he breathes. He lowers his mouth to my chest, hands on my shoulders pushing me gently back and down until I’m staring up at the Christmas lights twinkling green and blue and gold.
I pull him on top of me and we roll around for a long time, until my bra is off and he’s down to his boxers and I know we’re getting to the point of no return.
“I want you,” he breathes, his voice twilight-blue.
“I want you too,” I whisper back.
“Should I get a condom?” he asks.
I hesitate, just for a moment. Because I want this, I know I do. But I also know that once we go there, we can’t ever go back again.
He feels my hesitation and pulls away a little, resting on his elbows so he can look me in the eyes.
“Mira,” he asks softly. “Is this your first time?”
“Yes,” I whisper. I can’t lie to him, not after what we just shared.
“Then I’ll be gentle,” he says.
And he is.
CHAPTER 22
I’m not a virgin anymore.
It’s my first thought when I wake up, pushing through the layers of memory in my aching head. The van is hot and my stomach feels uncertain and sour from the champagne, but this thought gives me a new feeling of solidity, like I was just floating through life before but now I’m really here. I toss off the blanket and stretch, sending a new chorus of cymbals pounding through my skull. The space between my legs feels sticky and humid.
Outside there’s the sizzle of bacon frying, a Big Room House track gone small and reedy through someone’s portable speaker. A sudden cascade of laughter punctuates the morning. Next to me, Derek’s eyes drift open.