Two Different Sides

by L A Tavares

  “Yeah, I’ll give it a shot.” I take the cup from her and shake it up, listening to the dice roll around against the sides and clink against the glass.

  Two hours pass and I’ve spent more money playing with dice in a glass than I did on dinner and drinks.

  A tall, tanned woman in a tell-all dress and heels leans into the bar next to me, watching my second-to-last roll. The dice shows a one where I needed one more six. One roll left.

  “That’s too bad. Let me give it a try?” she says, picking up the die, blowing on it, and rolling it to the bar top. Six.

  The few bar patrons cheer and the waitress skips over, handing me the cash prize.

  “This is actually yours, I believe.” I hand the winnings over to the woman who tossed the winning number. Her hands wrap around mine, pushing the pile back toward my chest.

  “I’ve got a better idea of what you can do with that,” she whispers as one eyebrow arches into a suggestive expression. She bites her lip and leans in, whispering the details of her plan in my ear. “So, should we get out of here?”

  * * * *

  Then

  Alexander, Julian and I clicked fast, just like I knew we would. Alexander got over his reservations and we started practicing together, creating music and writing songs. The talent show went so well that people who saw us perform started asking us where else they could see us play. After a few months of practicing and building ourselves, we added two more members—a drummer named Dominic and Theo, a keyboard player. We spent the whole following summer playing small gigs and local events.

  We started our social media pages and gained followers faster than we ever thought possible. To think that all of this started to get noticed by a girl who was never going to pay attention to me.

  The bass guitar quickly became the first thing I fell in love with, and I was talented, but Julian had this raw, undefined skill that I found myself almost jealous of. He had been playing a lot longer than me, though, and watching him play and hearing his notes only improved my skills. For someone who didn’t want to be the lead singer, Alexander was killing it at the microphone. There’s something about his voice that’s so distinct and so unique, like he has belonged at that microphone all this time.

  Besides Julian, none of us owned a damn thing. We used the auditorium to practice so Dom could use the drums that belonged to the school. Alexander was still playing a guitar that his mother had found at the thrift shop years before I met him. That guitar is so old, so faded, that I swear one of these days if he jams too hard, the whole thing will combust into ash in his fingertips. But at least he has one. I’m borrowing one of Julian’s older bass guitars since my mother pawned mine.

  “Blake?” I hear a voice ask me from the back of the auditorium when the music breaks. I turn to see Kelly peeking her head into the door. She enters the auditorium and walks about halfway down the aisle. I stand still. This must be a dream. Kelly Montoy doesn’t talk to me. We haven’t spoken since her and Rina Amell convinced me to shaving cream our principal’s car last year. Alexander shoves me in her direction and I start walking toward her with my guitar strap over my shoulder, still attached to the amp. I get tangled in the wire, awkwardly stepping out of it and almost falling on my face in front of the band and Kelly. She presses her painted fingertips to her lips and smiles but doesn’t laugh—out loud anyway. I hand my guitar to Alexander and trot to the middle of the aisle where she stands.

  “Hey, Kelly,” I say, finding it hard to breathe with her this close to me.

  “Hey, Blake.” My name sliding off her lips sounds better than any music I have ever made—or heard, for that matter. “Rina is having a party this weekend.”

  Shocker. Rina Amell throwing a party isn’t exactly breaking news. These wild, out-of-hand ragers were expected at this point. Come Monday, it’s all anyone talks about, but Alexander and I avoid them since the last debacle and Julian has stayed behind in solidarity.

  “So, yeah, are you busy this weekend?” she asks, batting her brilliantly long lashes and twirling her hair around her finger.

  “You…want me to go to the party?” I asked, struggling to form the words. No wonder she never talks to me. I can barely string a sentence together when she’s around. “So, what? You and your friends can screw with me and Alexander again?”

  “I want you to play it.” She rolls her eyes as if I should have guessed that.

  “Right, right.” I run my hand through my hair, excited to be asked to play, but equally disappointed to not just be on the guest list. I don’t say anything, and she breaks the silence.

  “So, what do you say, Blake? Are you in?”

  Chapter Eight

  Now

  “So, what do you say?” the woman presses. “Are you in?”

  I look at the money in one hand and click my phone to life with the other. No new text messages. No word from Kelly. No one looking for me or relying on me at all.

  “What’s your name?” I shove the winnings deep in my pocket.

  “Isabella.” The name rolls off her tongue.

  “Okay, Isabella. I’m in.”

  We enter a hired car and slide into the back seat. She ordered the car and input the address. I have no idea where we are going, but I’m not nervous. I’m excited. With any luck, the reward will be worth the risk.

  The car drops us off in front of a large, horseshoe-shaped waterfront building. Two men open the door to the lobby and greet Isabella as we enter. In the elevator, she swipes a key card and hits a button labeled PH.

  Penthouse.

  Still in the clothes I wore for the show, I suddenly feel grossly underdressed. We reach a door at the corner of the building and she swipes a keycard once more.

  “Come on in.” She holds the door open.

  The room is as perfect as a picture, so immaculate I’m sure it must be the model used for tours only. The only indication someone even lives here is the lingering smell of expensive cigars and the presence of liquor bottles, all half-empty—or half-full for the optimists.

  “This way.” She leads me to a spiral staircase in the corner of the room. As we climb to the top, I hear the mumble of voices, followed by a deep, hearty yet intimidating laugh.

  “Boys, room for one more?” Isabella asks, entering an open second floor layout decorated with exactly one table in the middle of a cigar-smoke haze.

  The man at the center of the table wears a perfectly fitted suit and an unwelcoming glare.

  “Go home, kid,” he says through a puff of his cigar. “You can’t afford to play on this stage.”

  Isabella raises her eyebrow and nudges me toward the table in a silent suggestion, telling me to make my move.

  “I disagree.” I step toward the table and take the money from my pocket. “And you’ve got an empty seat.”

  He looks at me once more, analyzing me from the tip of my hair to the bottom of my shoes. His eyes tell me he’s unimpressed and ready to have me physically removed from this penthouse suite, but he doesn’t.

  “Have a seat, boy. And remember the first rule— “

  “Don’t talk about Fight Club?” I ask. He narrows his eyes as his lips turn to a hard line. Apparently, movie references aren’t his thing.

  “No,” he says, snuffing out his cigar. “There’s no crying in high stakes poker.”

  Or, perhaps, movie references are.

  * * * *

  Then

  The party was loud and rambunctious before we even got set up. Rina Amell’s house was exactly the way I remembered, though it seems the guest list has grown to include the entire school instead of just our grade. Anyone who is anyone is there—which, I suppose, is why we usually aren’t.

  Julian moves the amps into the space we will be playing in while Alexander tunes his guitar.

  Finally set up and ready to play, my eyes find Kelly’s in the crowd and I know this may be my one and only chance to really impress her.

  “Blake,” Alexander says, bringing my attention
back to the stage area.

  “Yeah?” I ask, but my eyes still in the crowd.

  “You going to play us in or just stand there with everyone staring at you?”

  I look around and all eyes are on us. The room has quieted a bit, as if everyone is waiting to see what we can do. I strike a few chords, the vibration of the music flows through me, and Alexander steps toward the microphone. His voice fills the space, singing a song about love and where it starts, and even though he is the one speaking, it’s like I’m trying to send a message directly to the girl who I started making music for in the first place—and she doesn’t even know.

  She smiles a real, genuine grin and waves lightly toward the stage, flicking a few perfectly manicured fingers our direction. I keep playing but nod my head toward her. She rocks slightly back and forth to the beat of the music and I take a chance. My favorite line of the song is coming up, so I lean into the microphone, share it with Alexander, and sing the line along with him, harmonizing in a way we hadn’t tried before. He slaps a hand against my shoulder and smiles widely. More importantly, so does Kelly.

  We play a handful of songs and take a break. Girls I’ve never met before offer me drinks, and guys who never knew my name suddenly do. Alexander stands off to one side, chugging liquid from a cup surrounded by a handful of excited partygoers. This must be how Julian feels all the time.

  Hopping off the makeshift stage, I walk around the room looking for Kelly. Classmates pat my back as I walk around, people complement our music and shout my name as I walk through the crowd of spectators. Tonight is my night. Tonight I was heard, but I want to be seen—by one in person in particular.

  Her long blonde hair is visible past the door frame as she stands outside on the porch, talking with her hands and smiling the same small grin she wore when she was watching us perform. I step through the door and just as I do, she steps out of view. I turn to stand on the porch in perfect time to see her lean forward and kiss a guy who’s not me.

  I started all of this—the guitar playing, the band—to get her attention, and the smile she wore and the wave she gave as we performed told me I was right. She is into musicians. But those intricate gestures, including the kiss she shares now, weren’t meant for me.

  They were meant for Julian.

  * * * *

  Now

  “Victor,” Isabella says, placing a drink down in front of the man in the suit. He nods and waves her off, keeping his concentration fixed on his cards that lay face down on the table, turned up at the corner by his large thumb.

  I can’t read the look on his face, but I’d guess he can’t read the one on mine either.

  Isabella rounds the table and hands me a glass filled with amber liquid. I take a sip and stare across the table, waiting to see what Victor has come up with.

  “You should’ve stayed home tonight, boy. But it’s too late now.” He flips his cards over on the table revealing a full house—three jacks and two eights. It is a gorgeous hand, and it would sting a little, only my hand is better.

  The look on his face when I flip over four beautiful queens is the real win, though turning a few hundred dollars into thousands isn’t so bad either.

  I order a car and smile the whole way home, flipping through the cash that I won by holding a good hand but also by breaking my promise to Cooper. And if I’m being honest, I don’t feel guilty. I feel powerful.

  All the lights at my house are off when I arrive. I push the door open, careful not to make too much noise. I’m sure Kelly is fast asleep, and I don’t want to wake her. I step out of one boot, then the other as quietly as possible but as I turn around, the lights flick on. Kelly stands at the other side of the room, leaning into the doorframe with a look on her face that doesn’t exactly say she’s excited to see me.

  “Kelly.” I run my fingers through my hair and leave my hand at the back of my neck.

  “Blake.” She smiles a wide but somewhat alarming grin. “It’s so good to see you! It’s been so long.” Her voice is twisted and dramatic.

  Welp, that settles it. I’m screwed.

  “Where were you?” She walks toward me, closing the gap between us.

  “Just out,” I say. It’s the very lamest attempt at an excuse I’ve ever muttered. It doesn’t even deserve to call itself an attempt at an excuse.

  “Okay.” She grabs at the front of my shirt and pulls herself close to me. “Can you call next time?”

  She’s not mad. She’s not upset.

  She’s perfect.

  And for the second time tonight, I’m lucky.

  She kisses me and takes my hand, guiding me down the hallway to our room. Then she’s in the bed beside me and I run my fingers through her hair as we lay in a lightless, deep-black atmosphere. She rolls over to face me and props herself up on her elbow.

  “Tell me something about yourself.”

  I sit up against the headboard. “You know everything there is to know. You’ve known me since junior high, and you’ve been living here for almost a year…”

  “That’s not what I mean and you know it.” She traces her fingertip along the blanket, avoiding eye contact as she repeats the questions she’s asked me so many times before. “Where do you come from? And your parents… What about them?”

  I roll over and pull the blankets to my chin.

  “Someday, Blake Mathews,” she says. “Someday you’re going to let me all the way in and I’m going to know every side of you.”

  Her voice is convinced, steadfast—but she’s wrong. That day is never going to come.

  * * * *

  Then

  “The difference between an autobiography and a biography, as you know, is that a biography is written about a person by an author and an autobiography is written about oneself.” Mr. Langar walks up and down the aisles, stopping only to take an origami-folded note out of Rina’s hand mid-pass and toss it into the trash. “Today you’re going to pick a folded piece of paper from the basket. It’s going to read ‘A’ or ‘B’. If you have a ‘B’, you’ll be partnered up with another ‘B’ and you will write stories about each other, hence, biography. If you have an ‘A’, you’ll be working individually to write a story about yourself to share with the class. Understood?”

  The class moans. At least we can all agree on something.

  The basket gets handed up and down the rows while each student begrudgingly selects a slip of paper and unfolds it.

  “I got a B!” Alexander says, looking over my shoulder as I unfold mine.

  “B!” He high-fives me. “Partners?” I ask, and he nods.

  “Mr. Varro, Mr. Mathews,” Mr. Langar says, unenthused, “as much as I always look forward to seeing what kind of…effort…you two come up with, you won’t be working together on this one. And lose the sunglasses, Alexander. This is a classroom.”

  Alexander slumps into his chair and pushes his glasses onto his head, pinning back his overgrown hair.

  “Alexander, you can work with Mr. Young.” Alexander sits back up, suddenly excited about the project again. I roll my eyes. “Blake, you can work with”—he looks around the room, scratching at his chin—“ah, Ms. Montoy.”

  My hands sweat against the desktop while my heart beats like a drum in my chest. Of all the students in this whole class. Suddenly I’m wishing I’d picked ‘A’ instead of ‘B’.

  At lunch, Julian, Alexander, Theo, Dom and I occupy a table at the far end of the cafeteria.

  “I was looking forward to working with you, Blake,” Alexander says through bites of his peanut butter sandwich. “I’ve always been curious to know your back story.”

  “Why don’t you just ask?” Julian says, taking a bite of the hot pasta he’d purchased.

  “Because it’s not like he will answer.” Alexander crumples up his brown paper bag. “He just changes the subject.”

  “I don’t always change the subject.” I throw a chip at Alexander. “So, have you guys heard the new Detriment album? It’s supposed to be r
eally great.”

  Julian and Alexander look at each other then at me. Okay, so I change the subject. I avoid things. But it’s none of their damn business.

  “Speaking of the project,” Julian says, “you must be stoked you got partnered with Kelly.”

  I swallow my drink the wrong way and cough as he speaks. It surprised me to hear him say that, since the last time I saw them in the same room she was leaning in like he needed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  “It doesn’t bother you?” I ask. “Aren’t you two like…a thing?”

  “Umm, no?” Julian asks, and I don’t think he’s playing dumb.

  “You two looked pretty cozy at Rina’s party the other night.”

  There’s a long pause between us. Alexander’s face says he has no clue what we’re talking about.

  “You saw that?” Julian wipes his fingers on a napkin. I nod my head.

  “She kissed me. That was it. I didn’t expect it. When she pulled away, I told her that I was seeing someone.” He opens his tiny box of milk and drinks it straight from the carton, ignoring the straw on his lunch tray.

  “You’re not seeing anyone…” But the words trail off as I put all the pieces together.

  “That’s your girl, man,” Julian says. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I know how you feel about her.”

  Her ears must have been ringing, because no sooner do we mention her than she waltzes up to the table and pulls out a chair like it’s the most common thing in the world for her to take a seat between me and Alexander.

  “Blake, Alexander.” She nods to us as she speaks but flagrantly ignores Julian. “So, Blake, I’m free tomorrow night if you want to get started on the project.”

  “Sounds good.” I try to avoid looking at her, certain that the redness in my cheeks from Julian’s earlier comments hasn’t yet faded.