CHAPTER FIVE

Two parties in the same weekend. I must be getting popular.

Well, it's a five-day weekend. Nothing to get excited about.

Really, nothing to get excited about.

"Charlotte? Wow, you're all dressed up! Where are you going?"

Damn. I thought she was working the late shift.

"I'm not dressed up," I replied shortly.

I was wearing tight ripped jeans and a black tank top underneath a black leather coat with a woolen collar I had bought at the annual church sale last year. (I suspected the coat had formerly been hung in Claudia Kishi's wardrobe, because it had sequins on the back that I took off, one by one.) Owning no high heels, I resorted to my good ol' Docs. I let my long chestnut hair hang loose (which was no different from my usual hairdo). Nothing to get excited about.

"You're going out, though, aren't you?"

My mom never lets go.

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"Kerry's," I said, my hand on the knob.

"When are you coming back?"

"Sleeping over."

"Will her parents be there?"

"M-o-o-o-m! It's my first time ever going out to a place that isn't the Pikes' and you're giving me the third degree! No wonder I always stay home!"

My mom considered. And for the first time since I began having my period, she showed a tiny bit of understanding. She budged an inch.

"Goodnight, sweetie. Say hello to Lyman and Louise for me."

"Yeah."

And I was off the hook.

Okay, so I'd lied a little. I wasn't sleeping at Kerry's, but at Kerry's boyfriend's friend's apartment. But I was meeting her at her place, so technically, it wasn't a full lie.

Despite the cold weather, Kerry was waiting for me outside, sitting on her porch. Like me, she was dressed all in black - short pleated skirt, black tunic, black and white striped tights and black Mary-Janes. All that underneath a black trench coat.

"What is it, a Johnny Cash theme party?" I joked.

"Huh?"

"Um, Johnny Cash? Folsom Prison Blues? He liked to dress all in black. Never mind."

Lame.

I was nervous. I hadn't seen Kerry since our performance in English class; she had skipped the rest of the week and had only phoned briefly the night before to tell me when and where I should meet her. Now that I had her in front of me, I had to resist the urge of bringing up our presentation. There are only so many ways to point out to your new friend that she cried in front of the whole class. So I said:

"We're showing up awfully early to the party. I thought no college party could start before 11."

"Oh, it doesn't start until 10. We're just showing up early to set up our gear. My band's playing tonight."

I suddenly panicked.

"Are you guys playing all night? All night long?"

I imagined myself in a crowd of head-banging college students, my tank top drenched with spilled beer, and the face of a girl who is hoping for a power failure…

…and then wondered if I could stand to see someone playing the guitar without being able to join in.

"Oh God, no way! I've got to get drunk, and I'm not doing it on our so-called stage. What's-his-name the host doesn't have a proper stage; just a cleared out space in his living room. And besides, we don't have nearly enough songs to get us through an hour, let alone a whole night."

I wondered if I should be relieved that she was not going to be playing the whole party or worried that she planned on getting drunk.

"So, you haven't been together for long, then?"

"Not really… I joined three months ago, when I started dating my boyfriend. Before that, they had a band, but no singer… they were just jamming random stuff and getting stoned together. But my boyfriend says that, with my voice and the lyrics our bassist has been able to write lately, we're starting to sound pretty serious."

Getting drunk? Getting stoned? Kerry's sounding more and more like my kind of person…

...I'm sure humanity could do a lot of meaningful things with the stick that's up my ass.

"Wait…" I said, trying to forget that I was going to a college party with a friend who planned on drinking her brains out, "did you write the lyrics yourself or did this band of yours help you? For our song, I mean."

"Wrote them myself," Kerry muttered, clearly not wanting to expend on the subject. "My boyfriend helped me with the flow of words and my singing, but that's all…"

She looked away while I wondered why she always referred to him as 'my boyfriend'. Doesn't this guy have a name?

"And we have a name, you know. We're Severin, Severin."

"From the Velvet Underground song?"

"Yeah. We all really like the band. And 'Venus in Furs', too, obviously.

"A song about sadomasochism. I like where you get your inspiration," I said with a smirk.

"Hey, we think the name makes some sort of statement about our influences, okay? And it's obscure enough to make us look cool and all musically educated, you know."

Actually, the Velvet Underground is one of my favorite bands. They were Andy Warhol's band and they were pretty obscure back in the sixties, but lately, everybody's been claiming to have been influenced by them.

I personally adore Lou Reed's voice and singing.

Way better than the Duran Duran I listened to when I was a kid.

"But the Great Priestess of Guitar will have to see for herself before she can judge, I guess," Kerry said with a smirk.

"I am not the Great Priestess of Guitar," I protested.

"Come on, you rocked that presentation."

I shook my head.

"Without you, it would have sounded like nothing."

The worst thing is, I'm right. Kerry brought soul to the song. She made it real. And I'm so not sarcastic, it's scary.

"Look, here we are," Kerry said quietly.

I had been expecting a tiny run-down apartment, but we were standing in front of a two-story stone house with a nice little garden full of wilted shrubberies. Parked in front of the garage was a dark green SUV. Apparently, college students didn't live in shabby places anymore; we were definitely in Suburbia.

"The guy's parents are out of town so he's throwing this huge bash. He knows everybody; he's like the president of the student association at Columbia or something. But this is a SHS reunion. Which means you're bound to meet people you already know."

"Like who?"

"How about your beloved Baby-sitters Club?"

"Oh my God." I rolled my eyes.

It was still very early – barely nearing on 9. The house was very quiet. Kerry opened the front door without knocking, a pretty bold move considering she didn't even know the guy's name. We stood in a sober but tasteful foyer. I started taking off my Docs, but Kerry gestured me not to bother.

"If you take them off now, you'll never see them again."

I followed her through a succession of small but well-decorated rooms. They were all empty and clean – nothing looked like a party was in the works. We finally heard voices after passing the dining room and saw, at the far end of a double living room, three people who were busying themselves with musical equipment.

I noticed the girl first. Not because she was the only girl there, but because she stood out. Her short bleached blonde hair was up in a Mohawk and she was wearing a lot of dark make up. Unlike Kerry, however, who just looked dirty, this girl seemed cold and distant, as if she were a model who had just stepped down a runway. She was wearing what looked like an authentic Vivienne Westwood vintage dress, with black and silver jewelry. She was adjusting the cymbals of a golden drum set.

The two guys were slightly less noticeable, but even from where I was standing, I could see they were both good-looking. The one who was standing and just laughing looked like a slightly nerdy student, with his brown corduroys, his white collared shirt and his dark-framed glasses. He was gesticulating with animation, pausing at every three words to push back a lock of black hair that was falling in his eyes. The other was barely reacting, rarely looking up from the bunch of cables he was trying to untie. He had long curly dark hair à la Jim Morrison, and was wearing ripped skinny jeans and a white Velvet Underground t-shirt. Concentrated as he was, his large mouth had relaxed into a sad pout, but he started smiling brightly when Kerry called out his name.

"Robert!"

Leaving me in the first half of the double living room, she ran to him and nearly knocked him over with a tight hug. He dug his face in her hair while she rested her cheek on his chest. He caressed her back and they kissed passionately. I looked down at my feet; the other girl starting hitting on her drum with one of her sticks; the nerdy-looking guy didn't stop talking.

It seemed like ten minutes before their kiss was over. Robert – even though he's still 'my boyfriend' in my head - slipped a proud arm around Kerry's shoulder and turned to the nerd.

"Pete, this is my girlfriend, Kerry Bruno. Kerry, this is Pete, my buddy from high school."

"Bruno? You Logan's sister?"

"Yeah."

"Pleased to meet you, Kerry."

Kerry shook his hand. I felt like a total stranger. I was even looking forward to Vanessa's Thanksgiving party. At least I was known at the Pikes'.

"Oh, Robert, there's someone I've got to introduce you to as well. Come here, Char."

I stepped forward.

"This is Charlotte, my friend from school. She's the one who wrote the song I made you listen to. Charlotte, this is Robert Brewster, my boyfriend."

"Hey, Char."

From a nearer distance, I could see that, despite Robert's 100-watt smile, he still had dark, sad eyes. The brilliance of his mouth did not communicate to the rest of his face.

"Hey."

"And here's Ashley, our drummer…" Kerry went on. "Ashley, what's your last name again?"

"Wyeth. Black, I need a beer."

She was as cold as she looked.

"Let me escort you to the kitchen," Pete said, bowing.

Ashley snorted, but followed nonetheless.

"Don't worry about Ashley," Kerry said nervously.

"She's never been exactly friendly. When she got here in seventh grade, everybody thought she was a total weirdo. She used to wear bell-bottoms with hiking boots and she only cared about art. Now she's much more relaxed, believe it or not," Robert added.

He, on the other hand, looked quite friendly, but when he started nibbling on Kerry's ear, I was suddenly uncomfortable again. Kerry got up on her tiptoes and whispered something in his ear.

"Char, do you mind if we leave you for a couple of minutes? Robert and I have something to discuss upstairs."

Right. Discuss.

"Hey, Char, I hear you're quite good with a guitar. Would you mind tuning mine? You would really do me a favor."

Robert's smile was so powerful, and Kerry's eyes so hopeful, that I found myself nodding with the hint of a smile myself.

"Pete and Ashley should be back soon…" Robert's voice was already trailing as they headed for the stairs.

"If you have any questions, ask Ashley… Pete's not in the band, I wouldn't expect him to know anything about music…"

And they were gone. And I was alone.

Great, just great. My first party and I'm already the roadie. What will it be, next time? Selling merch in the kitchen?

I spotted a black guitar case and opened it. Inside was a beautiful silver Fender, decorated with stickers of anarchy signs and old bands like The Doors, Pink Floyd and Queen. I quickly plugged it and started tuning it slowly. I figured the longer it'd take me, the longer it would take me to realize I had made a mistake by showing up.

"Hey, where's everybody?"

I hadn't heard him come in. I jumped and dropped the guitar; it hit the floor with a deafening sound. Timidly, I reached for it and strummed it slowly. I waited until my face stopped feeling hot to look up. A guy who looked about the same age as the others was grinning at me, hands on his ears.

"You scared me," I whispered.

Still grinning, he approached and squatted before me.

"What, pray tell me, are you doing with Robert's guitar?"

"Tuning," I breathed.

His hair was longish and disheveled, half covering his high forehead, and half sticking up in the air as though he had just woken up. Under this unruly curtain, two inquisitive golden eyes were peering at me. I breathed in.

"Wait… are you the infamous composer who is friends with Kerry? She mentioned she was bringing a friend to the party."

I don't know about infamous and composer – hell, I'm not even sure about being friends with Kerry – but I suppose that's me, I wanted to say.

So I said it:

"I don't know about infamous or composer – hell, I'm not even sure about being friends with Kerry – but I suppose that's me."

"I'm Trevor Sandbourne. Bassist and poet extraordinaire."

Kicked out by my audacity, my shyness was suddenly coming back in full force.

"Charlotte Johanssen."

"Say that again?"

"Charlotte Johanssen," I repeated louder.

"Identity confirmed. I loved your piece."

I blushed and, bending down on the guitar again, I tried to hit a decent so.

"So, where is everybody?"

Everybody's having sex but me.

"Ashley and Pete are getting beers in the kitchen, and Kerry and Robert are doing God knows what upstairs."

"And they left you to do the dirty work. That's mean."

I shrugged.

"I don't mind…" I said even if it wasn't true. "This is a nice guitar."

"Yeah, you're holding the whole of Robert's possession in your hands," Trevor said mockingly. "Don't break it again."

"Material possessions are overrated."

I'm possessed.

That's the only possible explanation.

How else would I be able to utter all the witty comments that go through my head all the time?

Ashley walked in, holding two beers.

"Hey, Trev."

"Hi, Ashley." Still grinning, Trevor got up and hugged her. She didn't move, but she didn't pull away. I guessed this must have been her way of hugging people.

"Pete felt me up."

"I did not. She rubbed herself on me," Pete said, walking in with two more beers. "You want a beer, Trev? Charlotte?"

Trevor grabbed his beer while I shook my head.

"She's underage, Black," Ashley said coldly.

"So? So is Kerry. You sure you don't want a beer, Charlotte?"

"No, it's fine. I don't drink," I said quickly.

"You don't drink? Wait a minute… You're a high school student, you're stuck in boring Stoneybrook and you don't drink? How do you expect to get through life?" Pete asked disbelievingly.

Oh, maybe that was the problem.

"Come on, Pete, give it a rest," Ashley said. "Not everyone's a filthy alcoholic like you."

"Yeah, you can speak, you cokehead."

"That was a rumor."

"Then how the hell did you get kicked out of the Art Institute?"

Ashley just shrugged. I noticed Trevor had taken the back seat and wasn't saying much. He just stood there, looking adorably boyish with his hands digging into his jeans pockets.

Wait. There is something seriously wrong with me if I'm starting to use words like 'adorably' to talk about a guy.

On second thought, there is something wrong with me if I'm starting to use the word 'adorably' at all.

xxxx

I am delusional.

People think I'm cynical, I say I'm realistic, but really, I am just as naïve as everybody else.

I thought people changed after high school.

To be exact, I thought people who went on to college changed, and those who stayed put remained the same.

I now know the truth: people never change.

A flock of people poured in at 10, and even more so at 10:30. They all seemed tall and adult-like, with their packs of beer and their vodka bottles and their marijuana. They came in all dressed to the nines, showing off their fashion allegiance, be it weird, conservative or just down right slutty. Severin, Severin was due to play at 11, so Pete Black had put on some loud dance music. Already, packs of people were dancing wherever they could, and those who couldn't or didn't want to were getting drunk in the kitchen or in the living room.

I felt claustrophobic. I felt so small, I thought people would stomp on me accidentally. I hung near Kerry and Robert, near the stage and the instruments, where I felt most at home.

"Some party, huh?" Kerry yelled in my ear.

All this noise made it hard to say whether she was being sarcastic or not, but judging by her smile, she wasn't. I nodded. Non-verbal language is never committing.

"I'm going to get another beer before we play," Robert said loudly. "Want something, girls?"

"Yes, another vodka!"

I shook my head. Despite her plans, Kerry's elocution was still intact. Robert disappeared into the crowd and was soon replaced by Trevor. He smiled at me before turning to Kerry:

"What do we play after 'Sad Carnival'?" he asked in a panicked voice.

"Is it 'Retro Love'? Or is it the cover of 'Smells Like Teen Spirit'?" Kerry didn't sound sure.

"Damn! I thought you knew…" He turned to me again. "We're more professional than that, usually… But this concert was sort of a last minute thing."

He shook his head sheepishly. Robert came back at that moment and handed Kerry her drink.

"Robert, do you remember the set list by heart? What do we play after 'Sad Carnival'?"

"I'm not sure… I thought it was 'Trigger Run', but…"

"No, 'Trigger Run' is what we open with." Trevor winked at me. "Thank God we only have eight songs."

"I think Ashley has the set list written down. We've got to find her," Robert said.

Trevor turned at once and Robert followed him. Kerry shrugged at me said:

"Duty calls… I'll be back after the set!"

And I was on my own. Just as I had feared: left to my own malfunctioning devices.

Let's go home, Charlotte.

Yes, let's go home.

If you start developing multiple personalities, who all talk to you like we're one big group, it's time to go home.

"Charlotte? Charlotte Johanssen?"

Someone had joined me by the empty stage. She was rather small, with long jet-black hair pulled into two pigtails. Her face was very pale, her make-up very dark, and a piercing adorned her blood-red lips. She was wearing a black lace corset, a long black velvet skirt and black platform boots. It took me a while to recognize the sweet, caring face under the gothic costume.

"Mary Anne?"

"Yes, I'm Mary Anne Spier! I used to baby-sit you."

"Don't remind me," I said under my breath.

But the Mary Anne I had known didn't even have pierced ears.

Wait, is this a Halloween party and someone forgot to tell me?

"Um… nice corset," I said.

"I know what you're thinking…" Mary Anne giggled, which seemed completely odd, considering the fact that she, well, was dressed all in black lace and leather. "What the h-word happened to Mary Anne Spier?"

She shrugged and I frowned further at the fact that she was embracing a culture that celebrated death, but refused to say the word hell.

"I fell in love."

Love is dangerous. Love can steal your soul.

"I fell in love with Germany. I'm in my second year in German studies at Boston U and I absolutely love it. It was the German Romantic movement that did it for me." She sighed dreamily, no doubt thinking of Goethe. "People think Goths are all about being angry and hating everybody and staying out of norms, but that's not what it is at all. We emphasize freedom and beauty, and we see it in everything Mother Nature created, including death." Her voice became shakier and a tear left a black trail on her cheek. "It's an embrace of the powerful emotions you feel inside."

Yeah, Mary Anne, your speech doesn't sound rehearsed at all.

"Sounds, um… great," I said.

Mary Anne was about to say something when a movement in the crowd pushed us forward. A girl elbowed Mary Anne in passing and she spilled her drink all over the girl's sneakers.

"Get out of my face, you freak!" the girl said before being swallowed by the crowd again.

I watched the brown ponytail disappear.

"Was that Kristy Thomas?" I asked.

Mary Anne nodded sadly.

"But weren't you guys best friends at some point?"

"Kristy always had trouble dealing with change," Mary Anne said, clicking her tongue. "Our relationship was shaky after I decided not to go to UPenn with her, but when I came back after the first semester, looking like this, well… She didn't like it."

I didn't know what to say.

"You don't look like you're having fun, Charlotte. Are you alright?"

I don't know why I confided in her. Perhaps because she was the only person around who didn't scream "Stoneybrook High School alumni".

"It's… not really my kind of party. I usually like… um, smaller things. And not being a college student and everything… I don't feel like I belong."

Sincere. Honest. Straight-forward. That's more than what you've given Dr. Reese in a year.

"I understand, Charlotte, I really do." She leaned forward. "To tell you the truth, I'm a college student and I don't feel like I belong either. But I'm sure you didn't come by yourself. Who are you with?"

"I came with my friend Kerry Bruno but she's playing in the band and they've all gone… somewhere."

"I'm sure she'll be back," Mary Anne said gently. "Kerry wouldn't leave you by yourself all night. It's not her type."

Mary Anne spoke with unusual confidence.

"How do you know Kerry so well?"

"I don't know her that well…" Mary Anne blushed. "But her brother – Logan, remember him? – and I go way back… we dated in middle school and later, he became my best friend. In my Junior year, I was always at the Brunos'."

I nearly choked.

"You're friends with Logan? But he's…so not… I mean, he's… lacking a bit in the eloquence department, isn't he?"

"I know he's not the brightest guy around but he's got a lot of other great qualities… He's sweet and sensitive and caring… Besides, we shouldn't write people off just because they're not up to our impossible standards, should we?"

Shouldn't we?

"Anyways… I've got to ask you something, since you're friends with Kerry…" Mary Anne lowered her voice. "How is she?"

"She seems alright," I said without thinking.

I thought of the song and started doubting myself. In my own bleak way, I thought Kerry looked better than most. But who was I to judge? After all, I write people off because they don't meet my "impossible" standards.

"She's going out with Robert Brewster," I said. "She seems happy when she's with him."

"Robert Brewster?" Mary Anne's eyebrows went up.

"What?"

"Nothing, it just never occurred to me that they knew each other," Mary Anne said hastily. "Hope they can help each other out," she said, mostly to herself.

I frowned.

"Why, is there something wrong with Kerry?"

"No… Not that I know of…" Mary Anne looked uncomfortable. "Things have been rough at the Brunos', that's all I know… Hopefully everything's back to normal, now."

I thought of how Kerry never invited me inside her house, how she avoided answering questions, how she planned on getting drunk, and concluded that nothing was back to normal. But before I could further question Mary Anne, Pete Black made his way to the stage and seized the microphone. Someone put out the music.

"Hey people! Welcome to my Thanksgiving party and I'm really glad to see you all old friends here for a night of fun in good ol' Stoneybrook! Thanks for celebrating the fact that we – well, most of us – no longer live here!"

Hear, hear.

"Now, ladies and gents, I've got a really nice surprise planned for you… They're the most talented people to ever come out of Stoneybrook! They're right here tonight and ready to play some of their songs for you. Now, without further ado… Severin, Severin!"

Someone let out a loud whistle and people cheered, as Robert, Kerry, Ashley and Trevor walked to the stage area. They saluted to the enthusiastic crowd.

"Give it up for our host, Pete Black!" Kerry yelled, a real, honest, beaming grin on her face.

I turned green. I know I did.

How can you not envy someone who is that at ease in front of people?

Kerry adjusted her microphone. Her voice came out ten times as loud as it did in the classroom.

"Heya, everybody! We're Severin, Severin and we're going to rock your socks off! This is our first song, 'Trigger Run'."

Jealous. Itchy. Impressed. Moved.

I felt everything watching them play.

Robert's riff sent the crowd dancing aggressively. Kerry began to sing with all her might, sometimes screaming, sometimes almost talking, but always with an emotion so raw you could nearly see it come up her throat. The audience was jumping up and down, kicking and screaming randomly along, making it hard for me to concentrate on the performance. Even Mary Anne's long pigtails were whipping the air around her as she banged her head. Kerry was encouraging them vocally, delivering every word with an energy I wouldn't even have thought existed. I caught a glimpse of Trevor, bent shyly over his bass, but nevertheless feeding off Kerry and Robert's violent notes. Ashley was just as cold as usual, but her drumming was quite good: she was discreet and efficient. I had never seen such a good amateur band in my life.

But then, the only amateur band I had ever seen was that Christian rock band Becca had taken me to in seventh grade.

Sure, they made mistakes. Kerry sang from the throat all the time and she choked on the chorus of their cover of 'Smells Like Teen Spirit'. Robert botched a couple of chords during one of their songs. Trevor had to play the intro to a song twice before the rest of the band caught on. But they were good.

For the first time in my life, I know I'm going to earn a good grade in English not thanks to me, but to my partner.

And it will be totally deserved.

"This was our last song," Kerry announced in the microphone after they had finished playing a slow, hypnotizing melody. "Thank you!"

"Just a minute!" Trevor approached Kerry's microphone. "I have one request, if you don't mind. I'd like Kerry and her friend Charlotte to play one of their songs… It's called 'Twisted Sinews'."

Kerry covered the microphone with her hand, but everyone heard her hiss:

"Trev, no! I am never playing this song again!"

"Well, then," Trevor said, "can Charlotte come on stage and play with us for one last song?"

I died.

"Come on, Charlotte!" Kerry called.

"But I don't have a guitar!" I protested.

Robert passed the strap of his guitar above his head. I stepped over a small amp and joined Severin, Severin on stage. My hands were shaking. I didn't know how I was supposed to be able to play.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Charlotte Johanssen!"

The crowd cheered loudly again. They were drunk.

"What are we playing?" I asked in a loud whisper.

"Anything you want," Trevor replied from his spot, smiling.

I tried to think of a song the whole band would know. I started panicking. I felt like the crowd was watching me, ready to tear me into pieces for not playing when they wanted to dance. I sweated and trembled and then… Then I had an idea.

I hit the chords. Not the best choice, but it's my choice. Have a nice party, everybody. Ashley caught on first, as she was supposed to do, and tapped on her drum with her hand. Kerry turned to me and frowned, but Ashley and I kept playing. And then she started singing:

"I don't know just where I'm going

But I'm gonna try for the kingdom if I can

Cause it makes me feel like I'm a man

When I put a spike into my vein

And I'll tell you things aren't quite the same

When I'm rushing on my run

And I feel just like Jesus's son

And I guess that I just don't know

And I guess that I just don't know…"

It wasn't the same, in a crowded living room, where students full of life and dreams were drinking themselves to oblivion and undulating slowly to my guitar as though we were playing notes of love and ecstasy, not a story of total and utter self-destruction. Somehow the joke was lost on them.

And then Kerry went on:

"Heroin, be the death of me
Heroin, its my wife and its my life
Because a mainer to my vein
Leads to a center in my head
And then I'm better off and dead
Because when the smack begins to flow
I really don't care anymore
About all the jim-jims in this town
And all the politicians makin crazy sounds
And everybody puttin everybody else down
And all the dead bodies piled up in mounds

And I'm quite happy to say I broke the party right then and there.

xxxxx

My fingers are red and painful. I clutched the pick so hard that its pattern must be embedded in my fingerprints. My legs are still shaky. I have difficulty breathing.

I played on a stage in front of college students. I played in front of an audience. I am a musician.

In my own quiet way, I was too ecstatic to remain in place. After Severin, Severin had saluted and refused to play an encore – they didn't have any more songs rehearsed, and anything they'd play would make everybody's ears bleed, Kerry claimed – I no longer thought of going home. I felt exactly the way I had felt when we had cut classes to take a road trip; elated, alive. I wanted to jump around, too, but this only manifested itself by being somewhat more energized as I elbowed my way to the kitchen.

Kerry had deserted me again, this time to spend (more) quality time alone with her boyfriend. I didn't mind. I wanted to be on my own. I wanted to watch the crowd and learn. I wanted to savor these sensations of triumph I had.

This is what life should feel like.

This is what life should be, standing on a stage playing music and being every fiber of yourself.

Not standing up in line and bending to fit in and having yourself stepped on for the benefit of others.

In the kitchen was someone who didn't know at all what life should feel like. Throughout the concert, people had come in and out of the living room, with drinks or drugs, and the music had by no means stopped the general process of self-destruction. There were quite a few people who had trouble walking, and I had to keep out a sharp eye for puddles of vomit. It was like watching violence on TV, though: after growing accustomed to seeing so many people drunk, I no longer cared or minded.

The scene in the kitchen stopped me dead in tracks, though.

There she was. The girl who had once been my role model. The girl whose life I wanted to share, more than anything in the world. The girl who I had called my "almost sister."

Dancing on the table.

Lifting her top.

Taking it off.

And, in the course of making suggestive moves, banging her head on the chandelier above the table.

Stacey McGill.

She appeared slightly dizzy after her head hit one of the brass branches of the chandelier, but she was still able to stand. Her blue eyes rolled slightly in their orbits and she looked straight at me. On her face dawned recognition.

"Chhhhharlotte!"

She staggered on the table in my direction and, with that complete lack of sense of danger that drunk people have, she made to dive to me from the table. One of the guys who were watching her caught her just in time and brought her down on her feet. She slipped a heavy arm around his shoulders and came face to face to me. She was still just in her bra. I looked away.

"Chhhhharlotte!" She tried to embrace me but I stepped back. "My almost sis… almost sister!"

She slurred more than she spoke. The guy who was supporting her smiled sheepishly, but his eyes were a little blurry; he wasn't completely there either.

"This… this is Rick… No, Austin… No…" she giggled stupidly. "This is my… boyfriend…"

"Alan," the guy completed.

"That's right, Alan! He's so di-dibble! I love Alan!" she kissed him on the lips with no modesty whatsoever.

I felt uncomfortable.

Euphemism.

"Listen, Stacey," I began, "are you sure you're okay? I mean, with your diabetes and stuff… Do you want coffee?"

"This is a party! Everybody drinks beer!" she retorted cheerfully.

"Yeah, but…" How the hell do you reason with people who are wasted beyond measure?

I reached for the beer. I even got my fingers on the rim of the can. Stacey yanked it away from me and screamed:

"Hey, what do you think you're doing, you bitch?"

It was one of those movie moments, when the music appears to be turned off at the exact moment you want it to be as loud as possible. People turned to me. They glared. I was exposed. I was the intruder: I was the high school student who had tried to take a beer away from a member of their community.

Someone put a hand on my shoulder.

"She didn't mean it, Stacey, come on. But she's right. You should really go and try to get some sleep. You're going to have one hell of a headache tomorrow."

"Go to hell!" Stacey yelled.

"Alan, buddy, please help her." Trevor turned to me again. "Come on, let's get out of here."

He guided me gently through the crowded. Just what I needed: a college guy with a knight-in-shining-armor complex. But I followed him, because the general glare I received felt like the cannon of a gun pressed against the nape of my neck. He took me outside and sat down on the porch steps. We were flooded by the fluorescent spotlight that illuminated the path to the garage.

"Don't worry about her," Trevor said cheerfully. "She's used to it."

"Used to it?" I said in an indignant whisper. "She is borderline comatose!"

Trevor just laughed.

"Is this your first party or what?"

"Not if you count the birthday party I attended when I was seven."

I shivered. The stairs were damp and cold.

"You're so fresh, Charlotte."

"Oh please."

"No, I'm serious." Trevor indeed looked serious. He reached for my lips with the tip of his fingers. "Your pout looks like a child's."

I am not even writing what this felt like.

"And that turns you on?" I managed to utter through the shyness that cluttered my throat.

Trevor laughed again.

"Okay, you think I'm a pedophile. But all I'm saying is that you look different from the other girls I know. You look different from Stacey."

"Thank God for that."

Trevor didn't add anything. He looked as if he were thinking hard.

"I mean, there's something special about you. I saw it during your performance. I don't know what it is, but it just seeps through your skin like… I don't know, like a liquid aura or something."

Where the hell did this guy learn to flirt?

"So you are really a poet, huh?" I said brutally.

Awkward, awkward, awkward, awkward.

"Yeah…" Trevor shrugged. "Well, I don't know. I mean, I've been writing for as long as I can remember, but… I haven't written anything worth publishing yet. I find that songs are usually a better medium for poetry. I don't have to care so much about form, because somebody else is taking care of that. Sometimes, I find the format of poetry very binding."

"What about free verse? Or prose, like Baudelaire did?"

"It's the economy that is restraining. Sometimes, I feel words don't mean as much as they should."

"That's sacrilegious, what you just said. For a poet, I mean. You can't betray your means of expression."

It's just wonderful, how the words flew from my mouth without any effort. I felt as though my tongue had broken out of a shell.

"Guess I'm more of a songwriter, then." He lowered his head and his voice came out muffled. "And, as a songwriter, I'd like to put words on your melodies."

"What?" The word had slipped from my lips automatically.

Trevor peeked at me from under his fringe. He had a lopsided smile.

"I want you in the band. I want you to write the songs."

I struggled to keep the many questions that were battling in my head to be answered, and managed to utter the most important one:

"Are you serious?"

"Totally. I loved your song. You really have talent, Charlotte."

It's the teen angst. It makes you do things that people disregard because you're not yet an adult, and you don't know better. But when you reach your thirties, you're suddenly past your prime and your creative genius can never be restored.

"But isn't writing songs Robert's job?"

Trevor shrugged. He looked a bit sheepish.

"You two could share the work. It's true that we only have eight songs. We could do with a lot more. And besides, Robert's ambition is not to win a Grammy."

"What is it, then?"

"I think getting out of bed before noon is ambition enough for Robert." Trevor laughed, but it sounded somewhat forced. "Anyway, what do you say?"

I thought about it. The thrill, the music, the noise. The friends – possibly.

"What will the others say?"

"Kerry will be fine with it, and Robert will do anything to make her happy. As for Ashley, even if she doesn't want you in, she's outnumbered so there. Consider yourself our new lead guitar."

"O…Okay."

Trevor extended his hand. I looked at it.

"Welcome aboard," he said, thrusting it forward. I understood he meant for me to shake it.

"Thanks."

I briefly held his hand in mine, hoping that he wouldn't notice the clamminess of my palm. Trevor resumed his former position, arms circling his knees, chin resting on his bicep. I tightened my jacket around me. It was beginning to feel cold, and yet, the warm crowded house had never seemed less appealing.

"I guess we should go back in," Trevor said. "You're shivering."

"I'm okay."

"Yeah, but we've got to tell the band about your decision. And then we can truly celebrate."

He stood up. I noticed he was lean and tall, but not gangly like the boys in my class. A man, already.

"I'm not sure I want to," I said.

"You can at least have a beer. It won't kill you, will it?"

It won't kill me but that doesn't mean I have to turn into the cliché of the American teenager either

I followed him inside. After the cold quiet of the porch, the house seemed too bright and too loud. Wincing, I put my hand on Trevor's shoulder as he made his way through the crowd. We walked incognito to the staircase – the incident with Stacey seemed to have been forgotten. Then, as we climbed, a terrifying thought occurred to me.

"Wait, we're not going to walk on Robert and Kerry doing something I'd rather not see, are we?"

"Don't worry," Trevor replied with a grin. "They should be about done by now."

The second floor was much quieter; the doors were all closed and the corridor was deserted, save for three people sitting on the floor.

"What's going on?" Trevor asked.

Ashley pointed the door next to her.

"Kerry's sick."

"Figures."

Trevor sat down in front her. I stood uncomfortably. Pete, who was sitting on Ashley's other side with his arm around her shoulders, tossed something at Trevor.

"Here, man, I saved you one."

"Thanks."

Robert, who had been silent and pale-looking, moaned and lay down on the floor.

"Charlotte, do you want anything?"

"Um…" I glanced at Trevor.

Since when do you care about appearing uncool?

"Hey, Char, I was just messing with you earlier. You don't have to drink if you don't want to. Besides," he went on, kicking on Robert's direction, "it's better if one of us stays sober."

"One of us?" Ashley said coldly.

"Yeah. I asked Charlotte to join us." Trevor shrugged.

It's just Charlotte; no big deal.

"Cool," Ashley answered, to my surprise.

"How did he get so drunk anyway?"

A horrible retching sound came through the door. Robert, holding his head, slowly sat up. He looked awful.

"Never mix… An' tha' mes' just fucked me up…" I could barely make out what he was saying. He knocked on the door. "Kerry, you awright?"

The door opened. Kerry's face was sweaty and pale.

"I'm fine." She sat slowly and put her head on Robert's shoulder. He seemed to sink under her weight, as though he didn't have the strength – or the presence of mind – to support her. "Char, heard you joined the band. Congrats."

"Thanks. How do you feel?" I whispered.

"Like crap."

"Figures," Trevor repeated. "You're going to have to find a way to hold your liquor, young lady."

She grimaced. I wonder if this was what the band experience was about: hanging out in a corridor in the dark, waiting for people to sober up.

Ashley stood up.

"I'd better get the girls home."

"Good idea," Trevor approved. "It's early, but parties always finish early when Kerry's around."

"Robert's not any better," she mumbled.

"That's why I'm going to take him home too," Trevor said.

Trevor and Pete helped Robert up. Ashley supported Kerry. Together, they all made their way downstairs. I rushed forward to clear the way.

Or maybe this is what it's all about. Supporting each other through drunkenness.

The cold air seemed to have a cleansing power; Kerry barely staggered to Ashley's car. She hugged Robert briefly and got in. Pete settled Robert inside Trevor's car while he warmed up the engine. I was about to climb in when he called my name.

"Charlotte, wait!"

I waited by the open door.

"I just want to tell you that we'll be rehearsing next Tuesday. Will you make it?"

I nodded.

"Cool." He pressed my arm gently. I became numb. "Really glad to have you in the band."

"Th-thanks," I stammered through my chattering teeth.

"I better go before Robert gets sick in my car. See you!"

I climbed in. Kerry was asleep. Ashley was silent. I didn't say a word either. In fact, Ashley and I barely exchanged a word as she showed me to the bed she had made on the living room couch. Kerry was already curled up in a ball on the floor.

I lay in my bed, my heart beating fast. I wasn't sleepy, even though the clock on the VCR indicated 2 A.M. My arm was throbbing right where he'd…

A tiny whisper came from the floor. Kerry was awake.

"He likes you, you know."

"Kerry, you're drunk," I said, my voice too loud in the silence of the house. "Go to sleep."