Saint Anything(10)
Author: Sarah Dessen

I looked across Frazier Bakery, where we always went after school when we weren’t in the mood for Antonella’s. A sandwich, salad, and pastry place, it was that weird mix of chain restaurant and forced homeyness: needlepoint samplers, perfectly worn leather chairs by a fake fireplace, your food served on wax paper patterned with red and white checks, silverware tied with a bow. That day, I’d been talked into a specialized coffee drink by the very cute guy working the counter—DAVE! his name tag read—something he swore would change my life. Apparently, this meant I’d be way hyped up and keep having to pee. Not exactly what I’d expected.

“Just meet me there for an hour,” I said, taking another sip anyway. “If you hate it, you can leave.”

“Why is this so important?” she asked me, putting her pencil back down. “You’ve never been into clubbing before.”

“It’s not clubbing. It’s a band, playing a show.”

She adjusted her glasses, then looked down at the textbook in front of her. “It’s just not my thing, Sydney. Sorry.”

I knew Jenn well. Once she made up her mind, she didn’t waver. “Okay. That’s fine.”

She smiled at me, and then we both went back to work. The adult contemporary music overhead, Jenn’s blueberry scone and my piece of carrot cake, our booth by the window: it was all as familiar as my own face. But I found I couldn’t concentrate on my calculus, as much as I tried. I just sat there and listened to her pencil scrape the page until it was time to go.

So I was alone when I walked into Bendo the following evening and got my hand stamped by a bulky guy with a neck tattoo. I’d had a meeting for my English group project at lunch, so I was going in with only my casual invitation and a fair amount of trepidation. Not to mention a lie.

“You’re going out?” my mother asked me when I came downstairs after dinner, having changed my outfit twice before going back to my first choice. She looked at her watch. “I didn’t realize you had plans.”

“Just meeting Jenn and Meredith at Frazier for dessert,” I said. “I’ll be back by ten.”

She looked at my dad, who was sitting next to her on the couch, as if he might object to this. When he didn’t, instead keeping his eyes on the twenty-four-hour local news channel and a report about school redistricting, she said, “Maybe make it nine thirty.”

I felt a flicker of irritation. Unlike Peyton, I’d never done a thing to warrant suspicion. Even though I was, at that moment, lying, I still resented it. “Seriously? Mom, I’m a junior.”

Now they both looked at me. My mom raised her eyebrows at my dad, who said, “Do I need to remind you that we make the rules?”

“Come on,” I said. “I’ve had a ten o’clock curfew since I got my license.”

“Your mother wants you home earlier,” he replied, turning back to the TV. “Do it tonight, and then we’ll talk.”

Now my flicker was a full flame. I looked at my mom. “Really?”

She didn’t say anything, just went back to the magazine in her lap. I stood there a minute, then another. Then I turned on my heel and left. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been angry with my mom. All I’d felt lately was pity and sadness, along with an overwhelming need to protect her. This feeling was new, and it made me uneasy. Like more was changing than I was ready for.

Once inside Bendo, I had no idea what to do with myself. It was a big space, with painted black walls and a bar running down one side. Up front was the stage, where a drum set, microphones, and amps were set up. I’d expected it to be crowded, so I could lose myself quickly, but there was only a handful of people there, most of them gathered around a row of pizza boxes that lined one end of the bar. I felt like it was so obvious I didn’t belong there that I should leave before I embarrassed myself.

“Hey. You came.”

I turned around, and there was Eric, the guitar guy. He was in jeans and a plaid shirt that looked like it came from a thrift shop, this time with a tuner in the front pocket. It looked like he’d gotten a haircut.

“I was intrigued,” I said.

He smiled, as if this pleased him. “We’re trying some new stuff tonight we’ve been working on. It’s a bit meta, so I’m hoping the crowd can keep up.”

I nodded, not sure what to say to this. Turned out I shouldn’t have worried, as he kept talking.

“We’ve been through a lot of evolution as a band lately, which I think is necessary. Music isn’t stagnant, right? So you can’t be, either. Last year, we were really focused on a more rockabilly-slash-bluegrass-slash-metal sound. I mean, nobody was doing what we were doing. But then, of course, everyone started copying our sound and approach, so I had to think out of the box again. I’m telling you, it’s a lot of work, fronting a good band. Anyone can lead a crappy, unoriginal one. Most people do just that. But I—”

Suddenly, I felt a hand grip my arm and begin to pull me away from him. I stumbled over my own feet, startled, before I realized it was Layla. She was wearing a blue dress and flip-flops, her eyes lined in a dramatic cat’s eye.

“I’m doing this for your own good,” she announced as I looked back apologetically at Eric. “You do not want to get sucked into band discussions with him. You’ll never escape.”

With this, she deposited me at a bar stool, then climbed onto the one beside it. A moment later, Eric joined us, looking disgruntled.

“I was talking,” he said to her.

“You’re always talking,” she replied. “And she’s my friend. I invited her.”

I felt myself blink. Now we were friends? Eric glared at her, then helped himself to a piece of pizza, leaning back against the bar.

“You been here before?” Layla asked me. I shook my head. “It’s a pretty good place, other than the fact that everything is always sticky. You want a slice?”

Before I could answer, she’d grabbed two paper plates from a nearby stack and put a slice on each. As she slid mine toward me, she said, “Pizza is key to this band’s popularity. The thinking is if you feed them, they will come.”

“They come for the music,” Eric said.

“Keep telling yourself that.” She smiled at me, then took a big bite, glancing up to the stage, where her brother was now behind the drum kit, adjusting something. “So how was the first week at Jackson? Be honest.”