Saint Anything(9)
Author: Sarah Dessen

I knew I could say something to my mom. But she had so much on her mind, and Ames was Peyton’s best friend. He’d been supportive during this last crisis, and every one since he’d been in the picture. Even when my dad was sick of hearing about Lincoln and the warden and Peyton’s appeal, Ames listened. I didn’t want her to lose him, too. Especially since I had nothing specific to point to, just a feeling. Everybody has those.

There had been a time when I told my mom everything. Even after Jenn came into the picture, and then Meredith, I’d always considered her my best friend. We just saw things the same way. Until we didn’t.

It started with Peyton’s initial busts, how surprised I’d been to hear her defend him, even when he did the indefensible. No matter the offense, she could find some reason it was not entirely my brother’s fault. And then there was David Ibarra.

In those first days after the accident, as my parents dealt with bail and lawyers, all I could think of was this kid, just a little younger than me, lying in a hospital bed. I knew from the reports I both came across and sought out that he was paralyzed and not expected to walk again, but there were not that many more details, at least initially. I had so many questions. I couldn’t help but ask them.

“Shouldn’t we apologize?” I said one day. “Like, in the paper, or make a statement?”

She gave me a heavy, sad look. “It’s an awful thing that happened, Sydney. But the law is complicated. It’s best if we just try to focus on moving forward.”

The first time I heard this, it made me think. By the fourth or fifth, I saw it for the party line it was. I looked at David Ibarra and saw shame and regret; my mother saw only Peyton. From that point on, I was convinced that no matter what we looked at, our views would never be the same.

My fourth day at Jackson, I was sitting at lunch with a turkey sub, flipping through my math textbook, when I felt somebody slide onto the wall a bit down from me. I heard some clicking noises, followed by the plucking of guitar strings. When I glanced over, I saw a guy in black glasses, jeans, and a vintage-looking button-down shirt, a guitar in his lap, strumming away.

He wasn’t playing a song as far as I could tell. It was more bits and pieces: a chord here, a short melody there. Every once in a while, he’d hum for a second, or sing a phrase, sometimes pausing to jot in a notebook beside him. I went back to my textbook. A few minutes later, though, I heard a voice.

“Oh, Eric. Really?”

I looked up, and there was Layla. She had on shorts, an oversize floral-print T-shirt, and strappy sandals, her blonde hair loose over her shoulders. As I watched, she put her hands on her hips, cocking her head to one side.

“What?” the guy said. “I’m practicing.”

“Oh please, you are not,” she replied. “You’re running your tired game on this poor girl, and it’s not going to work because I already warned her about you.”

He stopped playing. “Warned her? What am I, a predator now?”

“Just slide over.”

He did, looking displeased, and she plopped down between us, turning to face me. “I’ve been looking for you. I should have known Eric would find you first, though. He’s got a nose for new blood.”

“Okay, you really need to stop now,” Eric said.

Layla flipped her hand at him, as if he were a gnat circling. To me she said, “I’m not saying I believe you are a girl who would fall for this act; I wouldn’t insult you that way. But I was. So I’ve made it my mission to spare others my experience.”

“We,” the guy said, doing one big strum for emphasis, “have been broken up for over a year. I think you can stop now.”

She turned to look at him, again tilting her head to the side. Then she reached out and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “You need a haircut. Shaggy Hipster doesn’t suit you.”

“Don’t touch me,” he grumbled, but it was good-natured, I could tell. He went back to playing, leaning over the guitar, and she smiled, then turned back to me.

“Eric’s in a band with my brother,” she told me. “They’re pretty awful, actually.”

“Her brother,” Eric corrected her, “plays drums in my band. And we’re in transition.”

“They can’t keep a guitar player.” She nodded in his direction. “Too much ego in the room.”

“Someone has to be the leader!” Eric said.

Layla smiled again. “Anyway. They’re playing Friday night, at Bendo? That club on Overland? It’s all ages. Free pizza if you get there early. You should come.”

I was shocked at this invitation. We’d met only once; she owed me nothing. And yet I knew, immediately, that I would go.

“Sure,” I said. “That sounds great.”

“Perfect.” She got to her feet, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Oh, and one more thing. If you want company at lunch, we sit over there.”

She pointed to the right of the main building, where there was a circle of benches around a spindly tree. On one of them, I saw the guy from the pizza place—her brother, I now understood—peeling an orange, a textbook open beside him.

“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”

“No pressure,” she added quickly. “Just, you know, if you want.”

I nodded, and then she was walking away, sliding her hands in her pockets. As I watched her go, Eric cleared his throat.

“Our band is not that bad,” he told me. “She just has high standards.”

I didn’t know what to say to this, so probably it was good that the bell rang then. He put away his guitar, I packed up my stuff, and then we nodded at each other before heading in our separate directions. All afternoon, though, during two lectures and a lab, I kept thinking about what he’d said. High standards, but she’d invited me anyway. Maybe she’d regret it. But I really hoped not.

* * *

“I don’t know.” Jenn wrinkled her nose, the way she always did when she was suspicious. “Isn’t that a nightclub?”

“It’s a music venue,” I said. “And this is an all-ages show.”

She picked up her pencil, twirling it between her thumb and index finger. “I thought we were going to Mer’s meet on Friday.”

“That’s at four. This is three hours later.”

She wasn’t going to go. I’d known it the minute I brought it up. We were not clubgoers, never had been. But our “we” had already changed. My part of it, anyway.