“My cousin gave me her old license,” Elle says.
Rae crooks a finger, and Elle digs out a driver’s license. Rae scoffs. “She’s got four inches and thirty pounds on you.”
“I’m an actor. It’s all about posture.” Elle snatches the card back and shoves it in her pocket.
“I don’t have ID.” I’m sure I could’ve figured out how to get one, but back home, there weren’t clubs close by.
An idea strikes me. Beck.
I fire off a text. The response comes almost immediately.
Beck: Two hours. Fifty bucks. I got you, Manatee.
After dinner, someone drops off an ID at my door and waits while I get her cash.
I try not to overthink my outfit, deciding on tight black jeans and a matching tank top with my black suede boots. In case it’s cold, I throw on a denim shirt overtop.
I twist my hair up in a high bun, then add a hint of mascara, plus some matte red lipstick.
By ten, Elle and I find ourselves outside Leo’s. It’s beautiful, industrial, like nothing I’ve seen back home. Like an old factory with stories to tell.
It’s also packed.
“Who is Leo?” I wonder aloud as we wait in line.
“Owner’s dead dog,” Rae answers.
“Really?” I ask. I’m still surprised she came, but maybe this is a spot of hope.
“No fucking clue.” She ducks out of line, and we stare before trailing after her.
Rae stomps up to the door. The bouncer ignores the line of people waiting to glance at our IDs and let us inside.
“How did you do that?” Elle demands of Rae but doesn’t get a response.
The inside of the venue is exposed brick, long and skinny, and one story with high ceilings and a stage at one end. The bar’s in the center of the room, two thirds of the way from the stage. It’s round with a number of bartenders working different sections. The lights behind the bar are old-school theater style, and they spell out “LEO’S” in a burnt-orange glow.
A guy’s on stage playing piano, crooning into a microphone. He’s good, and I let myself fall into the spell he’s weaving.
“You came all the way down here to watch?” Rae tosses at me before disappearing through the crowd.
“You know what?” I call to Elle. “She’s right.”
I head toward the stage doors, Elle on my heels, and find the woman in charge of the open mic slots.
She looks me up and down, from my tight jeans to my plaid shirt to my ponytail. “We’re full.”
Dismay works through me as I crane my neck to see her list. “The whole night? Can I at least get on the list for next week?”
“We’re full every week. I can’t bump one of my regulars for you. Gotta keep this crowd happy.”
I bristle, but Elle grabs me and drags me to the bathroom. “She’s just putting you off.”
Half a dozen other girls compete for sink and mirror space, washing their hands and touching up their careful makeup. Every one of them looks different, but they’re all unforgettable.
It’s a reminder I’ve never lived on my own, never truly made my own way.
I’m in a strange city, lying to everyone about where I am and who I am…
And for what? To drink and watch someone else play music?
Fear slams into me as I stare into the mirror.
“You done?” an unfamiliar voice demands, jockeying for position.
You didn’t come here to blend in. You survived getting heartbroken, worked your ass off, and now you’re here. Don’t let them say no.
The resolve I’ve built over the past year is a block of iron in my chest, heated by my frustration until it glows red. I strip off my shirt, leaving the tank underneath, and tug out my elastic, fluffing out my hair so it explodes around my head, falling in crazy waves around my shoulders.
I pull out a dark pencil and use it to rim my eyes, top and bottom, until my lashes look even thicker and my eyes pop. Then, I pull out gloss and slick it over my red lips.
“I’m not sure what your plan is,” Elle drawls, “but this doesn’t go with your outfit.”
She unclasps my necklace and hands it to me. I hesitate before dropping it carefully into my purse.
“Thanks. Art is art,” I say, turning to inspect myself from the side. “But they need to sell drinks too.”
Elle lifts a brow. “You sure you want to do this?”
I take a deep breath. “No.”
4
“What’re we celebrating?” I call over the music as Beck slides a shot down the bar at Leo’s.
“Landed an audition.” He lifts his glass and clinks mine, and we both drink.
The alcohol burns down my throat, welcome and bracing at once.
The first two days back to school are turning out to be a rude awakening but not for the reasons I expected.
Our fridge is broken, ruining the food I bought on the weekend. Our landlord is dodging me, and the guy I called today to fix it said he’d come by tomorrow between eight and whenever he feels like it.
I had my first weekly guitar lesson this afternoon with my intensive professor—the guy who’s assigned to oversee my development—during which he wanted to lecture me about the “evolution of my style.”
Which probably could’ve been avoided if he hadn’t insisted on referring to it as the “evolution of my style.”
At Leo's, I’m ready to forget all of it for a few hours. A full third of the crowd is from Vanier, but they're here to unwind.
Hell, maybe someone’ll catch my eye tonight.
Because that worked so well the last time.
“Congrats on the audition,” I tell my friend as I set my empty glass on the bar next to his.
He tells me about the new TV series.
“You’d leave school if you got it?”
“Sure. That’s what we’re all here for.”
Apparently, that’s why Annie’s here. I can’t stop thinking about her words at the assembly yesterday.
I’ve thought about what I’d say if I saw Annie Jamieson again, but she caught me off guard, here in the last place I expected, and all I could think was how part of me that’d been dead for a year suddenly woke up.
It took everything in me not to drag her out of that hall to somewhere private and demand she tell me what the hell is going on.
“You ever think about her?” Beck’s voice drags me back.
“Who?”
“Meara. She left for LA before the summer. You guys dated.”
I shrug. “Not really. We were friends. We went out a few times.” She gave me indications of wanting to date, but we both knew the deal—there were more important things than each other.
When she landed a part in LA, I took her to the airport with Beck and some other friends, hugged her, and went on with my day.
We’ve texted a few times since just to say hey and see how things are going.
“So, that’s not why you were brooding all summer.”
I stare at him, perplexed. “I wasn’t brooding.”
“You were, but that means it’s not over her. So, it must’ve been about Zeke.”
Beck stares past me, and I follow his gaze to a big poster by the door advertising the annual fall showcase at Vanier.