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Master Post
"So um, there's this guy," Z says, and Ryan groans into his milk carton.
"I haven't even said anything yet," Z frowns. "I don't even-I don't even know him, really. I just-"
"Wait," Ryan says. "Wait, I know how this one goes." He pulls his hat down over his eyes, and throws his shoulders back, pursing his lips. "He's tall and dark, right? Devastatingly handsome? Rides a motorcycle? Long, flowing hair and deep-soulful eyes?"
"Alex never rode a motorcycle, you know that," Z says. She takes a bite of her sandwich. "I should never have introduced the two of you."
"He wasn't that bad," Ryan admits, letting his shoulders fall back into position. He actually sort of liked Alex Greenwald. More than he liked some of Z's other boyfriends, anyway.
"I wish he hadn't moved freshman year," Z says, sighing. "It was good, you know? The three of us hanging out. I had fun."
"Yeah, I know you had fun," Ryan says, and picks at his salad. He imitates Z's voice, which isn't actually that much higher than his own. "Oh, Ryan, he writes songs. On his guitar. As though you're not twenty times better at it than he is," Ryan continues, dropping back into his normal voice.
"You're sweet," Z says, and ruffles Ryan's hair. "A liar, but you're sweet."
"Hmm," Ryan says, and pushes his hat back into position. "So a new one, huh? I thought you'd sworn off men."
"You know what," Z says. She's peering across the cafeteria with a concerned expression. "Just-just forget I said anything, okay?"
"Okay," Ryan says. He follows Z's line of sight, and grins a little when he sees what she's looking at. The new kid-his name is Brandon, or Bruce, or something-is apologizing profusely to a tall, lanky girl. Her boyfriend, whose name Ryan thinks might be Spencer, is helping what's-his-name clean up the remains of his lunch tray.
Ryan turns to Z and says, "Do you think we should clap? That was an impressive display of grace."
"Don't you dare," Z says. She looks conflicted, as though she's amused but also is holding herself back from saying what she's really thinking. "Brendon's new, Ryan. That's so mean."
"That's half the fun," Ryan says, but he refrains from applause. "That guy is such a klutz," he says, instead. "That's like the second time in a week I've watched him drop something."
"As though you don't walk into walls on a regular basis."
Ryan crosses his arms. "At least I do it with style."
Z rolls her eyes.
-
Elizabeth Berg-Z, to her friends-has been Ryan's best friend since he was six years old. She's funny, and devious, and has an impeccable sense of style, and that is the only reason Ryan isn't currently mocking her mercilessly.
Actually, that's not true. The only thing holding Ryan back is chemistry class: having to keep track of explosive substances can put a damper on anyone's rapier wit, even one as superior as Ryan's. Not that he's going to be deterred for long though, because Z is being absolutely-
"Are you staring at the new kid?" Ryan hisses, and Z's eyes flick over to his a little guiltily. She shakes her head, and focuses on lighting their Bunsen burner. Fine, if she's going to be like that, he's going to have to move on to more pointed needling.
"Z, he's a walking disaster," Ryan stage whispers, eying the back of Brandon-or-Bruce-or-whatever's dark head. He's fiddling with his burner, a confused expression on his face. "He's going to light us all on fire."
"Ryan!" Z says, and drags his cuff away from the flame. Ryan blinks in surprise, and shakes his arm a little. "You're going to light us all on fire," Z says. "I told you. I do all the dangerous parts in this class. You take the notes. We have a system, Ryan. Don't fuck it up."
"I'm not," Ryan protests, and goes back to scribbling notes in his lab notebook. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as the new kid fails, for the sixth time, to light his burner. He looks down and frowns at it, as though it's failing to work on purpose just to spite him.
"I, um," the new kid says, raising his hand and wincing. "Mr. Torres? I can't quite get it to-"
"Brendon, look, like this," the girl from lunch says, leaning over from her lab station. Ryan blinks. He's not sure, but it sounds like she has an English accent. He wonders how he's never noticed that about her before, but the truth is, Ryan and Z don't really talk to anyone else except for Z's bandmates.
Brendon, that's right, that's what his name is, gets his Bunsen burner lit, with the help of the tall girl with the long blonde hair. She waves the teacher over, and after a quick conference, tugs her lab partner over to Brendon's table. As a mid-year transfer, he'd been all alone at his station.
Z rolls up the sleeves of her lab jacket, pulling her bangles off and setting them aside. "Is Lucite flammable?" she wonders out loud, and then shakes her head. "Anyway. Ryan, you ready? I'm going to add the first reagent. Write down the color, and how long it takes to change."
"Yes, ma'am," Ryan says. "Did you also want a pony?"
"Stop being a dick," Z says. "You're extra bitchy today, you know that right?"
Ryan looks at her for a long moment, and then relents. "Rough night," he mutters, and Z's eyes soften.
"You know you can stay with me," Z says. "I told you, anytime."
"It's fine," Ryan says. He shakes himself a little, and then takes his hat off and places it carefully on the desk, away from the flame. Mr. Torres either didn't care that he was wearing it , or had chosen not to comment; Ryan likes his hat, though, and Z has a point about safety. "Ready when you are."
-
Z drops Ryan off after Chemistry, walking him to his last-period English class. Ryan managed not to light either of them, his hat, or the desk on fire, so Z's calling the lab a success.
"I'll miss you terribly," Z says, batting her eyelashes at him as Ryan slows down in front of the classroom door. "One whole hour, how will I ever survive?" Ryan leans over and flicks her on the nose.
"Ow," Z mumbles, rubbing at her face, "Dammit, you know I hate it when you do that."
"Exactly," Ryan says.
She flicks him off as she heads inside, mouthing, "Later," at him when he waves.
Ms. Calloway's Trigonometry class isn't bad, but it's certainly not Z's favorite thing in the world. It's stuck in one of the old, dusty classrooms near the back of the school, and Ms. Calloway never opens the windows and Z barely knows anyone. She usually tries to get there early, so she can steal one of the desks in the back of the room and tuck herself into the corner.
The...currently occupied back corner.
"Hi?" Brendon says hesitantly and Z absolutely doesn't react. Or blush. Or anything. She can keep her cool.
"Brendon, right?" Z says, thunking her purse down on the desk next to him.
"Oh, I-yeah," Brendon says, grinning at her. "How did you know?"
"Lucky guess," Z says. "Listen. You seem like a nice guy, but I just feel like I should warn you-"
"Warn me?"
"Mmmhmm," Z says. She tilts her head a little, and bats her eyelashes at him, just once. "You're sitting in my chair. So, you know."
"Oh, oh shit," Brendon says, his eyes widening. "I didn't-I'm so sorry. They just transferred me into this class, something about the other one being the wrong class for the transfer credit, I didn't realize-"
Z rolls her eyes, pushing Brendon's hand away from where he's hurriedly gathering his things. "Sit." Z says firmly. "It's fine, for now. Just, you know. Maybe not tomorrow, okay?"
"Sure, of course," Brendon says. "I'm really sorry."
"Mmm," Z says. She pulls her notebook out of her purse, rummaging in the bottom for a pen. Her compact mirror falls out as she's rustling around, and when she picks it up she snaps it open, giving herself a critical look. When no one's looking, she winks at herself and then sticks her tongue out.
"I totally do that," Brendon says softly, as Ms. Calloway's asking everyone to pull out their homework. He's smiling a little.
"Do what?" Z says, playing dumb.
"Make faces at myself," Brendon whispers back. He's tapping the base of his palm on the table, a quick, uncertain beat. "Did you know if you hold your breath long enough, you can make your cheeks inflate? Like, really."
"Wait, what?" Z whispers, grinning. She and Ryan have an ongoing contest to see who can take the most horribly unattractive phone picture; that sounds like a winning strategy.
"Totally," Brendon says, "You just hold your breath, right, for like a minute, and then you-"
"Young man, are you supposed to be in this class?" Ms. Calloway says, confused. Z and Brendon whip their heads up; she's standing next to their desks, pen in hand to check off their homework.
"Oh, sorry, sorry," Brendon mumbles. "I have a slip-I'm a transfer-" He digs around in his backpack until he comes up with a crumpled piece of paper, which he smooths out on the desk and then hands to her.
Ms. Calloway examines the slip, and then tucks it into the top folder in her hand with a sigh. "I'll have to talk to the head of the department," she says, giving both of them a tired look. "Normally we wouldn't be able to transfer your grades over, but. I guess for now-Ms. Berg, would you mind letting Mr. Urie use your notes and textbook? We'll have to order some extras."
Z blinks. "I, um. Sure, I guess?"
"Good," Ms. Calloway, sounding like it's anything but. "Now. The homework assignment?"
"Oh," Z says, flipping her binder open. "Right here. Yeah."
"Thank you," Ms. Calloway nods at Z's homework, checking something off in her gradebook, and moves down the row.
"Is she always like that?" Brendon whispers, looking over his shoulder to make sure Ms. Calloway is out of range. "She's kind of... cranky."
"Pretty much," Z says, pushing her textbook between them so Brendon can see. "Shh, I think she's starting the new chapter."
"Right," Brendon says. "Totally shushing."
-
The thing about Trigonometry class is that Z actually has to pay attention in order to avoid failing. She's okay at math (better than Ryan, though not by much), but it definitely doesn't come naturally to her.
Z sighs and kicks Brendon under the table.
"Ow," Brendon says. "What was that for?"
"Stop jiggling your leg," Z whispers. "You're making the table shake."
"Sorry," Brendon says. He stops for a moment, and Z tries to concentrate on following the proof that Ms. Calloway is outlining on the board. Then he starts up again with the opposite leg. Z huffs her bangs out of her eyes, and then very carefully presses the heel of her shoe into Brendon's left foot.
"Can I ask you something?" Brendon says softly.
"Sure," Z says. "Unless you're about to ask me to take my foot away."
"That would be nice," Brendon says.
"Tough luck," Z says.
"No, seriously," Brendon says, after a moment where Z can feel his muscles straining to move. "I actually had a question, sorry-"
Z looks pleadingly at the ceiling, and then gives up on paying attention. If she's really desperate, maybe she can ask Ryan for his notes. Maybe. (Probably not; Ryan's notes from Mr. Durkheim's section are usually a mess, because Mr. Durkheim can't explain linearly and Ryan can't take legible notes.) "Okay," Z says, bending her head closer. "What's the question?"
"They said they're having a talent show," Brendon says quietly. "Like, this weekend or something. Is that like-is that cool here?"
"Uh," Z says. "What?"
"At my old school," Brendon says, by way of explanation. "Some places, you know, it's not a big deal? People go, and whatever. And then some schools, like my old one, it's like, the kiss of death. I figured, you're cool, you could probably fill me in."
Z blinks, and decides to ignore the fact that Brendon just called her cool. He's new around here. It doesn't really count. "Oh," Z says. "Oh, no, I mean-yeah. It's not a big deal. People definitely go. My band's playing."
"You have a band?" Brendon breathes, his eyes lighting up.
"Ms. Berg," Ms. Calloway says firmly. "Less chatter, please."
"Sorry," Z says. She turns back to her notes, only to watch as Brendon carefully pencils a note onto the top corner of her paper.
what kind of music?
Z thinks about it for a moment, and then writes, all-girl band. retro. good stuff.
what do you play?
singer. lead guitar. Z glances over at Brendon, who is attempting to catch up with the example on the board. She bites her lip and then adds, lyrics.
do you have a myspace?
Z snorts. She pencils back in, wouldn't you like to know?
oh, come on.
come to the talent show, if you really want to hear us.
i do, Brendon writes. He looks at Z for a minute, and then writes, one more question?
okay
what's your name?
Z grins to herself, just a little.
Elizabeth, she writes back, not even caring about how messy her notes are going to look. Call me Z.
-
Z is actually scared shitless about the talent show.
It's not like they haven't played live before, but they're missing a drummer now and this isn't, this isn't the open mic nights where people don't care if there's a nasty rumor going around about you from last weekend, and where the fact that you don't have any fucking friends outside your band and your goofball of a best friend won't actually make people condemn your music before you start to sing.
It's possible the aforementioned nervousness is the reason she snaps at Annie. She feels bad immediately when Annie blinks at her, looking a little hurt and a lot confused. Z really has to learn to remember that not everyone can distinguish between her being nervous and her being legitimately angry.
"Shit, sorry," Z says, reaching out and touching Annie's shoulder. "I'm just, you know."
"I do know," Annie says. "It's not as if I don't go to our school." She's picking at the hem of her dress. Z sighs.
"No, true. I just, the songs." It's the thought of playing them in public when she's scared of what the students watching them will read into the lyrics (who knows what the fuckheads in her grade will think about "Release Me"). And there's also the risk of teachers. Teachers trying to interpret creative works of students are always-Z's gotten sent to the counselor more than once by concerned English teachers, as has Ryan, and it always sucks.
Mostly it's the other students, though.
Laena hums behind them and plucks at her bass. It's a shitty one; her electric's okay, it's newer, but they're saving up to get her an acoustic one that doesn't need to be retuned after an hour's use.
"We're all nervous," she says mildly. "But at least we can run through the songs again."
"Okay, yeah." Z shakes her head and picks up her guitar. They usually warm up with some acoustic stuff; Z knows they should be more conscientious about actual warmups (especially her, what with having to sing), but they're just so boring. She can sing scales, sure, but when she's in their practice room she'd much rather sing for real, sing and dance around with the guitar and-well. Warmups are boring. Basically.
She counts them in, Annie turning on the drum machine in her keyboard (which fucking kills Z every time, okay, because drums on a keyboard are not the same), and then they're off.
It's an okay practice, all things considered. The drum machine keeps fucking them over though; it's not just how tinny it sounds, it's that there's no stretch in the songs this way, no way to push and pull. In the middle of "Wishing He Was Dead" she has to turn around to prevent herself from yelling into the microphone in sheer irritation when it just does. Not. Work.
"We need a drummer," Laena says tiredly, after the last note dies away.
Abruptly, it's like the air goes out of Z's lungs. "We do," she agrees. "Fuck, guys, what if it'll all fall flat without one?"
"We've done it before," Annie reminds them both. Z thinks-a little meanly-that Annie's more used to the drum machine than they are because she's a keyboardist. Maybe she doesn't even mind how it sounds. Except she knows that's ridiculous, fuck. Fuck.
"Well, we don't have a drummer," she says, "so it doesn't really matter that it fucking blows to be playing without one."
"We could try holding auditions again?" Laena says halfheartedly, but both Annie and Z shake their heads at her.
"Remember last time?" Annie's frowning when she says it, looking down at her keyboard. Laena looks confused.
"The fucking wrestling team showed up," Z bites off, and of course Laena knows this story, they've told her before. They'd spent three hours cleaning up after.
Laena shakes her head. "Let's do the song one more time, then," she says, and Z counts them in.
It's marginally better this time. Marginally.
-
Afterwards, Z manages to not run through all their respective fuck-ups in great detail out loud and offers to make smoothies instead, an offer Laena vetoes because Z is actually a disaster in the kitchen.
"How about you let the professionals handle this one, huh?" she says, but the way she grins while saying it makes it not sting at all. Z likes Laena, she thinks. She hasn't known her for that long, she doesn't go to Z and Ryan's school, but the past month and a half of getting used to each others' style has been like coming home. She owes Annie big time for finding her, Z knows that.
Annie, oh man. She grabs her smoothie and plops down on the couch with none of the easy grace she has behind the piano-she's pretty tall, right, and it's like she hasn't grown into it yet or something. She jokes about it: "Annie Monroe, tripping over her own feet again, courtesy of the dark curse in locker room 39," but Z knows she's a bit embarrassed by her height, and by how clumsy she became when she started growing.
Speaking of clumsy. "Hey, how's your knee?" The other day, Annie tripped on her way home from school while on the phone with Z, and hung up after saying something about Starbucks and Laena, so Z cleverly deduced that Annie was close to Laena's work and would go there to get patched up.
Annie shrugs. "It's fine, nothing a band-aid didn't take care of. Laena had Smurf band-aids and gave me some so I didn't have to bleed through my jeans."
"Smurfs?" Z snickers a little, but Annie beams and pulls up her pants leg. Sure enough, there are Smurfs on her band-aid.
"I like them," Laena says, a little defensively.
"I do too," Annie says. "It'll heal much faster, I'm sure of it. Power of Blue and everything."
Gosh, they're adorable. Z's band, seriously. She doesn't really know how to interact with them when they're not talking about music, but at least they're nice. They're also really good, thank fuck, or she would be bailing on this talent show idiocy so hard.
-
She remembers why she wanted to do the talent show (to show them) when she rounds a corner after Trigonometry the next day; she'd stayed late talking to Brendon and is consequently rushing to make her last class on time. It means she's missed her customary rendez-vous with Ryan at the bottom of the East staircase, and when she gets there, he's backed into the railing by that asshole who wrecked their practice room, fuck, she's forgotten his name but it's not like he matters, what he's saying to Ryan matters, him and his little cohorts, goddammit, this is why they never go anywhere alone if they can help it-
Without even thinking about it, she slams through them and ends up at Ryan's side, chin up and fists clenched.
"Fuck off," Steve, that's his name, "Steve," she says pleasantly. "Fuck off, and take your inbred loser asshole friends with you."
The moron grins. "Aww, his girlfriend is defending him, how sweet." There are a couple of catcalls from one or two of the other assholes. Faggot, queers, slut, nothing they haven't heard before.
Ryan shifts next to her. "You really ought to pick your slurs," he drawls. "If I'm a faggot, she can't be my girlfriend, can she?"
Steve has to think really hard about that one, but one of his friends come to his rescue. "Oh, but she's such a slut, she'd sleep with anything, even with you-" and Z has to hit him for that one, but he dodges and she misses, and then there's a familiar voice cutting through the crowd, thank fuck, shit.
"Gentlemen, why don't you break it up? I'm sure you're late for-whatever it is you're taking these days, I can't say I really care-and you ought to get to it, don't you?" Mr. Cleary, their ancient Physics teacher is picking his way through the crowd, followed by the Girl Most Likely To Be This Year's Valedictorian, but Z can't remember her name. She nods at them both as she passes, and Mr. Cleary thanks her for letting him know about the disturbance, and Z's just-she's just done. She can't depend on fucking Good Samaritan Valedictorians to save her. To keep Ryan safe.
"Come on," she tells Ryan. "We have class." Shoulder to shoulder, they walk through the halls. Like they always do. They're safer together, after all. And she's going to do the fucking talent show because, because-not that it'll make them understand, but because she wants to be all that she is, just for a little while, where they can see it and they can hate her for it because they're never going to be that good.
Of course, this means the songs have to be perfect by then.
-
It's Friday afternoon and Z is perhaps a little stressed out, Ryan thinks. Perhaps. Just maybe.
"Ryan Ross," Z hisses, hoisting her guitar case over her shoulder, "I swear to god, if you drop that-"
"It's fine," Ryan mutters, tightening his arms around the amp. He loves Z, he really does, and he understands why she's so obsessive about her equipment, but the fact remains that Ryan has carried it for her at every single show and only dropped it, like, twice. He's practically blameless.
"Give that to Annie," Z says, frowning. "You can carry my mic stand." Ryan rolls his eyes and heads inside, grimacing a little as he misjudges the size of the doorframe and bangs his elbow. "Ow," Ryan says, slightly petulant. "That hurt." The hallway doesn't respond.
The school has its own sound system and speakers, but Z's picky about her set-up, and Ryan doesn't blame her. He shimmies through the double-doors of the theater backwards, and then lugs the amp to the bottom of the stage. Z's already double-checking wires and testing her pedals. They're going on first, so their equipment can be cleared before the drama kids in the second act need the full run of the stage.
"Shit," Z mutters, twisting a knob on her pedal with a frown. "Shit, I don't have time for this-"
"Z. Z," Ryan says, patiently, and continues to repeat himself until she looks up. "Elizabeth."
"What?" Z snaps. Underneath the irritability, Ryan can see how scared she is.
"I'm only going to say this once," Ryan says. He's standing on the lip in the orchestra pit, and Z's kneeling, so they're exactly eye-to-eye. "You're going to be awesome, stop freaking out, let Laena worry about the pedals, and go drink some water."
"I-what?" Z says, her face softening.
"Also, you forgot your purse in the car," Ryan says.
"Wow, I was just starting to like you," Z mutters, but she's smiling a little. "Go get it, dipshit. Get out of here before you break something."
"I have the same guitar pedal," Ryan points out, but he pockets the keys Z tosses to him and heads back out to the car to move it to the front parking lot.
There's already a fair amount of people milling around the front of the building, parents and kids and even a few people from the local paper. Ryan pulls into a spot way down at the end, grabs Z's purse, and ducks his head as he walks quickly to the door. He really doesn't feel like talking to anyone. His strategy is totally working, until he hears footsteps behind him and a hand on his arm.
"Um, hey," a voice says, nervously, and Ryan spins around. It's that weird kid Brendon again, the one Z had told him not to make fun of, the one she'd stared at in Chemistry because-whatever. Ryan stares at Brendon for a moment, trying to figure out how to respond, and then he gives up, going for his default of hauteur and says, "Do I know you?"
"Uh, not really," Brendon says. He's bouncing a little on the soles of his sneakers. His t-shirt is a faded yellow; it says Lake Missamee Bible Day Camp across the front.
Ryan raises an eyebrow. "Okay," he says. "Uh. In that case-" He starts turning away. Seriously, why is this kid even talking to him?
"Wait," Brendon says. "Wait, okay, you're friends with Z, right?"
Oh. That's why. "Maybe," Ryan says, noncommittal.
"I just," Brendon says. "Tell her I said good luck, okay? It's-my name's Brendon. Tell her Brendon said to break a leg."
"Right," Ryan says. He's not sure what to do with someone who seems so earnest; he's trying to figure out whether Brendon has an ulterior motive, but he really does just sound like he wants to wish Z good luck. Which, wait. Clearly the two of them have talked, and why hasn't Z told Ryan about that? Huh.
"Thanks," Brendon says, and shoves his hands in his pockets. Ryan nods, still trying to figure out when Brendon and Z got acquainted, and turns to head back inside. They're starting to set up the ticket booth, so Ryan waits until Ms. Calloway's back is turned and then sneaks through the doors. He's totally with the band, okay.
He finds Z and Laena and Annie in the wings, sitting on a dusty box of god-knows-what. Z's drinking from a bottle of water and tapping her heels impatiently.
"Finally," Z says, and holds out a hand for her purse.
"Sorry," Ryan says. "I got held up by your fan club."
"I just, I just want to get this over with," Z says, rubbing distractedly at her temple. "God, I hope we stay on tempo, we-wait, what?"
"Some kid named Brendon," Ryan says, sitting down cross-legged on the floor. "You know, the weird one that I'm not allowed to make fun of? He told me to tell you good luck." He's watching Z carefully for a reaction-ha. Her eyes totally widen a bit and she's smiling.
Laena snorts. "Yeah, okay," she says. "Z, I think what he means is 'Hi, let's have sex.'"
"That is not what he means," Z says. She's blushing, just a little. Ryan ruthlessly clamps down on his internal snickering, because he's a good friend and won't mock his best friend right before she goes on stage. "Brendon's just nice."
... maybe he'll do some mocking. Come on, how could you not respond to that?
"Yeah, he probably doesn't want to sleep with you," Ryan agrees casually. "His t-shirt said something about bible camp. Oh, hey," Ryan says, poking Z in the knee and giving Z an earnest, wide-eyed look. "Maybe you guys can hold hands and talk about Jesus!"
Z gives him a dark look. "You're not as funny as you think you are," she says.
"No, I definitely am," Ryan says. There's a commotion somewhere behind him, and then the voice of the stage manager informing everyone that the show is starting in twenty. Ryan stands up, brushing himself off. He bends over and kisses Z on the cheek, and Z leans into him for a moment. Her false eyelashes brush his cheekbones. "So awesome," Ryan says, quieter, and Z smiles at him. Then she sticks her tongue out. "Get out," she says, making a shooing motion. "Performers only, you freeloader."
"See if I help you load up," Ryan says. He catches a few of the stagehands staring at them, but he shrugs it off. Everyone thinks he and Z are dating, and at one point, Ryan knows there was a rumor that they were actually brother and sister caught in an incestuous love affair. It would probably be easier if they were dating, to be honest. It's hard to explain their relationship to other people, so most of the time they don't even try.
Ryan sneaks into the crowd and finds a seat by the left side of the stage, close to the front but not so close he'll end up deaf. He waits as the MC introduces the show from the orchestra pit; he can see Z and Laena and Annie up there, shadowed and standing very still. There's a tense moment where the stagehand doesn't get the spotlight quite right, but then all of a sudden the stage lights up all at once and Z's strumming the intro to "He's Not a Boy" and Ryan can feel a grin break out on his face. There's an excited murmur from the crowd when they break into the chorus, and Z's smiling coyly and shaking her hips, and it's just. It's awesome. Ryan suppresses the completely uncharacteristic urge to cheer.
"Release Me" is a little shakier; the drum machine's a little off, and so are Annie's handclaps. The crowd falters for a moment, and then the song ends with a screech of feedback. People are turning to each other and whispering and Ryan shakes his head in frustration. Z's just too damn cool for Summerlin; they'll never understand.
They get the feedback under control and Z shrugs, leaning into the microphone. "Hey," she says, her throaty voice ringing out in the quiet. "Thanks guys. We're The Like, and this last one's called 'Wishing You Were Dead.'" Ryan snorts. Subtle, Z.
They get a reasonable amount of applause after they've finished. Laena and Annie lean into their microphones and thank the organizers for letting them play; the curtains sweep closed.
Ryan settles back into his chair to suffer through the rest of the acts.
-
After the show is over, Ryan's standing in the hallway, winding the cable as slowly as he possibly can. It's not that he enjoys eavesdropping, which-okay, that's a lie, Ryan totally enjoys eavesdropping. The point is, this is priceless and Ryan needs an excuse to continue watching Brendon-the-Jesus-Kid flail all over Z's every move.
"Seriously," Brendon says, leaning over to where Z is carefully packing her guitar away in its case. "That was-holy shit, Z. Do you guys have any more songs? You were amazing."
"Yes," Z says, and pretends to take extra care removing her guitar strap and winding it up before tucking it in the case. "A few more, yeah."
"Do you guys have a demo?" Brendon presses, "You should-I'm telling you, you could be famous! I mean-I thought it would be good, you know, I'm not trying to say that I didn't think that-"
"Right," Z says. Brendon's talking a mile a minute. She looks like she's trying desperately to keep a straight face.
"-but seriously, your lyrics, and that bass line on the third one, and your voice-did you take voice lessons? You did, right?" Ryan snickers to himself. He looks around, and then drops the cable. It tangles when it hits the floor. "Ooops," Ryan says, over-loud. "Oh well."
"I didn't-no," Z says. She clicks the locks on her guitar case, and then stands it up against the wall. There's people milling around in the corridor, even though it's been marked as "backstage." "I just, uh, sing." She's looking at Brendon with a confused expression. "Do you think I should?"
"No," Brendon says. "I mean-yes, everyone can use some help with technique, but I don't even think you need it, you were perfect the whole time up there-"
"Brendon?" someone says, right next to Ryan's ear. He jumps, and turns to face them. It's the tall girl, and her boyfriend, the one with the strange name and possibly an English accent.
Brendon ignores her, still chattering away at Z, who moves to grab her guitar and a mic stand, and Brendon leans over and picks up the amp, like he's going to follow her out to the car. Ryan holds his breath. There is no way Z's going to let him do that. Is she? Behind them Ryan sees Laena and Annie, heads close together, hands touching slightly.
"Uh, Brendon?" the guy next to Ryan says uselessly.
"Oh, hey guys," Brendon says, turning to give them a quick flash of a smile and then turning back to Z just as quickly. "Anyway-I'm telling you, it's like a suspended G chord, I really think-"
"Oh my god," Ryan says, without considering who is listening. Z's walking off, smiling to herself, and Brendon's following her, carrying the amp. Ryan can't believe it. Z doesn't let anyone but Laena or him (and only very grudgingly, with him) touch her equipment. "She's never-this is bizarre."
The girl standing next to Ryan leans in, giving him a conspiratorial look. "I suspect we've been abandoned," she says. She looks like she's trying not to laugh. "Shall we follow them out?"
"I-okay," Ryan says, blinking a little. He pauses, because they seem so familiar; he can't remember that last time someone at school just came up to him and started a conversation. He knows he's seen them around, but this girl is treating him like they've been friends for years. "Have we met?"
"I'm Tennessee," the girl says. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles. "And this is Spencer, we're in your Chemistry class and you're Ryan Ross, and hurry, we're missing the show." She takes off down the hallway, and Spencer turns to Ryan and shrugs. "When the lady commands..." he says, smiling a little at Ryan.
"Right," Ryan says uselessly. He's never seen Spencer up close before. He has really pretty eyes. And a nice smile, and-
And a really pretty girlfriend, hello.
Ryan shakes his head. "We should," he says, and starts walking, cable still clutched in his hand. Spencer nods, shoving his hands into his pockets and falling into step besides Ryan.
"So," Spencer says, when they're almost to the door that leads out. "That was really good. Z's band, I mean."
"Of course they were," Ryan says automatically. "What, you thought they would suck?"
"Uh," Spencer says. "No? I just meant, it wasn't just good for a high school talent show. They've got some serious talent going on there. They should start putting together a demo."
Ryan nods, his ruffled feathers slightly soothed. "They should," Ryan says. "They want to. But they need to find a drummer."
"Really?" Spencer says, pushing open the door. "Because-"
"Gentlemen," Tennessee says, poking her head through the opening. "Follow me. No loud noises or sudden movements, please."
Ryan raises an eyebrow. "What, are we stalking the wild Brendon in his natural habitat?"
"Exactly," Tennessee says, and grabs Ryan's hand, pulling him through the opening. Ryan swallows. Tennessee's nails, he notices, are short and carefully trimmed. She has long fingers, smudged with dirt. Ryan wonders how that happened.
They end up behind the dumpsters. Ryan winces a little as he kneels down. He really likes these pants, and god knows what's back here. "This is stupid," Ryan whispers. "There's no way she didn't see us. Z is never going to let me live this down."
"Actually, no." Tennessee says. "This is quite fascinating. Look at that body language." She's peering around the side of the dumpster to where Brendon and Z are standing next to Z's car.
"Let me see," Ryan says, immediately. Tennessee nods, and pulls him in. She smells really good, and Ryan breathes in deep before he realizes that's kind of creepy.
"Wow," Ryan says, eventually, after watching Brendon and Z for a minute or two. "Wow."
"That's some pretty epic hip-tilting," Spencer agrees. "I'm pretty sure he just drew a heart in the dirt with his toe. By accident."
"It's a very malformed heart, but I think you're right," Tennessee says, grinning. "Aren't they adorable?"
"Like a pair of kittens," Ryan says. After considering them for a little bit, seeing all the things Z is biting back in the set of her shoulders and the way she's smiling every time Ryan catches a look at her face, he adds, "Who obviously can't communicate very well. They look like they should be holding hands and having smoothies and yet they're probably still talking about that suspended G chord."
"Oh dear," Tennessee murmurs.
"Brendon's been talking about how Z is out of his league for days," Spencer says morosely.
Ryan chews on his lip a little bit. "Maybe," he says. After all, Z is. He might be nice and all, and Z might be currently smiling at him, but still. Definitely way below her usual standards. He doesn't know how to explain how fucking bizarre this is.
Tennessee elbows Spencer in the side. "Did you see that?" she says. "Brendon just-"
Spencer groans. "He's practically glowing, Jesus. This is going to-"
"Backfire?" Ryan says, before he can think better of it. Both of them turn to look at him. He shrugs. "What?" Ryan says. "We were all thinking it."
"I was hoping it wouldn't," Tennessee says, softly. "He's really into her."
"Hmm," Ryan says. He squints at the scene in front of them again. Communication-impaired kittens, Ryan thinks, watching Brendon shove his hands in his pockets and grin widely at Z, still talking a mile a minute. Z has that smile on her face, the one where she's trying really hard not to bust out with a huge, dorky laugh. "It might work," he says reluctantly. It's been a long time since he's seen Z look like that. It doesn't mean he's not going to mock her relentlessly once they get in the car, but it can't hurt to give her new paramour's friends some ammunition. Ammunition of looove, Ryan thinks, smirking, and then shakes his head. "She's-he's not her usual type at all, but yeah."
"Hm," Tennessee says, looking interested. "Then I'm certain something can be done. But now I think it is time to go home, right, Spencer?"
Spencer checks his phone. "Ah, shit, yes." With that, they both walk out from behind the dumpster, Tennessee turning to smile at Ryan over her shoulder. Ryan stares after them for a moment, wondering if he's just screwed up royally. Did he tell them too much? Will they hurt Z with what he gave them? Ryan hates not knowing the consequences of his actions. Spencer winks at Ryan as they herd Brendon away, but Ryan still waits until they're out of view before sauntering out.
"What's the verdict?" he says.
"What?" Z says. She's watching Brendon walk off with Spencer and Tennessee.
"Your fan club from Bible Camp," Ryan says. "Did he like the show?"
"Oh-yes, yes he did," she says, smiling a little. "Brendon's nice."
"Mmmm," Ryan says. "Totally nice."
They get into Z's car, Z slapping him away when he tries to load the amp into the trunk. When they've sat down, Ryan turns to her. "By the way, this is me not mentioning the fact that you let him carry your shit." He pauses. "Nah, scratch that. Elizabeth Berg, since when do you let boys carry your equipment? Boys that aren't me, I mean, and yeah, I did notice the way you didn't yell at him at all, I feel so loved-"
"Shut up," she says, starting her car.
"I mean, is it just that you've never met anyone manly enough to trust before? Because sure, I can see it, those red glasses and those hips-"
Z rummages around in the back seat and ends up with a paper bag and an empty soda can. She pauses, considering, and then throws both of them at Ryan's head.
"Ow," Ryan mutters, slapping her on the shoulder. "That hurt, fucker."
"It was just a taste," Z says, turning to look over her shoulder as she pulls out of their parking space. "Just a taste of the world of pain you're in for, if you don't learn your lesson and shut up." She tries to inject some steel into her tone, but she just ends up sounding breathless.
"It's been twelve years," Ryan says, reaching down to rescue the abused soda can from Z's front seat. He tosses it in the back and then looks over at Z. "I haven't learned yet."
"I know," Z murmurs, shaking her head. She looks like she's trying hard not to laugh. "God help me, Ryan Ross, I know."
-
"He's really nice," Spencer says thoughtfully, staring out through the windshield into the empty parking lot where they pulled in after dropping Brendon off. "They're both really nice. I don't get it."
"People are stupid," Tennessee says firmly. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line. "You know that."
"Yeah," Spencer says, shaking his head slightly to clear it. He knows it as well as anyone else, but it just seems-sad, somehow. He knows Ryan and Z stay out of everyone's way for a reason. It's still kind of astonishing that Ryan had spoken to them at all, but Spencer's pretty sure Tennessee had just shocked him into submission. She does that to people.
"We should talk about this later," Tennessee says thoughtfully. "Because. Well. I feel I should point out that we don't have curfew tonight because of the show, and, I don't know if you noticed, but I'm wearing a skirt."
"Huh?" Spencer says, turning to face her.
"A skirt," Tennessee says, biting her lip and smiling a little and oh, Spencer knows that smile. "I'm wearing one."
"That you are," Spencer says, feeling himself start to smile back. "It's a nice skirt."
"I thought so," Tennessee says, climbing carefully over the center console and settling herself on Spencer's lap. "I'm also not wearing any underwear."
"Oh," Spencer says faintly, sliding his hand up her thigh. "Wow. Okay. Yes. Yes you aren't."
Tennessee hums happily into his mouth when he moves his hand higher. He can't help but think of her sitting next to him at the show, not letting on for a second that she wasn't wearing anything under her skirt; fuck, he could have slid his hand up her leg then, when the lights were turned down for the first act, and maybe she would have parted her legs a little and he could have touched-
He bites down on her lip at that, because shit, shit. She grins like she knows what he's thinking. She needs to stop that. She also really needs to stop using his thing for public sex against him.
"You really need to stop using my thing for, um, you know, against me," he mumbles, kissing along the line of her jaw.
"Oh, your thing for public sex?" she says airily, spreading her legs a little more. Fuck, she's wet.
"Shouldn't that be 'our thing'?" he asks, skirting his thumb over her clit and shivering when she moans.
"I don't, I'm not certain that is entirely fair," she says breathlessly, squirming into his hands. "I have a thing for you and I'm fond of this car, but I wouldn't, ah, I wouldn't say I have a thing for public sex, not precisely."
He means to respond to that, but she picks that moment to squirm around some more, get his pants open, and then put her hands on him, and there just aren't any words that can-"Tenn," he says, hips jerking. "Fuck, I-"
"That was the general idea, yes," and she sounds even more breathless now. Oh. Oh.
"You want me to, oh, fuck."
"I do, as a matter of fact," she says, which, she's seriously too coherent right now. He'd try to change that but he can't really think because, shit, the way she's touching him.
His breath catches when she adds a twist and Spencer honestly thinks he could probably come in about 1.5 seconds without much of an effort, so he manages to get his free hand up to halt hers. "I can't, I'm going to, I'll come if you, pretty much if you do anything, at this point."
"Sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all, but she does move her hands, so she must be serious about wanting, like.
"What even am I going to do with you," he says, which makes no sense, but she seems to get it because she smiles softly and he can take advantage of her slowing down to lean in and mouth at her cloth-covered breast.
"Ah," she says, a hand coming up to clench in his hair, "Ah, oh, yes, keep doing that-"
He grins internally and scrapes his teeth over her nipple.
"Shit, Spencer," she says, pulling harder at his hair, and he has to take a moment to breathe because that, yes. Fuck.
"We should," he says, "if you're, we should, because I can't-" He manages to slip two fingers back, just to see, and she opens like, like, fuck, they really have to do this now or he's not going to be able to hold on at all. He probably won't anyway, but wow.
She's nodding even before he finishes speaking. "Yes, yes we should, yes."
Dealing with the condom is as hilarious as always-Tennessee overbalances at one point and hits her elbow on the window of the car, and Spencer can't move much to help because then he'll knock her into the steering wheel. At one point they're giggling pretty hard, mouths close together, but then, when they've figured it out and she's sliding down on him-
"I can't, Tenn, fuck," he says, whispers really, and he has to strain to keep his eyes open because he wants to keep watching her like this, arching into his hands.
"I know," she says, bending down to kiss him and shuddering when he moves, "I know, Spencer, I know."
"Love you," he murmurs into her mouth.
"I know that as well," she manages, and then she's tightening around him, pressing his hand tighter against her clit, and he comes when she does, tumbling over the edge and buring his face in her hair.
They're fairly quiet, after. He's stroking her hair and thinking about how he sort of never wants to let her go when she twists around and looks at him. "Let's go into town on Saturday," she says. "I want to see if that book I ordered came in."
"The new edition of The Drummer's Bible?" Spencer wants to look at that as well, but-"Can we go look at shoes, too?"
She snickers. "Yes, Spencer Smith, we can go and look at shoes."
-
Saturday dawns bright and too fucking early for Z's taste. She opens her eyes and then rolls over, smooshing her face into her pillow. She checks her cell phone-9:36 am, sweet-and is thinking pleased, glorious thoughts about going back to sleep when Ryan opens her door.
"Fuck off," Z says, as soon as she's identified his long silhouette. She pulls the covers up over her head, and for a moment, her world is blessedly warm and dark and quiet. Then Ryan sits on her and ruins everything.
"Get up," Ryan says, poking and wigging his fingers under the covers until Z has to tug them away so she can breathe through the giggles. "We're going shopping. You said so."
"I said maybe," Z complains, trying to kick her knees up and shake Ryan off. He may be skinny, but he's also persistent, and capable of clinging doggedly when he doesn't want to be moved. "Any plans made on a Saturday that involve the word 'maybe' never happens before noon."
"I took Dad's car," Ryan says, holding up his hand so Z can see the keys swinging from his forefinger. "Come on. Let's go to the diner and have Roberta make us breakfast."
"Ungffh," Z says, still cranky. Her stomach growls. "Wait, did you say breakfast?"
"Fake bacon," Ryan says, backing away slowly as Z sits up. He's grinning at her widely and drawing a finger down his cheek, which must mean her eye makeup is all smudged again. Z really needs to remember to take that shit off before she goes to sleep. "Lots of fake bacon and pancakes and hot coffee. Also, you look like an evil panda."
"Do not," Z says, yawning. "Raccoon, maybe."
"Evil raccoon," Ryan says. "Actually, yeah. Raccoons are totally evil."
"I don't understand you," Z says, pushing the covers back and sliding her legs out. She's just wearing an old t-shirt and underwear, but-well, it's Ryan. She knows he doesn't care.
"I don't understand evil raccoons," Ryan says. "Seriously, hurry up, I'm starving. Get dressed."
"Yeah, yeah," Z mutters, scrabbling around on her floor for something that looks interesting. It's a red kind of day, she thinks, glancing out the window. Red and maybe blue, and-oh, hey, there are those light-blue platforms.
"No platforms," Ryan says, without looking up. He's texting someone on his phone, which is weird enough that Z pauses for a moment. "We're going to be walking all day. No platforms."
"I always wear platforms," Z says, frowning at the pair in her hand. "Where have you been for the last six years? I'm good at walking in them. Style is everything, Ryan."
"I'm not saying don't wear them ever," Ryan says, flipping his phone shut and tucking it into his pocket. "I just think-no, see, those shoes totally go better." He pokes a pair out of an enormous pile with his toe.
"Hmmm," Z says, peering down at her t-strap mary janes. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Ryan says. "Plus, you clomp in those other ones. It interferes with my shopping zen."
"Ooooh," Z says, enlightened. That makes sense. The Shopping Zen is not to be fucked with. "Why didn't you tell me? I totally get that."
Ryan shrugs, looking away. "You ready? I'm starving."
--
"Come on, Z," Ryan says. "let's go." Z fingers the soft wool of the hat she's holding one more time, and then places it regretfully back on the shelf. Ryan's whining again, so it must mean it's time for lunch. It never fails-Ryan's metabolism runs like clockwork, and he has to eat every three hours or he gets cranky. It would be sweet, if it wasn't so damn annoying. Z's still pretty full from breakfast, but Ryan has hollow legs. "Technically we do have all day," Z says airily, trying to get a rise out of him.
"You know what I mean," Ryan says, glaring at her. He's rapidly progressed to sulking; if Z didn't know just how bad it can get, she'd consider dragging this out a little longer. She might be a bad person for it, but making Ryan Ross lose his trademark cool will never not be funny.
"Fine, fine, let's go eat," she says, paying for the scarf she found that will work perfectly with the new dress Laena bought the other day. Ryan needles them about their tendency to coordinate their outfits a little, but Z stopped listening to Ryan's style advice years ago, even before he decided paisley was the new black, which, no. Black is always the new black, and Ryan's wrong about their stage clothes. It works for them, makes them look aloof and effortlessly cool, especially now that Annie's learned not to trip over every wire up there.
They decide on The Green Cauldron. On their way down Main Street, Ryan stumbles, which sometimes happens, but he also blushes, which he almost never does.
"You okay?" she asks with some consternation, and he just shakes his head and keeps walking. Z cranes her neck around to look and see what could have caused the reaction, but all she sees is some guy kissing his girlfriend, and she doesn't think that's what Ryan could have been looking at. It's not like they're being gropey or anything, it barely qualifies as a PDA. Maybe Ryan got a look at his own feet, that would explain the tripping. Z actually thinks his new shoes are awesome, but the color combination could be startling if one had forgotten one was wearing them, maybe.
When they get to the cafe, they're about thirty seconds too late to get the tiny table in the corner where they usually sit, so they end up at a bigger one, Ryan fending off a couple of potential sharers with a glare.
Z's happy to give him that job, he always manages to keep people away from their space, which is why she's so surprised when he looks up at the next two people coming over and says, "Sure, yeah."
It's the couple from the street, and she raises an eyebrow at Ryan who determinedly ignores her.
"Z, this is Tennessee and Spencer," he says, and he's smiling, what the fuck. Who are these people? They do look sort of familiar.
"They're in Chemistry with us," Ryan says, and oh, right, these are the people who prevented Brendon from setting fire to his workstation, and who left with him yesterday. They don't look too horrible, Z supposes. She likes the dress Tennessee is wearing, even if that is a deeply unfortunate name. Who names their child after a state? She makes a mental note to ask Ryan later if he knows why Tennessee's parents are horrible people.
"Hey," Spencer says, and while she's not sure about that shirt, he does have a nice smile.
"Hi," she says, and sneaks another glance at Ryan. He's fiddling with his napkin and his ears are a little red. Seriously, what is this? Does he not like them? But then he wouldn't have asked them to sit down, would never. So he must--oh. She supposes it's possible he likes Tennessee, even if tall and gangly is a departure from his usual type. Or maybe it's Spencer? Either way, this is sort of awkward and possibly really hilarious.
"So, what have you two been up to today?" Ryan says, and blushes again when Z starts grinning.
"Besides kissing on Main Street, he means," she says, smiling to make sure there's no sting in the words. Spencer still looks a bit taken aback, but Tennessee snickers.
"It's all Spencer's fault, I promise," she tells Z, who laughs, delighted.
"Always blame the boyfriend, that's my motto," she says.
Tennessee nods. "It's actually true in this case," she says. "I mean, I admit to being fond of kissing, but usually I like to do it where people can't see us. It just has more potential to be interesting that way!"
"Tenn," Spencer says, in the most scandalized tones Z has heard since Ryan realized she was wearing a romper, and both she and Tennessee look at him. Oh, oh wow, he's really blushing, that's totally adorable.
"What?" Tennessee says. Z knows that innocent tone, it's totally a pretense.
Spencer hesitates, clearly fumbling for the right thing to say here. He looks at Ryan with some sort of helpless entreaty in his eyes; Z could have told him that would be fruitless, Ryan's currently way too discombobulated to be of any help to anyone. Why is he, though? Normally nothing fazes him, not even having an unfortunate crush. This is all very fascinating.
Spencer finally settles on, "Um, I just, like, that stuff is private."
"Considering you're the one who likes to kiss in public, you have no room to be scandalized," Tennessee says sternly, and then she turns to Z. "Hey, you were fantastic, absolutely fantastic, you and your band, we both loved it."
"Yes! Yes we did," Spencer says, clearly relieved to have something else to discuss. "The songs were really great."
"Z writes the songs," Ryan pipes up. Ugh. He always does that.
"Thanks," she says, not knowing where to look. She hates compliments.
"I know you don't like compliments," Ryan says. Best friends are so inconvenient.
"They're fine, I just never know what to say," she mutters, resolving to make Ryan read his poetry out loud somewhere where people can hear him soon and then he'll see how he likes it, won't he.
Spencer grins suddenly, with something like mischief in his eyes. "So did our friend, actually, Brendon. He thought you were great too."
Tennessee starts laughing. "Oh lord, yes he did, he really did."
"You're Brendon's friends?" she asks, and they both nod.
In unison. Couples.
"He's new, right?" she says, and ignores Ryan's pointed look. He's been blushing and quiet for at least ten minutes, he doesn't get to judge. "How's he doing here?"
"He's good," Spencer says. Tennessee is fiddling with her napkin. Z's willing to bet that any good in Brendon's life right now is mostly coming from these two. Not because she thinks they're saints or anything, she just knows their school. She wonders why Brendon transferred.
"Tell him-tell him people suck sometimes," she says, speeding up like she does when she's nervous.
"We will," Tennessee says. "I know what you mean."
"Our fucking school," Spencer says, eyes darkening. "I don't even know what to do."
You show them, she thinks, you show them and then they can't do anything to you that sticks. Ryan touches her arm, and she bumps her elbow against his, their I'm-here-you're-here signal.
"It's good he found you," she says firmly, and hopes they're as nice as Ryan seems to think they are.
"It is," Tennessee agrees, and that's that, it seems. Everyone's done with their respective meals, and they all get up to leave at the same time, leading to some confusion when Ryan is trying to round the table and walks into Spencer. Ryan flails, almost falling over, but Spencer grabs him by the arms and holds him up.
"Thanks," mumbles Ryan, and walks out of the cafe.
Helplessly, Z shrugs at Spencer and Tennessee and hurries to catch up.
"See you at school!" she calls over her shoulder, and sees them both nod.
"Ryan, seriously, what even was that?" she says, getting close to him, but he just shakes his head and keeps walking.
Part Two
"So um, there's this guy," Z says, and Ryan groans into his milk carton.
"I haven't even said anything yet," Z frowns. "I don't even-I don't even know him, really. I just-"
"Wait," Ryan says. "Wait, I know how this one goes." He pulls his hat down over his eyes, and throws his shoulders back, pursing his lips. "He's tall and dark, right? Devastatingly handsome? Rides a motorcycle? Long, flowing hair and deep-soulful eyes?"
"Alex never rode a motorcycle, you know that," Z says. She takes a bite of her sandwich. "I should never have introduced the two of you."
"He wasn't that bad," Ryan admits, letting his shoulders fall back into position. He actually sort of liked Alex Greenwald. More than he liked some of Z's other boyfriends, anyway.
"I wish he hadn't moved freshman year," Z says, sighing. "It was good, you know? The three of us hanging out. I had fun."
"Yeah, I know you had fun," Ryan says, and picks at his salad. He imitates Z's voice, which isn't actually that much higher than his own. "Oh, Ryan, he writes songs. On his guitar. As though you're not twenty times better at it than he is," Ryan continues, dropping back into his normal voice.
"You're sweet," Z says, and ruffles Ryan's hair. "A liar, but you're sweet."
"Hmm," Ryan says, and pushes his hat back into position. "So a new one, huh? I thought you'd sworn off men."
"You know what," Z says. She's peering across the cafeteria with a concerned expression. "Just-just forget I said anything, okay?"
"Okay," Ryan says. He follows Z's line of sight, and grins a little when he sees what she's looking at. The new kid-his name is Brandon, or Bruce, or something-is apologizing profusely to a tall, lanky girl. Her boyfriend, whose name Ryan thinks might be Spencer, is helping what's-his-name clean up the remains of his lunch tray.
Ryan turns to Z and says, "Do you think we should clap? That was an impressive display of grace."
"Don't you dare," Z says. She looks conflicted, as though she's amused but also is holding herself back from saying what she's really thinking. "Brendon's new, Ryan. That's so mean."
"That's half the fun," Ryan says, but he refrains from applause. "That guy is such a klutz," he says, instead. "That's like the second time in a week I've watched him drop something."
"As though you don't walk into walls on a regular basis."
Ryan crosses his arms. "At least I do it with style."
Z rolls her eyes.
-
Elizabeth Berg-Z, to her friends-has been Ryan's best friend since he was six years old. She's funny, and devious, and has an impeccable sense of style, and that is the only reason Ryan isn't currently mocking her mercilessly.
Actually, that's not true. The only thing holding Ryan back is chemistry class: having to keep track of explosive substances can put a damper on anyone's rapier wit, even one as superior as Ryan's. Not that he's going to be deterred for long though, because Z is being absolutely-
"Are you staring at the new kid?" Ryan hisses, and Z's eyes flick over to his a little guiltily. She shakes her head, and focuses on lighting their Bunsen burner. Fine, if she's going to be like that, he's going to have to move on to more pointed needling.
"Z, he's a walking disaster," Ryan stage whispers, eying the back of Brandon-or-Bruce-or-whatever's dark head. He's fiddling with his burner, a confused expression on his face. "He's going to light us all on fire."
"Ryan!" Z says, and drags his cuff away from the flame. Ryan blinks in surprise, and shakes his arm a little. "You're going to light us all on fire," Z says. "I told you. I do all the dangerous parts in this class. You take the notes. We have a system, Ryan. Don't fuck it up."
"I'm not," Ryan protests, and goes back to scribbling notes in his lab notebook. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as the new kid fails, for the sixth time, to light his burner. He looks down and frowns at it, as though it's failing to work on purpose just to spite him.
"I, um," the new kid says, raising his hand and wincing. "Mr. Torres? I can't quite get it to-"
"Brendon, look, like this," the girl from lunch says, leaning over from her lab station. Ryan blinks. He's not sure, but it sounds like she has an English accent. He wonders how he's never noticed that about her before, but the truth is, Ryan and Z don't really talk to anyone else except for Z's bandmates.
Brendon, that's right, that's what his name is, gets his Bunsen burner lit, with the help of the tall girl with the long blonde hair. She waves the teacher over, and after a quick conference, tugs her lab partner over to Brendon's table. As a mid-year transfer, he'd been all alone at his station.
Z rolls up the sleeves of her lab jacket, pulling her bangles off and setting them aside. "Is Lucite flammable?" she wonders out loud, and then shakes her head. "Anyway. Ryan, you ready? I'm going to add the first reagent. Write down the color, and how long it takes to change."
"Yes, ma'am," Ryan says. "Did you also want a pony?"
"Stop being a dick," Z says. "You're extra bitchy today, you know that right?"
Ryan looks at her for a long moment, and then relents. "Rough night," he mutters, and Z's eyes soften.
"You know you can stay with me," Z says. "I told you, anytime."
"It's fine," Ryan says. He shakes himself a little, and then takes his hat off and places it carefully on the desk, away from the flame. Mr. Torres either didn't care that he was wearing it , or had chosen not to comment; Ryan likes his hat, though, and Z has a point about safety. "Ready when you are."
-
Z drops Ryan off after Chemistry, walking him to his last-period English class. Ryan managed not to light either of them, his hat, or the desk on fire, so Z's calling the lab a success.
"I'll miss you terribly," Z says, batting her eyelashes at him as Ryan slows down in front of the classroom door. "One whole hour, how will I ever survive?" Ryan leans over and flicks her on the nose.
"Ow," Z mumbles, rubbing at her face, "Dammit, you know I hate it when you do that."
"Exactly," Ryan says.
She flicks him off as she heads inside, mouthing, "Later," at him when he waves.
Ms. Calloway's Trigonometry class isn't bad, but it's certainly not Z's favorite thing in the world. It's stuck in one of the old, dusty classrooms near the back of the school, and Ms. Calloway never opens the windows and Z barely knows anyone. She usually tries to get there early, so she can steal one of the desks in the back of the room and tuck herself into the corner.
The...currently occupied back corner.
"Hi?" Brendon says hesitantly and Z absolutely doesn't react. Or blush. Or anything. She can keep her cool.
"Brendon, right?" Z says, thunking her purse down on the desk next to him.
"Oh, I-yeah," Brendon says, grinning at her. "How did you know?"
"Lucky guess," Z says. "Listen. You seem like a nice guy, but I just feel like I should warn you-"
"Warn me?"
"Mmmhmm," Z says. She tilts her head a little, and bats her eyelashes at him, just once. "You're sitting in my chair. So, you know."
"Oh, oh shit," Brendon says, his eyes widening. "I didn't-I'm so sorry. They just transferred me into this class, something about the other one being the wrong class for the transfer credit, I didn't realize-"
Z rolls her eyes, pushing Brendon's hand away from where he's hurriedly gathering his things. "Sit." Z says firmly. "It's fine, for now. Just, you know. Maybe not tomorrow, okay?"
"Sure, of course," Brendon says. "I'm really sorry."
"Mmm," Z says. She pulls her notebook out of her purse, rummaging in the bottom for a pen. Her compact mirror falls out as she's rustling around, and when she picks it up she snaps it open, giving herself a critical look. When no one's looking, she winks at herself and then sticks her tongue out.
"I totally do that," Brendon says softly, as Ms. Calloway's asking everyone to pull out their homework. He's smiling a little.
"Do what?" Z says, playing dumb.
"Make faces at myself," Brendon whispers back. He's tapping the base of his palm on the table, a quick, uncertain beat. "Did you know if you hold your breath long enough, you can make your cheeks inflate? Like, really."
"Wait, what?" Z whispers, grinning. She and Ryan have an ongoing contest to see who can take the most horribly unattractive phone picture; that sounds like a winning strategy.
"Totally," Brendon says, "You just hold your breath, right, for like a minute, and then you-"
"Young man, are you supposed to be in this class?" Ms. Calloway says, confused. Z and Brendon whip their heads up; she's standing next to their desks, pen in hand to check off their homework.
"Oh, sorry, sorry," Brendon mumbles. "I have a slip-I'm a transfer-" He digs around in his backpack until he comes up with a crumpled piece of paper, which he smooths out on the desk and then hands to her.
Ms. Calloway examines the slip, and then tucks it into the top folder in her hand with a sigh. "I'll have to talk to the head of the department," she says, giving both of them a tired look. "Normally we wouldn't be able to transfer your grades over, but. I guess for now-Ms. Berg, would you mind letting Mr. Urie use your notes and textbook? We'll have to order some extras."
Z blinks. "I, um. Sure, I guess?"
"Good," Ms. Calloway, sounding like it's anything but. "Now. The homework assignment?"
"Oh," Z says, flipping her binder open. "Right here. Yeah."
"Thank you," Ms. Calloway nods at Z's homework, checking something off in her gradebook, and moves down the row.
"Is she always like that?" Brendon whispers, looking over his shoulder to make sure Ms. Calloway is out of range. "She's kind of... cranky."
"Pretty much," Z says, pushing her textbook between them so Brendon can see. "Shh, I think she's starting the new chapter."
"Right," Brendon says. "Totally shushing."
-
The thing about Trigonometry class is that Z actually has to pay attention in order to avoid failing. She's okay at math (better than Ryan, though not by much), but it definitely doesn't come naturally to her.
Z sighs and kicks Brendon under the table.
"Ow," Brendon says. "What was that for?"
"Stop jiggling your leg," Z whispers. "You're making the table shake."
"Sorry," Brendon says. He stops for a moment, and Z tries to concentrate on following the proof that Ms. Calloway is outlining on the board. Then he starts up again with the opposite leg. Z huffs her bangs out of her eyes, and then very carefully presses the heel of her shoe into Brendon's left foot.
"Can I ask you something?" Brendon says softly.
"Sure," Z says. "Unless you're about to ask me to take my foot away."
"That would be nice," Brendon says.
"Tough luck," Z says.
"No, seriously," Brendon says, after a moment where Z can feel his muscles straining to move. "I actually had a question, sorry-"
Z looks pleadingly at the ceiling, and then gives up on paying attention. If she's really desperate, maybe she can ask Ryan for his notes. Maybe. (Probably not; Ryan's notes from Mr. Durkheim's section are usually a mess, because Mr. Durkheim can't explain linearly and Ryan can't take legible notes.) "Okay," Z says, bending her head closer. "What's the question?"
"They said they're having a talent show," Brendon says quietly. "Like, this weekend or something. Is that like-is that cool here?"
"Uh," Z says. "What?"
"At my old school," Brendon says, by way of explanation. "Some places, you know, it's not a big deal? People go, and whatever. And then some schools, like my old one, it's like, the kiss of death. I figured, you're cool, you could probably fill me in."
Z blinks, and decides to ignore the fact that Brendon just called her cool. He's new around here. It doesn't really count. "Oh," Z says. "Oh, no, I mean-yeah. It's not a big deal. People definitely go. My band's playing."
"You have a band?" Brendon breathes, his eyes lighting up.
"Ms. Berg," Ms. Calloway says firmly. "Less chatter, please."
"Sorry," Z says. She turns back to her notes, only to watch as Brendon carefully pencils a note onto the top corner of her paper.
what kind of music?
Z thinks about it for a moment, and then writes, all-girl band. retro. good stuff.
what do you play?
singer. lead guitar. Z glances over at Brendon, who is attempting to catch up with the example on the board. She bites her lip and then adds, lyrics.
do you have a myspace?
Z snorts. She pencils back in, wouldn't you like to know?
oh, come on.
come to the talent show, if you really want to hear us.
i do, Brendon writes. He looks at Z for a minute, and then writes, one more question?
okay
what's your name?
Z grins to herself, just a little.
Elizabeth, she writes back, not even caring about how messy her notes are going to look. Call me Z.
-
Z is actually scared shitless about the talent show.
It's not like they haven't played live before, but they're missing a drummer now and this isn't, this isn't the open mic nights where people don't care if there's a nasty rumor going around about you from last weekend, and where the fact that you don't have any fucking friends outside your band and your goofball of a best friend won't actually make people condemn your music before you start to sing.
It's possible the aforementioned nervousness is the reason she snaps at Annie. She feels bad immediately when Annie blinks at her, looking a little hurt and a lot confused. Z really has to learn to remember that not everyone can distinguish between her being nervous and her being legitimately angry.
"Shit, sorry," Z says, reaching out and touching Annie's shoulder. "I'm just, you know."
"I do know," Annie says. "It's not as if I don't go to our school." She's picking at the hem of her dress. Z sighs.
"No, true. I just, the songs." It's the thought of playing them in public when she's scared of what the students watching them will read into the lyrics (who knows what the fuckheads in her grade will think about "Release Me"). And there's also the risk of teachers. Teachers trying to interpret creative works of students are always-Z's gotten sent to the counselor more than once by concerned English teachers, as has Ryan, and it always sucks.
Mostly it's the other students, though.
Laena hums behind them and plucks at her bass. It's a shitty one; her electric's okay, it's newer, but they're saving up to get her an acoustic one that doesn't need to be retuned after an hour's use.
"We're all nervous," she says mildly. "But at least we can run through the songs again."
"Okay, yeah." Z shakes her head and picks up her guitar. They usually warm up with some acoustic stuff; Z knows they should be more conscientious about actual warmups (especially her, what with having to sing), but they're just so boring. She can sing scales, sure, but when she's in their practice room she'd much rather sing for real, sing and dance around with the guitar and-well. Warmups are boring. Basically.
She counts them in, Annie turning on the drum machine in her keyboard (which fucking kills Z every time, okay, because drums on a keyboard are not the same), and then they're off.
It's an okay practice, all things considered. The drum machine keeps fucking them over though; it's not just how tinny it sounds, it's that there's no stretch in the songs this way, no way to push and pull. In the middle of "Wishing He Was Dead" she has to turn around to prevent herself from yelling into the microphone in sheer irritation when it just does. Not. Work.
"We need a drummer," Laena says tiredly, after the last note dies away.
Abruptly, it's like the air goes out of Z's lungs. "We do," she agrees. "Fuck, guys, what if it'll all fall flat without one?"
"We've done it before," Annie reminds them both. Z thinks-a little meanly-that Annie's more used to the drum machine than they are because she's a keyboardist. Maybe she doesn't even mind how it sounds. Except she knows that's ridiculous, fuck. Fuck.
"Well, we don't have a drummer," she says, "so it doesn't really matter that it fucking blows to be playing without one."
"We could try holding auditions again?" Laena says halfheartedly, but both Annie and Z shake their heads at her.
"Remember last time?" Annie's frowning when she says it, looking down at her keyboard. Laena looks confused.
"The fucking wrestling team showed up," Z bites off, and of course Laena knows this story, they've told her before. They'd spent three hours cleaning up after.
Laena shakes her head. "Let's do the song one more time, then," she says, and Z counts them in.
It's marginally better this time. Marginally.
-
Afterwards, Z manages to not run through all their respective fuck-ups in great detail out loud and offers to make smoothies instead, an offer Laena vetoes because Z is actually a disaster in the kitchen.
"How about you let the professionals handle this one, huh?" she says, but the way she grins while saying it makes it not sting at all. Z likes Laena, she thinks. She hasn't known her for that long, she doesn't go to Z and Ryan's school, but the past month and a half of getting used to each others' style has been like coming home. She owes Annie big time for finding her, Z knows that.
Annie, oh man. She grabs her smoothie and plops down on the couch with none of the easy grace she has behind the piano-she's pretty tall, right, and it's like she hasn't grown into it yet or something. She jokes about it: "Annie Monroe, tripping over her own feet again, courtesy of the dark curse in locker room 39," but Z knows she's a bit embarrassed by her height, and by how clumsy she became when she started growing.
Speaking of clumsy. "Hey, how's your knee?" The other day, Annie tripped on her way home from school while on the phone with Z, and hung up after saying something about Starbucks and Laena, so Z cleverly deduced that Annie was close to Laena's work and would go there to get patched up.
Annie shrugs. "It's fine, nothing a band-aid didn't take care of. Laena had Smurf band-aids and gave me some so I didn't have to bleed through my jeans."
"Smurfs?" Z snickers a little, but Annie beams and pulls up her pants leg. Sure enough, there are Smurfs on her band-aid.
"I like them," Laena says, a little defensively.
"I do too," Annie says. "It'll heal much faster, I'm sure of it. Power of Blue and everything."
Gosh, they're adorable. Z's band, seriously. She doesn't really know how to interact with them when they're not talking about music, but at least they're nice. They're also really good, thank fuck, or she would be bailing on this talent show idiocy so hard.
-
She remembers why she wanted to do the talent show (to show them) when she rounds a corner after Trigonometry the next day; she'd stayed late talking to Brendon and is consequently rushing to make her last class on time. It means she's missed her customary rendez-vous with Ryan at the bottom of the East staircase, and when she gets there, he's backed into the railing by that asshole who wrecked their practice room, fuck, she's forgotten his name but it's not like he matters, what he's saying to Ryan matters, him and his little cohorts, goddammit, this is why they never go anywhere alone if they can help it-
Without even thinking about it, she slams through them and ends up at Ryan's side, chin up and fists clenched.
"Fuck off," Steve, that's his name, "Steve," she says pleasantly. "Fuck off, and take your inbred loser asshole friends with you."
The moron grins. "Aww, his girlfriend is defending him, how sweet." There are a couple of catcalls from one or two of the other assholes. Faggot, queers, slut, nothing they haven't heard before.
Ryan shifts next to her. "You really ought to pick your slurs," he drawls. "If I'm a faggot, she can't be my girlfriend, can she?"
Steve has to think really hard about that one, but one of his friends come to his rescue. "Oh, but she's such a slut, she'd sleep with anything, even with you-" and Z has to hit him for that one, but he dodges and she misses, and then there's a familiar voice cutting through the crowd, thank fuck, shit.
"Gentlemen, why don't you break it up? I'm sure you're late for-whatever it is you're taking these days, I can't say I really care-and you ought to get to it, don't you?" Mr. Cleary, their ancient Physics teacher is picking his way through the crowd, followed by the Girl Most Likely To Be This Year's Valedictorian, but Z can't remember her name. She nods at them both as she passes, and Mr. Cleary thanks her for letting him know about the disturbance, and Z's just-she's just done. She can't depend on fucking Good Samaritan Valedictorians to save her. To keep Ryan safe.
"Come on," she tells Ryan. "We have class." Shoulder to shoulder, they walk through the halls. Like they always do. They're safer together, after all. And she's going to do the fucking talent show because, because-not that it'll make them understand, but because she wants to be all that she is, just for a little while, where they can see it and they can hate her for it because they're never going to be that good.
Of course, this means the songs have to be perfect by then.
-
It's Friday afternoon and Z is perhaps a little stressed out, Ryan thinks. Perhaps. Just maybe.
"Ryan Ross," Z hisses, hoisting her guitar case over her shoulder, "I swear to god, if you drop that-"
"It's fine," Ryan mutters, tightening his arms around the amp. He loves Z, he really does, and he understands why she's so obsessive about her equipment, but the fact remains that Ryan has carried it for her at every single show and only dropped it, like, twice. He's practically blameless.
"Give that to Annie," Z says, frowning. "You can carry my mic stand." Ryan rolls his eyes and heads inside, grimacing a little as he misjudges the size of the doorframe and bangs his elbow. "Ow," Ryan says, slightly petulant. "That hurt." The hallway doesn't respond.
The school has its own sound system and speakers, but Z's picky about her set-up, and Ryan doesn't blame her. He shimmies through the double-doors of the theater backwards, and then lugs the amp to the bottom of the stage. Z's already double-checking wires and testing her pedals. They're going on first, so their equipment can be cleared before the drama kids in the second act need the full run of the stage.
"Shit," Z mutters, twisting a knob on her pedal with a frown. "Shit, I don't have time for this-"
"Z. Z," Ryan says, patiently, and continues to repeat himself until she looks up. "Elizabeth."
"What?" Z snaps. Underneath the irritability, Ryan can see how scared she is.
"I'm only going to say this once," Ryan says. He's standing on the lip in the orchestra pit, and Z's kneeling, so they're exactly eye-to-eye. "You're going to be awesome, stop freaking out, let Laena worry about the pedals, and go drink some water."
"I-what?" Z says, her face softening.
"Also, you forgot your purse in the car," Ryan says.
"Wow, I was just starting to like you," Z mutters, but she's smiling a little. "Go get it, dipshit. Get out of here before you break something."
"I have the same guitar pedal," Ryan points out, but he pockets the keys Z tosses to him and heads back out to the car to move it to the front parking lot.
There's already a fair amount of people milling around the front of the building, parents and kids and even a few people from the local paper. Ryan pulls into a spot way down at the end, grabs Z's purse, and ducks his head as he walks quickly to the door. He really doesn't feel like talking to anyone. His strategy is totally working, until he hears footsteps behind him and a hand on his arm.
"Um, hey," a voice says, nervously, and Ryan spins around. It's that weird kid Brendon again, the one Z had told him not to make fun of, the one she'd stared at in Chemistry because-whatever. Ryan stares at Brendon for a moment, trying to figure out how to respond, and then he gives up, going for his default of hauteur and says, "Do I know you?"
"Uh, not really," Brendon says. He's bouncing a little on the soles of his sneakers. His t-shirt is a faded yellow; it says Lake Missamee Bible Day Camp across the front.
Ryan raises an eyebrow. "Okay," he says. "Uh. In that case-" He starts turning away. Seriously, why is this kid even talking to him?
"Wait," Brendon says. "Wait, okay, you're friends with Z, right?"
Oh. That's why. "Maybe," Ryan says, noncommittal.
"I just," Brendon says. "Tell her I said good luck, okay? It's-my name's Brendon. Tell her Brendon said to break a leg."
"Right," Ryan says. He's not sure what to do with someone who seems so earnest; he's trying to figure out whether Brendon has an ulterior motive, but he really does just sound like he wants to wish Z good luck. Which, wait. Clearly the two of them have talked, and why hasn't Z told Ryan about that? Huh.
"Thanks," Brendon says, and shoves his hands in his pockets. Ryan nods, still trying to figure out when Brendon and Z got acquainted, and turns to head back inside. They're starting to set up the ticket booth, so Ryan waits until Ms. Calloway's back is turned and then sneaks through the doors. He's totally with the band, okay.
He finds Z and Laena and Annie in the wings, sitting on a dusty box of god-knows-what. Z's drinking from a bottle of water and tapping her heels impatiently.
"Finally," Z says, and holds out a hand for her purse.
"Sorry," Ryan says. "I got held up by your fan club."
"I just, I just want to get this over with," Z says, rubbing distractedly at her temple. "God, I hope we stay on tempo, we-wait, what?"
"Some kid named Brendon," Ryan says, sitting down cross-legged on the floor. "You know, the weird one that I'm not allowed to make fun of? He told me to tell you good luck." He's watching Z carefully for a reaction-ha. Her eyes totally widen a bit and she's smiling.
Laena snorts. "Yeah, okay," she says. "Z, I think what he means is 'Hi, let's have sex.'"
"That is not what he means," Z says. She's blushing, just a little. Ryan ruthlessly clamps down on his internal snickering, because he's a good friend and won't mock his best friend right before she goes on stage. "Brendon's just nice."
... maybe he'll do some mocking. Come on, how could you not respond to that?
"Yeah, he probably doesn't want to sleep with you," Ryan agrees casually. "His t-shirt said something about bible camp. Oh, hey," Ryan says, poking Z in the knee and giving Z an earnest, wide-eyed look. "Maybe you guys can hold hands and talk about Jesus!"
Z gives him a dark look. "You're not as funny as you think you are," she says.
"No, I definitely am," Ryan says. There's a commotion somewhere behind him, and then the voice of the stage manager informing everyone that the show is starting in twenty. Ryan stands up, brushing himself off. He bends over and kisses Z on the cheek, and Z leans into him for a moment. Her false eyelashes brush his cheekbones. "So awesome," Ryan says, quieter, and Z smiles at him. Then she sticks her tongue out. "Get out," she says, making a shooing motion. "Performers only, you freeloader."
"See if I help you load up," Ryan says. He catches a few of the stagehands staring at them, but he shrugs it off. Everyone thinks he and Z are dating, and at one point, Ryan knows there was a rumor that they were actually brother and sister caught in an incestuous love affair. It would probably be easier if they were dating, to be honest. It's hard to explain their relationship to other people, so most of the time they don't even try.
Ryan sneaks into the crowd and finds a seat by the left side of the stage, close to the front but not so close he'll end up deaf. He waits as the MC introduces the show from the orchestra pit; he can see Z and Laena and Annie up there, shadowed and standing very still. There's a tense moment where the stagehand doesn't get the spotlight quite right, but then all of a sudden the stage lights up all at once and Z's strumming the intro to "He's Not a Boy" and Ryan can feel a grin break out on his face. There's an excited murmur from the crowd when they break into the chorus, and Z's smiling coyly and shaking her hips, and it's just. It's awesome. Ryan suppresses the completely uncharacteristic urge to cheer.
"Release Me" is a little shakier; the drum machine's a little off, and so are Annie's handclaps. The crowd falters for a moment, and then the song ends with a screech of feedback. People are turning to each other and whispering and Ryan shakes his head in frustration. Z's just too damn cool for Summerlin; they'll never understand.
They get the feedback under control and Z shrugs, leaning into the microphone. "Hey," she says, her throaty voice ringing out in the quiet. "Thanks guys. We're The Like, and this last one's called 'Wishing You Were Dead.'" Ryan snorts. Subtle, Z.
They get a reasonable amount of applause after they've finished. Laena and Annie lean into their microphones and thank the organizers for letting them play; the curtains sweep closed.
Ryan settles back into his chair to suffer through the rest of the acts.
-
After the show is over, Ryan's standing in the hallway, winding the cable as slowly as he possibly can. It's not that he enjoys eavesdropping, which-okay, that's a lie, Ryan totally enjoys eavesdropping. The point is, this is priceless and Ryan needs an excuse to continue watching Brendon-the-Jesus-Kid flail all over Z's every move.
"Seriously," Brendon says, leaning over to where Z is carefully packing her guitar away in its case. "That was-holy shit, Z. Do you guys have any more songs? You were amazing."
"Yes," Z says, and pretends to take extra care removing her guitar strap and winding it up before tucking it in the case. "A few more, yeah."
"Do you guys have a demo?" Brendon presses, "You should-I'm telling you, you could be famous! I mean-I thought it would be good, you know, I'm not trying to say that I didn't think that-"
"Right," Z says. Brendon's talking a mile a minute. She looks like she's trying desperately to keep a straight face.
"-but seriously, your lyrics, and that bass line on the third one, and your voice-did you take voice lessons? You did, right?" Ryan snickers to himself. He looks around, and then drops the cable. It tangles when it hits the floor. "Ooops," Ryan says, over-loud. "Oh well."
"I didn't-no," Z says. She clicks the locks on her guitar case, and then stands it up against the wall. There's people milling around in the corridor, even though it's been marked as "backstage." "I just, uh, sing." She's looking at Brendon with a confused expression. "Do you think I should?"
"No," Brendon says. "I mean-yes, everyone can use some help with technique, but I don't even think you need it, you were perfect the whole time up there-"
"Brendon?" someone says, right next to Ryan's ear. He jumps, and turns to face them. It's the tall girl, and her boyfriend, the one with the strange name and possibly an English accent.
Brendon ignores her, still chattering away at Z, who moves to grab her guitar and a mic stand, and Brendon leans over and picks up the amp, like he's going to follow her out to the car. Ryan holds his breath. There is no way Z's going to let him do that. Is she? Behind them Ryan sees Laena and Annie, heads close together, hands touching slightly.
"Uh, Brendon?" the guy next to Ryan says uselessly.
"Oh, hey guys," Brendon says, turning to give them a quick flash of a smile and then turning back to Z just as quickly. "Anyway-I'm telling you, it's like a suspended G chord, I really think-"
"Oh my god," Ryan says, without considering who is listening. Z's walking off, smiling to herself, and Brendon's following her, carrying the amp. Ryan can't believe it. Z doesn't let anyone but Laena or him (and only very grudgingly, with him) touch her equipment. "She's never-this is bizarre."
The girl standing next to Ryan leans in, giving him a conspiratorial look. "I suspect we've been abandoned," she says. She looks like she's trying not to laugh. "Shall we follow them out?"
"I-okay," Ryan says, blinking a little. He pauses, because they seem so familiar; he can't remember that last time someone at school just came up to him and started a conversation. He knows he's seen them around, but this girl is treating him like they've been friends for years. "Have we met?"
"I'm Tennessee," the girl says. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles. "And this is Spencer, we're in your Chemistry class and you're Ryan Ross, and hurry, we're missing the show." She takes off down the hallway, and Spencer turns to Ryan and shrugs. "When the lady commands..." he says, smiling a little at Ryan.
"Right," Ryan says uselessly. He's never seen Spencer up close before. He has really pretty eyes. And a nice smile, and-
And a really pretty girlfriend, hello.
Ryan shakes his head. "We should," he says, and starts walking, cable still clutched in his hand. Spencer nods, shoving his hands into his pockets and falling into step besides Ryan.
"So," Spencer says, when they're almost to the door that leads out. "That was really good. Z's band, I mean."
"Of course they were," Ryan says automatically. "What, you thought they would suck?"
"Uh," Spencer says. "No? I just meant, it wasn't just good for a high school talent show. They've got some serious talent going on there. They should start putting together a demo."
Ryan nods, his ruffled feathers slightly soothed. "They should," Ryan says. "They want to. But they need to find a drummer."
"Really?" Spencer says, pushing open the door. "Because-"
"Gentlemen," Tennessee says, poking her head through the opening. "Follow me. No loud noises or sudden movements, please."
Ryan raises an eyebrow. "What, are we stalking the wild Brendon in his natural habitat?"
"Exactly," Tennessee says, and grabs Ryan's hand, pulling him through the opening. Ryan swallows. Tennessee's nails, he notices, are short and carefully trimmed. She has long fingers, smudged with dirt. Ryan wonders how that happened.
They end up behind the dumpsters. Ryan winces a little as he kneels down. He really likes these pants, and god knows what's back here. "This is stupid," Ryan whispers. "There's no way she didn't see us. Z is never going to let me live this down."
"Actually, no." Tennessee says. "This is quite fascinating. Look at that body language." She's peering around the side of the dumpster to where Brendon and Z are standing next to Z's car.
"Let me see," Ryan says, immediately. Tennessee nods, and pulls him in. She smells really good, and Ryan breathes in deep before he realizes that's kind of creepy.
"Wow," Ryan says, eventually, after watching Brendon and Z for a minute or two. "Wow."
"That's some pretty epic hip-tilting," Spencer agrees. "I'm pretty sure he just drew a heart in the dirt with his toe. By accident."
"It's a very malformed heart, but I think you're right," Tennessee says, grinning. "Aren't they adorable?"
"Like a pair of kittens," Ryan says. After considering them for a little bit, seeing all the things Z is biting back in the set of her shoulders and the way she's smiling every time Ryan catches a look at her face, he adds, "Who obviously can't communicate very well. They look like they should be holding hands and having smoothies and yet they're probably still talking about that suspended G chord."
"Oh dear," Tennessee murmurs.
"Brendon's been talking about how Z is out of his league for days," Spencer says morosely.
Ryan chews on his lip a little bit. "Maybe," he says. After all, Z is. He might be nice and all, and Z might be currently smiling at him, but still. Definitely way below her usual standards. He doesn't know how to explain how fucking bizarre this is.
Tennessee elbows Spencer in the side. "Did you see that?" she says. "Brendon just-"
Spencer groans. "He's practically glowing, Jesus. This is going to-"
"Backfire?" Ryan says, before he can think better of it. Both of them turn to look at him. He shrugs. "What?" Ryan says. "We were all thinking it."
"I was hoping it wouldn't," Tennessee says, softly. "He's really into her."
"Hmm," Ryan says. He squints at the scene in front of them again. Communication-impaired kittens, Ryan thinks, watching Brendon shove his hands in his pockets and grin widely at Z, still talking a mile a minute. Z has that smile on her face, the one where she's trying really hard not to bust out with a huge, dorky laugh. "It might work," he says reluctantly. It's been a long time since he's seen Z look like that. It doesn't mean he's not going to mock her relentlessly once they get in the car, but it can't hurt to give her new paramour's friends some ammunition. Ammunition of looove, Ryan thinks, smirking, and then shakes his head. "She's-he's not her usual type at all, but yeah."
"Hm," Tennessee says, looking interested. "Then I'm certain something can be done. But now I think it is time to go home, right, Spencer?"
Spencer checks his phone. "Ah, shit, yes." With that, they both walk out from behind the dumpster, Tennessee turning to smile at Ryan over her shoulder. Ryan stares after them for a moment, wondering if he's just screwed up royally. Did he tell them too much? Will they hurt Z with what he gave them? Ryan hates not knowing the consequences of his actions. Spencer winks at Ryan as they herd Brendon away, but Ryan still waits until they're out of view before sauntering out.
"What's the verdict?" he says.
"What?" Z says. She's watching Brendon walk off with Spencer and Tennessee.
"Your fan club from Bible Camp," Ryan says. "Did he like the show?"
"Oh-yes, yes he did," she says, smiling a little. "Brendon's nice."
"Mmmm," Ryan says. "Totally nice."
They get into Z's car, Z slapping him away when he tries to load the amp into the trunk. When they've sat down, Ryan turns to her. "By the way, this is me not mentioning the fact that you let him carry your shit." He pauses. "Nah, scratch that. Elizabeth Berg, since when do you let boys carry your equipment? Boys that aren't me, I mean, and yeah, I did notice the way you didn't yell at him at all, I feel so loved-"
"Shut up," she says, starting her car.
"I mean, is it just that you've never met anyone manly enough to trust before? Because sure, I can see it, those red glasses and those hips-"
Z rummages around in the back seat and ends up with a paper bag and an empty soda can. She pauses, considering, and then throws both of them at Ryan's head.
"Ow," Ryan mutters, slapping her on the shoulder. "That hurt, fucker."
"It was just a taste," Z says, turning to look over her shoulder as she pulls out of their parking space. "Just a taste of the world of pain you're in for, if you don't learn your lesson and shut up." She tries to inject some steel into her tone, but she just ends up sounding breathless.
"It's been twelve years," Ryan says, reaching down to rescue the abused soda can from Z's front seat. He tosses it in the back and then looks over at Z. "I haven't learned yet."
"I know," Z murmurs, shaking her head. She looks like she's trying hard not to laugh. "God help me, Ryan Ross, I know."
-
"He's really nice," Spencer says thoughtfully, staring out through the windshield into the empty parking lot where they pulled in after dropping Brendon off. "They're both really nice. I don't get it."
"People are stupid," Tennessee says firmly. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line. "You know that."
"Yeah," Spencer says, shaking his head slightly to clear it. He knows it as well as anyone else, but it just seems-sad, somehow. He knows Ryan and Z stay out of everyone's way for a reason. It's still kind of astonishing that Ryan had spoken to them at all, but Spencer's pretty sure Tennessee had just shocked him into submission. She does that to people.
"We should talk about this later," Tennessee says thoughtfully. "Because. Well. I feel I should point out that we don't have curfew tonight because of the show, and, I don't know if you noticed, but I'm wearing a skirt."
"Huh?" Spencer says, turning to face her.
"A skirt," Tennessee says, biting her lip and smiling a little and oh, Spencer knows that smile. "I'm wearing one."
"That you are," Spencer says, feeling himself start to smile back. "It's a nice skirt."
"I thought so," Tennessee says, climbing carefully over the center console and settling herself on Spencer's lap. "I'm also not wearing any underwear."
"Oh," Spencer says faintly, sliding his hand up her thigh. "Wow. Okay. Yes. Yes you aren't."
Tennessee hums happily into his mouth when he moves his hand higher. He can't help but think of her sitting next to him at the show, not letting on for a second that she wasn't wearing anything under her skirt; fuck, he could have slid his hand up her leg then, when the lights were turned down for the first act, and maybe she would have parted her legs a little and he could have touched-
He bites down on her lip at that, because shit, shit. She grins like she knows what he's thinking. She needs to stop that. She also really needs to stop using his thing for public sex against him.
"You really need to stop using my thing for, um, you know, against me," he mumbles, kissing along the line of her jaw.
"Oh, your thing for public sex?" she says airily, spreading her legs a little more. Fuck, she's wet.
"Shouldn't that be 'our thing'?" he asks, skirting his thumb over her clit and shivering when she moans.
"I don't, I'm not certain that is entirely fair," she says breathlessly, squirming into his hands. "I have a thing for you and I'm fond of this car, but I wouldn't, ah, I wouldn't say I have a thing for public sex, not precisely."
He means to respond to that, but she picks that moment to squirm around some more, get his pants open, and then put her hands on him, and there just aren't any words that can-"Tenn," he says, hips jerking. "Fuck, I-"
"That was the general idea, yes," and she sounds even more breathless now. Oh. Oh.
"You want me to, oh, fuck."
"I do, as a matter of fact," she says, which, she's seriously too coherent right now. He'd try to change that but he can't really think because, shit, the way she's touching him.
His breath catches when she adds a twist and Spencer honestly thinks he could probably come in about 1.5 seconds without much of an effort, so he manages to get his free hand up to halt hers. "I can't, I'm going to, I'll come if you, pretty much if you do anything, at this point."
"Sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all, but she does move her hands, so she must be serious about wanting, like.
"What even am I going to do with you," he says, which makes no sense, but she seems to get it because she smiles softly and he can take advantage of her slowing down to lean in and mouth at her cloth-covered breast.
"Ah," she says, a hand coming up to clench in his hair, "Ah, oh, yes, keep doing that-"
He grins internally and scrapes his teeth over her nipple.
"Shit, Spencer," she says, pulling harder at his hair, and he has to take a moment to breathe because that, yes. Fuck.
"We should," he says, "if you're, we should, because I can't-" He manages to slip two fingers back, just to see, and she opens like, like, fuck, they really have to do this now or he's not going to be able to hold on at all. He probably won't anyway, but wow.
She's nodding even before he finishes speaking. "Yes, yes we should, yes."
Dealing with the condom is as hilarious as always-Tennessee overbalances at one point and hits her elbow on the window of the car, and Spencer can't move much to help because then he'll knock her into the steering wheel. At one point they're giggling pretty hard, mouths close together, but then, when they've figured it out and she's sliding down on him-
"I can't, Tenn, fuck," he says, whispers really, and he has to strain to keep his eyes open because he wants to keep watching her like this, arching into his hands.
"I know," she says, bending down to kiss him and shuddering when he moves, "I know, Spencer, I know."
"Love you," he murmurs into her mouth.
"I know that as well," she manages, and then she's tightening around him, pressing his hand tighter against her clit, and he comes when she does, tumbling over the edge and buring his face in her hair.
They're fairly quiet, after. He's stroking her hair and thinking about how he sort of never wants to let her go when she twists around and looks at him. "Let's go into town on Saturday," she says. "I want to see if that book I ordered came in."
"The new edition of The Drummer's Bible?" Spencer wants to look at that as well, but-"Can we go look at shoes, too?"
She snickers. "Yes, Spencer Smith, we can go and look at shoes."
-
Saturday dawns bright and too fucking early for Z's taste. She opens her eyes and then rolls over, smooshing her face into her pillow. She checks her cell phone-9:36 am, sweet-and is thinking pleased, glorious thoughts about going back to sleep when Ryan opens her door.
"Fuck off," Z says, as soon as she's identified his long silhouette. She pulls the covers up over her head, and for a moment, her world is blessedly warm and dark and quiet. Then Ryan sits on her and ruins everything.
"Get up," Ryan says, poking and wigging his fingers under the covers until Z has to tug them away so she can breathe through the giggles. "We're going shopping. You said so."
"I said maybe," Z complains, trying to kick her knees up and shake Ryan off. He may be skinny, but he's also persistent, and capable of clinging doggedly when he doesn't want to be moved. "Any plans made on a Saturday that involve the word 'maybe' never happens before noon."
"I took Dad's car," Ryan says, holding up his hand so Z can see the keys swinging from his forefinger. "Come on. Let's go to the diner and have Roberta make us breakfast."
"Ungffh," Z says, still cranky. Her stomach growls. "Wait, did you say breakfast?"
"Fake bacon," Ryan says, backing away slowly as Z sits up. He's grinning at her widely and drawing a finger down his cheek, which must mean her eye makeup is all smudged again. Z really needs to remember to take that shit off before she goes to sleep. "Lots of fake bacon and pancakes and hot coffee. Also, you look like an evil panda."
"Do not," Z says, yawning. "Raccoon, maybe."
"Evil raccoon," Ryan says. "Actually, yeah. Raccoons are totally evil."
"I don't understand you," Z says, pushing the covers back and sliding her legs out. She's just wearing an old t-shirt and underwear, but-well, it's Ryan. She knows he doesn't care.
"I don't understand evil raccoons," Ryan says. "Seriously, hurry up, I'm starving. Get dressed."
"Yeah, yeah," Z mutters, scrabbling around on her floor for something that looks interesting. It's a red kind of day, she thinks, glancing out the window. Red and maybe blue, and-oh, hey, there are those light-blue platforms.
"No platforms," Ryan says, without looking up. He's texting someone on his phone, which is weird enough that Z pauses for a moment. "We're going to be walking all day. No platforms."
"I always wear platforms," Z says, frowning at the pair in her hand. "Where have you been for the last six years? I'm good at walking in them. Style is everything, Ryan."
"I'm not saying don't wear them ever," Ryan says, flipping his phone shut and tucking it into his pocket. "I just think-no, see, those shoes totally go better." He pokes a pair out of an enormous pile with his toe.
"Hmmm," Z says, peering down at her t-strap mary janes. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Ryan says. "Plus, you clomp in those other ones. It interferes with my shopping zen."
"Ooooh," Z says, enlightened. That makes sense. The Shopping Zen is not to be fucked with. "Why didn't you tell me? I totally get that."
Ryan shrugs, looking away. "You ready? I'm starving."
--
"Come on, Z," Ryan says. "let's go." Z fingers the soft wool of the hat she's holding one more time, and then places it regretfully back on the shelf. Ryan's whining again, so it must mean it's time for lunch. It never fails-Ryan's metabolism runs like clockwork, and he has to eat every three hours or he gets cranky. It would be sweet, if it wasn't so damn annoying. Z's still pretty full from breakfast, but Ryan has hollow legs. "Technically we do have all day," Z says airily, trying to get a rise out of him.
"You know what I mean," Ryan says, glaring at her. He's rapidly progressed to sulking; if Z didn't know just how bad it can get, she'd consider dragging this out a little longer. She might be a bad person for it, but making Ryan Ross lose his trademark cool will never not be funny.
"Fine, fine, let's go eat," she says, paying for the scarf she found that will work perfectly with the new dress Laena bought the other day. Ryan needles them about their tendency to coordinate their outfits a little, but Z stopped listening to Ryan's style advice years ago, even before he decided paisley was the new black, which, no. Black is always the new black, and Ryan's wrong about their stage clothes. It works for them, makes them look aloof and effortlessly cool, especially now that Annie's learned not to trip over every wire up there.
They decide on The Green Cauldron. On their way down Main Street, Ryan stumbles, which sometimes happens, but he also blushes, which he almost never does.
"You okay?" she asks with some consternation, and he just shakes his head and keeps walking. Z cranes her neck around to look and see what could have caused the reaction, but all she sees is some guy kissing his girlfriend, and she doesn't think that's what Ryan could have been looking at. It's not like they're being gropey or anything, it barely qualifies as a PDA. Maybe Ryan got a look at his own feet, that would explain the tripping. Z actually thinks his new shoes are awesome, but the color combination could be startling if one had forgotten one was wearing them, maybe.
When they get to the cafe, they're about thirty seconds too late to get the tiny table in the corner where they usually sit, so they end up at a bigger one, Ryan fending off a couple of potential sharers with a glare.
Z's happy to give him that job, he always manages to keep people away from their space, which is why she's so surprised when he looks up at the next two people coming over and says, "Sure, yeah."
It's the couple from the street, and she raises an eyebrow at Ryan who determinedly ignores her.
"Z, this is Tennessee and Spencer," he says, and he's smiling, what the fuck. Who are these people? They do look sort of familiar.
"They're in Chemistry with us," Ryan says, and oh, right, these are the people who prevented Brendon from setting fire to his workstation, and who left with him yesterday. They don't look too horrible, Z supposes. She likes the dress Tennessee is wearing, even if that is a deeply unfortunate name. Who names their child after a state? She makes a mental note to ask Ryan later if he knows why Tennessee's parents are horrible people.
"Hey," Spencer says, and while she's not sure about that shirt, he does have a nice smile.
"Hi," she says, and sneaks another glance at Ryan. He's fiddling with his napkin and his ears are a little red. Seriously, what is this? Does he not like them? But then he wouldn't have asked them to sit down, would never. So he must--oh. She supposes it's possible he likes Tennessee, even if tall and gangly is a departure from his usual type. Or maybe it's Spencer? Either way, this is sort of awkward and possibly really hilarious.
"So, what have you two been up to today?" Ryan says, and blushes again when Z starts grinning.
"Besides kissing on Main Street, he means," she says, smiling to make sure there's no sting in the words. Spencer still looks a bit taken aback, but Tennessee snickers.
"It's all Spencer's fault, I promise," she tells Z, who laughs, delighted.
"Always blame the boyfriend, that's my motto," she says.
Tennessee nods. "It's actually true in this case," she says. "I mean, I admit to being fond of kissing, but usually I like to do it where people can't see us. It just has more potential to be interesting that way!"
"Tenn," Spencer says, in the most scandalized tones Z has heard since Ryan realized she was wearing a romper, and both she and Tennessee look at him. Oh, oh wow, he's really blushing, that's totally adorable.
"What?" Tennessee says. Z knows that innocent tone, it's totally a pretense.
Spencer hesitates, clearly fumbling for the right thing to say here. He looks at Ryan with some sort of helpless entreaty in his eyes; Z could have told him that would be fruitless, Ryan's currently way too discombobulated to be of any help to anyone. Why is he, though? Normally nothing fazes him, not even having an unfortunate crush. This is all very fascinating.
Spencer finally settles on, "Um, I just, like, that stuff is private."
"Considering you're the one who likes to kiss in public, you have no room to be scandalized," Tennessee says sternly, and then she turns to Z. "Hey, you were fantastic, absolutely fantastic, you and your band, we both loved it."
"Yes! Yes we did," Spencer says, clearly relieved to have something else to discuss. "The songs were really great."
"Z writes the songs," Ryan pipes up. Ugh. He always does that.
"Thanks," she says, not knowing where to look. She hates compliments.
"I know you don't like compliments," Ryan says. Best friends are so inconvenient.
"They're fine, I just never know what to say," she mutters, resolving to make Ryan read his poetry out loud somewhere where people can hear him soon and then he'll see how he likes it, won't he.
Spencer grins suddenly, with something like mischief in his eyes. "So did our friend, actually, Brendon. He thought you were great too."
Tennessee starts laughing. "Oh lord, yes he did, he really did."
"You're Brendon's friends?" she asks, and they both nod.
In unison. Couples.
"He's new, right?" she says, and ignores Ryan's pointed look. He's been blushing and quiet for at least ten minutes, he doesn't get to judge. "How's he doing here?"
"He's good," Spencer says. Tennessee is fiddling with her napkin. Z's willing to bet that any good in Brendon's life right now is mostly coming from these two. Not because she thinks they're saints or anything, she just knows their school. She wonders why Brendon transferred.
"Tell him-tell him people suck sometimes," she says, speeding up like she does when she's nervous.
"We will," Tennessee says. "I know what you mean."
"Our fucking school," Spencer says, eyes darkening. "I don't even know what to do."
You show them, she thinks, you show them and then they can't do anything to you that sticks. Ryan touches her arm, and she bumps her elbow against his, their I'm-here-you're-here signal.
"It's good he found you," she says firmly, and hopes they're as nice as Ryan seems to think they are.
"It is," Tennessee agrees, and that's that, it seems. Everyone's done with their respective meals, and they all get up to leave at the same time, leading to some confusion when Ryan is trying to round the table and walks into Spencer. Ryan flails, almost falling over, but Spencer grabs him by the arms and holds him up.
"Thanks," mumbles Ryan, and walks out of the cafe.
Helplessly, Z shrugs at Spencer and Tennessee and hurries to catch up.
"See you at school!" she calls over her shoulder, and sees them both nod.
"Ryan, seriously, what even was that?" she says, getting close to him, but he just shakes his head and keeps walking.
Part Two