Fic: Tilting at Windmills (Chris/Greta, pre-Bob/Darren; The Hush Sound, loads of others; part 2/3)
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
---
“Give it a shot, please," her mom pleaded. "Just approach today with an open mind."
Greta regarded the front of the school and the students traipsing into the building with a healthy amount of skepticism.
Her mom tucked Greta's hair behind her ear. "I can't believe you're starting high school."
Greta huffed out an aggravated sigh. "I draw the line at pictures of me leaving the car." She hadn't seen the camera in her mom's hand when they left the house, but Greta didn't put it past her to produce one from the glove compartment or remember suddenly that her phone had one.
Her mom chuckled. "Go on, sweetie. Knock 'em dead."
Greta stepped out of the car and rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. She looked again at the map she had been given at open house and wove her way through the crowded halls toward her first class.
She wasn't the first person in the room, there was a small group of older kids in the back. They looked up when she came in but she looked quickly to the floor and slid into a desk in the middle of the room, but closer to the door. The first bell rang, and Greta watched the rest of her classmates file in through her eyelashes but no one looked familiar.
She sank lower in her chair.
Just before the final bell rang, Thomas slid into the desk beside her, breathless. She'd never been happier to see him in her life.
"Hey," he panted. "I can't believe we actually have class together that isn't choir for once."
"Yeah. Hey can I get a ride with you tomorrow morning? My mom has to work."
"Sure, probably."
"Well, which one is it?"
"Good morning, class," the teacher started.
Government at the end of the day was almost as much of a relief as History, when she walked into the classroom and spotted a familiar face.
"Is anyone sitting here?" she asked before taking the desk next to him. "I'm Greta, we met at Charlotte's this summer?"
"Oh, yeah, I remember. David Bowie is still better than the Stones."
"It's a shame," she said, grave but not unkind. "The doctors thought a taste transplant would be a success. Obviously not."
Bob laughed.
After she dumped off her backpack in the living room she announced, if a tad bit bitterly, "I'm going to see if Darren's home." His school got out half an hour earlier.
Her mom sighed indulgently--Greta hated that sigh, and said, "Make sure you're back by five. Your dad wants to take you out to dinner."
"Whatever."
"Greta," her mom called before she was out the door. "Was it really that awful? What you told me didn't sound so terrible."
Greta shrugged. Her mom hugged her. "Say hi to Roger and Darren for me."
Greta knocked on the Wilson's door and let herself in.
"Hello," she called.
"Back here," Darren called. She followed his voice to the family room and threw herself on the couch dramatically.
"That bad?" he asked without pausing his game.
"No," she admitted dourly. "I mean I have History with Thomas, and I met this really awesome girl who plays keytar in a band--"
"Wait, is her name Victoria?"
"Yeah, you know her?"
"No, but Nate from band keeps talking about her. Johnson didn't think she was real."
Greta snorted. "She's real. She's so cool." She tugged at the fraying hem of her t-shirt. "I have lunch with Charlotte and Hayley and Government with Bob. Do you remember me telling you about him? From Charlotte's this summer?"
Darren made a vague listening noise and tried to pull off a bonus. She snickered when he lost it. "Three stars?"
"Hey, you try to play this song in expert."
"All right, I will." She reached out and wiggled her fingers for the plastic guitar. He handed it over and flopped back in the cushions. "How about you?" she asked.
He made a noncommittal noise. "It was school. We got the piece for tryouts in band."
"Oh yeah?" She restarted the song. "What chair do you think you'll get this year?"
He grunted. "There's this new kid who transferred from St. John's, I think his name was Spencer? He's good."
"You're better."
"Hey, you're gonna lose the bonus."
"No I'm not," she insisted, pulling up on the neck just in time.
She thought she heard a familiar engine rumble to a stop nearby. She jumped across the cord of the guitar--"hey!" Darren crowed, jerking to the side to see past her even though the TV took up most of the wall--and peaked through the blinds that looked into the street. Her dad's F-250 was parked behind her mom's Honda. She saw his back as he walked up the sidewalk to the front door, but she could see a demure silhouette still in the passenger seat.
"Is your dad here?"
Greta rolled her eyes and pulled away from the blinds so quickly they snapped angrily together. "Let's play another song."
Darren shrugged and handed over the guitar when she came back to the couch.
Two songs later, she heard the front door open and Mr. Wilson call, "Darren?"
"Back here," Darren responded.
"Hello there, Greta," Mr. Wilson said when he poked his head into the room. "How were your first days?"
"Fine," Darren grunted without looking away from the screen.
"All right," Greta answered.
"I think I saw your dad's car in the driveway," Mr. Wilson informed her.
She sighed hard enough for her bangs to dance with her breath. "Guess I should probably go."
"Later."
"Have a good night. Say hello to your mother."
When she crossed the front yard she didn't take her eyes off the woman in the passenger seat of her dad's truck. The woman was oblivious of the scrutiny until Greta was almost parallel to her. Only then did she look up from her cell phone, tucking her straight brown hair behind one ear with long manicured nails. She spotted Greta and smiled, broad and fake, revealing a perfect row of teeth. She waved at Greta, curling her fingers into her palm repetitively with plastic enthusiasm.
Greta looked away.
She opened the front door to her parents standing in the hallway like boxers at opposite corners. Her dad opened his mouth but rather than watch the latest round begin Greta said, "Ready to go?"
"Sure, kiddo," he said, finally taking his gaze off her mom. He grinned at her just as fake as the woman in the car. "Goodbye, Veronica," he said too sweetly over his shoulder.
Greta dragged her feet down the driveway. Her dad matched pace with her after the front door slammed shut and hissed, “Please mind your manners. She’s nice, you’ll like her.” He walked ahead. Greta climbed in the back of the cab only after her dad had already gotten in the driver’s seat. “Greta, this is Amber,” he said smiling pleasantly at the woman in the passenger seat before pulling out of the driveway.
The woman turned in her seat to look at Greta in the back, the same smile plastered on her face. “Hi, Greta. Your dad’s told me so much about you. It’s great to finally meet you!”
Greta pasted on a matching smile. “Really? He’s never mentioned you!”
“Greta Morgan,” he said sharply. “Don’t be rude.”
Greta rolled her eyes but she didn’t miss the way Amber’s smile became more rigid before she turned forward again.
“How was your first day of high school?” her dad asked. Rather than give him more ammunition against her mom, Greta shrugged.
“Did you have classes with anyone you know?” Amber asked.
“A few.”
“What about lunch?” Amber asked. “I remember on my first day I was so nervous I wouldn’t have anyone to sit with.”
“When was that, last year?” Greta muttered under her breath. She didn’t get yelled at for it, so she assumed the comment went unheard. The cab went silent except for the sound of the road under the tires.
---
Darren was standing in line outside the band room with the rest of the percussion section after the last bell had rung. He was in line behind Alex Johnson, who was chewing on the end of his pen like he wished it was something else. "It's so dumb trying out for first chair when you know it's either going to Bryar or McGinley," Johnson complained. Darren had to agree.
"Why's it going to be them?" the new kid--Darren thought his name was Spencer--asked.
Nate rolled his eyes. "Bob and Matt are the best drummers in school."
"Plus," Matt added as he walked up to the line. "Mr. Walker and Mr. Dodd usually put seniors in first chair. Hey, guys. Is Bob in there now?"
Johnson nudged Darren, pointing at Nate's embarrassed flush. They snickered. "Yeah, he just went in. It'll probably be a few more minutes." The practice room was too well sound proofed for them to be able to tell.
"My band's playing Pete's party this weekend," Matt said. "If you're doing anything this Friday, make sure it's coming to see us play, all right?"
"I'm in a band," Spencer said.
"We're all in bands," Johnson said tersely.
"What kind of music do you play?" Spencer asked, ignoring Johnson.
"It's kind of hip-hop with a rock band, but mostly it's me and some guys doing whatever we want. It's awesome, you should come check us out. Bring all your friends. You're new, right? Do you know where Pete lives? I'll make sure you get directions tomorrow."
"If your band ever gets a show," Nate said, "you should take advice from Matt on shameless self-promotion."
"Who needs shameless self-promotion," Matt started, slinging an arm around Nate's shoulder and pulling him in for a noogie, "when I've got my very own cheering section right here? What was it Nate said?"
"I believe that you're the best drummer in school," Johnson said.
"One of the best," Nate insisted, shaking Matt off. "Too bad Bob's going to own your ass."
"Oh, yeah," Johnson said flippantly, anxiously twitching his pen between his fingers. "My bad. It was hard to hear what with Nate's lips puckered around Matt's dick." He mimed a blowjob out of a porno.
The amused smile that had been on Darren's face faded into something more uncomfortable. He looked away, but he heard it when Nate punched Johnson's shoulder--hard, from the sound of it and Johnson’s “ow, motherfucker!”--and Matt said, "Don't be a dick, dick."
The practice room door opened and Bob lumbered out. Johnson was slipping in the room before Mr. Walker finished saying "next."
"Bob," Matt greeted. "How'd it go?"
Bob shrugged and tilted his head to scratch at the patchy beard he was growing. "You know how it is. They won't say anything until seat assignments go up next week."
"Bob!" a loud, excited voice crowed from down the hall followed by the quick pounding of footsteps and Frank Iero launching himself at Bob's back.
"Fuck, Frankie," Bob grunted, but his hand came up to steady Frank's knee at Bob's waist.
"You done yet?" Frank asked. "Let's go to Gee's."
"Is that how your mother taught you to ask a favor, you bum? Aren't you supposed to be in detention?"
"No, but it worked on your mom last night." Frank already had his other leg out to catch himself when Bob dumped him, he only hobbled a little until Bob let go of his other leg. Darren tried to stop himself from laughing. "Jamia wasn't there so I'm skipping. Come on, let's go to Gee's."
Bob rolled his eyes but said, "Good luck," and followed Frank down the hallway.
After a few minutes of the remaining percussion section tapping out the practice piece against walls and thighs, the band room door opened again and Johnson sauntered out, making a bee line for the side exit. "Next," Mr. Walker said, itching under the hem of his suit jacket and revealing a flash of bright ink when he did. Spencer followed him in the room.
Nate looked unimpressed. "How much do you wanna bet Johnson gets expelled for cigarettes on school grounds before end of the year?"
"More like the end of the semester," Darren snorted.
Matt grinned at him, maybe a little surprised. Darren ducked his head. "Hey," Matt said, nudging his shoulder. "Didn't know you were gonna be in World Lit this semester. Want to be partners for the group project?"
"Uh--yeah, sure."
"Awesome. I'll save you a seat tomorrow."
"Did you hear Radiohead's new album yet?" Nate asked.
Darren tuned them out, air drumming the rough parts of the piece they were being tested on.
“Darren,” Mr. Dodd said. Darren shook his head as if to clear it and tried to ignore the way the other guys were snickering. “Care to join us in here?”
“Sorry.” Darren put his head down and made his way into the band room.
“How’re you doing?” Mr. Walker drawled when Mr. Dodd closed the door behind him and took the chair next to Mr. Walker. “You ready?” Darren nodded and took his place behind the snare. “Take a deep breath,” Mr. Walker advised. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Darren took a deep breath and counted out his beat before he launched into the piece, catching above the edge of the music stand the way Mr. Walker and Mr. Dodd placidly watched him play. Darren focused on the sheet music in front of him and the movement of his hands.
When he was finished he looked up, but the band directors still had matching unreadable expressions. “Now the xylophone piece please,” Mr. Walker said, gesturing to the other instrument set up.
“Just to let you know,” Mr. Dodd informed. “Intentionally messing it up won’t keep you from getting assigned to it in concert pieces.”
“Xylophone is a vital portion of percussion section,” Mr. Walker said, although Darren didn’t know if it was directed at him or Mr. Dodd.
A week later when Greta came over for practice, Darren led the way to the garage and said, “So I got fourth chair.”
“Darren!” she crowed, jumping after him to wrap an arm around his waist. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” he grinned. “Nate’s ahead of me, it’s not too bad.”
“You’ll beat him next year,” Greta said confidently.
Darren shrugged as he sat behind his kit. “I beat Johnson and Spencer. That’s all I cared about. Did you finish that new song?”
“Kind of. There’s something missing. I showed it to Bob--you remember me telling you about Bob, right?--well I showed it to him and he was suggesting some things, I think it would really make it go, you know?”
“Things like what?” Darren frowned.
Greta shrugged. “Different perspective. Bob plays guitar, you know? I was thinking about bringing him to practice.”
“So do you,” Darren muttered, but it was lost in Greta’s warm up.
After a few songs they took a break, Darren’s arms beginning to throb. “You were rushing the beat in that last one,” Greta pointed out.
“Was not.”
“You totally, totally were.”
“Whatever, it sounds better as a fast song.”
“It’s meant to be a slow song,” she said obstinately.
“All right, fine. I’ll pay more attention next time.”
“Good.” She looked quizzically at her keyboard. “Maybe this song would sound better with a guitar.”
Darren shrugged. “Whatever works.” He figured it was her call; he would be on drums regardless of what Greta played. He didn’t know she had been writing songs for the guitar.
“Oh, hey,” she added suddenly. “My mom’s latest ‘friend’ is a goner.”
“Officially or hypothetically?”
“She dumped him yesterday. Maybe she’ll make her move on your dad this time.” Greta grinned at him mischievously.
“Hey, maybe he’ll make a move on her.” Ever since the Salpeter’s divorce, Greta and Darren had been imaging the day their parents would fall in love like the climax of one of the movies Greta made Darren watch when he made her sit through too many action flicks.
She gave him a skeptical look. “Does your dad even date?”
He laughed. “No. Come on, let’s play some more before we have to call it quits.”
---
"I was thinking about Halloween," Greta started over the end credits of This is Spinal Tap.
"Wanna have a Saw marathon this year?" Darren asked, shutting off the TV. Greta looked at the clock in the kitchen, saw that it was late enough that they could start practicing, and led the way to the garage.
"Actually I was kind of thinking about going to this party Bob was telling me about." Darren gave her a surprised look. Greta huffed out a sigh. "Don't look at me like that, it might be fun. Plus a bunch of kids from your school are going to be there, too. Apparently this Pete guy is like the social director of the city or something."
"I don't know, Greta." Darren frowned thoughtfully as he settled in behind his kit.
"I know, but. If it's lame, we'll just leave, right? Please come," she pleaded with Darren, sticking out her bottom lip in a pitiful pout.
It made him snort. "Fine," he finally conceded. "I guess my dad would probably let me borrow the car."
"Yes!" she cheered. "We'll have fun, you'll see. You'll get to meet Bob."
The look he gave her was a trifle bit more skeptical than she would've liked, but he agreed and that was the important thing. Once Darren agreed to do something he rarely went back on his word. "You pick the song?" she offered. He looked at his kit, considering.
"We need to do something creative for Halloween," Greta insisted over lunch that Monday. "Wasn't everyone creative last year?" Bob nodded, but in the same absent sort of way she had gotten used to from Darren and Thomas. She found more sympathy from Charlotte.
"We can't do it like middle school, either. We can't just be witches or... glitter fairies or something. I think Hayley knows a place," Charlotte volunteered.
"All right girls," Greta's mom said when she parked the car. "I'll get some tea and you'll just call me when you're ready to leave, sound good?"
"Sure, Mom."
"Thanks, Mrs. Salpeter," Hayley said dutifully followed by Charlotte's "yeah, thanks."
"Your mom is so much cooler than mine," Hayley told her when they were alone in the parking lot. Greta looked skeptically at Hayley's orange hair. "No, you don't understand. My mom would have come in with us and tried to find stuff she thought looked cool." She made a face to convey how not cool that was.
Greta shrugged. She didn't really mind it when her mom went shopping with her.
"Come on, seriously," Charlotte said. She was already leading the way to the consignment shop. Inside was dim and overstuffed with clothes, racks lining the walls and the floor, no two pieces looking the same. It felt a bit overwhelming. Greta followed Charlotte and Hayley to the costume section with a little more apprehension; this was their idea, not hers. She didn't know how the costume section of the consignment shop would be any different than the costume section of any other store.
"You're not going to be a saucy wench," Charlotte insisted again.
Hayley shook her behind, the gauzy points of her too-short skirt danced around her thighs. "Why not?"
"Because it's cliche."
Hayley ran her fingers over the crushed velvet of the fake corset. "But I like it. Who cares about cliche?" Charlotte started to argue; Greta rolled her eyes and wandered the retro section of the store.
Some of the things there were really atrociously bad: beaded vests with leather tassels, chunky sweaters with fuzzy baubles, linen shirts with boxy shapes and holes in the hem lines. She ran her fingers absently over the array of fabrics, loved how they went from slick to rough to nearly insubstantial on their hangers. Her nail caught on a gold sequin. She pulled the hanger off the rack for a better look and found the gold to be attached to cap sleeves attached to a smooth, pale blue dress.
She tilted her head to one side, giving the dress a quizzical look before deciding to hang it back on the rack.
"You should try it on," someone said over her shoulder, Greta turned around, startled, to see it was the clerk who had been behind the counter when they walked in. She gave Greta an encouraging smile, wide and honest and showing all her perfectly straight teeth. "Seriously, you'll look good in it." The clerk went back to hanging other merchandise--she looked so familiar, but Greta couldn't place her--and Greta went back to considering the dress.
"You're not going to be a saucy wench," she heard Charlotte insist again, her temper getting shorter. Greta thought, Might as well. That fight wouldn't resolve any time soon. Hayley enjoyed egging Charlotte on too much. As she passed them, Hayley smiled at her in the mirror in front of the dressing rooms, shit-eating grin so utterly pleased it made Greta snort.
She hung the dress on the peg in the dressing room, and as she stripped out of her jeans and t-shirt the smell of mothballs and history, gentle and familiar like her grandparents' attic, overwhelmed her. The dress itself was still creased as though it had only just been liberated from the bottom of a trunk or a closet. She paused before putting it on, tracing the webbing of gold thread and sequins at the sleeves. The dress slipped easily over her arms; she imagined it felt like water sliding around her body, fabric moving to hug her skin in a way that was more comfortable than exposing. She tugged the hem to make sure it covered her before pushing the curtain aside. The dressing room didn't have a mirror.
Charlotte saw her first. She stopped making whatever point she had been in the middle of to stare. It made Greta stop. "What?" she asked, shifting awkwardly in her bare feet. "Is it that bad?"
Hayley turned around then, craning her neck to see Greta beyond the corner that kept her out of sight of the mirror. "Oh my god," she said. "Is it bad? Are you kidding me?" She rushed toward Greta to drag her forward. "Look!"
Greta did. The dress, it was cut differently than the rest of the clothes she owned. Instead of hugging uncomfortably to the broadening flare of her hips or catching on the small curve at her belly that most of her clothes accentuated, it slid past them. Instead of gripping the tops of her thighs or threatening to expose anything underneath if she moved the wrong way, the skirt flared out delicately and ended just at her knee. Instead of feeling awkward, as though she were putting herself on display in clothes meant for someone ten pounds skinnier regardless of what size the tag claimed, she felt pretty.
"We should put your hair back," Charlotte said from her left, demonstrating by tugging her blonde hair off her shoulders and holding it messily atop her head. "I think I have some clips that would look cool with these sleeves."
"We'll have to look up '20s hair styles when we get back, figure out how to something that fits," Hayley said from her right. "Did they do anything other than bobs then?"
"You think it's a flapper dress?" Charlotte asked. "I think we could probably do something from earlier--or, oh, we could probably even do something from the '40s, my grandma could probably help, she'd remember."
"I don't think it's from that late," Hayley insisted.
"You guys," Greta interrupted, tearing her eyes from the way the dress made her body look like something different, the way she had to squint to search out the imperfections she normally found quickly beneath the cut. "I never said I'm getting it."
Charlotte and Hayley both stared at Greta somewhat incredulously. "You're kidding, right?" Hayley insisted again.
"Seriously?" Charlotte agreed. "Because that's a really dumb joke."
"It's a Halloween party," she tried to ague. "Going as," she searched for a word to describe the look but all that came to mind was flapper and that didn't feel quite accurate. Instead she settled on "my grandmother is kind of lame."
Charlotte rolled her eyes. "We'll get you fangs then."
"Old time-y vampire!" Hayley exclaimed. "I love it. I'll be a saucy wench vampire and Charlotte can be an '80s punk vampire, we'll be a theme!"
"Yeah, how about no?" Charlotte let Greta's hair tumble back down around her shoulders. "Seriously, Greta, you look incredible. I think you should get it."
"Oh, zombie! We'll paint your face white and give you a head wound, it'll be awesome. Now we just need to find something for Charlotte."
"And for you," Charlotte insisted as she let Hayley drag her back toward the racks to dig through them for a look.
"Early Madonna would be awesome," Hayley said, ignoring her cheerfully.
"No," Charlotte insisted.
Greta stayed in front of the mirror, head cocked to one side, considering. She smoothed her fingertips over her waist, down to the skirt until she couldn't reach it anymore.
The clerk appeared behind her, grabbing an armload of fitting room castoffs. "Oh good, you tried it on. What do you think?"
"I think... it looks all right."
The clerk smiled at her in the mirror. "That's not what the look on your face says."
"Oh really?" Greta asked, blushing, embarrassed and maybe a little offended.
"Yeah. It says you look comfortable." She walked away, leaving Greta to look at her reflection. She pulled her hair back, holding it behind her head in a messy bun. She raised herself on her tip toes as though she were wearing heels and she turned to the side to look at her silhouette, considering.
"I am not going as '80s Madonna!" Charlotte practically shouted from somewhere behind her. Greta snorted and let her hair fall again. She thought she should go back into the dressing room and change into her normal clothes, but she found herself wandering back toward them, barefoot and loving the way the dress shifted around her legs as she walked.
---
"You will not drink," Roger Wilson informed his son again.
"I know, Dad," Darren said petulantly. "I never drink."
"And you will not start tonight." Darren muttered what sounded like, "Fine, I'll start tomorrow," sarcastically, to which Greta whispered, "Darren!" sharply.
Roger chose to ignore all of this. "You will be home by midnight, not a moment later, and if you think you might possibly be even a minute late you call myself and Greta's mother."
"Thought I wasn't supposed to talk on my phone and drive."
"Darren, shut up," Greta whispered fiercely. Her hand darted out, and from where she stood behind Darren, Roger couldn't see what she did, but from the way Darren jumped, he assumed she pinched him.
Roger ignored this as well. "Greta will call while you drive," he said tightly. "And you will be extremely careful of pedestrians--"
"What pedestrians? Halloween was three days ago." Darren jolted again and this time threw a glare over his shoulder at her. "Fine," he said to Roger. "I swear I'll be extra careful of pedestrians." He held out his hand, palm up. Roger still didn't relinquish the keys.
To Greta, Roger said, "You will not drink either, nor will you accept drinks from anyone that you do not open for yourself, nor will you let your non-alcoholic drink out of your sight."
"Of course not, Mr. Wilson," Greta agreed with considerably more grace than Darren. "My mom gave me the same lecture."
Roger regarded both of them for a moment, so young but nothing resembling the children who had made pillow forts in his living room. He sighed. "Most importantly of all, I want to two of you to look out for each other."
"We will, Dad."
"Yes, Mr. Wilson."
With that he handed over the keys. "Have fun," he called at their backs. "Bye," they echoed.
He stared dumbly at the door when it closed behind them, heard the engine rumble to life and waited for the telltale pulse of a bass line that meant they were breaking the 'no loud music' rule.
He heard none.
He looked around his house--so unnaturally silent, especially for a Friday night--at a bit of a loss for what he was to do then.
---
Veronica Salpeter knocked on the Wilson's door before she could stop herself. It went unanswered.
Just as she was turning to leave the door jerked open. "Sorry," Roger said, a little flustered. "I'm not used to someone who knocks and waits for an answer. Is everything all right?"
"Everything's fine," she waved away his concern. "Greta still does that? I'll have a talk with her."
"It's fine, it's fine. Answering the door is far more of a bother than--uh, I mean, please come in." He stepped to one side and swept his arm out in a grandiose welcome.
"Thank you," she smiled, letting herself be a little bit charmed. The closing of the door behind her rustled her blonde hair; she flicked it over her shoulder. "I'm just, uh," she started. "I have to work an overnight shift at the hospital next Saturday and Ben's out of town again."
"Yes, Greta told me. Of course our couch is always open to her."
"Thank you, I really appreciate it."
"Any time. We love having her." A minute passed in awkward silence before Roger asked, "Was there anything--?"
"--oh, no," she cut him off, stepping back to reach for the doorknob just as Roger moved forward for it. "That was--" They bumped shoulders awkwardly. Roger jerked back.
"Is this strange to you?" she blurted out. "Our kids are at a high school party."
Roger sighed, and Veronica thought that it sounded relieved that someone else was recognizing the elephant in the room. "Darren barely went to parties at Chuck E. Cheese. I was a bit shocked when he asked to go to this one."
"It's Greta. She's--she's really embracing this high school experience. I'm--"
"--worried?"
"--happy for her, but yes."
They both paused for breath, smiling ruefully after a moment.
"They're good kids," Veronica assured them both.
Roger nodded in solemn agreement, so much of Darren in the gesture. "They'll look after each other."
"Exactly. And Darren is a very safe driver."
"Very true. And Greta's very responsible."
"Very--" Veronica cut herself off with a laugh. "God, listen to us. Do you think our parents had the same conversation about us?"
Roger snorted. "I never told mine when I was going out, I just sneaked out of the window after they went to bed. That's partly why I'm trusting Darren now."
"You, really?"
"Brianne and I were Hell raisers. Would you like a drink?"
"Sure, thank you." She followed Roger to the kitchen. The house looked the same as it had the last time she’d gone inside years before, white walls lined with bookshelves. The tops of the shelves held picture frames, some of them with updated pictures, almost all of them containing Darren at some stage of life. Many of them were of Darren with Greta. “It looks like your library is moving on from the living room to the rest of the house,” she noted.
"I keep meaning to get rid of most of them, I just never get around to it. Coke, tea, coffee?"
"Tea, please." She sat in the chair he gestured to and watched him as he filled and heated the kettle. If she wasn’t mistaken, Roger’s cheeks seemed to be a brighter shade of red than normal. "Brianne is Darren's mother, right? I didn't realize you two grew up together."
"High school sweethearts," he confirmed. His tone turned self-deprecating. "It was all so very dramatic and romantic. Her mother was trying to keep us apart." He sat across from her with a rueful sigh. "Of course that only made our plan to elope after high school even more appealing. We fancied ourselves a modern day Romeo and Juliet."
"Straight out of high school? That's so young."
"A couple years after, but, yes it was." Roger fell silent for a moment. "Sometimes I can't believe how much things have changed."
Veronica chuckled bitterly. "I know what you mean. Everything's turning out all right in the end though, I think."
Roger smiled easily at that. "I certainly hope so. I could do without the attitude he's got lately, but I wouldn't change the rest of it. Most of the time."
"My mom promised me they mellow out again around 22."
"That long?" he groaned.
Veronica chuckled, this time easier. “It makes it so much harder, sometimes, doesn’t it? If I introduce her to a boyfriend I can never tell if she hates him on principle or actually hates him. Do you know what I mean?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. I, uh. I don’t introduce my dates to Darren.”
“Ever? Do you just...not see anyone seriously, or...?”
The kettle hissed and Roger got up to make the tea. “Well, I. Uh. It’s not that I don’t, I just--relationships don’t often last. I worry he’ll get attached to someone and then she just...won’t be there anymore.”
"Thank you," she said when he handed her the mug. She let it warm her palms for a moment in awkward silence before blowing thoughtfully over the rim. “I just want to show her that life goes on,” Veronica said idly. “Oh--not to say anything about the way you’ve been--”
“No, of course,” he assured her. “I didn’t take it like that.” He sipped his tea. “I am seeing someone.”
“Oh?” she asked, surprised. “Are you two serious?”
“I don’t know,” he mused into his cup. “I think we could be.” He set the mug back on the table with a loud clatter. He asked, “What would you say about something a little stronger to drink?”
She grinned. “I’d say that sounds like a good idea.”
---
"This is going to be fun," Greta told him for the millionth time. "Stop being so lame."
"Yeah," he muttered. "Because every day I go to school is so much fun that I will have a blast extending the torture into my weekend when there are no teachers around to threaten anyone into quitting."
Greta rolled her eyes. "I pinkie swore if it's that bad we only have to hang out long enough for you to meet Bob and then we can leave."
"We can't go home early," he responded dourly. "I didn't get that lecture three times since asking if I could go just to come home by ten anyway."
She grinned triumphantly. "We'll have fun," she promised again. "You'll see. Bob is awesome. He plays guitar."
"So do you."
Greta turned the radio on, let it sit at the alternative station for a minute before making her way through the rest of the presets.
"Hey, go back. I like that song."
"I refuse to listen to Nickelback." The oldies station was playing a Beach Boys song; she let it go for a few bars before turning it again, ending up on an old Linkin Park song. She cracked the volume dial up.
"Hey, turn it down," he said without taking his eyes off the road.
"Your dad's not in the car," Greta shouted over the music. "We can live a little on the wild side."
After Darren executed a perfect left hand turn he said, "Come on, Greta." His knuckles were white around the steering wheel.
She sighed, wishing for a moment for the loud, wild rides down the highway that most teen movies led her to believe she would be having. But she leaned forward and turned the volume down to less ear-splitting levels and Darren's grip on the wheel loosened almost automatically. By the time she was saying, "Pull over here, this is Charlotte's house," he had loosened up enough to tap along with the beat with his fingers.
Up at the house, the curtain in the front window moved before the front door opened and Charlotte, Emily, Ani, and Hayley marched out. "You didn't say there were four of them," Darren said. He rubbed worriedly at the wrinkles his raised eyebrows made on his forehead with his palm. "There are, like, laws against that. My dad would be pissed if he found out."
"He won't," she promised. "I'm sorry, it really was supposed to be just Charlotte and Hayley."
The back door opened and the four of them crammed into the bench. "Hey," Hayley spoke up first. "Thanks a lot for the ride."
"Yeah, thanks," the others echoed. Darren smiled tightly in acknowledgment. Greta introduced them all and then they were off.
"It's kind of cool to finally meet you, Darren," Emily announced at a red light. "Greta talks about you all the time."
Greta looked at Darren; a small, pleased smile was on his face. "Just wait until you get to meet Bob, too," she promised. "Then you'll know, like, all the cool kids." He looked at her skeptically for a heartbeat before the light was turning and his eyes focused dutifully back on the road.
---
They drove down a street already jam-packed with cars centered around one house, obnoxiously loud music pouring from it. The house was set back a little from the other neighbors, but cars were still packed in front of other houses. They circled the block again until Darren came to a place to park. "You know the neighbors are probably going to call the cops and they're going to break it up, right?"
"So we can say we fought the law, it'll be a dramatic story."
Darren regarded her for a moment. "Seriously?"
"Yep," she said cheerfully.
He sighed and twisted the key from the ignition. The girls were already out of the backseat and on the sidewalk adjusting their costumes or something.
Inside, it actually looked like a house party in a movie. People were crammed everywhere. The front door opened into the living room, where the bodies seemed to be centered. The furniture there had been moved aside and a makeshift stage was set up in one corner dominating the attention of most of the house.
Greta tugged the sleeve of Darren's jacket, making him stoop so she could shout in his ear, "That's Patrick singing." He nodded along like it meant something to him. Her hand stayed at his elbow, though, which, as he looked out at the crowded living room of people he half-recognized and didn't know, he was grateful for.
"Oh, there," she said, pulling him away from Patrick's band, along the edge of the crowd, and further into the house after the other girls. They stopped just at the edge of the room in front of a group of guys the girls greeted.
"This is Bob," she introduced a redheaded guy with a grand sweep of her hand, like she was presenting something remarkable. She pointed at the rest of the guys in turn. "I think you know Chris? That's Ian and Drew. This," she said with a flourish toward him, "is Darren."
The guys all waved or jerked their heads up, but they were all mostly talking to the girls.
"Heard a lot about you," Bob said. "Kind of didn't think you were for real."
"I seem to get that a lot."
"Greta says you play drums."
Darren nodded. "We have a band. We've had a band since we were, like, nine. We sound pretty awesome."
"That's--really cool. I'm in a band, but we've only been practicing for a couple months. I play guitar."
"Greta mentioned." They lapsed into an awkward silence. Darren shoved his hands in his pockets and let his shoulders slump. He watched Greta talk animatedly with one of the guys--Ian?--and the girls slowly begin to disperse.
"Oh, hey," the punk rocker with pretty hair said absently. "There's my brother." He wandered off, Emily watched sadly after him.
Out of nowhere a guy was stumbling into Darren, pushing him into Bob. Someone crowed loudly; when Darren righted himself he looked to see a guy hanging off Ian's back, one arm thrust victoriously in the air. The guy was wearing a battered Scream mask but when he shouted, "Holy fuck, Wilson?" Darren had no problem recognizing Cash Cooligan's voice.
"Hey," Johnson said behind him. "Sup?" He put his cigarette out in the red plastic cup dangling from Cash's hand and lit another one.
DeLeon took the cup from Cash before he could drink from it and smiled winningly. "We're reclaiming Ian," he said apologetically. "Come on, Ian!"
"We're going to dance," Greta announced over the beginning of the next song. She let Ani pull her to the living room.
Darren was left standing awkwardly with Bob and Chris. "You’re in band at FBR, right? Ready for the new piece on Monday?" he asked Chris awkwardly. Chris shrugged without looking away from the band. They were pretty all right, Darren thought.
"Kind of cool, huh?" Bob shouted over the music, breaking the awkward silence they had been standing in. "I think I'd play less Blink covers, though."
Darren frowned. "It's not like it's easy to get up and play like that."
"Well, yeah, true." Bob scratched at the shoulder seam of his shirt. The whiteness of the toilet paper wrapped around his body made his face look a lot redder. "Hey, your costume looks really familiar. Is it from anything?"
Darren shrugged self-consciously and resisted the urge to make sure his fake mustache was still securely attached. "Just, Blades. From Dawn of the Dead."
"And Land of the Dead." Bob's grin looked a little triumphant. "He was the make-up artist on the films, right? What was his name, Ted something?"
Darren felt his face heat. "Tom Savini."
"I think Edgar Wright is my favorite cameo in the entire series. How cool must that have been?"
Before Darren could open his mouth, though, Greta was nudging him. "Hey, hold my drink?" she asked. She was breathless. When he nodded and held out his hand, she grinned. "Thanks! Hey, what are you talking about? You should talk about what horrible taste in music you both have!" She sighed sadly and said to Chris, "They both like Nickelback."
"What's wrong with Nickelback?" Chris asked.
She laughed and made her way back to the living room.
---
After one more song she left Ani in the mosh pit Pete managed to get going in his living room for the corner the guys seemed to have claimed. She crashed into Darren. "Drink?" He handed over the Coke that had been dangling in his left hand. "Thank you, good sir knight," she said grandly. Bob and Chris both grinned at her. When the last chords of the song finally died off she asked Darren, "Are you having any fun at all?"
He shrugged and scratched at his hair, turned his attention back to Bob when he started talking again. She frowned at him, considering. It was like the look he gave her when it was her turn to choose for movie night and she was picking for revenge; it could have been his 'I'm enjoying myself but I'm being too much of a stubborn ass to admit it' look or it could have been his 'I really do hate my life and am planning a terrible, horrible plague on both your houses for making me do this.' She sighed, frustrated. Still, at least he was getting along with Bob.
Chris leaned toward her, pushed the strand of hair she had left artfully down behind her ear to say, loud enough to be heard over the music, "You look really pretty." He moved back--he was probably only near her for a second, but she could still feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. It made her shiver.
She pressed the edge of her can of Coke to her mouth to hide the way she bit her lip. "Thanks," she shouted after a second. "Your costume's cool, too."
Chris grinned, broadly. His cheeks were as flushed as she felt. He took a deep breath and said in a rush, leaning toward her but not touching her this time, "I still think Black Flag's lyrical style owns Social Distortion."
She quirked her head to one side. "Huh?"
Chris' face got brighter. "Uh, I just--what you said. You know, this summer? I found a bunch of Social Distortion videos on YouTube but I still think... "
"The genius of Social Distortion doesn't come from their lyrical style, though, it's in their--"
"Seamless genre-busting," he finished.
She paused at that, a pleased smile cracking her face. "You did remember."
Chris scratched the back of his neck and muttered, so low she was positive she wasn't meant to hear it, "You're pretty memorable."
"I'm sorry I don't--I never did look up Cage the Elephant."
"You could--if you want you could borrow their CD from me sometime and see. I mean, if you want."
"I--yeah, yes I would love--like." She laughed at herself, pushing her hair behind her ear. She could feel her fingers drag through the congealing gel at her head wound and smeared the fake blood into her hair. "Sure."
"You should give me your email and, like, phone number then." He slipped his hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone, he navigated it to the new contact screen before handing it to her. She gave him her phone number and email address before holding it out to give it back; her palms were so slick with clammy sweat that she worried he would be able to feel it on the case.
"I don't--I don't have a cell phone, so..."
He reached out for it but didn't pull it from her fingers right away. "So I'll, uh, I'll email you mine and...stuff."
Before he took his phone back he turned her hand to trace the bruises her mom had painted on her knuckles; the feel of his fingers was light on her skin, enough that they sent goosebumps up her arms. "Those are really good looking. You did awesome. Very...realistic."
"Thanks, I. My mom did them. If I was coming as a dead girl it wasn't going to be without putting up a fight."
He laughed. "That's really cool. I like that."
"Thanks."
"Greta, oh my god." Charlotte practically crashed into her. Chris caught her elbow with his other hand before she could fall into him.
"Hayley's, like, drunk and I can't find anyone. My mom so can't find out, I--"
Greta reached out for Darren, both he and Bob turned to look at her. "I guess Hayley's drunk? We should go."
"Later," Bob waved, looking maybe a little disappointed.
"Later," Chris echoed more quietly. Greta let Charlotte drag her off to wherever Hayley was, trusting that Darren was following as well.
---
Between Darren and Ani they managed to get Hayley into the car. "Where are we going?" he asked.
"If we go to my house," Emily volunteered before sliding into the back seat, "we can probably get by my mom without getting in trouble."
"So Barrington," Greta added.
Darren checked the time on his cell phone. "If we go all the way out there, we're going to be late and my dad will freak."
Greta slammed the door behind Charlotte, Emily, and Ani with Hayley draped over their laps. She chewed on her bottom lip, frowning thoughtfully. "I think if you tell your dad we'll be late because...because--here, just tell him a friend of mine had a huge fight with her boyfriend and she would have been stranded, so you had to take her home. I think he'd be cool with that, don't you?"
Darren rubbed his palm across his forehead. "Yeah, yeah all right." He dialed home. When his dad picked up he said, "Hey, don't be mad but we're going to be a little late."
There was a heavy pause on the other end before his dad asked, "Why, exactly, will you be late?"
"One of Greta's friends had a fight with her boyfriend or something, he practically stranded her here so we got volunteered to drive her home to Barrington. Figured being late was better than just leaving her here."
There was another pause and then his dad was saying, "That's an acceptable reason to be late. Did Greta call her mother yet?"
Darren gave Greta a thumbs up, tried not to sigh loud enough that the receiver picked it up. "No, not yet."
"I'll let her know then. Drive safe. Call when you're on the way back."
Darren flipped the phone shut and Greta reached for it. "Let me call my mom."
"Dad said he'd tell her."
Greta's shoulders sagged in relief, "Awesome. She totally would've asked more questions. Let's just get going then?"
"I've been waiting to hear that all night," Darren muttered as he climbed into the driver's seat. In the back, Hayley was very loudly butchering a Christina Aguilera song. Charlotte was shouting over her, "Oh my god if you don't shut the fuck up right now."
"Words won't bring me down!" Hayley insisted at ear-splitting decibels.
Darren clicked his seat belt into place and tried not to grip the steering wheel too tightly.
Four wrong turns later, Darren finally pulled up to Emily's house and the four of them started to pile out. Not before Hayley launched herself between the front seats and grabbed Darren by the hair to turn his face toward her, though. She smacked a sloppy, loud, wet kiss to his forehead. "Thank you," she said sincerely, the smell of beer on her breath overpowering that close up, before letting Ani drag her out.
When the door slammed shut behind her, Darren felt the tension from his shoulders bleed out.
He dug in his pocket for his cell phone to toss at Greta. "Will you call Dad and tell him we're on the way home?"
She paused, frowning quizzically at the screen.
"What?"
"Your dad said he'd tell my mom we'd be late, right?"
"Yeah?"
"Why, exactly?"
"I don't know, I guess if they were talking or something..." Darren snapped his head to the side to look at her. "What if--what if they were on a date or something?"
"Oh my god." A gleeful smile split her face. "Wouldn't that be awesome?"
"Dude, that would--yes!" He offered his hand for a high five; hers smacked satisfyingly against his before their hands slid smoothly into fists and they bumped their knuckles together.
When they pulled into Darren's driveway, there was a light coming from his dad's study and the second floor of Greta's house.
Greta looked crestfallen. Darren felt that way a little bit himself. "Night, I guess. Thanks for coming. It wasn't that bad, was it?"
Darren shrugged.
"Seemed like you and Bob were getting along." He couldn't tell if he was imagining a teasing lilt to her voice or not. He only hoped the streetlight wasn’t bright enough to give away how his cheeks heated up at it.
Darren shrugged again. "Are you going to be able to practice Sunday?"
She made a face. "I have a report I need to write. What about Saturday, though?"
“I’m meeting that Matt kid to work on our project then. I don’t know how long it’ll take.”
She sighed, dramatically. "I suppose I'll just have to write my paper on Saturday, then." She waved and walked into her house.
She trudged up the stairs to her mom’s room, the bedside lamp was on and a book was propped against her knees. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie. Did you have fun?” She patted the bedspread next to her, Greta crawled up the spot that had been her dad’s before, and let her arms fold underneath her.
“So fun,” she said. “Sorry about being late. Darren’s dad told you?”
“Mm hm.”
“So why did he tell you? Were you two hanging out?” She tried to wiggle her eyebrows suggestively but her mo’s eyes were steadfastly on her book and she missed it.
“I was borrowing a hammer from him.”
“Darren’s dad owns a hammer?”
“Who had a fight with their boyfriend?”
Greta sighed dramatically and flopped on her back. “I don’t even know what happened there, but I’m pretty sure Darren’s never going to want to hang out with my friends again.”
“I’m sure he’ll get over it. You should put on pajamas before you fall asleep in your dress.”
Greta sighed to cover up a yawn and hoisted herself off the bed and out toward the door. She paused in the hallway. “What needed to be hammered?”
Her mom regarded her over the tops of her knees. “I was going to hang a picture.”
“What was wrong with our hammer?”
Her mom gave her a pointed look over the top of her knees. “I couldn’t find it. Goodnight, Greta.”
Greta gave her mom her best impression of a knowing smile. She completely ignored it in favor of her book.
In the bathroom Greta paused before the mirror. Her hand moved tentatively toward the loose bits of her hair. They were stiff with the dried blood, adding to the look of a struggle she had been trying to emphasize. That wasn’t what she was thinking about, though. She was remembering the way Chris had tucked that piece of hair behind her ear, how warm he had felt so close to her.
Her face was bright red under the blood and wounds and bare light. She grinned at herself.
She skimmed out of the dress and hung it up on the hanger she’d left in there before she washed her face. The blood and contusions smeared together in rivulets down her chin, by the time her face was naked again she wasn’t sure if she was still blushing or if she had scrubbed her skin pink.
Greta couldn’t stop smiling. She went back into her room wrapped in her comfiest pajamas and fluffiest bathrobe too keyed up to sleep. She turned on her computer and opened up her iTunes library, but her quest for Etta James was interrupted by an email from an address she didn’t know.
The message read, hey its chris from the party fri. hope ur friend got home ok. me and bob and charlotte and josh were gonna go to guitar center 2morro call me if u wanna come.
Another one, marked a few minutes later, read, 2morrow=sat
She grinned at the screen. Need your phone number if I’m going to call you, she wrote in the reply field. She paused before hitting send, moved the cursor back through the sentence. She thought about changing the punctuation, maybe the grammar, thought about whether or not he would think she was dorky if she didn’t. The sentence read disingenuously any other way, though. “This is me,” she said to the room at large and hit send.
Halfway through “A Sunday Kind of Love” there was another new message in her inbox. duh, im dum. heres my cell number if u wanted u could call it when ever. im awake. only if ur comin tho, would rather not know if ur gonna blow me off /:
She had her phone in hand and his number half dialed before she noticed she was doing it. There was a ringing on the other end before she realized she should have hung up.
“Hello?” Chris said after the truncated second ring.
“Uh. Hi. This is Greta.”
“Hi--really? Hi! Uh. What’s up?”
“You. Said to call. What time were you guys going to go?”
“Sometime around two. We could pick you up. If you wanted to come, I mean.”
“That sounds awesome.”
---
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
---
“Give it a shot, please," her mom pleaded. "Just approach today with an open mind."
Greta regarded the front of the school and the students traipsing into the building with a healthy amount of skepticism.
Her mom tucked Greta's hair behind her ear. "I can't believe you're starting high school."
Greta huffed out an aggravated sigh. "I draw the line at pictures of me leaving the car." She hadn't seen the camera in her mom's hand when they left the house, but Greta didn't put it past her to produce one from the glove compartment or remember suddenly that her phone had one.
Her mom chuckled. "Go on, sweetie. Knock 'em dead."
Greta stepped out of the car and rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. She looked again at the map she had been given at open house and wove her way through the crowded halls toward her first class.
She wasn't the first person in the room, there was a small group of older kids in the back. They looked up when she came in but she looked quickly to the floor and slid into a desk in the middle of the room, but closer to the door. The first bell rang, and Greta watched the rest of her classmates file in through her eyelashes but no one looked familiar.
She sank lower in her chair.
Just before the final bell rang, Thomas slid into the desk beside her, breathless. She'd never been happier to see him in her life.
"Hey," he panted. "I can't believe we actually have class together that isn't choir for once."
"Yeah. Hey can I get a ride with you tomorrow morning? My mom has to work."
"Sure, probably."
"Well, which one is it?"
"Good morning, class," the teacher started.
Government at the end of the day was almost as much of a relief as History, when she walked into the classroom and spotted a familiar face.
"Is anyone sitting here?" she asked before taking the desk next to him. "I'm Greta, we met at Charlotte's this summer?"
"Oh, yeah, I remember. David Bowie is still better than the Stones."
"It's a shame," she said, grave but not unkind. "The doctors thought a taste transplant would be a success. Obviously not."
Bob laughed.
After she dumped off her backpack in the living room she announced, if a tad bit bitterly, "I'm going to see if Darren's home." His school got out half an hour earlier.
Her mom sighed indulgently--Greta hated that sigh, and said, "Make sure you're back by five. Your dad wants to take you out to dinner."
"Whatever."
"Greta," her mom called before she was out the door. "Was it really that awful? What you told me didn't sound so terrible."
Greta shrugged. Her mom hugged her. "Say hi to Roger and Darren for me."
Greta knocked on the Wilson's door and let herself in.
"Hello," she called.
"Back here," Darren called. She followed his voice to the family room and threw herself on the couch dramatically.
"That bad?" he asked without pausing his game.
"No," she admitted dourly. "I mean I have History with Thomas, and I met this really awesome girl who plays keytar in a band--"
"Wait, is her name Victoria?"
"Yeah, you know her?"
"No, but Nate from band keeps talking about her. Johnson didn't think she was real."
Greta snorted. "She's real. She's so cool." She tugged at the fraying hem of her t-shirt. "I have lunch with Charlotte and Hayley and Government with Bob. Do you remember me telling you about him? From Charlotte's this summer?"
Darren made a vague listening noise and tried to pull off a bonus. She snickered when he lost it. "Three stars?"
"Hey, you try to play this song in expert."
"All right, I will." She reached out and wiggled her fingers for the plastic guitar. He handed it over and flopped back in the cushions. "How about you?" she asked.
He made a noncommittal noise. "It was school. We got the piece for tryouts in band."
"Oh yeah?" She restarted the song. "What chair do you think you'll get this year?"
He grunted. "There's this new kid who transferred from St. John's, I think his name was Spencer? He's good."
"You're better."
"Hey, you're gonna lose the bonus."
"No I'm not," she insisted, pulling up on the neck just in time.
She thought she heard a familiar engine rumble to a stop nearby. She jumped across the cord of the guitar--"hey!" Darren crowed, jerking to the side to see past her even though the TV took up most of the wall--and peaked through the blinds that looked into the street. Her dad's F-250 was parked behind her mom's Honda. She saw his back as he walked up the sidewalk to the front door, but she could see a demure silhouette still in the passenger seat.
"Is your dad here?"
Greta rolled her eyes and pulled away from the blinds so quickly they snapped angrily together. "Let's play another song."
Darren shrugged and handed over the guitar when she came back to the couch.
Two songs later, she heard the front door open and Mr. Wilson call, "Darren?"
"Back here," Darren responded.
"Hello there, Greta," Mr. Wilson said when he poked his head into the room. "How were your first days?"
"Fine," Darren grunted without looking away from the screen.
"All right," Greta answered.
"I think I saw your dad's car in the driveway," Mr. Wilson informed her.
She sighed hard enough for her bangs to dance with her breath. "Guess I should probably go."
"Later."
"Have a good night. Say hello to your mother."
When she crossed the front yard she didn't take her eyes off the woman in the passenger seat of her dad's truck. The woman was oblivious of the scrutiny until Greta was almost parallel to her. Only then did she look up from her cell phone, tucking her straight brown hair behind one ear with long manicured nails. She spotted Greta and smiled, broad and fake, revealing a perfect row of teeth. She waved at Greta, curling her fingers into her palm repetitively with plastic enthusiasm.
Greta looked away.
She opened the front door to her parents standing in the hallway like boxers at opposite corners. Her dad opened his mouth but rather than watch the latest round begin Greta said, "Ready to go?"
"Sure, kiddo," he said, finally taking his gaze off her mom. He grinned at her just as fake as the woman in the car. "Goodbye, Veronica," he said too sweetly over his shoulder.
Greta dragged her feet down the driveway. Her dad matched pace with her after the front door slammed shut and hissed, “Please mind your manners. She’s nice, you’ll like her.” He walked ahead. Greta climbed in the back of the cab only after her dad had already gotten in the driver’s seat. “Greta, this is Amber,” he said smiling pleasantly at the woman in the passenger seat before pulling out of the driveway.
The woman turned in her seat to look at Greta in the back, the same smile plastered on her face. “Hi, Greta. Your dad’s told me so much about you. It’s great to finally meet you!”
Greta pasted on a matching smile. “Really? He’s never mentioned you!”
“Greta Morgan,” he said sharply. “Don’t be rude.”
Greta rolled her eyes but she didn’t miss the way Amber’s smile became more rigid before she turned forward again.
“How was your first day of high school?” her dad asked. Rather than give him more ammunition against her mom, Greta shrugged.
“Did you have classes with anyone you know?” Amber asked.
“A few.”
“What about lunch?” Amber asked. “I remember on my first day I was so nervous I wouldn’t have anyone to sit with.”
“When was that, last year?” Greta muttered under her breath. She didn’t get yelled at for it, so she assumed the comment went unheard. The cab went silent except for the sound of the road under the tires.
---
Darren was standing in line outside the band room with the rest of the percussion section after the last bell had rung. He was in line behind Alex Johnson, who was chewing on the end of his pen like he wished it was something else. "It's so dumb trying out for first chair when you know it's either going to Bryar or McGinley," Johnson complained. Darren had to agree.
"Why's it going to be them?" the new kid--Darren thought his name was Spencer--asked.
Nate rolled his eyes. "Bob and Matt are the best drummers in school."
"Plus," Matt added as he walked up to the line. "Mr. Walker and Mr. Dodd usually put seniors in first chair. Hey, guys. Is Bob in there now?"
Johnson nudged Darren, pointing at Nate's embarrassed flush. They snickered. "Yeah, he just went in. It'll probably be a few more minutes." The practice room was too well sound proofed for them to be able to tell.
"My band's playing Pete's party this weekend," Matt said. "If you're doing anything this Friday, make sure it's coming to see us play, all right?"
"I'm in a band," Spencer said.
"We're all in bands," Johnson said tersely.
"What kind of music do you play?" Spencer asked, ignoring Johnson.
"It's kind of hip-hop with a rock band, but mostly it's me and some guys doing whatever we want. It's awesome, you should come check us out. Bring all your friends. You're new, right? Do you know where Pete lives? I'll make sure you get directions tomorrow."
"If your band ever gets a show," Nate said, "you should take advice from Matt on shameless self-promotion."
"Who needs shameless self-promotion," Matt started, slinging an arm around Nate's shoulder and pulling him in for a noogie, "when I've got my very own cheering section right here? What was it Nate said?"
"I believe that you're the best drummer in school," Johnson said.
"One of the best," Nate insisted, shaking Matt off. "Too bad Bob's going to own your ass."
"Oh, yeah," Johnson said flippantly, anxiously twitching his pen between his fingers. "My bad. It was hard to hear what with Nate's lips puckered around Matt's dick." He mimed a blowjob out of a porno.
The amused smile that had been on Darren's face faded into something more uncomfortable. He looked away, but he heard it when Nate punched Johnson's shoulder--hard, from the sound of it and Johnson’s “ow, motherfucker!”--and Matt said, "Don't be a dick, dick."
The practice room door opened and Bob lumbered out. Johnson was slipping in the room before Mr. Walker finished saying "next."
"Bob," Matt greeted. "How'd it go?"
Bob shrugged and tilted his head to scratch at the patchy beard he was growing. "You know how it is. They won't say anything until seat assignments go up next week."
"Bob!" a loud, excited voice crowed from down the hall followed by the quick pounding of footsteps and Frank Iero launching himself at Bob's back.
"Fuck, Frankie," Bob grunted, but his hand came up to steady Frank's knee at Bob's waist.
"You done yet?" Frank asked. "Let's go to Gee's."
"Is that how your mother taught you to ask a favor, you bum? Aren't you supposed to be in detention?"
"No, but it worked on your mom last night." Frank already had his other leg out to catch himself when Bob dumped him, he only hobbled a little until Bob let go of his other leg. Darren tried to stop himself from laughing. "Jamia wasn't there so I'm skipping. Come on, let's go to Gee's."
Bob rolled his eyes but said, "Good luck," and followed Frank down the hallway.
After a few minutes of the remaining percussion section tapping out the practice piece against walls and thighs, the band room door opened again and Johnson sauntered out, making a bee line for the side exit. "Next," Mr. Walker said, itching under the hem of his suit jacket and revealing a flash of bright ink when he did. Spencer followed him in the room.
Nate looked unimpressed. "How much do you wanna bet Johnson gets expelled for cigarettes on school grounds before end of the year?"
"More like the end of the semester," Darren snorted.
Matt grinned at him, maybe a little surprised. Darren ducked his head. "Hey," Matt said, nudging his shoulder. "Didn't know you were gonna be in World Lit this semester. Want to be partners for the group project?"
"Uh--yeah, sure."
"Awesome. I'll save you a seat tomorrow."
"Did you hear Radiohead's new album yet?" Nate asked.
Darren tuned them out, air drumming the rough parts of the piece they were being tested on.
“Darren,” Mr. Dodd said. Darren shook his head as if to clear it and tried to ignore the way the other guys were snickering. “Care to join us in here?”
“Sorry.” Darren put his head down and made his way into the band room.
“How’re you doing?” Mr. Walker drawled when Mr. Dodd closed the door behind him and took the chair next to Mr. Walker. “You ready?” Darren nodded and took his place behind the snare. “Take a deep breath,” Mr. Walker advised. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Darren took a deep breath and counted out his beat before he launched into the piece, catching above the edge of the music stand the way Mr. Walker and Mr. Dodd placidly watched him play. Darren focused on the sheet music in front of him and the movement of his hands.
When he was finished he looked up, but the band directors still had matching unreadable expressions. “Now the xylophone piece please,” Mr. Walker said, gesturing to the other instrument set up.
“Just to let you know,” Mr. Dodd informed. “Intentionally messing it up won’t keep you from getting assigned to it in concert pieces.”
“Xylophone is a vital portion of percussion section,” Mr. Walker said, although Darren didn’t know if it was directed at him or Mr. Dodd.
A week later when Greta came over for practice, Darren led the way to the garage and said, “So I got fourth chair.”
“Darren!” she crowed, jumping after him to wrap an arm around his waist. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” he grinned. “Nate’s ahead of me, it’s not too bad.”
“You’ll beat him next year,” Greta said confidently.
Darren shrugged as he sat behind his kit. “I beat Johnson and Spencer. That’s all I cared about. Did you finish that new song?”
“Kind of. There’s something missing. I showed it to Bob--you remember me telling you about Bob, right?--well I showed it to him and he was suggesting some things, I think it would really make it go, you know?”
“Things like what?” Darren frowned.
Greta shrugged. “Different perspective. Bob plays guitar, you know? I was thinking about bringing him to practice.”
“So do you,” Darren muttered, but it was lost in Greta’s warm up.
After a few songs they took a break, Darren’s arms beginning to throb. “You were rushing the beat in that last one,” Greta pointed out.
“Was not.”
“You totally, totally were.”
“Whatever, it sounds better as a fast song.”
“It’s meant to be a slow song,” she said obstinately.
“All right, fine. I’ll pay more attention next time.”
“Good.” She looked quizzically at her keyboard. “Maybe this song would sound better with a guitar.”
Darren shrugged. “Whatever works.” He figured it was her call; he would be on drums regardless of what Greta played. He didn’t know she had been writing songs for the guitar.
“Oh, hey,” she added suddenly. “My mom’s latest ‘friend’ is a goner.”
“Officially or hypothetically?”
“She dumped him yesterday. Maybe she’ll make her move on your dad this time.” Greta grinned at him mischievously.
“Hey, maybe he’ll make a move on her.” Ever since the Salpeter’s divorce, Greta and Darren had been imaging the day their parents would fall in love like the climax of one of the movies Greta made Darren watch when he made her sit through too many action flicks.
She gave him a skeptical look. “Does your dad even date?”
He laughed. “No. Come on, let’s play some more before we have to call it quits.”
---
"I was thinking about Halloween," Greta started over the end credits of This is Spinal Tap.
"Wanna have a Saw marathon this year?" Darren asked, shutting off the TV. Greta looked at the clock in the kitchen, saw that it was late enough that they could start practicing, and led the way to the garage.
"Actually I was kind of thinking about going to this party Bob was telling me about." Darren gave her a surprised look. Greta huffed out a sigh. "Don't look at me like that, it might be fun. Plus a bunch of kids from your school are going to be there, too. Apparently this Pete guy is like the social director of the city or something."
"I don't know, Greta." Darren frowned thoughtfully as he settled in behind his kit.
"I know, but. If it's lame, we'll just leave, right? Please come," she pleaded with Darren, sticking out her bottom lip in a pitiful pout.
It made him snort. "Fine," he finally conceded. "I guess my dad would probably let me borrow the car."
"Yes!" she cheered. "We'll have fun, you'll see. You'll get to meet Bob."
The look he gave her was a trifle bit more skeptical than she would've liked, but he agreed and that was the important thing. Once Darren agreed to do something he rarely went back on his word. "You pick the song?" she offered. He looked at his kit, considering.
"We need to do something creative for Halloween," Greta insisted over lunch that Monday. "Wasn't everyone creative last year?" Bob nodded, but in the same absent sort of way she had gotten used to from Darren and Thomas. She found more sympathy from Charlotte.
"We can't do it like middle school, either. We can't just be witches or... glitter fairies or something. I think Hayley knows a place," Charlotte volunteered.
"All right girls," Greta's mom said when she parked the car. "I'll get some tea and you'll just call me when you're ready to leave, sound good?"
"Sure, Mom."
"Thanks, Mrs. Salpeter," Hayley said dutifully followed by Charlotte's "yeah, thanks."
"Your mom is so much cooler than mine," Hayley told her when they were alone in the parking lot. Greta looked skeptically at Hayley's orange hair. "No, you don't understand. My mom would have come in with us and tried to find stuff she thought looked cool." She made a face to convey how not cool that was.
Greta shrugged. She didn't really mind it when her mom went shopping with her.
"Come on, seriously," Charlotte said. She was already leading the way to the consignment shop. Inside was dim and overstuffed with clothes, racks lining the walls and the floor, no two pieces looking the same. It felt a bit overwhelming. Greta followed Charlotte and Hayley to the costume section with a little more apprehension; this was their idea, not hers. She didn't know how the costume section of the consignment shop would be any different than the costume section of any other store.
"You're not going to be a saucy wench," Charlotte insisted again.
Hayley shook her behind, the gauzy points of her too-short skirt danced around her thighs. "Why not?"
"Because it's cliche."
Hayley ran her fingers over the crushed velvet of the fake corset. "But I like it. Who cares about cliche?" Charlotte started to argue; Greta rolled her eyes and wandered the retro section of the store.
Some of the things there were really atrociously bad: beaded vests with leather tassels, chunky sweaters with fuzzy baubles, linen shirts with boxy shapes and holes in the hem lines. She ran her fingers absently over the array of fabrics, loved how they went from slick to rough to nearly insubstantial on their hangers. Her nail caught on a gold sequin. She pulled the hanger off the rack for a better look and found the gold to be attached to cap sleeves attached to a smooth, pale blue dress.
She tilted her head to one side, giving the dress a quizzical look before deciding to hang it back on the rack.
"You should try it on," someone said over her shoulder, Greta turned around, startled, to see it was the clerk who had been behind the counter when they walked in. She gave Greta an encouraging smile, wide and honest and showing all her perfectly straight teeth. "Seriously, you'll look good in it." The clerk went back to hanging other merchandise--she looked so familiar, but Greta couldn't place her--and Greta went back to considering the dress.
"You're not going to be a saucy wench," she heard Charlotte insist again, her temper getting shorter. Greta thought, Might as well. That fight wouldn't resolve any time soon. Hayley enjoyed egging Charlotte on too much. As she passed them, Hayley smiled at her in the mirror in front of the dressing rooms, shit-eating grin so utterly pleased it made Greta snort.
She hung the dress on the peg in the dressing room, and as she stripped out of her jeans and t-shirt the smell of mothballs and history, gentle and familiar like her grandparents' attic, overwhelmed her. The dress itself was still creased as though it had only just been liberated from the bottom of a trunk or a closet. She paused before putting it on, tracing the webbing of gold thread and sequins at the sleeves. The dress slipped easily over her arms; she imagined it felt like water sliding around her body, fabric moving to hug her skin in a way that was more comfortable than exposing. She tugged the hem to make sure it covered her before pushing the curtain aside. The dressing room didn't have a mirror.
Charlotte saw her first. She stopped making whatever point she had been in the middle of to stare. It made Greta stop. "What?" she asked, shifting awkwardly in her bare feet. "Is it that bad?"
Hayley turned around then, craning her neck to see Greta beyond the corner that kept her out of sight of the mirror. "Oh my god," she said. "Is it bad? Are you kidding me?" She rushed toward Greta to drag her forward. "Look!"
Greta did. The dress, it was cut differently than the rest of the clothes she owned. Instead of hugging uncomfortably to the broadening flare of her hips or catching on the small curve at her belly that most of her clothes accentuated, it slid past them. Instead of gripping the tops of her thighs or threatening to expose anything underneath if she moved the wrong way, the skirt flared out delicately and ended just at her knee. Instead of feeling awkward, as though she were putting herself on display in clothes meant for someone ten pounds skinnier regardless of what size the tag claimed, she felt pretty.
"We should put your hair back," Charlotte said from her left, demonstrating by tugging her blonde hair off her shoulders and holding it messily atop her head. "I think I have some clips that would look cool with these sleeves."
"We'll have to look up '20s hair styles when we get back, figure out how to something that fits," Hayley said from her right. "Did they do anything other than bobs then?"
"You think it's a flapper dress?" Charlotte asked. "I think we could probably do something from earlier--or, oh, we could probably even do something from the '40s, my grandma could probably help, she'd remember."
"I don't think it's from that late," Hayley insisted.
"You guys," Greta interrupted, tearing her eyes from the way the dress made her body look like something different, the way she had to squint to search out the imperfections she normally found quickly beneath the cut. "I never said I'm getting it."
Charlotte and Hayley both stared at Greta somewhat incredulously. "You're kidding, right?" Hayley insisted again.
"Seriously?" Charlotte agreed. "Because that's a really dumb joke."
"It's a Halloween party," she tried to ague. "Going as," she searched for a word to describe the look but all that came to mind was flapper and that didn't feel quite accurate. Instead she settled on "my grandmother is kind of lame."
Charlotte rolled her eyes. "We'll get you fangs then."
"Old time-y vampire!" Hayley exclaimed. "I love it. I'll be a saucy wench vampire and Charlotte can be an '80s punk vampire, we'll be a theme!"
"Yeah, how about no?" Charlotte let Greta's hair tumble back down around her shoulders. "Seriously, Greta, you look incredible. I think you should get it."
"Oh, zombie! We'll paint your face white and give you a head wound, it'll be awesome. Now we just need to find something for Charlotte."
"And for you," Charlotte insisted as she let Hayley drag her back toward the racks to dig through them for a look.
"Early Madonna would be awesome," Hayley said, ignoring her cheerfully.
"No," Charlotte insisted.
Greta stayed in front of the mirror, head cocked to one side, considering. She smoothed her fingertips over her waist, down to the skirt until she couldn't reach it anymore.
The clerk appeared behind her, grabbing an armload of fitting room castoffs. "Oh good, you tried it on. What do you think?"
"I think... it looks all right."
The clerk smiled at her in the mirror. "That's not what the look on your face says."
"Oh really?" Greta asked, blushing, embarrassed and maybe a little offended.
"Yeah. It says you look comfortable." She walked away, leaving Greta to look at her reflection. She pulled her hair back, holding it behind her head in a messy bun. She raised herself on her tip toes as though she were wearing heels and she turned to the side to look at her silhouette, considering.
"I am not going as '80s Madonna!" Charlotte practically shouted from somewhere behind her. Greta snorted and let her hair fall again. She thought she should go back into the dressing room and change into her normal clothes, but she found herself wandering back toward them, barefoot and loving the way the dress shifted around her legs as she walked.
---
"You will not drink," Roger Wilson informed his son again.
"I know, Dad," Darren said petulantly. "I never drink."
"And you will not start tonight." Darren muttered what sounded like, "Fine, I'll start tomorrow," sarcastically, to which Greta whispered, "Darren!" sharply.
Roger chose to ignore all of this. "You will be home by midnight, not a moment later, and if you think you might possibly be even a minute late you call myself and Greta's mother."
"Thought I wasn't supposed to talk on my phone and drive."
"Darren, shut up," Greta whispered fiercely. Her hand darted out, and from where she stood behind Darren, Roger couldn't see what she did, but from the way Darren jumped, he assumed she pinched him.
Roger ignored this as well. "Greta will call while you drive," he said tightly. "And you will be extremely careful of pedestrians--"
"What pedestrians? Halloween was three days ago." Darren jolted again and this time threw a glare over his shoulder at her. "Fine," he said to Roger. "I swear I'll be extra careful of pedestrians." He held out his hand, palm up. Roger still didn't relinquish the keys.
To Greta, Roger said, "You will not drink either, nor will you accept drinks from anyone that you do not open for yourself, nor will you let your non-alcoholic drink out of your sight."
"Of course not, Mr. Wilson," Greta agreed with considerably more grace than Darren. "My mom gave me the same lecture."
Roger regarded both of them for a moment, so young but nothing resembling the children who had made pillow forts in his living room. He sighed. "Most importantly of all, I want to two of you to look out for each other."
"We will, Dad."
"Yes, Mr. Wilson."
With that he handed over the keys. "Have fun," he called at their backs. "Bye," they echoed.
He stared dumbly at the door when it closed behind them, heard the engine rumble to life and waited for the telltale pulse of a bass line that meant they were breaking the 'no loud music' rule.
He heard none.
He looked around his house--so unnaturally silent, especially for a Friday night--at a bit of a loss for what he was to do then.
---
Veronica Salpeter knocked on the Wilson's door before she could stop herself. It went unanswered.
Just as she was turning to leave the door jerked open. "Sorry," Roger said, a little flustered. "I'm not used to someone who knocks and waits for an answer. Is everything all right?"
"Everything's fine," she waved away his concern. "Greta still does that? I'll have a talk with her."
"It's fine, it's fine. Answering the door is far more of a bother than--uh, I mean, please come in." He stepped to one side and swept his arm out in a grandiose welcome.
"Thank you," she smiled, letting herself be a little bit charmed. The closing of the door behind her rustled her blonde hair; she flicked it over her shoulder. "I'm just, uh," she started. "I have to work an overnight shift at the hospital next Saturday and Ben's out of town again."
"Yes, Greta told me. Of course our couch is always open to her."
"Thank you, I really appreciate it."
"Any time. We love having her." A minute passed in awkward silence before Roger asked, "Was there anything--?"
"--oh, no," she cut him off, stepping back to reach for the doorknob just as Roger moved forward for it. "That was--" They bumped shoulders awkwardly. Roger jerked back.
"Is this strange to you?" she blurted out. "Our kids are at a high school party."
Roger sighed, and Veronica thought that it sounded relieved that someone else was recognizing the elephant in the room. "Darren barely went to parties at Chuck E. Cheese. I was a bit shocked when he asked to go to this one."
"It's Greta. She's--she's really embracing this high school experience. I'm--"
"--worried?"
"--happy for her, but yes."
They both paused for breath, smiling ruefully after a moment.
"They're good kids," Veronica assured them both.
Roger nodded in solemn agreement, so much of Darren in the gesture. "They'll look after each other."
"Exactly. And Darren is a very safe driver."
"Very true. And Greta's very responsible."
"Very--" Veronica cut herself off with a laugh. "God, listen to us. Do you think our parents had the same conversation about us?"
Roger snorted. "I never told mine when I was going out, I just sneaked out of the window after they went to bed. That's partly why I'm trusting Darren now."
"You, really?"
"Brianne and I were Hell raisers. Would you like a drink?"
"Sure, thank you." She followed Roger to the kitchen. The house looked the same as it had the last time she’d gone inside years before, white walls lined with bookshelves. The tops of the shelves held picture frames, some of them with updated pictures, almost all of them containing Darren at some stage of life. Many of them were of Darren with Greta. “It looks like your library is moving on from the living room to the rest of the house,” she noted.
"I keep meaning to get rid of most of them, I just never get around to it. Coke, tea, coffee?"
"Tea, please." She sat in the chair he gestured to and watched him as he filled and heated the kettle. If she wasn’t mistaken, Roger’s cheeks seemed to be a brighter shade of red than normal. "Brianne is Darren's mother, right? I didn't realize you two grew up together."
"High school sweethearts," he confirmed. His tone turned self-deprecating. "It was all so very dramatic and romantic. Her mother was trying to keep us apart." He sat across from her with a rueful sigh. "Of course that only made our plan to elope after high school even more appealing. We fancied ourselves a modern day Romeo and Juliet."
"Straight out of high school? That's so young."
"A couple years after, but, yes it was." Roger fell silent for a moment. "Sometimes I can't believe how much things have changed."
Veronica chuckled bitterly. "I know what you mean. Everything's turning out all right in the end though, I think."
Roger smiled easily at that. "I certainly hope so. I could do without the attitude he's got lately, but I wouldn't change the rest of it. Most of the time."
"My mom promised me they mellow out again around 22."
"That long?" he groaned.
Veronica chuckled, this time easier. “It makes it so much harder, sometimes, doesn’t it? If I introduce her to a boyfriend I can never tell if she hates him on principle or actually hates him. Do you know what I mean?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. I, uh. I don’t introduce my dates to Darren.”
“Ever? Do you just...not see anyone seriously, or...?”
The kettle hissed and Roger got up to make the tea. “Well, I. Uh. It’s not that I don’t, I just--relationships don’t often last. I worry he’ll get attached to someone and then she just...won’t be there anymore.”
"Thank you," she said when he handed her the mug. She let it warm her palms for a moment in awkward silence before blowing thoughtfully over the rim. “I just want to show her that life goes on,” Veronica said idly. “Oh--not to say anything about the way you’ve been--”
“No, of course,” he assured her. “I didn’t take it like that.” He sipped his tea. “I am seeing someone.”
“Oh?” she asked, surprised. “Are you two serious?”
“I don’t know,” he mused into his cup. “I think we could be.” He set the mug back on the table with a loud clatter. He asked, “What would you say about something a little stronger to drink?”
She grinned. “I’d say that sounds like a good idea.”
---
"This is going to be fun," Greta told him for the millionth time. "Stop being so lame."
"Yeah," he muttered. "Because every day I go to school is so much fun that I will have a blast extending the torture into my weekend when there are no teachers around to threaten anyone into quitting."
Greta rolled her eyes. "I pinkie swore if it's that bad we only have to hang out long enough for you to meet Bob and then we can leave."
"We can't go home early," he responded dourly. "I didn't get that lecture three times since asking if I could go just to come home by ten anyway."
She grinned triumphantly. "We'll have fun," she promised again. "You'll see. Bob is awesome. He plays guitar."
"So do you."
Greta turned the radio on, let it sit at the alternative station for a minute before making her way through the rest of the presets.
"Hey, go back. I like that song."
"I refuse to listen to Nickelback." The oldies station was playing a Beach Boys song; she let it go for a few bars before turning it again, ending up on an old Linkin Park song. She cracked the volume dial up.
"Hey, turn it down," he said without taking his eyes off the road.
"Your dad's not in the car," Greta shouted over the music. "We can live a little on the wild side."
After Darren executed a perfect left hand turn he said, "Come on, Greta." His knuckles were white around the steering wheel.
She sighed, wishing for a moment for the loud, wild rides down the highway that most teen movies led her to believe she would be having. But she leaned forward and turned the volume down to less ear-splitting levels and Darren's grip on the wheel loosened almost automatically. By the time she was saying, "Pull over here, this is Charlotte's house," he had loosened up enough to tap along with the beat with his fingers.
Up at the house, the curtain in the front window moved before the front door opened and Charlotte, Emily, Ani, and Hayley marched out. "You didn't say there were four of them," Darren said. He rubbed worriedly at the wrinkles his raised eyebrows made on his forehead with his palm. "There are, like, laws against that. My dad would be pissed if he found out."
"He won't," she promised. "I'm sorry, it really was supposed to be just Charlotte and Hayley."
The back door opened and the four of them crammed into the bench. "Hey," Hayley spoke up first. "Thanks a lot for the ride."
"Yeah, thanks," the others echoed. Darren smiled tightly in acknowledgment. Greta introduced them all and then they were off.
"It's kind of cool to finally meet you, Darren," Emily announced at a red light. "Greta talks about you all the time."
Greta looked at Darren; a small, pleased smile was on his face. "Just wait until you get to meet Bob, too," she promised. "Then you'll know, like, all the cool kids." He looked at her skeptically for a heartbeat before the light was turning and his eyes focused dutifully back on the road.
---
They drove down a street already jam-packed with cars centered around one house, obnoxiously loud music pouring from it. The house was set back a little from the other neighbors, but cars were still packed in front of other houses. They circled the block again until Darren came to a place to park. "You know the neighbors are probably going to call the cops and they're going to break it up, right?"
"So we can say we fought the law, it'll be a dramatic story."
Darren regarded her for a moment. "Seriously?"
"Yep," she said cheerfully.
He sighed and twisted the key from the ignition. The girls were already out of the backseat and on the sidewalk adjusting their costumes or something.
Inside, it actually looked like a house party in a movie. People were crammed everywhere. The front door opened into the living room, where the bodies seemed to be centered. The furniture there had been moved aside and a makeshift stage was set up in one corner dominating the attention of most of the house.
Greta tugged the sleeve of Darren's jacket, making him stoop so she could shout in his ear, "That's Patrick singing." He nodded along like it meant something to him. Her hand stayed at his elbow, though, which, as he looked out at the crowded living room of people he half-recognized and didn't know, he was grateful for.
"Oh, there," she said, pulling him away from Patrick's band, along the edge of the crowd, and further into the house after the other girls. They stopped just at the edge of the room in front of a group of guys the girls greeted.
"This is Bob," she introduced a redheaded guy with a grand sweep of her hand, like she was presenting something remarkable. She pointed at the rest of the guys in turn. "I think you know Chris? That's Ian and Drew. This," she said with a flourish toward him, "is Darren."
The guys all waved or jerked their heads up, but they were all mostly talking to the girls.
"Heard a lot about you," Bob said. "Kind of didn't think you were for real."
"I seem to get that a lot."
"Greta says you play drums."
Darren nodded. "We have a band. We've had a band since we were, like, nine. We sound pretty awesome."
"That's--really cool. I'm in a band, but we've only been practicing for a couple months. I play guitar."
"Greta mentioned." They lapsed into an awkward silence. Darren shoved his hands in his pockets and let his shoulders slump. He watched Greta talk animatedly with one of the guys--Ian?--and the girls slowly begin to disperse.
"Oh, hey," the punk rocker with pretty hair said absently. "There's my brother." He wandered off, Emily watched sadly after him.
Out of nowhere a guy was stumbling into Darren, pushing him into Bob. Someone crowed loudly; when Darren righted himself he looked to see a guy hanging off Ian's back, one arm thrust victoriously in the air. The guy was wearing a battered Scream mask but when he shouted, "Holy fuck, Wilson?" Darren had no problem recognizing Cash Cooligan's voice.
"Hey," Johnson said behind him. "Sup?" He put his cigarette out in the red plastic cup dangling from Cash's hand and lit another one.
DeLeon took the cup from Cash before he could drink from it and smiled winningly. "We're reclaiming Ian," he said apologetically. "Come on, Ian!"
"We're going to dance," Greta announced over the beginning of the next song. She let Ani pull her to the living room.
Darren was left standing awkwardly with Bob and Chris. "You’re in band at FBR, right? Ready for the new piece on Monday?" he asked Chris awkwardly. Chris shrugged without looking away from the band. They were pretty all right, Darren thought.
"Kind of cool, huh?" Bob shouted over the music, breaking the awkward silence they had been standing in. "I think I'd play less Blink covers, though."
Darren frowned. "It's not like it's easy to get up and play like that."
"Well, yeah, true." Bob scratched at the shoulder seam of his shirt. The whiteness of the toilet paper wrapped around his body made his face look a lot redder. "Hey, your costume looks really familiar. Is it from anything?"
Darren shrugged self-consciously and resisted the urge to make sure his fake mustache was still securely attached. "Just, Blades. From Dawn of the Dead."
"And Land of the Dead." Bob's grin looked a little triumphant. "He was the make-up artist on the films, right? What was his name, Ted something?"
Darren felt his face heat. "Tom Savini."
"I think Edgar Wright is my favorite cameo in the entire series. How cool must that have been?"
Before Darren could open his mouth, though, Greta was nudging him. "Hey, hold my drink?" she asked. She was breathless. When he nodded and held out his hand, she grinned. "Thanks! Hey, what are you talking about? You should talk about what horrible taste in music you both have!" She sighed sadly and said to Chris, "They both like Nickelback."
"What's wrong with Nickelback?" Chris asked.
She laughed and made her way back to the living room.
---
After one more song she left Ani in the mosh pit Pete managed to get going in his living room for the corner the guys seemed to have claimed. She crashed into Darren. "Drink?" He handed over the Coke that had been dangling in his left hand. "Thank you, good sir knight," she said grandly. Bob and Chris both grinned at her. When the last chords of the song finally died off she asked Darren, "Are you having any fun at all?"
He shrugged and scratched at his hair, turned his attention back to Bob when he started talking again. She frowned at him, considering. It was like the look he gave her when it was her turn to choose for movie night and she was picking for revenge; it could have been his 'I'm enjoying myself but I'm being too much of a stubborn ass to admit it' look or it could have been his 'I really do hate my life and am planning a terrible, horrible plague on both your houses for making me do this.' She sighed, frustrated. Still, at least he was getting along with Bob.
Chris leaned toward her, pushed the strand of hair she had left artfully down behind her ear to say, loud enough to be heard over the music, "You look really pretty." He moved back--he was probably only near her for a second, but she could still feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. It made her shiver.
She pressed the edge of her can of Coke to her mouth to hide the way she bit her lip. "Thanks," she shouted after a second. "Your costume's cool, too."
Chris grinned, broadly. His cheeks were as flushed as she felt. He took a deep breath and said in a rush, leaning toward her but not touching her this time, "I still think Black Flag's lyrical style owns Social Distortion."
She quirked her head to one side. "Huh?"
Chris' face got brighter. "Uh, I just--what you said. You know, this summer? I found a bunch of Social Distortion videos on YouTube but I still think... "
"The genius of Social Distortion doesn't come from their lyrical style, though, it's in their--"
"Seamless genre-busting," he finished.
She paused at that, a pleased smile cracking her face. "You did remember."
Chris scratched the back of his neck and muttered, so low she was positive she wasn't meant to hear it, "You're pretty memorable."
"I'm sorry I don't--I never did look up Cage the Elephant."
"You could--if you want you could borrow their CD from me sometime and see. I mean, if you want."
"I--yeah, yes I would love--like." She laughed at herself, pushing her hair behind her ear. She could feel her fingers drag through the congealing gel at her head wound and smeared the fake blood into her hair. "Sure."
"You should give me your email and, like, phone number then." He slipped his hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone, he navigated it to the new contact screen before handing it to her. She gave him her phone number and email address before holding it out to give it back; her palms were so slick with clammy sweat that she worried he would be able to feel it on the case.
"I don't--I don't have a cell phone, so..."
He reached out for it but didn't pull it from her fingers right away. "So I'll, uh, I'll email you mine and...stuff."
Before he took his phone back he turned her hand to trace the bruises her mom had painted on her knuckles; the feel of his fingers was light on her skin, enough that they sent goosebumps up her arms. "Those are really good looking. You did awesome. Very...realistic."
"Thanks, I. My mom did them. If I was coming as a dead girl it wasn't going to be without putting up a fight."
He laughed. "That's really cool. I like that."
"Thanks."
"Greta, oh my god." Charlotte practically crashed into her. Chris caught her elbow with his other hand before she could fall into him.
"Hayley's, like, drunk and I can't find anyone. My mom so can't find out, I--"
Greta reached out for Darren, both he and Bob turned to look at her. "I guess Hayley's drunk? We should go."
"Later," Bob waved, looking maybe a little disappointed.
"Later," Chris echoed more quietly. Greta let Charlotte drag her off to wherever Hayley was, trusting that Darren was following as well.
---
Between Darren and Ani they managed to get Hayley into the car. "Where are we going?" he asked.
"If we go to my house," Emily volunteered before sliding into the back seat, "we can probably get by my mom without getting in trouble."
"So Barrington," Greta added.
Darren checked the time on his cell phone. "If we go all the way out there, we're going to be late and my dad will freak."
Greta slammed the door behind Charlotte, Emily, and Ani with Hayley draped over their laps. She chewed on her bottom lip, frowning thoughtfully. "I think if you tell your dad we'll be late because...because--here, just tell him a friend of mine had a huge fight with her boyfriend and she would have been stranded, so you had to take her home. I think he'd be cool with that, don't you?"
Darren rubbed his palm across his forehead. "Yeah, yeah all right." He dialed home. When his dad picked up he said, "Hey, don't be mad but we're going to be a little late."
There was a heavy pause on the other end before his dad asked, "Why, exactly, will you be late?"
"One of Greta's friends had a fight with her boyfriend or something, he practically stranded her here so we got volunteered to drive her home to Barrington. Figured being late was better than just leaving her here."
There was another pause and then his dad was saying, "That's an acceptable reason to be late. Did Greta call her mother yet?"
Darren gave Greta a thumbs up, tried not to sigh loud enough that the receiver picked it up. "No, not yet."
"I'll let her know then. Drive safe. Call when you're on the way back."
Darren flipped the phone shut and Greta reached for it. "Let me call my mom."
"Dad said he'd tell her."
Greta's shoulders sagged in relief, "Awesome. She totally would've asked more questions. Let's just get going then?"
"I've been waiting to hear that all night," Darren muttered as he climbed into the driver's seat. In the back, Hayley was very loudly butchering a Christina Aguilera song. Charlotte was shouting over her, "Oh my god if you don't shut the fuck up right now."
"Words won't bring me down!" Hayley insisted at ear-splitting decibels.
Darren clicked his seat belt into place and tried not to grip the steering wheel too tightly.
Four wrong turns later, Darren finally pulled up to Emily's house and the four of them started to pile out. Not before Hayley launched herself between the front seats and grabbed Darren by the hair to turn his face toward her, though. She smacked a sloppy, loud, wet kiss to his forehead. "Thank you," she said sincerely, the smell of beer on her breath overpowering that close up, before letting Ani drag her out.
When the door slammed shut behind her, Darren felt the tension from his shoulders bleed out.
He dug in his pocket for his cell phone to toss at Greta. "Will you call Dad and tell him we're on the way home?"
She paused, frowning quizzically at the screen.
"What?"
"Your dad said he'd tell my mom we'd be late, right?"
"Yeah?"
"Why, exactly?"
"I don't know, I guess if they were talking or something..." Darren snapped his head to the side to look at her. "What if--what if they were on a date or something?"
"Oh my god." A gleeful smile split her face. "Wouldn't that be awesome?"
"Dude, that would--yes!" He offered his hand for a high five; hers smacked satisfyingly against his before their hands slid smoothly into fists and they bumped their knuckles together.
When they pulled into Darren's driveway, there was a light coming from his dad's study and the second floor of Greta's house.
Greta looked crestfallen. Darren felt that way a little bit himself. "Night, I guess. Thanks for coming. It wasn't that bad, was it?"
Darren shrugged.
"Seemed like you and Bob were getting along." He couldn't tell if he was imagining a teasing lilt to her voice or not. He only hoped the streetlight wasn’t bright enough to give away how his cheeks heated up at it.
Darren shrugged again. "Are you going to be able to practice Sunday?"
She made a face. "I have a report I need to write. What about Saturday, though?"
“I’m meeting that Matt kid to work on our project then. I don’t know how long it’ll take.”
She sighed, dramatically. "I suppose I'll just have to write my paper on Saturday, then." She waved and walked into her house.
She trudged up the stairs to her mom’s room, the bedside lamp was on and a book was propped against her knees. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie. Did you have fun?” She patted the bedspread next to her, Greta crawled up the spot that had been her dad’s before, and let her arms fold underneath her.
“So fun,” she said. “Sorry about being late. Darren’s dad told you?”
“Mm hm.”
“So why did he tell you? Were you two hanging out?” She tried to wiggle her eyebrows suggestively but her mo’s eyes were steadfastly on her book and she missed it.
“I was borrowing a hammer from him.”
“Darren’s dad owns a hammer?”
“Who had a fight with their boyfriend?”
Greta sighed dramatically and flopped on her back. “I don’t even know what happened there, but I’m pretty sure Darren’s never going to want to hang out with my friends again.”
“I’m sure he’ll get over it. You should put on pajamas before you fall asleep in your dress.”
Greta sighed to cover up a yawn and hoisted herself off the bed and out toward the door. She paused in the hallway. “What needed to be hammered?”
Her mom regarded her over the tops of her knees. “I was going to hang a picture.”
“What was wrong with our hammer?”
Her mom gave her a pointed look over the top of her knees. “I couldn’t find it. Goodnight, Greta.”
Greta gave her mom her best impression of a knowing smile. She completely ignored it in favor of her book.
In the bathroom Greta paused before the mirror. Her hand moved tentatively toward the loose bits of her hair. They were stiff with the dried blood, adding to the look of a struggle she had been trying to emphasize. That wasn’t what she was thinking about, though. She was remembering the way Chris had tucked that piece of hair behind her ear, how warm he had felt so close to her.
Her face was bright red under the blood and wounds and bare light. She grinned at herself.
She skimmed out of the dress and hung it up on the hanger she’d left in there before she washed her face. The blood and contusions smeared together in rivulets down her chin, by the time her face was naked again she wasn’t sure if she was still blushing or if she had scrubbed her skin pink.
Greta couldn’t stop smiling. She went back into her room wrapped in her comfiest pajamas and fluffiest bathrobe too keyed up to sleep. She turned on her computer and opened up her iTunes library, but her quest for Etta James was interrupted by an email from an address she didn’t know.
The message read, hey its chris from the party fri. hope ur friend got home ok. me and bob and charlotte and josh were gonna go to guitar center 2morro call me if u wanna come.
Another one, marked a few minutes later, read, 2morrow=sat
She grinned at the screen. Need your phone number if I’m going to call you, she wrote in the reply field. She paused before hitting send, moved the cursor back through the sentence. She thought about changing the punctuation, maybe the grammar, thought about whether or not he would think she was dorky if she didn’t. The sentence read disingenuously any other way, though. “This is me,” she said to the room at large and hit send.
Halfway through “A Sunday Kind of Love” there was another new message in her inbox. duh, im dum. heres my cell number if u wanted u could call it when ever. im awake. only if ur comin tho, would rather not know if ur gonna blow me off /:
She had her phone in hand and his number half dialed before she noticed she was doing it. There was a ringing on the other end before she realized she should have hung up.
“Hello?” Chris said after the truncated second ring.
“Uh. Hi. This is Greta.”
“Hi--really? Hi! Uh. What’s up?”
“You. Said to call. What time were you guys going to go?”
“Sometime around two. We could pick you up. If you wanted to come, I mean.”
“That sounds awesome.”
---
Part One | Part Two | Part Three