I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed him and Bodhi sooner; Carter doesn’t usually wear baseball caps, so that’s one thing. Also I was intentionally avoiding looking into the audience as to not add to my already considerable nerves.
But he came. To see me.
WHY DID I TALK TO HIM SO MUCH AT SHANA’S PARTY?
So stupid. I should’ve just silently pulled him away from his car when he was trying to leave, then waited for Roberta to get there without saying a word. Or I should’ve acted like a huge asshole, like making fun of his clothes or his hair or something. Or his face. Instead, he’s, like,intriguedby me.
And probably even more after hearing the GODDAMN SONG I WROTE ABOUT HIM.
Maybe I should also blame Chord.
Sweet Chord, loudly whooping it up after each song. It was endearing at first, but then it started to feel like a little much. He was more boisterous than ever after we finished “My Big Ego,” which is what drew my attention into the audience, where I happened to notice two dudes talking and looking in Chord’s direction, also seeming to be observing the too-much-ness. For a brief moment, I felt defensive of Chord, but that was soon replaced by the horrifying realization that the people I was staring at were Carter and Bodhi.
“Psst!” I whispered across the piano to Shana and Ember. “Let’s just end our set there.”
“What?” Shana said. “Why?”
“Just because! I can’t do this last song.”
“But we’re destroying! And this is probably our best one. We have to do it. We owe it to this audience.”
“Yeah, we gotta do it,” Ember said.
“I really don’t want to, though.”
“Fine, then I’ll just start it myself on guitar,” Shana said, raising her pick in the air.
“Argh,” I grunted. “Forget it!” And I began to play, feeling like I was walking the plank, soon to be chomped into bits by a crocodile.
But I somehow got through it.
On the final note, I couldn’t help myself: I had to look at Carter, see if he understood the song was about him.
He did. He definitely did.
And the shocking thing was, he looked sort of devastated.
Goddammit. Should have ended the set early like I wanted to.
But now I’m standing up and moving to the front of the stagewith Shana and Ember, and everyone is flipping out for us—Chord and his whole table are standing—and Shana starts a bow, so Ember and I follow her lead, which feels ridiculous, because it’s a concert, not a school play, but once we do it, it feels kind of good.
We did a show. And it didn’t suck.
There’s a startlingly loud scream of approval from the back of the room, and I see that it’s Carter. I involuntarily smile even bigger—damn you, Carter Cohen—before looking away.
The applause dies down, and the coffeehouse puts on some indie-folk transition music so Linda Schweitzer can get set up, and Shana, Ember, and I hug and hop our way off the small stage.
“Ohmigod, that was so good,” I say.
“We fucking rule!” Ember shouts into our faces.
“Seriously,” Shana says. “That went even better than I thought it would.”
“What. A. Show,” a nerdy voice says from behind us. It’s Ron, standing with Mom, the two of them beaming.
“That was so wonderful!” Mom says. “I had no idea you could play music like that, Mags.”
“Not to mentionwritemusic like that,” Ron adds.
