“It was fucking incredible,” she says through a laugh. She presses both hands to her mouth, then flings them toward the towering stage, where the next act is setting up his electric guitar. “I mean, holy shit, I just did that.”
“You did. And it was fucking incredible. I feel fucking incredible. This whole damn room feels fucking incredible.”
She laughs and I laugh and we feel like us. We’re happy, drunk with exhilaration, even, and I’ve forgotten how powerful that is—?just being happy with your best friend.
“Will you teach me?” I ask, pushing my hands onto her shoulders. She’s literally bouncing. Or maybe I am. I think we both are.
“Teach you what?”
“All of it. Guitar, writing songs.”
She laughs. “I’ve been trying to get you to learn guitar for at least two years.”
“Well, I’m ready now.”
“Stubborn.”
“Always.”
We grin at each other and it feels as though there’s more air in the room than before. This feels right. This is us, everything we should be.
“We can start whenever you want,” she says, an excited lilt to her voice. “I actually just bought some beginner books because Tess wanted . . . to . . .”
I wait for her to go on, deliver the blow, but she doesn’t. Then I realize she probably stopped because I dropped my hands from her shoulders. I can feel the surprised hurt on my face like a thick foundation, covering up anything nonchalant.
“Oh,” is all I say.
“Mara—”
“It’s fine.” I shake Tess off. Tess isn’t here on one of the most important nights of my best friend’s life. I am. And I refuse to give that up for anybody. “Of course. We can start next week.”
She hesitates, but then breaks into another grin. “I can’t wait to hear you write a song.”
Something sharp and hopeful flares in my chest. It’s small, but it’s there. For the first time in a long time, I think I do have something to say. Maybe I’m finally ready to say it.
Chapter Fifteen
THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up ravenous. My stomach feels empty, but there’s a different sort of hunger and it feels as though it’s clawing out my insides. I can’t decide if it’s a good feeling or not. After Charlie dropped me off last night, I spent all night trying to sleep, all night failing, my head burning with too many thoughts, songs, words long buried.
After I shower, trying to wash off the energy seeping to the surface of my skin, I sit on the edge of my bed and towel-dry my hair. My feet bounce on the carpet, my chest filled with that sort of carbonated feeling I get before school concerts and the day an Empower issue comes out. The same feeling I had last night while Charlie played. I can’t shake this need to do something, anything.
I focus on smoothing leave-in conditioner through my hair, dabbing on a little mascara and lip-gloss, feeling the press of my fingers against the cold bathroom counter. All the little ways I order my world, the ways I make sure I don’t disappear. Lately, all of those ways have been slipping away.
I push myself to my feet and over to my closet, distracting myself from this restlessness with menial decisions. Shirts, pants, shoes, hair up or down. I’m pulling an oversize sweater off one of the built-in shelves when my gaze catches on a pleated black skirt on a hanger. I run my fingers over the smooth cotton.
It’s years old and too short for me now. I’d thought about it as an option for my dress code plan and tried it on a few weeks ago, but considering the fact that when I sat down, I felt the cold press of my desk chair on half of my bare butt, it doesn’t exactly toe the line between acceptable and a violation.
On my nightstand, my phone buzzes. I let the skirt fall back into place among my clothes and slide my finger over my phone’s surface to read the text.
I’m coming back to school today. Meet me at our lockers?
It’s from Hannah.
Yes. You know I will, I text back immediately. Whatever you need, I’m here.
I stare at the screen as how much I mean those words soaks into my bones. My stomach clenches, wondering what Hannah’s going to have to deal with when she sets foot in those halls. Halls loud with laughing boys and giggling girls, side-eyes and whispers. Halls filled with Owen McHale.
Walking back to my closet, I yank the skirt off the hanger.
