Another week passed,and tonight’s field trip took us to the Sunset Strip, where live music spilled from every doorway and neon flickered pink and green across the pavement.
We ducked into a dive bar with no line. Michelle clutched my arm, taking in the seedy, loud electricity. I angled us through the crowd; nothing like the Rabid Jackal’s packed house, but the beer didn’t flow freely here either.
“I cannot believe that fake ID worked,” she said, sipping her wine cooler.
“My buddy’s got a lamination machine. It’s as easy as peeling back the plastic, swapping numbers, and resealing.”
“Wow, Scott. Imagine what you could accomplish if you hustled like this for more than breaking the law.”
“Please.” I grabbed her waist, pulling her flush. “If I applied myself, the world wouldn’t be ready.”
She tipped her head up; I stole a kiss. The lights dropped, and a guitar crashed in, stealing the moment from us. The band launched into their set—all pout and power chords, pure hair-band bravado. The lead singer strutted the stage shirtless and shameless, tresses flying as he howled into the microphone like the world owed him its attention. A true front man.
I leaned down. “What do you think of the singer?”
“He’s… okay. Decent voice. But practiced. Bored.”
“That’s my brother, Paul.”
Her head whipped around. “Yourbrother? Oh my god, Scott, why didn’t you stop me? He’s incredible.”
“I like your honest opinion better. You’re spot on. Paulie’s a band hopper. Gets kicked out of every one.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
Paul spotted me mid-set, pointed, and grinned. After the final number, he took an exaggerated bow and came straight over, drink in hand, slick with sweat.
“Well, well. If it isn’t my baby brother.” He grabbed me in a rough headlock. “Where’ve you been? Why didn’t you come home for Christmas?”
Paul was eight years older than me. He only showed up to family events if there was some benefit in it for him. Like a favorite dinner. Pants that needed mending. A festively wrapped Christmas present.
“I was excommunicated,” I reminded him. “You were there. It was Ragu spaghetti night. Dad tossed me out. Don’t you remember?”
Paulie scratched his head. “Nah, I wasn’t there… was I?”
“You were.”
“Really?” His pupils were huge, his eyes moving too fast, like he couldn’t land on anything. Yeah. He was high. “What’d you do to get kicked out?”
“Got a girl pregnant.”
“Fuck me, dude. Now I remember. Still don’t get why you didn’t just take her into the clinic. Poof. Gone.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t always work that way. I have a son.”
“Huh.” He finally noticed Michelle, his focus snapping into place. “Wait… the lucky lady?”
“I’m not. But you make it sound so enticing. I’m Michelle.” She stuck out her hand. “The date.”
“Look at you… so formal.” He shook it, amused. “Want my advice? Stay away from this one.” Paul tightened the headlock. “He’s a freak. Dude’s obsessed with moonwalking—”
“When I was eleven,” I cut in, trying to salvage what little credibility I had left.
Paul ignored me. “He moonwalked across the boulevard. Caused an accident. Nearly killed some poor old lady.”
“Hey, I was obeying traffic laws. Not my fault the sun hit my sequins wrong.”
