Page 51 of Dirty Chorus

After Payton kisses me on the cheeks and leaves, I shower, getting ready to be the hottest girl in a dark movie theater. I come out of the bathroom with the smoothest skin lathered in a thousand pounds of the best lotion in the world. My entire closet is ripped to shreds as I find a white long-sleeve crop top with the cute buttons running down the middle. I find a pot of gold at the bottom of my dresser – a pleated skirt, high-waisted, and the prettiest shade of beige with plaid black strips. The best part is my bleach-white shoes.

I got to the movie theater sooner than I expected. Noah said they were about five minutes away as I parked somewhere in the back. It’s packed with families crossing the street to the theatre. I clutch onto my purse and chew on my gum, waiting to spot Noah walking up at any second.

When I do spot him and the band getting out of his truck, my stomach flutters. I bounce from one foot to the other, incapable of standing still. Noah’s wearing a baseball cap, pieces of his brown hair curl in all different directions. His black shirt is probably two sizes too big for him, but it has me more focused on the tattoos covering his arms and hands. The tight jeans with thready holes at the knees make me go lightheaded. He’s not the type of guy I should be attracted to, but my chest feels hotter each time I spend time with him.

“Oh look, Noah brought a date. I thought this was a bro and no hoes night?” Tony knocks an elbow into Noah’s shoulders. But he elbows him right in the stomach, and Tony coughs correcting himself, “Not saying she’s a hoe by any means.”

“If you make me sit through a fucking romantic comedy again, I will personally shoot you.” Omen points two fingers at his eyes, then back at Noah.

Vince shrugs at me, and says absolutely nothing and keeps a straight face. The three of them walk past me to the line at the ticketing booth.

“Hey you.” Noah pulls out a classic brown leather wallet from his back pocket. “We’ve gotta get our tickets.” He dips his head to the line, and I hook an arm with him, keeping up with his long steps.

“So what are we going to watch?” I ask as we take one step closer.

“Mission Impossible. It should be good.”

I cling a bit tighter to his arm as we wait our turn in line. Once we reach the box office, the lady talks through a speaker filled with static as Noah purchases the tickets. My eyes wander the crowd coming and going as it looks like a movie just got out as swarms come out of the double doors. At another box office line on the other side of the theater I spot Brody running a hand through his blond hair, wearing those preppy tan shorts, the brown boat shoes with no socks, and one of his Ralph Lauren polos and I about claw into Noah’s arms with my nails. A cold pit forms in my stomach, replacing the butterflies I just had. When his head turns in my direction, I throw my eyes to the ground and pretend I don’t see him ten feet away from me.

“Alright, Trouble, what kind of candy am I getting you?” Noah snaps me out of it, my legs are like lead as he pulls me along to the double doors and inside of the theater. The smell of warm popcorn fills the air, but doesn’t cover the musty, stained carpets.

“Milk Duds,” I say, and it’s the first type of candy to pop into my head. I hang on to the velvet red ropes separating the lines at the concession stands. “I like Sour Patch Kids too.” I tap a finger to my lips. His bandmates already ordered and got handed their drinks and popcorn.

As we get to the concession counter, I try to pay attention to the pricing boards and the types of drinks they have, instead of scouting the theater for Brody. When Noah pays, and the worker scrapes popcorn, scooping buttery goodness into a big bag, my eyes dart in every direction. When I think I spot Brody with a hot dog and drink, Noah lightly elbows me and I jolt.

“Here you go,” handing over my red freeze, and two boxes of candy. He’s man-handling his own drink and the bin of popcorn. I follow him as we get our tickets ripped, and stroll all the way down the dimly lit hallway to our showing.

I’m gnawing on my bottom lip, tearing at the fragile skin to the point that I’m sucking on the iron taste of blood. We climb the carpeted stairs to our row and follow the track lighting, guiding us up. When we scoot ourselves through the narrow tiered rows of cushioned seats. It’s so sticky on the floor my shoes are glued, smacking with each step.

I spot someone in the dullness with the same haircut as Brody and almost squeeze the life out of the box of candy. Noah places his drink in the holder and plops down next to Omen, who already has a mouthful of popcorn.

I sit down next to him while the four of them are joking and laughing about the sticky floor and how someone must have jizzed on it. It’s weird guy jokes I have no idea about. All I can hear is my heart’s double beat over and over in my ears and each breath filling my lungs. My head is like an owl, scouting every seat in the theater to see if Brody followed me in.

“You good?” Noah grabs my knee and squeezes it gently. His caring smile was sweet, especially with the little head tilt.

“Yeah...” I shove two fingers into my box of Milk Duds and take two out. He leans over with his mouth wide open, diving into my hand. “Hey! Those are mine.” It causes me to giggle as I dump more into my hand, pushing my palm up to his mouth, letting him use his tongue to eat them up. When he takes every last Milk Dud, he kisses my palm and chews, and gives me a chocolate-filled smile. He’s so cute.

The lights grow darker as the previews start. I eat a few more Milk Duds, the chocolaty goodness getting stuck in my teeth. Omen mentions that he forgot something, and gets up. When he reaches the exit he brushes past another man and my heart falls into my stomach with a thousand pounds of rocks crushing it. Brody saunters past Omen, throwing popcorn into his mouth as he climbs the stairs on the opposite end. A bunch of football players follow behind him, and even though he has a group with him, my skin still crawls. I lean into Noah’s arm, seeking some sort of comfort, or protection, or whatever I need. He puts his arm around my shoulder and lets me bury myself within his spicy-sweet scent.

Chapter 23

Noah

Iwish Charlie would stop checking her phone for five minutes.

She’s slouched on the couch, hair falling over one eye, legs curled under her, nursing her fourth White Claw like it’s oxygen. Every time that damn phone vibrates against the cushion, it’s like someone’s jamming a funnel down my throat and pouring bleach straight into my stomach.

She doesn’t even notice what it does to me.

When she types a message, her face flushes red, her jaw tightens, and that vein in her neck pulses. Her chest rises and falls a little faster, and her thumbs fly over the screen like she’s stabbing it. Whoever’s on the other end is pissing her off.

And I have one good guess who it is.

Brady, Brian, Brody or whatever the fuck his name is.

I shake off the thought and refocus on the pool table like that’s going to help. Omen lines up his shot, tongue out, grinning. He hits the cue ball, and it smacks into the purple one, sending it rolling clean into a pocket.

“Yes!” he shouts, pumping a fist.