Chapter Text
Jade
“C’mon, now. I’m telling you, she’s good.” André leans against my locker, effectively trapping me in the conversation. “The whole group is going. Even Beck.”
I roll my eyes, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. “I do not give a flying fuck if Beck is going to be there.”
André furrows his brow, pushing off my locker. There’s a little indent in his skin where he leaned into the handle of a pair of scissors. “I thought you guys were back on good terms.”
“Good is a strong word,” I say flatly, finally opening my locker to grab the history book I need. “We haven’t tried to strangle each other if that’s what you mean. But I’m still tempted.”
“Okay. Forget about the Beck part,” he replies, making a pleading motion with his hands. “This girl is really cool. Like, stupid talented. And her band is really good. And tonight is the first night in weeks that everyone’s schedules are clear.”
I drag a hand over my face. “If I say yes, will you leave me alone?”
André smiles—triumphant and smug. “Yes.”
“And you have to pay for dinner.”
“Deal,” he says quickly, already backing away before I can change my mind. “I’ll see you at Tori’s after school!”
I shut my locker, calling after him. “I didn’t agree to meet at Tor—”
But he’s already turned the corner, ending the conversation.
I shove my history book into my bag and head for Sikowitz’s room. The halls are already thinning out, everyone trying to beat the bell before he decides today’s lesson should take place on the roof or in a dumpster or wherever he got his latest artistic revelation.
I round the corner and nearly collide with Beck.
“Sorry,” he says automatically.
“Watch where you’re going.”
He snorts. “You too.”
We pass each other without another word.
Honestly, that’s probably the healthiest interaction we’ve had in years.
We’d broken up for good a couple months ago. Not with screaming. Not with tears. Just with the mutual realization that dating someone you constantly wanted to throttle wasn’t exactly sustainable.
Funny how peaceful life got once we stopped pretending we’d eventually figure it out.
I stride into Sikowitz’s room a moment later, tossing my bag to the ground and falling into a seat. I’m early—shockingly—but not quite early enough to beat Sikowitz’s eccentric attempts at conversation.
“Ah! Jade. Wonderful of you to grace us with your presence today.”
There goes my peace.
I don’t reply, but he rambles on anyway. “Did you know the word mirror has only six letters and half of them are r’s?”
I groan. “Congratulations. Cat discovered that three months ago. You’re finally catching up.”
“Harsh.”
I turn my head to the familiar sound of Rex’s voice.
“Robbie,” I warn, shooting him a glare. He squeaks and covers Rex’s mouth.
He’s saved by the bell a second later. A few stragglers find their way in—including André, Tori, Cat, and Beck. They’re clustered together like they’ve been plotting a murder.
Knowing them, they probably have been.
“Welcome in, class!” Sikowitz says cheerfully from the front of the room, barefoot and sipping on a coconut. He waits until everyone settles before setting the coconut on his desk with all the reverence of a priceless artifact.
“Today,” he announces, “we will be exploring the delicate emotional balance between trust… and poultry.”
A collective silence settles over the room.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Tori raises a hand. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“You should be!” Sikowitz beams. “Fear is where art lives.”
“Pretty sure art lives in museums,” Beck mutters.
“No!” Sikowitz points at him dramatically. “Art lives wherever you allow yourself to become the chicken.”
“…There it is,” André sighs. “I knew we were getting to the chicken eventually.”
Sikowitz reaches beneath his desk.
Please don’t.
He produces a rubber chicken.
God damn it.
“The exercise is simple,” he says. “One actor must convince the other that this”—he raises the chicken high above his head—“is not a chicken.”
Cat gasps, her voice light and lilted. “It looks just like one.”
“It’s rubber,” Robbie says.
Rex twists toward him. “So are some celebrities.”
Robbie immediately gets defensive. “Shut up.”
Sikowitz is somehow already assigning partners.
“Tori and André!”
“Cool.”
“Excellent.”
“Beck and Jade!”
I don’t even look at Beck.
“No.”
Sikowitz blinks. “No?”
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard the prompt.”
“I don’t need to.”
A beat passes. Beck just shrugs.
Sikowitz strokes his chin thoughtfully before clapping once. “Wonderful! Growth! You’re setting healthy boundaries!”
“I was setting unhealthy boundaries.”
“Even better.”
A few people laugh. I hate that some of them are laughing at me.
“Very well,” Sikowitz says. “Beck, you’ll work with Robbie.”
Rex immediately groans.
“Oh, this is gonna suck.”
Robbie whispers, “Rex…”
“What? Pretty Boy’s gonna stare into my eyes until I believe that’s a turkey.”
“I don’t think that’s the assignment,” Beck says.
“It’s not,” Sikowitz agrees. “But I admire the confidence.”
Meanwhile, Cat has wandered over to the rubber chicken. She gently pats its head, saying, “She looks like a Linda.”
“…The chicken?” Tori asks.
Cat nods solemnly.
“I think she has a family.”
Nobody questions it. Not because it makes sense, but because we’ve all learned it’s easier this way.
I lean back in my chair, watching the circus unfold around me.
Hollywood Arts.
Where somehow this counts as a productive school day.
~
By the time I pull up outside of the Vega house, I realize I’m somehow the last one there. I’m even later than Beck, which is odd. His silver pickup is already on the curb, parked only vaguely haphazardly.
I just pull over and park behind him. I lock my own car—a shiny black SUV with a scratch on the bumper—as I walk up through the yard, not bothering to knock before just stepping inside.
I shut the door behind me with my foot, tossing my keys onto the coffee table. Most of the group is in the kitchen, arguing over something I probably don’t care about.
“Oh, come on! I’ll drive!” Trina’s whiny voice cuts through the chatter, making everyone groan.
“You’re not invited!” Tori huffs, throwing her arms out to the side.
Trina makes an offended little noise. “Excuse me. You’d be lucky to have my company. I am a delight!”
“Nobody likes you!” I call out, arms crossed over my chest.
Trina gapes, gesturing at me to the group. “You guys are just going to let her talk to me like that?”
Everyone shuts up, looking suddenly very interested in the architecture of the house.
Trina scrunches her face up, even more offended. “Fine! I don’t want to hang out with you people anyway.” She stomps her way up the stairs, already furiously texting someone.
I win.
I smirk, watching her go until the stairs stop creaking.
“Anyway,” Tori sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Hey, Jade. Ready to go?”
“I’m trembling in anticipation,” I say flatly.
André chuckles, making his way over to me. “Don’t be like that. It’ll be fun.”
“Yeah,” Beck adds, leaning against the kitchen table. “André’s been talking about this girl for weeks. You don’t even have to pretend to enjoy it.”
Robbie pulls out his comically large PearPad, suspiciously Rex-less. “It says here the venue is about a fifteen minute drive from here. We should leave in the next… eight minutes and seventeen seconds if we want to get there on time.”
Cat giggles, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “One time, my brother was in the car for ten minutes, and when we were almost there he jumped out of the window and rolled onto the sidewalk.”
There’s a short, awkward beat of silence after that admission. Tori is the first to break. “He was okay, though, right?”
Cat just laughs. “No.”
Robbie looks concerned. “But he’s okay now?”
“No,” the redhead says airily, adopting a sense of gravity. “He’s super messed up.”
“Okay,” Beck says slowly, patting her head. “We’ll have to take two cars. I’ll drive.”
Before anyone else can volunteer, I scoop my keys off the table. “Me too. I’ll take the girls.”
“I’ll take the guys,” Beck says easily, hands held up in surrender.
Cat and Tori follow behind me, with Cat practically bouncing on her toes. “I’ll sit in the front!”
“No.”
She pouts. “Why?”
I give her a dry look. “Because you keep pressing all the buttons.”
“It’s okay. I’ll sit in the back with you,” Tori offers, slinging an arm around the smaller girl’s shoulders.
“Yay!”
True to her word, by the time I’m starting the car, Tori and Cat are buckled in and leaning over Tori’s phone watching some stupid animal video on The Slap. She keeps her volume low, which I can appreciate.
I choose not to blast music as I follow Beck out. The chaos of the group has left my head relatively quiet, and I know after whatever God awful rockstar wannabes I’m about to hear tonight, I’ll be envious of this moment pre-headache.
Fifteen minutes and a shitty parking job later, we’re stepping out of our cars onto a gravel parking lot. The rocks crunch under my boots as we walk, the others chattering ahead of me while I take up the rear.
The venue—appropriately named “The Dive”—is a smoky, sticky dive bar that ID’s at the door. The bouncer draws sharpie X’s on our hands as we file into the noise and red neon lights. It’s filled with more people our age than I anticipated, though the bar is far from empty. The older patrons have flocked to it, sipping on old fashioned’s and under tipping the bartenders.
“Wow,” I say flatly, turning to give André an unimpressed look. “Your little girlfriend must be the next Hayley Williams.”
André rolls his eyes. “Shes not my girlfriend. And I swear, her band is amazing.”
“What’s the band called, anyway?” Tori asks, fanning smoke away from her face.
Robbie squints at a flyer tacked up on the wall. “Looks like… Between the Lines.”
Jesus Christ, get me out of here.
Unfortunately for me, I don’t have much time to escape before there’s movement on the stage.
It’s a slow transition at first. The small stage up front, barely twice the size of the one in Sikowitz’s room, is set up by who I assume are employees of the bar itself. Two men in black shirts and jeans haul up a drum set, a microphone stand, two amps, and a keyboard.
Finally, the band starts filing in. The drummer is first, some blonde dude with guyliner so thick I can see it from the back of the room. Two girls come on next; the curvy one with bright purple hair starts hooking up her electric guitar to one amp, cherry red and shockingly high quality looking. The other, a softer looking brunette, takes her place at the keyboard, chatting idly with the drummer.
After a minute or two, a taller, tired brunette guy saunters on stage with a bass guitar and a palpable attitude problem. He hooks it up to the amp, test plucking a few chords on a low volume.
I watch the group, bored out of principle, and lean towards André so he can hear me over the din. “Which girl is yours? I thought you said she was a singer.”
“She is,” he replies, actively searching for someone. “She’s not on yet. I wonder if—”
He gets cut off by a smattering of applause. We both lock eyes on her at the same time.
André’s girl strides onto the stage with an easy kind of confidence that rivals almost everyone I’ve met. She’s got messy, wavy brown hair that’s somewhere between “I just woke up” and “I tried to brush out the frizz.” Even her outfit is flashy; dark-wash skinny jeans and black docs, a top made entirely out of red sequins, a silver chain clipped to her belt loop, and an almost oversized black leather jacket.
She grins, a flash of white teeth, and pulls the mic off the stand. Her voice rings out, clear and smooth. “Well hey there, Hollywood! How are we feeling tonight?”
The whole bar claps and cheers. When I look at my own group, they’ve all started moving toward the stage without seeming to realize it.
Her voice rings out again, cheeky and amused. “Glad to hear it, glad to hear it. For those of you who don’t know us, we’re Between the Lines. For those of you who do, we’ve got a killer set for you based on our poll from last night. Are you guys ready?”
A chorus of yeahs and whoops carries through the room, loud and obnoxious. The singer leans forward, hand on her hip. “I can’t hear you!”
She actually points the mic out at the crowd, smirking like she won something. The bar only gets louder, clearly egged on by her performance.
God, the ego on this girl.
Finally, seeming satisfied, she nods, doing a subtle visual check in with her band. “Well let’s get started then! 1, 2, 3, 4!”
They come in hot and heavy, the drummer and electric guitar carrying most of the intro. The area immediately in front of the stage is officially flooded with people jumping, dancing, and clapping to the beat. The song itself is already gritty and moody sounding, an upbeat tempo carrying the enthusiasm of the crowd.
I mean, come on. They’ve barely started playing. They can’t be that good.
André turns and notices me judging from a safe distance. He jogs behind me, starting to push me closer by the shoulders. I try to shake him off, but he has a very committed grip.
“Okay, okay! That’s far enough,” I huff, finally jerking my shoulders out of his hands.
“She’s about to start! Just listen!”
I roll my eyes but I don’t protest. It’s exceptionally loud in here, and I don’t care enough to yell over it.
For the introductory instrumental, the singer girl just walks the stage, playing air guitar to the beat and doing some kind of choreography that consists mostly of jumping and flipping her hair around.
Then, finally, she lifts the mic to her mouth to sing.
“It’s Saturday night, and your hand’s on my thigh / Through the hazy blue lights of the bright neon signs // The bar is so loud and you’re shutting me out / Getting lost in the crowd, you aren’t chasing now.”
Damn it, she’s good.
I’m not into emo rock, but the girl has pipes. Her voice is low and silky, and she growls on accent beats. I can tell when she’s getting too close to the cap of her upper range because her voice goes almost a little raspy—but it works with the style, and now I’m pissed all over again.
How have I not heard of this girl before?
André met her in one of his composing or songwriting classes or whatever they are. The first time he mentioned her was almost three weeks ago now, and it’s been nonstop ever since. “Oh, she’s such a good lyricist.” “Dude, she’s an incredible performer.” “I’m obsessed with her voice.” I didn’t even know André had a life outside of us and his grandma. Come to find out he spends most of his free time following this garage band around like they’re some major headliners on tour.
It’s been so annoying. And it’s even worse because now I know he’s right.
Will I ever tell him that?
No. Obviously.
But it’s still irritating. I’d rather swallow glass than tell anyone in this group that they were right about something. Especially André. I’d never live it down.
The first song ends with a crash of cymbals and an aggressive strum from the electric guitarist. I have no idea how long this torture will last, but if the crowd keeps going crazy like this between every song, I’ll have a headache by song three.
The lead singer pops the mic back on the stand for a moment to take a quick swig of water from a plastic bottle with no label. I’m more than a little surprised when she gets to the last third of the bottle and just shakes the damn thing over her head, letting it drip down her face and neck and through her hair.
She crushes the bottle and tosses it to the side, shaking her head back and forth like a dog, sending little droplets everywhere. When she steps back up to the mic, she winks at someone down in the crowd before giving the drummer a thumbs up. They launch into the next, slightly slower song without introduction.
Her voice is lower this time, almost sultry, her hands sliding up the mic stand as she sings.
“Kneeling here before you is how I wanna pray / Let me taste your sweetness, feel you all over my face // I’m sinking deeper so filled with your grace / your cheeks are red, you’re in my bed, another lazy Sunday.”
Tori’s eyes go comically wide beside me, her eyebrows raised like she can’t believe the lyrics. Robbie looks positively scandalized, staring pointedly at his shoes.
Cat doesn’t seem to mind the innuendos, and Beck and André are just nodding to the beat. At least they’re somewhat normal.
I mean, honestly. It’s not that shocking for a teenage girl to sing about sex.
Personally, I can’t imagine repeating lyrics like that over and over with a band. I’ve always been a private person, so that’s honestly my nightmare.
But, hell, I’ve gotta hand it to them for managing to make it sexual but not graphic.
At least, that lasts for about twenty seconds.
On the bridge, she takes the mic off the stand and sinks to her knees, reaching out at the crowd. Shockingly, everyone keeps their distance, not actively trying to grab her hand like I’d expect. Her jacket and hair are doing a lot for modesty—but she clearly doesn’t care that damn much, because I can see into her shirt even from here.
During a particularly long note, she sinks forward, head nearly touching the stage—before slowly pushing up on one hand, looking up through her eyebrows. She seems to notice André, because she smirks slightly.
But then her eyes find mine.
And she winks.
I don’t have any time to react before she sits back on her heels, pulling herself back into another long note. She looks up at the ceiling as she does, then looks back at the crowd sharply, launching back into the beat heavy chorus with the band. She turns and works her way to standing, eventually popping the mic back into the stand as the song ends.
The crowd goes fucking insane.
Robbie and Tori take the opportunity to slip away from the group, offering to grab drinks and a table. Cat turns to face me, literally bouncing up and down.
“Oh my gosh! She’s so cool! Did you see that? And I love her outfit. That jacket would go with everything!”
“Cat. Cat, Cat, Cat.” I repeat myself over and over, eventually cutting off her rambling. “I don’t care. She’s not even that interesting.”
“Not interesting?” André scoffs, catching the tail end of our conversation. “You don’t have to like her, but you can’t say she’s a bad performer.”
I smile, thin and sarcastic. “I can say whatever I want. You dragged me here. And you still owe me dinner.”
“Patience, patience,” Beck joins in, patting my head. I swat his hand away.
“Don’t patronize me.”
He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Yeah, I know. Just hang in there a little longer. Their set is almost done.”
A short swell of microphone feedback draws my attention back to the stage as the singer starts talking. “Thank you, loves! That one was called Siren Song. It’s gonna be on our next EP, so keep an eye out for that.”
The crowd whistles and cheers. Her band mates take a short break as she talks, stretching wrists and sipping drinks.
“We’ve got one more song tonight, but before we get to that, can we hear it for the band?”
Another round of applause and appreciative whoops (and someone barking) echoes through the space as she introduces each band member in turn.
“This is our girl Violet, but we call her V.” She props her elbow on the electric guitar player’s shoulder, her purple hair suddenly making a lot more sense. “That guy back there is Mace. Just the coolest percussionist this side of the valley—not that I’m biased,” she muses, gesturing back to the drum player. That one gets a few laughs.
She crosses the stage, ruffling the lanky dude’s hair. “Of course we’ve got Ezra on bass. And my girl back there on keyboard is Juni.”
Ezra doesn’t try to shake off the singer, just seeming to accept the teasing affection like he’s used to it. Juni waves from the back, blowing a kiss at the crowd.
I shove my hands in my back pockets, posture bored. I didn’t realize people actually introduced their bands like this. It’s tedious.
But who is she?
“And I, of course, am Adelina,” the singer says, making her way back to center stage. She pops the mic back in the stand, looking far too pleased with herself before going and picking up a guitar for herself, plugging it into the amp. “This last one is called Cherry. I hope you like it.”
The drummer counts them in, and she plays the chords in earnest, cycling through the progression with a practiced ease that tells me she just chooses to sing rather than play. The music on this one is brighter, definitely meant to be more fun and light.
“I met a girl in the back of a pickup truck / Had the wind in her hair, gave me a kiss for good luck // She had an attitude problem and some cherry barrettes / I’d have made my move if she had different friends // Cause they only want drama and to bum off my stash / But I gave her my number for twenty bucks cash.”
That makes more sense.
She must have winked at me earlier because she’s some kind of disaster lesbian with a type.
Either that or she has a ghost writer and just wanted to fuck with me.
It’s not long before the set ends and the band is bowing on stage. The bar is buzzing with excitement, not excluding my group. André in particular is going crazy with applause, and Cat and Tori follow suit. Beck and Robbie clap politely, though they do genuinely look like they had a good time.
Eventually the crowd disperses slightly as the band starts taking down their equipment. Adelina doesn’t have much to do, so she sits on the edge of the stage, chatting with regulars and stage hands alike. She’s all smiles and easy laughs, her posture loose and a little spent.
“Addie!” André shouts beside me, waving her down.
He does catch her attention, and she waves back and hops off the stage, already starting to push through the crowd.
“Shes coming over here!” Cat squeals, holding onto my arm and jumping up and down.
Well, chiz.