They Wish They Were Us(58)
Instead, I text the one person who hasn’t completely written me off. Yet.
Did you hear about the boys’ show tonight? I text Adam. If he’s around, he’ll respond.
Yeah.
You going? I type with shaking fingers. I miss him so much it aches. I want him to wrap me in one of his famous bear hugs. To read me lines from his new script. To smile at me and reveal that dimple.
Yup.
Wanna meet up before?
Can’t, he writes. It stings. But then he starts typing again, those three bubbles drumming along in rhythm. Working on a thing with Big Keith before.
I chew on my lip. Can I ask him to bail? Can’t he sense how much I need this? Him.
Got it, I say.
I’ll see you there, Newman, don’t worry. I got you.
My stomach flips and heat spreads through my chest. We’re still us.
* * *
—
If you squint really hard, the main drag in Gold Coast looks more like a slice of SoHo than what it really is: a stretch of concrete next to the sand. There’s a tiny boutique shilling moisturizers with triple-digit price tags and something called “heart glitter,” a cycling studio that caters to the spandex-clad moms drinking twelve-dollar green juices, a sushi bar with an omakase menu the New York Times food critic once said was “almost worth leaving the five boroughs for,” and the one relic of Gold Coast past, the Garage.
It’s the only music venue north of the Long Island Expressway that regularly books acts from farther than New Jersey, and once my parents swore they saw Billy Joel holed up at a back table for an entire night, sipping vintage wine and sending vodka shots to blondes in the front row. But that was back in the nineties. Now it’s mostly referred to as a vestige of old Gold Coast, the one that attracted funky potters like my mom and ex-corporate lawyers looking to spend the rest of their days bumming by the beach in a house predating the Civil War. That Gold Coast was filled with people who didn’t have closets full of Brooks Brothers polos and kitchens stocked with Waterford Crystal. I always thought the Garage lasted so long because it’s a reminder of how far you can fall.
Robert’s cousin Luis became the booker there a few years back after he realized there was a whole unconquered nightlife scene outside New York City limits. He always let us in for free. I assume he must have gone out on a major limb for Jared and Bryce, hooking them up with a prime slot on a Saturday night. But when I arrive, there’s a line around the block. I recognize dozens of Gold Coast kids and a few Cartwright students who sometimes try to crash Player parties. Stickers and graffiti paper the place’s outer walls, a stark contrast to the sea of button-downs, ironed khakis, and two-hundred-dollar fleeces. Most girls are in their after-school best, teetering on tall black booties meant for a Manhattan club or sorority rush week. I silently judge a group of sophomores who clearly got blowouts for the occasion.
When I get to the front of the line, Luis is there taking tickets. I start to smile, knowing he remembers me. “Five bucks,” he says, his face like stone. My days of free shit are over. I hand him a crumpled bill and walk inside.
The air is dank and stale and I’m suddenly so aware that I’m alone. I wonder who sees me, who cares, and if my presence will be fodder for the gossip mill for weeks. Then I wonder if that thought is just plain narcissistic. No one really cares. That’s what I have to remember. I make my way to the bar, a slimy C-shaped piece of wood nestled under an anarchist flag, and push past the sky-high heels and flipped-up collars. But before I reach the sticky counter, someone touches the small of my back.
“Hey, Newman.”
I whip around to find Adam standing in front of me wearing a black jean jacket and his round plastic glasses. He looks tired, his face scruffy and a little sad, but he hands me a cold can of grapefruit-flavored seltzer. I’m secretly grateful it’s not beer.
“You’re here,” I say. “Thank God.”
He smiles and puts his arm around me. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He takes a sip from his matching can and nods toward the corner of the stage. I follow his gaze to find the Players looking back at me. Henry pouts and shoves his hands into his pockets. Robert shoots up a middle finger yet again and Marla averts her eyes. But it’s Nikki’s and Quentin’s reactions that hurt the most. They both just stare at me, their faces unreadable. I want to be in between them again, privy to the secrets, the rituals, our inside jokes. Instead I chug my seltzer.
“You’re not scared about being seen with me?” I ask.
Adam nods his head at them and waves. Only Quentin holds his hand up in recognition. “Psh, never,” he says. “What did they ever do for me anyway?”
My face flushes as the lights go down, making the Garage a pitch-black abyss. A guitar snare ripples through the room. Cheers erupt and a spotlight shines on the stage. My skin prickles and a bead of sweat drips down my back.
“We’re Wonder Truck and we’re about to fucking get it!” Bryce yells into the microphone. Behind him, seven-foot Larry Kramer perches at the drum kit, nearly as tall sitting down as Bryce is standing up.
Adam lets out a whoop and yells into the crowd. “Yeah, Miller!” His body rustles beside me.
The room becomes a tornado, people jumping everywhere, bumping into each other. The Players, even the freshmen, stand near the front and throw their hands up at the stage. A group from the debate team are grinding in the corner, gyrating their crotches against one another about a half beat off time.