“Are you sure?” But she sounds relieved.

“Yeah. I’ll be back. Sorry,” I mumble again.

I spend a miserable fifteen minutes outside. When I come back, the club is packed. There’s hardly standing room. Anna has snagged a wooden bar stool, one of the few seats here. St. Clair stands close to her, facing her, and he smoothes the platinum stripe in her hair. She pulls him even closer by the top of his jeans, one finger tucked inside. It’s an intimate gesture. I’m embarrassed to watch, but I can’t look away.

He kisses her slowly and deeply. They don’t care that anyone could watch. Or maybe they’ve forgotten they aren’t alone. When they break apart, Anna says something that makes him fall into silly, boyish laughter. For some reason, that’s the moment that makes me turn away. Something about their love is painful.

I turn toward the bar for a bottle of water, but Anna calls out to me again. I head back, feeling irrationally aggravated that they’re here.

“Better?” St. Clair asks, but not in a mean way. He looks concerned.

“Yeah. Thanks. Sorry about all that.”

“No problem.” And I think we’re leaving it at that when he adds, “I understand what it’s like to be ashamed of a parent. My father is not a good man. I don’t talk about him either. Thank you for trusting us.”

His serious tone throws me, and I’m touched by this rare glimpse into his life. Anna squeezes his hand and changes the subject. “I’m looking forward to this.” She nods toward the band onstage. Max’s guitar is slung low as he adjusts something on his amplifier. They’re about to start. “You’ll introduce us to him afterward, right?”

Max has been too busy to come out and say hello. I feel bad about this. I feel bad about

everything

tonight. “Of course. I promise.”

“You neglected to mention that he’s much cooler than us.” Worry has crept into her voice.

St. Clair, back to himself, is clearly ready with a catty reply, and I’m pleased that the moment he opens his mouth is the same moment Amphetamine explodes into their set. His words—all words but my boyfriend’s—are lost.

The intensity radiating from Max mirrors what I feel burning inside of myself. His lyrics are by turn tender and sweet, scathing and cruel. He sings about falling in love and breaking up and running away, and it’s nothing that hasn’t been sung before, but it’s the way he sings it. Every word is saturated in bitter truth.

Johnny and Craig push an aggressive rhythm, and Max attacks his guitar with string-breaking ferocity. The songs become openly malicious, as if even the assembled crowd is to be distrusted, and when it’s time for the acoustic number, his usual soul-searching turns belligerent and cynical. His amber eyes lock with mine across the room, and I’m filled with his vicious attitude. I know it’s wrong, but it only makes me want him more. The crowd is fevered and delirious. It’s the best performance he’s ever given.

And it’s for me.

When it’s over, I turn to my friends for their reaction. Anna and St. Clair look shocked. Impressed but . . . definitely shocked.

“He’s good, Lola. He’s

really

good,” Anna says at last.

“Has he considered therapy?” St. Clair asks, and Anna elbows him in the ribs. “Ow.” I glare at him, and he shrugs. “It was incredible,” he continues. “I’m merely pointing out the presence of untempered rage.”

“How can you—”

“I need the bathroom,” Anna says. “Please don’t kill my boyfriend while I’m gone. And don’t leave until I’ve met Max!”

He’s weaving his way toward us now. People are clapping him on the back and trying to engage him in conversation, but Max’s eyes are only on mine as he brushes past them. My heart beats faster. The dark roots of his bleached hair and his black T-shirt are sweaty. I’m reminded of the night we met, and there’s a flare inside of me that’s near animalistic.

Max stiffens as he reaches for an embrace. He’s noticed St. Clair. Max’s jaw tightens as he sizes him up, but St. Clair slides in an easy introduction. “Étienne St. Clair. My girlfriend Anna”—he points to her retreating figure—“and I work with Lola at the theater. You must be Max.”

My boyfriend relaxes. “Right.” He shakes St. Clair’s outstretched hand, and then he’s already pulling me away. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Max. Yes, I want to be with Max.

“Thanks for coming. Tell Anna bye for me, okay?”

St. Clair looks royally pissed. “Yeah. Sure.”

Max leads me down the block to his van. He opens the door, and I’m surprised to discover it’s still empty. We climb in. “The next band is using Johnny’s drums. I asked the guys to wait a few minutes before loading the rest.”

I slam the door, and we’re on top of each other. I want to forget everything. I kiss him hard. He pushes back harder. It doesn’t take long.

We collapse.

I close my eyes. My temples are still throbbing with the sound of his music. I hear the flick of Max’s lighter, but the smell that greets me isn’t cigarette smoke. It’s sweet and sticky. He nudges me in a silent offer. I refuse. The contact high is enough.

Max drops me off around two in the morning. I forget my wig in his van. I feel like a disaster. Once again, I’m racked with guilt and anger and confusion. I drag myself inside, and my parents are there, as if they’ve been waiting by the door since I left. They probably have. I brace myself for their wrath.

It doesn’t come.

“Thank God.” Andy crumples onto our chaise longue.

My parents are both on the verge of tears, and the sight makes me cry for the hundredth time today, huge embarrassing hiccuping sobs. “I’m sorry.”

Nathan embraces me in an iron-tight hug. “Don’t you

ever

do that again.”

I’m shaking. “I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Dolores.” Nathan leads me upstairs, and Andy trails behind. I’m closing my bedroom door when Nathan says, “You smell like pot. We’ll talk about that tomorrow, too.”

I open my window and look into the night sky. “I need your help.”

The moon is thin, a sliver of a waning crescent. But she’s listening.

It’s four in the morning. I can’t sleep, so I tell her about my last twenty-four hours. “And I don’t know what to do,” I say. “It’s all happening at once, but everything I do seems to be wrong.

What am I supposed to do?

”

Cricket’s window slides open. I dive for my closest pair of glasses so that I can see him. His hair is puffy from sleep, even taller than usual, and his eyes are half shut. “You still talk to the moon?” His question isn’t condescending, it’s curious.

“Pretty dumb, huh?”

“Not at all.”

“Did I wake you up? Did you hear me?”

“I heard you talking, but I didn’t hear what you said.”

I let out a slow exhale of relief. I need to be more careful. It doesn’t escape my attention that it’s nice to know when someone is telling the truth. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “It’s Sunday night, you should be in your dorm.”

Cricket is quiet. He’s deciding how to answer. A car with thumping club music cruises down our street, looking for parking. When the bass fades away, he says, “I wanted to make sure you were okay. I was waiting for your light to come on. I fell asleep.” He sounds guilty.

“Oh.”

“I’ll leave early in the morning.” Cricket glances across his room at a clock. He sighs. “In two hours, actually.”

“Well, I’m here. I made it. Barely.”

He stares at me. It’s so intense that it’s almost invasive. I look down at the alley between our houses, and a stray cat is wandering through Andy’s compost pile. “You didn’t have to do that,” I say.