Chapter Two

“Nothing much could happenNothing we can't shakeOh we're absolute beginnersWith nothing much at stake.” David Bowie

It was a crisp Boston night, typical of late October. New England seasons each have their own personalities, sights, smells, and feelings. Autumn calls to mind the leaf piles of leaves I jumped into as a child, smelling like smoke and woods. It was pleasant, albeit a little chilly, but the fresh air was invigorating. Fall is the season of possibilities, the start of the year when you’re in school the distinct changing of the season from humid and sticky to pleasantly cool. As we walked to the bar, we listened to James chatter about the bands new EP, which had gotten great reviews with the amateur music critic blog circuit.
“It’s called ‘A Question of Taste’, and it sounds like early Pavement”: raw, dancey indie rock.” We all pretended to listen, while smoking cigarettes and trying to walk straight. We generally took a few shots before we left to go anywhere, to cut down on costs. Plus showing up sober to a bar or party is horribly intimidating. Without the lubrication of a drink or three, every interaction felt raw. Alcohol was truly the only difference between us, and junior high students at a dance. Well, that and copious amounts of body glitter. Without a drink, we didn’t have a shield for a social snub from an acquaintance, or the sighting of a past hookup. We all dressed in costume when we went out, exaggerated personas of ourselves. It took the sting away, just like a shot did. We were more brazen, like Midwestern bachelorettes on a trip to Las Vegas. We reinvented ourselves, glossed details and charmed the pants off everyone. Viv, already statuesque, wore aggressively high heels, making her a solid 5’10. She understood the importance of working your assets, baring her long legs in even the most frigid weather. Marie favored her old prep-school blazer over a mostly unbuttoned oxford, claiming that even a hint of schoolgirl worked wonders. And I wore any number of vintage cocktail frocks, complemented by costume jewelry, coiffed hair, and thin fishnet thigh-highs. It served two purposes, really. Boys were fascinated by the novelty of it, and it also made my age hard to place.
After the bouncer glanced at our IDs and inspected Marie’s cleavage closely, we edged in through the surprisingly big crowd. This bar was one of those fiercely independent dives that took pride in its dirty bathrooms. We moved towards the bar, and I spotted a familiar fuzzy head behind it, one of Viv’s old flames, a photography student named Tre.
“Oh, hey, hey guys.” He shifted his dreads out of his eyes, and smiled “What’s up?”
“Not too much, sweetie. How’s school?” Marie leaned against the bar.
“Oh it’s good, man. Uh, I’ve got this new project, and, uhm…” He trailed off.
I remembered now that he was not really the biggest talker.
“So what do you guys want, um, to like drink?” He looked up hopefully.
“Three whiskey sours and a Blue Moon for our man-friend.” James peeked over Marie’s shoulder and waved vaguely. Viv was tossing her hair around. I poked her in the back, and whispered “You shameless hussy.”
Tre looked relieved to have something concrete to do, and filled the drinks quickly.
“These are on me guys, enjoy.”
“Thank you Tre” We chimed like schoolgirls, and turned to survey the scene.
Sipping my drink, I noted it was strong. I looked back and saw Tre staring at Viv’s back with longing.
“Let’s make a round.” Marie suggested.
We hadn’t even taken a step when I felt my breath seize in my chest.
“Oh Janey, no.” Marie groaned.
“When did he get back?” Viv asked me
“I...I don’t know.” It was so surreal, seeing him across the room; the boy I had spent a year trying to forget using false bravado, cheap sex and drinks to numb the hurt. Javier Calderon hadn’t been my first love, to be sure, but he was definitely one of those boys you don’t get over. The relationship you ask questions about in your mind almost every night: why wasn’t I enough for you? I spent the past year trying to prove that it wasn’t me, I was fine, he made the mistake, so fuck him.
Fuck him.
God, did I want to fuck him.
His white tee-shirt clung to his subtle muscles. Not the muscles of a steroid jock, but the coiled energy of a long distance runner. His skin was tanner than before, no doubt from the year he had just spent in Barcelona with his parents. I remembered the cool, smooth feeling of his skin and his calloused fingertips on mine.
I suddenly realized my mouth was dry, so I quickly took a gulp of my drink.
“Jesus Christo, que sexy!” Viv said in a horrible Spanish accent. I silently thanked God again that I never spent time with theater kids like she had.
“Don’t encourage her, idiot.” Marie had grabbed my arm. She had held my head on her lap when I was sobbing after he dumped me for his ex. No explanation, no apologies. He just said, in his slightly accented voice, “I am just, in love with her.” He had left her too, I heard, to go abroad. I wondered vaguely how she had handled it twice.
“Should I…” I stopped, “I mean, it’s been a year.”
Viv and Marie had stepped in front of me, creating a shield. James hovered to my right, seething. He hated Javier like a mix of a big brother and a lover. He had seen me drunk off my ass sobbing in the stairwell about Javier, had heard our rants about him that no other men were privy to. Plus Javier tended to bring out insecurities in other guys. He was confident, talented, sexy and foreign. Marie always said that accents on guys were like big tits on girls, and I tended to agree.
“Don’t even talk to him, Jane, please. You know I hate that dick.” James took a swig of beer, and I looked at him, surprised by his vehemence.
“Ok, I’m not ready yet, but I’ll talk to him…later.”
“Maybe you should get a little revenge, Jane. Fuck with his head because he fucked with you.” Marie said with a hard look on her face.
Viv grinned, “Now that is more like it.”
I paused. “I need to think guys, I can’t…Jesus.”
I turned and drained my drink as I walked outside. Boston is a city of masochists, braving the extreme weather, getting nothing in return. Drunk and rowdy Red Sox fans every spring, assholes on the T, and no smoking indoors even when it’s 2 below. I lit my cigarette, and inhaled deeply. Marie came up next to me, and lit her own. We stood in silence. Sometimes it was good to have just her around, free of Viv’s constant stream of offensive comments and non-sequiturs. I stubbed out my cigarette, and gave the finger to some guys who catcalled at me.
“You ready?” Marie looked at me, cautious.
“Yeah, yeah, sure.”
We rejoined Viv, who was perched on a barstool, making eyes at Tre behind the bar.
“Don’t fuck with the free booze, Vivian.” Marie warned.
“Viv, you are such a repeat offender. Find a new one!” I added. Viv had a revolving door of bed-mates, and they always seemed to keep spinning around and coming back.
“But my dears, the danger you know is less than the one you don’t. I know at the end of the night there will be an orgasm, unlike you two. You know, you just have sex roulette.”
“Marie usually ruins them so thoroughly they never come back” I joked.
“And you get too attached, we all have issues, buddy” Marie countered.
“In honor of your former Latin amigo, I say three shots of tequila are in order.” Viv had waved Tre over and she pushed the shots over the slick bar toward us.
“Good effort, but tequila is Mexican.” Marie rolled her eyes.
Viv was immune to Marie’s cutting remarks by now, since she was on her third drink.
I indulged Viv, clinking shot glasses and then gulping it down.
“Where’s James?” I looked around. Marie pointed silently. He was by the far end of the bar, deep in conversation with one of the little indie girls who flocked to him in droves. He had a constant fan club, it seemed, of girls who admired his vinyl collection and were vegans or activists. He dated them, never really introducing us. I had a feeling he thought we would judge those girls, and scorn their convictions. We probably would. Marie always made fun of girls like that, the cheerful girls handing out flyers on campus about a rally. We could handle James’ enthusiasm, but not theirs, because they judged us too. We were the girls who had damaged their boyfriends and made them distrust girls in general. We were the girls in the back of the classroom, hung-over and unprepared, but with better test grades. We posed a threat because we didn’t do things “right”, and being “right” was what they relied on. They were going to get married to environmental lawyers and feed their kids organic rice pudding. It’s the alternative underbelly of the “American Dream” today. Susie and Chad still get married, cheered on by his frat brothers, but Zoe and Phoenix get married at city hall and adopt from Malaysia. The problem was, nice boys like James and Tre inevitably wanted the girls like us, I guess for the same reason nice girls date assholes. When they got our attention, they felt like winners, but when we abused them, it gave them a sense of drama in their boring lives. Either way, it was pretty harmless. They’ll get over it and find their life partner to eat organic with. That’s what I thought anyway.
The band had started playing, and I had to admit, they were pretty good. I grabbed Marie’s arm and pulled her to come dance. The shot fizzed in my stomach, the point of the night when I crossed from tipsy to solidly drunk. I handle my alcohol well, from years of high school training in covert dorm room missions and townies basements. I’m not a melancholy drunk, like Marie, or a belligerent drunk like Viv. But I always drink just one too many, which is all that counts. My body is literally a scarred roadmap of drunken excursions and mishaps.
We really danced, forgoing the de rigueur head bob of white kids watching a rock band. Viv slinked towards us, swinging her hips. I glanced at the stage, and smiled. The band was hot. I pointed towards the stage, and pulled them closer. Viv bit her lip and shimmied down to the floor, throwing her arms above her head. I twirled, keeping my dancing as charmingly retro as my dress. I grasped hands with Marie, and grinned at her broadly. Hot bands were good. Boys with instruments were good. Some other girls next to us with similar ideas to ours glared and whispered. They didn’t stand a chance. Marie and Viv might have had tits and legs, respectively, but I had a doll-like face with large, deep blue eyes. I locked eyes with the lead singer, smiled, held his gaze a bit too long, and then pulled away, as if shocked at my own boldness. He didn’t need to know I used that look every day. The barista at my local coffee shop charges me a dollar for whatever I get, every time. But right now, Mr. Hot Shot Indie Rocker is picking out cords, assured that his good looks and guitar are making this girl fall in love for one night only. I leaned in to Viv and yelled into her ear
“Dibs on the lead singer!”
“Damn. Whatever, the bass player is fuckable.”
That meant Marie got the drummer or the keyboard player. She would be pissed, because those were the least desirable, but dibs is dibs.
I felt eyes on me, and looked over. Javier was staring at me, smiling slightly. We made eye contact and he looked sincerely happy to see me. I looked away. I was not ready for that yet. Tonight, I would make him jealous.

“Great set, man, really.” James was leaning against the bar after the band finished. We had wrangled them a round of drinks from Tre and waved them over. You’d think things like that would be harder, but Bon Jovi groupies had taught us that pretty girls meet the bands, every time. Lead Singer Guy’s name was Andrew, and his sweaty, long tangled hair was matted to his head adorably. He had these intense green eyes, and little freckles on his nose. I was definitely, easily attracted to him. It turned out that the drummer was hotter than the bass player, so Viv was pouting a little, and turned her attention back to Tre. Andrew spoke slowly, but he was engaging and smarter than I assumed. They were actually students at Harvard, of all places.
“I didn’t figure an Ivy would be the breeding ground for the next buzz band.” I said jokingly.
He smiled, and looked me straight in the eye. I felt a familiar jolt roll through my stomach
“I didn’t think Wellesley was breeding ground for straight girls.” I laughed and hit his arm lightly.
James looked back and for between us.
“So you’re signed to Black Box Records in New York?”
Andrew broke our gaze.
“Yeah man, it’s awesome you even know about us.”
“Hey, Andrew,” the drummer interrupted, “Marie just invited us all back to their apartment to party more, want to come?”
Andrew turned his eyes back to mine.
“Oh, yeah, I think so.”