01 | lyra
I SHOULDN’T BE AT THIS party.
You see, parties like this aren’t usually my type of scene, but since I have to, there was no way in hell I would turn this down. You see, the thing about parties is that they were made for people and friends to get together and have fun; however, most of them usually end up getting either depressingly smashed or the happy kind that gets them in bed with someone—consensually. And then you have people like me to like to hang out in the corner, drink in hand, and just watch the party rage on until you switch to becoming the designated driver.
For me, I’m the designated wallflower when I’m not performing.
“Toni, there you fucking are!” A dark-brunette girl pops into my line of sight, shouting over the loud commotion. “I was looking all over for you. We’re about to go on. What the hell was taking you so long anyway?”
“Geez, Stevie, my most sin-cer-est apologies for making sure that my dad was fully asleep before I left. And you know I don’t live relatively close to here,” I shrug my shoulders and pat her back. “Did you fix my guitar?”
It was either a one-hour subway ride or a twenty-two-minute taxi ride.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s fixed. Now that you’re here, we can go. Melissa and Kat are back there setting up for the show, so let’s go.”
Stephanie Turner, leader of The Dead Poets, is all about punctuality when it suits her. She can be harsh while having a look that can kill, especially if one of us is running late for a gig. She grabs me by the hand and pulls me towards the back of the mill, pushing through sweaty bodies without a single care in the world. When we reach the back, Kat is busy tuning her bass, and she smiles when her eyes meet mine. “Finally, you’re here!” She stands up abruptly, walking over to me and Steph. Her arms warmly embrace me. Her perfume is intoxicating.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Melissa, our drummer and Stephanie’s partner in crime, lifts a drumstick in the air and waves it around. “We were getting pretty worried about you. Mainly, Steph.”
Before the band even came into existence, there was some sort of steamy history between the two of them. I can never tell if they’re making things official or not. Sometimes, they give me friends with benefits, turning into a slow-burning relationship kind of thing.
A painful, slow burn.
Katherine Watson, on the other hand, is a hopeless romantic to a fault and the typical girl-next-door who likes to keep her nose in a book. She was the third person to join after me. The Dead Poets became a thing after Steph’s eight-month obsession with “The Dead Poets Society”, I think she mostly likes it just because Robin Williams was in. She practically forced us to sit down and watch it while it was in theaters. And I’m willing to bet that she watched it at least five times when it was released on VHS last year.
The four of us take center stage after seconds of tuning and setting up. The feedback from the microphone and the big speaker draws the attention of the large crowd of slightly drunk party-goers. The makeshift spotlight beaming down on us is nearly blinding me.
“Hello, all of our Dead Poets fans of Willow Academy! Are you guys having a good time so far tonight?” Steph’s voice booms from the speakers. The large crowd cheers in response. “Sorry for the long wait. We had a minor inconvenience, but that has been fixed. Now that we’re here, let’s get this show started!”
As I begin to strum away at my electric guitar string with my pick, I bob my head to the rhythm. My gray eyes survey the crowd as we play until my sight lands on a familiar face. A girl with curly ebony hair pulled into a high bun, wearing a red corduroy overall dress above a white sleeved sweater, along with a red and white letterman jacket. She’s smiling as she bobs her head.
She made it, My heart is beating faster the more I continue to look at the girl in the audience.
Two songs later, and we finish performing, the party rages on. I grab a cup of fruit punch from the punch bowl near the stairs. The chances of there being alcohol in it are a bit slim, but after that performance, a drink is well-deserved. I wipe off the beads of sweat from my brow, and I lean up against the wall. There’s always that rush of adrenaline after a show (not like we get a lot of people requesting us to perform anyway), it’s the steady flow of confidence. Tonight took a lot of energy out of me, but it’s a thing I enjoy nonetheless.
I check the time on my wristwatch a minute later. It’s close to midnight. I don’t have a lot of bullshit excuses, and the whole “I lost track of time” thing may not work on my dad than I’d like to believe.
I take a drink from my cup and sigh, “I might as well say that I overslept at a friend’s house or something.”
Suddenly, I feel a pair of arms wrap around my body and a gentle pull towards a warm body.
“Hey!” A sweet, feminine voice fills my ears. I turn around to see Michelle standing behind me with a big smile on her face. My mouth gapes open at the sight of her, and I go to hug her again.
“MJ, wh-hi! I-I was hoping you’d show up,” I pull away from her.
“I had to come and show my support for my girl,” Michelle beams, “You killed it with that guitar solo. You should teach me one day.”
I blush, and my heart is racing even more. “Aww, that’s so sweet of you, and consider that a deal. I have a ukulele that you can borrow.”
“Thanks, Toni.”
Her laughter is music to my ears. I don’t think there’s anything more that I love in the world is listening to her talk—literally just about anything. Michelle (or as MJ I like to call her) and I have been like two peas in a pod since kindergarten. She practically knows all of my secrets… well, except for two. And adding on top of that, there’s a problem.
“So, where’s Chris?” I ask her, looking over her shoulder. “I thought he was coming with you.”
Michelle shrugs her shoulders. “He said that he’s not going to make it because of football practice and homework on top of that. But he did want me to tell you that he said good luck on the show.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
I try not to let my disappointment show too obviously in front of her. Michelle is a certified theater person, so she has a knack for knowing when someone is either underacting or going over the top with it. It’s her special gift that she likes to call it. And here I would’ve thought that Chris would be here with his girlfriend since they’re hardly inseparable, much to my dismay, along with a tinge of jealousy.
“So, what about you? Where’s your boyfriend, Elliot?” she asks with a smug grin on her face.
I inwardly cringe after hearing her call him my “boyfriend” as if it’s a dirty word. Don’t get me wrong, Elliot Taylor is a sweet guy who has a thing for cameras and art, but he’s not really my type, or any guy for that matter. And you know, for obvious reasons. Plus, I can never find the heart to let him down gently and tell him that my heart wants someone else.
These days, some boys never seem to get the hint and take rejection for what it is.
“He, uh, also couldn’t make it. You know how it is,” I tell her, “And besides, his mom wouldn’t allow him to come out in the dead of night. And also, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“That sounds fair,” Her voice sounds so reassuring and relaxed like a remedy. “Well, since our knights in shining armor aren’t here to tend to us. Do you want to dance?”
I grin at her proposal. “And here I thought you’d never ask.” Michelle eagerly takes my hand and leads me onto the dance floor.
By the tenth song blast on the speaker, it’s nearing one o’clock, and the crowd seems to be getting smaller and smaller by the second as people begin to filter out of the warehouse. My signal to get the fuck out of here before my dad seems to notice that I’m gone. And when I get home, there’s going to be hell to pay for sure.
“Hey, MJ, I’d better get going before my dad wakes up and chooses violence,” I tell her.
“I second that,” Michelle adds. “Do you want to stay the night at my place? You can leave before sunrise.”
I shake my head in declination. “Oh no, I don’t want to get you in trouble with your parents or anything. Besides, I’m still trying to find a believable excuse in case my bloodhound of a dad wakes up.” I laugh at the thought.
“Are you sure? It is pretty late, and I’d feel bad for letting you walk home alone at this time of night. So, why don’t you just catch a cab with me?” She finishes the offer with sad puppy dog eyes as if it’ll seal the deal, and she clasps her hands together as a finishing touch. “Puh-lease?”
I eventually give in, mostly because of how far I have to walk back, and I’m feeling pretty tired anyway. “Okay, alright.”
“Great, let’s get out of here!” Michelle smiles.
It’s almost two A.M. by the time I get home in the Upper West Side. I stifle a yawn, hanging my coat on the hanger by the door. I look over at the couch, and just as I hoped, he’s still asleep with the TV on a different show.
His snore is louder than it was before I left. It’s so loud that it shakes the pictures on the wall. This is a lot easier than I thought. I gently drape a blanket over him and then grab the remote off the glass coffee table. With one press of the power button, the TV screen flickers off. The hardwood floor creaks beneath my feet with every step I take as I tiptoe back to my bedroom.
It took a lot of effort and strength (given how fucking tired I am) to climb back up the fire escape. I just want to make sure that he’s still asleep the entire time I was gone. There’s absolutely no way in hell that he didn’t wake up for a moment just to check in on me and not notice that I was gone.
Unless he does know. Either way, I might as well face the music when he does wake up.
Once I’m inside my room, I carefully shut the door behind me. I loosen my shoelaces, kick off my shoes, and lazily place them by the end of my bed. My feet are aching from the amount of jumping, dancing, and stomping at the party. I fall on the mattress with a haunted huff, tumbling from my lips on the impact.
My fingers are stinging from the pain of strumming on the guitar. There’s not a single moment where, after every performance we do, I don’t feel strained. Especially in rehearsals. I’m hoping to invest in getting a pick for my instrument at some point. At least, Diana was there watching me.
The pungent smell of weed and alcohol clings to my clothes like a moth to a flame. I fight back the urge to vomit when the foul odor hits my nostrils. I do need to take a shower to get the smell off me, but the problem is that one sound of the bath water will instantly wake him up for sure. And the other thing, the bed is too damn comfortable to my liking and I don’t have enough energy to get back all and do all of that.
Only one option left.
I quickly get off the bed and swiftly change into my pajamas. I toss the smelly clothes into my purple laundry basket. After that, I flop back on the bed, cocooning myself underneath the covers.
Tonight has completely drained the life out of me.
In my drowsy state, I shift my position, facing up at the ceiling to count the glow-in-the-dark stars until sleep finally comes. That moment with Michelle at the party feels like a distant memory, even though it wasn’t that long ago. Her beautiful eyes and smile seep into my mind. My stomach is filled with butterflies, and my heart skips a beat. Her voice was like poetry, like a song worth listening to on repeat. I was never sure how or when these feelings started to kick in, but I know they’re real. My mother always said that falling in love has some consequences behind it. My heart hurts just thinking about her. Setting those thoughts aside, I finally close my eyes, waiting for sleep to come.
