Paula Stokes - The Art of Lainey

“Someday,” I say, my voice muffled by two inches of feathers. “What was so important you couldn’t wait till I got up?”

“I’m heading out for the day with some of the other adjunct professors. I was curious about how things went on your date last night so I did a reading for you with my breakfast tea. I saw a bird—a swallow.” She clears her throat. “Love. New beginnings.”

I groan. I swear my mom keeps my picture on her desk for the sole purpose of reading leaves for me against my will. It’s her weirdo way of spying or something. “Are you sure it wasn’t a raven or a vulture?” I ask. “Maybe a headless chicken foretelling a future full of . . . headless chickens?”

“Joke all you want. I just thought you’d want to know,” she says in a singsong voice. “Am I right? How was it? Is new love blooming in my daughter’s life?”

I peer out from underneath the pillow. “It wasn’t even a date. It was business.”

Her brow furrows. “Do I need to worry about what kind of business has my daughter donning tiny miniskirts and going out with strange boys?”

“No, Mom. I haven’t turned hooker or anything, I promise.” I sit up and rub my eyes. “Think of it more like an anthropology project. I’m interacting with different, um, subcultures.”

My mom’s eyes narrow to little snakelike slits. “You’ve never had any interest in anthropology before,” she says wryly. “Or plays, for that matter. You saw Faust, right? What did you think of it?”

I stifle a yawn. “I kind of liked it, the parts I understood anyway.”

She tucks a chunk of unruly hair back out of my face. “You know, I was in a couple of productions when I was in college. It’s exhilarating being up there on the stage, living someone else’s life.”

Was that what I liked? The idea of being someone else? No, that’s crazy. There’s nothing wrong with my life. Well, there won’t be once I win Jason back. Most girls would trade places with me in an instant.

“Well, keep an eye out,” my mom says. “The leaves are never wrong. New love. How exciting.” She pulls the blinds closed and practically scampers out of my room. It’s disturbing how giddy she can be sometimes.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to go back to sleep but it’s pointless. I grab my phone to check the time and see that I have two text messages from earlier in the morning. The first is from Bee, asking if I want to go running with her. I do, and I should, but maybe later. I tap the screen. The second is another message from Micah.

Concert tomorrow night at TDD. You in?

Me: Will Amber be there?

Micah: Yup

Me: Okay. What time?

Micah: I’ll pick you up at 8. Wear something hot.

Me: Ha-ha. Everything I own is hot.

I call Bianca and give her the lowdown on last night’s date with Leo. Then I tell her about my plans with Micah.

“Do you want to come with?” I ask, crossing my fingers that she’ll say yes. “I’m sure Micah wouldn’t care. Two hot dates are better than one, right?”

Bee pauses on the other end of the line. I can almost hear her brain whirring as she tries to come up with a polite excuse. “The Devil’s Doorstep isn’t really my scene,” she says finally.

“Like it’s my scene?” My voice gets shrill. “I’m half expecting the bouncers to turn me away for being a fraud and a poser.” It’s kind of like those super-Goth stores at the mall. I like to peek in from the outside and I’m pretty sure there’s stuff in there I would want, but the thought of the sales clerk with the tattooed face and triple lip rings treating me like I don’t belong makes it not worth the hassle.

Bianca yawns. “You don’t need me for this, Lainey. You’ve got Micah. He’ll protect you. Meanwhile, I’ll probably be playing goalie for Elias and Miguelito.”

“I can’t believe you’d rather spend the night playing soccer with your brothers,” I whine. “You’re going to leave me all alone to be doused in pig’s blood by a bunch of guys wearing leather and face paint.” I sigh dramatically. “But whatever. I’ll survive. Micah and I made a deal and there’s no backing out now.”

Bianca giggles. “I doubt it will be that bad. And look on the bright side—”

“What bright side?”

“You’ll finally get to see what Amber is like.”

I guess I am a little curious about that.

“So hanging out with Leo went okay?” Micah asks.

We’re in his car on the way to The Devil’s Doorstep. I keep slouching lower and lower in my seat so no one will see me in what I’m now referring to as “the Beast.”

“Were you expecting it not to go okay?” I peek over at him.

He’s wearing the standard rocker-boy uniform: jeans, strategically frayed, with a black concert T-shirt. In addition to his barbed-wire bracelet, he’s also wearing a silver anarchy pendant, and his hair has been spiked to maximum height. “Well, I would have felt responsible if you had a miserable time since I hooked it up.”

“Stop talking about me like you’re my pimp,” I say, fiddling with my colored streak. “It was my decision to hang out with Leo.”

“Did it go better than okay?” Micah asks. I can see his lips curl into a smirk out of the corner of my eye. “You sound a little defensive.”

“And you sound a little jealous.” I arch an eyebrow.

Micah hums to himself as he pulls into the gravel parking lot behind the club. “Now you sound a little delusional.” He shuts off the ignition and checks his reflection in the rearview mirror.

“Whatever.” I pull out my compact to give myself a quick once-over. I’m wearing a flowy green-and-black sundress with a lace neckline and hem. Between my outfit and my bronze eye shadow, my eyes are looking supergreen tonight. “Who’s playing again?” I ask. He’s told me about six times but I keep forgetting. I reach down to retie the strap of my left platform sandal, frowning when I notice one of the tiny rhinestones has fallen off. My shoes are tall enough that I’ll tower over my fake date, but Micah doesn’t seem to care. “A bunch of bands that’ll make my ears bleed?”

“Arachne’s Revenge and Bottlegrate.”

“Right.” I nod, even though I don’t think I’ve heard anything by either one of them.

“You going to be okay?” Micah’s still wearing half a smirk, but his voice is serious. “I can assure you the place isn’t as scary as you think.”

“I’m fine,” I snap. “I’m not scared.”

He pulls a couple tall cans of beer out from under the seat. “We won’t be able to get served inside. I stole a couple of my mom’s just in case you needed something to take the edge off.”

I grab a can out of Micah’s hand and pop the top. It’s a brand I don’t recognize and it tastes awful, like someone took the cheapest beer they could find and spiked it with nail polish remover. Still, for some reason I chug almost the whole can before I come up for air.

“Damn, girl.” He stares at me in disbelief. “That’s kind of hot.”

I smile. “Jason would have told me to quit being a dude.”

Micah pops open his own beer. “This Jason guy seems to have a lot of issues, almost like a chick.”

“Funny.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and let out a satisfying belch.

“Okay, that’s less hot, but I’ll let it slide.” Micah slams his beer and makes a point of belching even louder. “Almost like hanging out with C-4,” he teases, slipping the empty beer cans back under the seat and then getting out of the car. I hop out on my own side and gingerly close the door behind me. Micah walks around the back of the car so that we’re standing next to each other. He’s wearing Jason’s aftershave again. “If C-4 were an insanely tall soccer diva.”

“I’m not that tall,” I insist, even though I have to look down at Micah to say it.

“You are tonight,” Micah says, nudging my platform sandal with one of his black boots. “Very supermodelesque.”

I give him a skeptical look as we walk side by side toward the front door of the club. “I had one beer,” I say. “I’m not drunk enough for you to schmooze your way into my pants.”

“You’re not wearing pants.” Micah glances down at my bare legs. “Looks like I’m halfway there.” He winks at me and I give him my “back the hell up” look in response.

We get our hands stamped by a bald guy who looks like an ogre, and then pass through a dingy hall into an even dingier main room.

I’ve never been inside The Devil’s Doorstep before, but it looks pretty much like I expected. The floor is made of wood, scraped in some places and warping in others. A narrow bar runs along one side of the room. Three-legged barstools are lined up in front of it, their cushions bleeding stuffing out of various rips and tears. Behind the bar, pictures and posters, most of them autographed, hang at various angles. The walls of the place are painted black. A pair of red fiberglass devils flank the stage.

Above our heads, half-rotted wooden ceiling beams dip low. An exposed wire dangles from a hole in the wood. The whole place looks about one equipment malfunction short of burning to the ground.

People stand around in little clusters talking and drinking. I see a girl in a rubber dress and I think of Phoenix, of her slicked-back blonde hair and giant tattoo. I peer around, trying to pick Amber out of the crowd. She’ll probably make Micah look normal.

“Where’s Amber?” I ask. “Do you see her?”