He glances around the club. “Not yet, but she’ll be here.”

“Should I look for a girl who’s more tattoo than person?”

Micah laughs. “I think you’ll be surprised at how normal she is,” he says. “She doesn’t have any tattoos, in fact.”

“Really? And here I would have thought that was one of your requirements.”

A bank of round lights above the stage snaps to life with a sharp hum. I watch as someone cycles through the lighting options: bright white, pale blue, green, white spotlight. The stage goes dark again.

“What are your requirements?” Micah asks. “Chiseled abs? Fake tan? A shelf full of sports trophies?”

“Dude, you think I’m such a bad person,” I say.

A bald guy in oversized headphones makes his way to the middle of the stage. He taps the microphone twice and says. “Check. Check two.”

“Not bad,” Micah says. “Maybe a little shallow.” He nudges me in the ribs to show me he’s kidding, but his words sting.

“Just because I’m popular and in love with a guy who is also popular doesn’t make me shallow, does it?”

“I was only—”

“It’s not like I can just change who I am or what I like. I can’t just turn off feelings and quit giving a crap about stuff that’s important to me.” I lift my chin. “I think of shallow more like only caring about owning fancy stuff and being beautiful. Most girls want to feel beautiful, but it’s not my number one goal in life or anything.”

“Hey.” Micah gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Chill. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I look away, part of me still feeling wounded and the rest of me trying to figure out why I even care what he thinks.

“So what is your number one goal then?” he asks.

“Getting a soccer scholarship, I guess. I know I can’t turn that into a paying job, but I’m not like Bianca—I don’t have the next twelve years already planned out.” I frown. “Still, I want to do something meaningful too. I just haven’t figured out what yet.”

“You’ve got plenty of time to decide what you want to do,” Micah says. “That’s what college is for.”

Headphones Guy moves from microphone to microphone checking each one. Then he picks up a guitar and strums it lightly, producing a barrage of chords that sounds more like a car accident than music.

“Please tell me he’s not in the band,” I say.

“He’s not.” Micah is looking across the room at a pair of girls sitting behind a card table selling T-shirts and stuff.

A flash of jealousy sparks through me. I can’t believe he’s checking out other girls while we’re supposed to be acting like we’re a couple. “So, is Amber prettier than me?” I blurt out, mentally kicking myself as soon as the words leave my mouth. It’s one of those things you think, but never actually mean to say, but once it’s out there you’ve got no choice but to own it.

“Relax, Lainey,” Micah says. “It’s not a competition.”

I think of The Art of War tucked inside my purse. “It’s totally a competition,” I mutter under my breath. “It’s a battle.”

But Amber isn’t my enemy.

Right. It doesn’t matter if Micah’s ex is hotter than I am, so then why do I want him to like me better? I feel a twinge of shame. Maybe I am shallow. Kendall is all about collecting “fan club members” as she calls them, but I’ve never been one to lead on boys I wasn’t interested in. Again, I wonder if being without Jason is wrecking my self-esteem.

The lights in the club dim and the stage lights flare to life again. “Come on.” Micah urges me forward and I stomp on the toes of the guy in front of me.

“Sorry,” I mutter. People from the back of the club and the bar area are flocking to the small rectangle of space in front of the stage, jostling me from all sides. I’m not sure where Micah wants me to go. I try to turn around and ask, but then I feel his hands on me. Fingertips, really. Barely grazing my sides, right below where my rib cage ends. I let him guide me through the people. When we stop moving, my arms are actually resting on top of the stage. Micah is directly to my right. To the right of him, stacks of black amplifiers hum with energy.

The crowd starts clapping and whistling as the opening band, Arachne’s Revenge, walks out onto the stage. The drummer is an overweight guy wearing a backward baseball cap and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. The guitarist and bassist (I can never tell which is which) are both lanky and tall. One has dark skin and dreadlocks. The other is pale with unruly, curly blond hair. The lead singer is a Kendall-pretty girl who looks a few years older than me. She’s wearing a black-and-red kimono with a layer of black mesh peeking out from beneath the hem. Her heavy combat boots are half unlaced, but she glides across the stage like she’s part swan and part panther.

“Wow,” I say. I’m impressed and she hasn’t even started to sing.

“I know, right?” Micah’s eyes follow the girl as she walks from one side of the stage to the other, stopping to ruffle her bassist’s (I think) dreadlocks. He tugs on one of her pale fish-bone braids and winks, as if they’re sharing a secret joke.

The girl heads back to center stage and sidles up to the microphone. “What’s up, Hazelton?” she asks. The crowd roars in response. The guy standing next to me, whose toes I smashed, reaches out to touch the singer’s boot. She smiles down at him but steps back out of his reach.

The first two songs aren’t bad. The lead singer has a decent voice but it’s being swallowed up by the screaming guitars. Still, it’s way better than one of those shows where the band dresses up like grim reapers and throws buckets of pig guts into the audience.

Then the drummer leaves the stage and returns with a dual keyboard setup. A guy wearing a staff T-shirt brings the lead singer a violin.

“This is called ‘Wake Up Dreaming,’” the lead singer says. Her voice is a mix of throaty and little girlish. “Someday we hope to perform it with a full symphony.” Around me, people are pulling out their cell phones, lighting up the screens and holding them above their heads. The girl counts out a beat and the whole band begins to play at once. It’s one of the songs Micah played on the way to Mizz Creant’s. The song that almost made me cry.

The bright lights blink off and suddenly the stage is awash in rotating blue circles. I can feel vibrations from the amps, from the floor. I swear I can even feel the individual notes moving through the air. My blood hums in my veins. I look over at Micah. He’s got his eyes closed.

The music pitches and swells, violin and guitars, drumbeats and thudding bass. As I sway back and forth in front of the stage, it’s like being in the eye of a tornado, where it’s calm, but everything is going crazy, whirling around me. I can’t stop looking at Micah, at the way the lights reflect off his mohawk, at the way he’s completely lost in the storm of overlapping chords.

I see every part of him, tiny pieces I never knew existed. The slight bend in his nose, the wedge-shaped scar on his right temple, the outline of his bicep hiding beneath the pyramid tattoo. His lips part, just barely, when he exhales. As I imagine the invisible mist of his breath hanging in the air, I inch closer to him. Here, in the strange blue light, while the bass pulses and pounds, all I can think about is touching him. Our fingertips brush. A shock wave courses through me. I want to grab him and pull him into my calm spot, closing my eyes and kissing him while the world spins topsy-turvy around us.

My thoughts feel hot inside my head, like they should be radiating a laser beam across the club, but Micah’s eyes are still closed, his body loose. He’s oblivious to the fact I’m thinking about kissing him. He has no idea my eyes are skimming their way down the lines of his body. His cheekbones. His beard stubble. The ridge of muscle connecting his jaw to the center of his chest. The faintest trace of sweat glistens where his neck meets his right shoulder. I want to touch my lips to it.

This is crazy. It’s Micah. I don’t like Micah. He doesn’t like me. We have about as much in common as, well, nothing. I sneak another glimpse at him. He’s still completely entranced by the song. He’s still completely kissable. It has to be the beer, or the music, the violins and guitars and electronic pulsing, the whole otherworldly quality to this song. Or maybe it’s just because I’m not myself here, and I don’t have to obey the rules of Lainey.

Micah’s eyes snap open and he looks over at me, as if he can finally sense the strange intensity of my thoughts. My heart does a somersault in my chest. I mutter something about needing air even though I know he can’t hear me.

Turning, I thread my way through the crowd. The music is crescendoing now. Louder and louder. I feel it pounding in my skin, my blood, my ears, my head. Every beat is punctuated with the split-second image of Micah and me kissing. His lips, white-hot on mine. I plunge forward, swimming through swaying arms and sweaty torsos.

I swear he says my name, but I don’t turn around. I’m imagining it. I have to be. There’s no way I’d be able to hear him over the music. Besides, I don’t dare look back. If I do, he’ll know. He’ll see everything reflected in my eyes.

I escape out into the night, embracing the breeze that cools my skin and dries the damp tendrils of hair at the nape of my neck. My heart gallops painfully in my chest, a tiny horse trying to burst through my rib cage. The music fades away as the song comes to an end, but I am still drowning in spiky hair and glimmering sweat. And lips, those barely parted lips.

Stop. I will the image from my head.

Me. Micah.

Kissing.