Paula Stokes - The Art of Lainey

Impossible.

So then why do I want it so much?

I suck in breath after breath of warm night air, waiting for my heartbeat to slow, waiting for my whole body to stop tingling.

What the hell was that? Get a grip, Lainey. The idea is not to fall for your fake boyfriend.

A handful of kids hover right outside the doors to the club. Two are smoking; the rest are clearly too young for the fourteen-and-over show. They’re hanging around, peeking through the door of the club whenever someone goes in or out, probably hoping the bouncer will eventually take pity on them and let them in. One of the smokers whistles at me.

Ignoring him, I turn and wander half a block up the street, just far enough away to feel alone. This is a busy area of town, but it’s after ten and all the stores are closed. The only things open are The Devil’s Doorstep and Alpha, the pizza place across the street. Gathering my dress around me, I carefully lower myself to the rough sidewalk. I lean my head back against the dirt-encrusted glass window of a vintage clothing store and pull The Art of War from my purse. I need more ancient Chinese wisdom to make it through the night.

The clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy but does not allow the enemy’s will to be imposed on him. Right. I’m supposed to be tricking Jason and Amber with this little charade. I’m not supposed to be tricking myself.

Micah ducks out of the club a minute later. I watch him spin a slow half circle as he tries to find me. Our eyes meet and I raise my hand in a partial wave. He ambles over and sits down next to me. Plucking the book out of my hand, he stretches his legs out in front of him and begins to read silently. “You brought your homework to the concert?”

“I’m actually reading that for . . . personal reasons.” I stare straight ahead at my strappy sandals and the scuffed leather tops of his steel-toed boots. I catch glimpses of Alpha’s patio through the space between the parked cars. A tall waiter with thick, blond hair ambles up to a table of women my mom’s age. The way he walks reminds me of Jason—it’s almost a swagger, as if he knows he heading into territory where he will be universally adored. As he takes their orders, he pauses to put his hand on one’s arm. The women burst into giggles the second the waiter disappears back into the restaurant. It’s cute how much fun they’re having, but it all strikes me as being a little fake.

I should know. I’m turning into somewhat of an expert when it comes to being fake.

Micah flips to the next page. He still hasn’t said anything. I figure he’s waiting for me to explain my behavior. Not going to happen. I mean, how mortifying would that be? Gee, I started getting into the music. Then I started getting into the way you were getting into the music. Then I started getting into you. And now I’m out here reading a warrior strategy guide to cool off. Nothing weird about that.

I could always lie—tell him it was too loud or too hot, that I was fanning myself with the book, but the more I watch the theater production going on across the street, the more the idea of any more phoniness makes me feel sick. Maybe if I sit here and say nothing Micah will think everything is fine.

“So,” he says finally, setting The Art of War on the ground between us.

So is a word that can mean many things. Pretty sure this one means: “What the hell is wrong with you, freak show?”

I don’t respond right away. I look straight ahead, trying to decide if the urge to kiss him has passed. It has. I’m back in control. He turns toward me and I catch of whiff of Red Lynx aftershave mingled with smoke and sweat.

“Are you okay?” Micah asks. Just when I’m thinking his concern is really sweet he says, “Did you have a stroke? This might be the longest I’ve ever heard you go without talking.”

I try to force my face into a frown but my lips curl up at the edges. I can’t help it. Even when he’s teasing me, he’s still kind of funny. “It’s just a little overwhelming, you know?” The words fly out of my mouth almost without thinking. Super. I sound like I’ve never been to a concert before. I steel myself for the barrage of scorn I know is forthcoming.

But all he says is, “Do you hate it? We can go.”

“I love it,” I say. “Or that song, anyway.” He looks a little surprised. I should take this as my cue to shut up, but I keep talking. “It felt unreal. Like I was dreaming or on drugs or something.” I shake my head. Could I be more lame?

Micah looks up at the sky. It’s hazy and gray, the smoke from a nearby factory lacing together with feathery clouds. “I know what you mean,” he says, passing up a second opportunity to rag on me mercilessly. “That whole mix of classical music and guitar and shit gets inside of you. I always feel like I’m floating through space or breathing underwater.”

That is an excellent description of how I felt.

“I’m surprised you like this group,” I say. “Pianos? Violins? I thought you only listened to hard-core punk and screaming death metal. You know, music to murder by.”

“Well, they do harder stuff too.” Micah nudges my foot with his steel-toed boot. “Hmm. Music to murder by, eh? That would be a cool name for a band.”

I laugh. “I know, right?”

He punches me lightly on the leg. I flinch. He turns to look at me and I focus on the waiter across the street, memorizing his gait as if there’s going to be a test later. “No, seriously,” Micah says. “I think we need to form a band, just because you came up with that. Can you play anything?”

“Um, I can sing.” If karaoke counts.

“Lead vocals for Music to Murder By. Let’s hear it.”

“What’s our song called?” My mouth is still forming words independent of my brain.

“Destructor.” He says this in a low, booming voice, stretching the final R sound into a growl.

I let out a crazy half-screech, half-snarl, stretching it out for about ten seconds. My impression of what a song called “Destructor” would sound like.

A couple of the kids in front of the club look over. One of them puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles.

Micah holds his fist out for a bump. “Look, our first fans! Why, Glinda Elaine Mitchell. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

I cringe. Ever since I was old enough to know that my mother named me after the good witch in the Wizard of Oz, I’ve been trying to forget. Aside from the occasional substitute teacher, no one calls me “Glinda.” No one. “Don’t call me that,” I say, tapping my knuckles against his. “Ever.”

He holds his hands up in fake surrender. “The girl is feisty tonight.”

“The girl is always feisty.”

“So I’m learning.” Micah picks up The Art of War. He clears his throat. “‘There are five ways of attacking with fire. The first is to burn soldiers in their camp; the second is to burn stores; the third is to burn baggage trains; the fourth is to burn arsenals and magazines; the fifth is to hurl dropping fire amongst the enemy.’ This is some serious shit.” He smiles. “Should I be worried?”

“I’m actually using it to strategize,” I blurt out. “You know, to win back Jason.”

I’m expecting Micah to burst out laughing but he just nods to himself. “How Machiavellian of you.”

“Leo said that too. It was Bianca’s idea. She’s definitely the brains of the operation.”

“I assume you and Bee aren’t burning any soldiers or stores?” Micah asks with a gleam in his eye.

“Some parts of it are more relevant than others,” I admit.

He tosses the book to me. “Well, show me what you got.”

I show him my highlighted passages and tell him about some of the stuff Bianca came up with, like being deceptive and attacking from a position of power.

“Fall like a thunderbolt, huh?” he says.

“Right. When the moment comes, be bold. Decisive. Strike with power.”

“Got it.” The top ten list is tucked in the back of the book. Micah nods again as he goes through the strategies.

“Do you think it’s crazy?” I ask.

He laughs lightly. “I think it’s highly organized, and maybe a little scary. But I also think we’re missing an excellent show.” Rising to his feet, he holds his hands out toward me.

Tucking the book back into my purse, I grip his fingertips gently and scramble back to my feet. The image of him with his head back, eyes closed, swaying to the music flashes into my head ever so briefly. My face is flushed. My whole body still feels hot. My chest expands as I inhale a huge breath of air. Get it together, Lainey.

When we get back inside, the main act is getting ready to take the stage. I can see two of the members of Arachne’s Revenge—the drummer and the guy with the dreads—sitting over at the T-shirt table. The lead singer is working her way through the crowd toward the front of the stage. When she gets closer, I see she’s not as old as she looked under the lights.

To my surprise, she doesn’t veer off to grab an open space at the front of the stage. She moves straight through the crowd until she makes her way over to us. And then she wraps her hands around Micah’s head, covering his eyes with her fingers. The girl leans in close to whisper in his ear.

Micah removes the girl’s hands from his eyes and turns to give her a quick hug. It’s the same kind of hug I gave Leo in the car, more of a pat on the back with lots of space between the torsos. “Hey,” he says.