over a large club sandwich and a burger. “Forty-six.”
Avery released Mel, who stood there, seeming a little baffled.
“I’d better feed my people.” Avery grabbed the two plates. “But you promised, remember?”
“I remember.”
“No take backs.”
Avery winked to the cook, who was still peering through the window, his face glowing an eerie red under the heat lamp.
“Stay back,” she said, nodding at Mel. “She’s mine, and I have claws.”
4
That night they
were in a yard behind an old house on some back road in Malta, just below Saratoga Lake. Mel had no idea whose house it was—it was one of those party places that just seem permanently empty and that no one claims to own. Angry Maxwell had set up on a patch of dead grass close to the house, right by the three coolers that constituted the bar. The party had only been going for an hour, and already the whole lawn smelled like old beer.
Angry Maxwell was basically Gaz and Hareth, Avery’s musician friends, whom she always joked she met “this one time, at band camp.” In reality, they all connected during freshman year in Music 101. Hareth was a self-proclaimed Persian rapper (his family was originally from Tehran) who always wore a knitted hat pulled low over his forehead. Gaz, the drummer, was extremely tall, with long, rubbery arms that flailed around behind the drum kit. He had shaggy golden brown hair and always wore the same pleasant half smile. He reminded Mel of a Muppet. There was also a girl with two long braids playing the bass. Mel didn’t know who she was.
Mel didn’t claim to know a lot about music, but even she knew that Angry Maxwell was not a good band. The girl seemed to be able to play the guitar, Gaz appeared to know what he was doing with his drums, and Hareth was kind of amusing and animated with his rapping—but they weren’t doing any of this stuff together. It was like they were each playing with a totally different band that only existed in their heads. But nobody cared. The crowd was busy drinking up all the good alcohol before it was gone, and the noise that Angry Maxwell made somehow suited this activity.
Mel usually didn’t drink, but tonight she felt like it. It seemed like the only thing to do here. Avery had enthusiastically gone off to the bar to get them something. Now Mel was just stuck in a loud place, backed up against a wall by a crowd of people and with a very drunk-looking guy heading right for her. Mel scanned the yard for Avery, but she was lost in the crowd somewhere.
“What’s your name?”
The guy had made it across the yard and was leaning into Mel’s face.
“Mel.”
“Jill?”
Mel didn’t bother to correct him.
“Want a drink?” the guy screamed.
“My friend is getting me one.”
“What?”
At that moment there was a minor miracle. Avery pushed herway back through the crowd with several small paper cups in her hands. Seeing Mel’s plight, she shot her a “do you want to talk to this guy?” look. Mel widened her eyes to show that she didn’t.
Avery came over and stood next to the guy, fixing him with a hard stare. People didn’t mess with Avery when she had her eyes all smudged up with black liner. She looked very fierce. The guy threw Mel a puzzled look, but Mel was as unable as ever to express her wish to be left alone in actual words. Avery passed some of the cups she had collected over to Mel.
“Hey,” Avery said, using her free hand to take the guy’s empty cup and toss it over toward the bushes. “Go fetch.”
The guy stared at Avery, looking like he was trying to gauge how much of a problem she might present, then walked away.
Mel would never be as cool as Avery. Ever.
“Brought you a lemon drop,” Avery said. “You’ll like it. It’s sweet. And these are Jell-O shots.” She showed Mel a few cups she had pinched between her fingers.
“They’re really good,” Mel said, nodding at the band.
“No, they aren’t,” Avery said, passing Mel one of
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