Underground turned out to be a tiny club with red brick walls, worn pool tables, and a few tables surrounding a stage where tarted-up rockers were sound checking their gear. The room was packed with teenagers taking advantage of the club’s under-twenty-one night.
“Come on.”
Lucy shoved through the crowd. Lagging behind slightly, I already regretted coming.
I hated crowds, and I really hated meeting new people. For too long I’d kept to the shadows to hide what I could do. Before that, I’d learned to hide evidence of Dean’s abuse. Going unnoticed had been easy in Brooklyn when I was one of 4,000 kids at my school. That wouldn’t work here at a school with “only 452 students total including grades eight through twelve,” according to Lucy.
From my spot at the door, I watched her greet a group of her friends across the room. She waved at me with a huge smile, and I waved back, abandoning my plan to duck out the entrance. Three sets of curious eyes stared at me when I stood next to her.
Feeling like a complete moron, I muttered, “Hi,” and wished I hadn’t let Lucy railroad me into this. I didn’t particularly care if I fit in, but it seemed important to her that I meet her friends, so I’d agreed to come.
I knew what her friends saw—the fragile bone structure of my cheeks and jaw, the dark blue eyes too large for my face, and the unruly hair in need of a trim. Even with the aid of Lucy’s cabinet of makeup, I hadn’t been able to hide the bruises or the black eye. I looked . . . damaged.
“This is my sister, Remy. Remy, this is everyone. You can forget their names later.”
She laughed and tossed her black curls in a way that would look ridiculous if I tried it. A girl and boy sat at the table, and she shoved the boy until he made room for us. As we settled in, one of the musicians sauntered up to the table and stole a chair from a nearby table to join us. He was a slice of Brooklyn among Lucy’s clean-cut crew, with his inked arms, spiky hair, and pierced ears.
The pretty brunette with glasses introduced herself. “Hi, Remy. I’m Susan Reynolds. Great shirt,” she said, lightly brushing her fingers down the sleeve.
I smiled and tried to shove away the shyness tying my stomach into a snarl of knots, like the mysterious clump the cheap necklaces in my jewelry box formed when I wasn’t looking.
Susan gestured to the tattooed boy on her left. “This is Brandon Green. His family owns this place.”
I nodded hello and he acknowledged my new throaty smoker’s tone with a “kickass voice, new girl.”
Last, but not least, was the tall, muscular blond. I would have bet all the spare pennies at the bottom of my purse that Greg De Luca played football, but it turned out he preferred playing chess to first downs and yearbook to touchdowns.
When I noticed Greg and Susan eyeing my discolored face, I rolled my eyes, despising the way people treated me with pity and fear. As if Dean’s brutality was my fault or, better yet, as if it was something contagious they could catch on contact.
“You think I look bad, you should see the other guy.”
My tone cut off any discussion about the bruises, and they looked away quickly.
“Remy, you’re from New York, right?”
Susan’s question sparked an inquisition about my life in Brooklyn. My sister’s friends surprised me with how welcoming they were, and she quizzed me along with the rest until I grimaced at her. She caught on and grinned. I couldn’t blame her for being curious about me since I shared her bathroom. My own curiosity about her startled me, when she’d scarcely registered on my radar before coming here. I’d never expected to meet her, let alone hang out in a club with her and her friends.
The conversation died when Brandon rose and joined the band onstage. I was the only one left sitting at the table when he manipulated the first grinding note out of his guitar. Arms and legs flailed to the primal beat on every inch of the dance
“Come on.”
Lucy shoved through the crowd. Lagging behind slightly, I already regretted coming.
I hated crowds, and I really hated meeting new people. For too long I’d kept to the shadows to hide what I could do. Before that, I’d learned to hide evidence of Dean’s abuse. Going unnoticed had been easy in Brooklyn when I was one of 4,000 kids at my school. That wouldn’t work here at a school with “only 452 students total including grades eight through twelve,” according to Lucy.
From my spot at the door, I watched her greet a group of her friends across the room. She waved at me with a huge smile, and I waved back, abandoning my plan to duck out the entrance. Three sets of curious eyes stared at me when I stood next to her.
Feeling like a complete moron, I muttered, “Hi,” and wished I hadn’t let Lucy railroad me into this. I didn’t particularly care if I fit in, but it seemed important to her that I meet her friends, so I’d agreed to come.
I knew what her friends saw—the fragile bone structure of my cheeks and jaw, the dark blue eyes too large for my face, and the unruly hair in need of a trim. Even with the aid of Lucy’s cabinet of makeup, I hadn’t been able to hide the bruises or the black eye. I looked . . . damaged.
“This is my sister, Remy. Remy, this is everyone. You can forget their names later.”
She laughed and tossed her black curls in a way that would look ridiculous if I tried it. A girl and boy sat at the table, and she shoved the boy until he made room for us. As we settled in, one of the musicians sauntered up to the table and stole a chair from a nearby table to join us. He was a slice of Brooklyn among Lucy’s clean-cut crew, with his inked arms, spiky hair, and pierced ears.
The pretty brunette with glasses introduced herself. “Hi, Remy. I’m Susan Reynolds. Great shirt,” she said, lightly brushing her fingers down the sleeve.
I smiled and tried to shove away the shyness tying my stomach into a snarl of knots, like the mysterious clump the cheap necklaces in my jewelry box formed when I wasn’t looking.
Susan gestured to the tattooed boy on her left. “This is Brandon Green. His family owns this place.”
I nodded hello and he acknowledged my new throaty smoker’s tone with a “kickass voice, new girl.”
Last, but not least, was the tall, muscular blond. I would have bet all the spare pennies at the bottom of my purse that Greg De Luca played football, but it turned out he preferred playing chess to first downs and yearbook to touchdowns.
When I noticed Greg and Susan eyeing my discolored face, I rolled my eyes, despising the way people treated me with pity and fear. As if Dean’s brutality was my fault or, better yet, as if it was something contagious they could catch on contact.
“You think I look bad, you should see the other guy.”
My tone cut off any discussion about the bruises, and they looked away quickly.
“Remy, you’re from New York, right?”
Susan’s question sparked an inquisition about my life in Brooklyn. My sister’s friends surprised me with how welcoming they were, and she quizzed me along with the rest until I grimaced at her. She caught on and grinned. I couldn’t blame her for being curious about me since I shared her bathroom. My own curiosity about her startled me, when she’d scarcely registered on my radar before coming here. I’d never expected to meet her, let alone hang out in a club with her and her friends.
The conversation died when Brandon rose and joined the band onstage. I was the only one left sitting at the table when he manipulated the first grinding note out of his guitar. Arms and legs flailed to the primal beat on every inch of the dance
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