car in front sprays a cloud of exhaust straight into our vents.
Two weeks. Only two more weeks.
Chapter twenty-five
Sofia is dead. Because Mom only took her out three times since I left, now she’s stuck in some repair shop on Ponce de Leon Avenue. My car may be a
hunk of red scrap metal, but she’s my hunk of red scrap metal. I paid for her with my own money, earned with the stench of theater popcorn in my hair and artificial butter on my arms. She’s named after my favorite director, Sofia Coppola. Sofia creates these atmospheric, impressionistic films with this quiet but impeccable style. She’s also one of only two American women to have been nominated for the Best Director Oscar, for Lost in Translation.
She should have won.
“Why don’t you carpool with your friends?” Mom asks, when I complain about driving her minivan to the Penny Dreadfuls show.
“Because Bridge and Toph will already be there.They have to set up.” Captain Jack wheek wheek wheeks for guinea pig treats, so I pop an orange
pel et into his cage and scratch the fuzz behind his ears.
“Can’t Matt drive you?”
I haven’t talked to him in months. I guess he’s going, but ugh, that means Cherrie Milliken is also going. No thanks. “I’m not cal ing Matt.”
“Wel , Anna. It’s Matt or the minivan. I’m not making the choice for you.”
I choose my ex. We used to be good friends, so I’m sort of looking forward to seeing him again. And maybe Cherrie isn’t as bad as I remember. Except
she is. She totally is. After only five minutes in her company, I cannot fathom how Bridge stands sitting with her at lunch every day. She turns to look at me in the backseat, and her hair swishes in a vitamin-enriched, shampoo-commercial curtain. “So. How are the guys in Paris?”
I shrug. “Parisian.”
“Ha ha.You’re funny.”
Her lifeless laugh is one of her lesser attributes. What does Matt see in her?
“No one special?” Matt smiles and glances at me through the rearview mirror. I’m not sure why, but I forgot that he has brown eyes. Why do they make
some people look amazing and others completely average? It’s the same with brown hair. Statistical y speaking, St. Clair and Matt are quite similar.
Eyes: Brown. Hair: Brown. Race: Caucasian. There’s a significant difference in height, but stil . It’s like comparing a gourmet truffle to a Mr. Goodbar.
I think about the gourmet truffle. And his girlfriend. “Not exactly.”
Cherrie pul s Matt into a story about something that happened in chorus, a conversation she knows I can’t contribute to. Mr. Goodbar fil s me in on the
who-is-who details, but my mind drifts away. Bridgette and Toph. will Bridge look the same? will Toph and I jump in where we left off?
It’s real y hitting me now. I’m about to see Toph.
The last time we were together, we kissed. I can’t help but fantasize about our reunion. Toph picking me out of the crowd, being unable to pry his eyes from me, dedicating songs to me. Meeting him backstage. Kissing him in dark corners. I could be on the verge of an entire winter break spent making out with Toph. By the time we arrive at the club, my stomach is in knots, but in such a good way.
Except when Matt opens my door, I realize we aren’t at a club. More like . . . a bowling all ey. “Is this the right place?”
Cherrie nods. “Al of the best underage bands play here.”
“Oh.” Bridge hadn’t mentioned she was playing in a bowling all ey. But that’s okay, it’s stil a huge deal. And I’d forgotten about the whole underage
thing.Which is sil y, because it’s not like I’ve lived in France that long.
Inside, we’re told we have to buy a lane in order to stay for the show. This also means we have to rent bowling shoes. Um, no.There’s no way I’m