wearing bowling shoes. Hundreds of people use those things and, what, one spritz of Lysol is supposed to kil all of their nasty stinky feet germs? I don’t think so.
“That’s okay,” I say when the man drops them on the counter. “You can keep them.”
“Lady.You ain’t all owed to play without shoes.”
“I’m not playing.”
“Lady. Take the shoes.You’re holdin’ up the line.”
Matt grabs them. “Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I forgot how you are with stuff like this.” And then Cherrie huffs, so he carries her shoes, too. He hides them underneath some plastic orange shel chairs, and we strol over to the stage, which is pushed against the far wal . A smal crowd has gathered.
Bridge and Toph aren’t anywhere to be seen, and I don’t recognize anyone else.
“I think they’re going first,” Matt says.
“You mean they’re the opening act in an underage bowling all ey?” I ask.
He cuts his eyes at me, and I feel about two feet tal . Because he’s right.This is stil awesome! It’s their first show! But the sinking feeling returns as we mil around. Giveaway T-shirts stretched over monstrous beer bel ies. Puffy NFL jackets and porky jowls. Granted, I’m in a bowling all ey, but the
differences between Americans and Parisians are shocking. I’m ashamed to see my country the way the French must see us. Couldn’t these people have
at least brushed their hair before leaving their houses?
“I need a licorice rope,” Cherrie announces. She marches toward the snack stand, and all I can think is these people are your future.
The thought makes me a little happier.
When she comes back, I inform her that just one bite of her Red Dye #40-infused snack could kil my brother. “God, morbid,” she says.Which makes
me think of St. Clair again. Because when I told him the same thing three months ago, instead of accusing me of morbidity, he asked with genuine
curiosity, “Why?”
Which is the polite thing to do when someone offers you such an interesting piece of conversation.
I wonder if St. Clair has seen his mom yet. Hmm, he’s been in California for two hours. His father was going to pick him up and drive him straight to the hospital. He’s probably with her right now. I should send him a text, some well -wishes. I pul out my phone just as the tiny crowd erupts with cheers.
I forget about the text.
The Penny Dreadfuls emerge, pulsating with excitement and energy, from . . . the staff room. Okay. So it’s not as glamorous as emerging from a
backstage, but they do look GREAT. well , two of them do.
The bassist is the same as always. Reggie used to come into work, mooching free tickets off Toph for the latest comic book movies. He has these long
bangs that droop over half his face and cover his eyes, and I could never tell what he thought about anything. I’d be like, “How was the new Iron Man?”
And he’d say, “Fine,” in this bored voice. And because his eyes were hidden, I didn’t know if he meant a good fine, or a so-so fine, or a bad fine. It was irritating.
But Bridgette is radiant. She’s wearing a tank top that shows off her toned arms, and her blond hair is in Princess Leia buns with chopsticks through
them. I wonder if that was Seany’s idea. She finds me immediately, and her face lights up like a Christmas tree. I wave as she lifts the sticks above her head, counts off the song, and then she’s flying. Reggie drives out a matching bass line, and Toph—I save him for last, because I know that once my eyes lock on him, they aren’t moving.
Because Toph. Is stil . Total y. Hot.
He’s slashing at his guitar like he wants to use it for kindling, and he has that angry punk rock scream, and his forehead and sideburns are already
glistening with sweat. His pants are tight and bright blue plaid, something that NO ONE else I know could pul off, and it reminds me of his Blue Raspberry Mouth, and it’s so dead sexy I could die.