Tell Me Three Things - Julie Buxbaum Page 0,45

dress from last year’s homecoming paired with Dri’s jewelry and strappy sandals.

I feel hands cover my eyes, and I stifle my impulse to scream.

“Guess who?”

“Hey,” I say, and twist out of the hands and turn to face…Liam. Did I hope it would be Ethan? Okay, maybe a little. Liam gives me a peck on the cheek, which is weird, because we don’t kiss hello at the store.

“Hi,” I say, greeting him twice.

Hey-hi. Really, Jessie? Best you can do?

“Hi,” he says, and his voice is thick and loose. He’s drunk, I realize, though I’m not sure how far gone. He’s not stumbling, but he rests his hands on my shoulders. He has what Scarlett and I would call penis fingers. Dri would call them manly. “I’m so glad you came. We’re going on any minute.”

“Cool,” I say, and then I notice Dri standing next to me. “Liam, have you ever met my friend Dri? She’s the best. You guys have, like, literally the same taste in music.”

“Yo,” he says, and tips an imaginary hat at her. Yup, very drunk. Liam is not a hat-tipping kind of guy. Dri freezes, because Liam Sandler is talking to her, and though I’m sure she’s fantasized about this moment many, many times, it’s a very different thing when fantasy meets reality. Agnes elbows her to wake her out of her stupor.

“Hi,” Dri says. “Oville is, um…You, I mean, you guys, are really very, I mean, good.”

“We aim to please,” he says, a little cocky. Maybe he’s not so different from the other senior guys after all. Someone far away whistles. “That’s my cue, ladies. See you later, Jess?”

Liam heads toward the stage, and once he’s out of earshot, Dri grabs my hands.

“Did that just happen? Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she says.

“He’s seriously drunk,” I say.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Agnes says, and gives me a pointed look over Dri’s head, though I’m not sure what she’s trying to say.

“Let’s get closer to the stage.” Dri leads the way, and we all hold hands again and snake through the crowd to get a better view.

“What?” I whisper to Agnes.

“Nothing,” she says, but it’s the kind of nothing that means something.

We make our way to the front, and then I see the whole band, right there onstage, which also means I see Ethan, and my stomach drops. He has a blue electric guitar strapped across his chest, his hair is even messier than usual, and he looks like an actual rock star, despite the Batman logo emblazoned across his chest. Like he was born to be up there, born to hear pathetic girls like me squeal his name. Our eyes catch—a second, then another, one more—but I look away because: Holy crap. I’m no longer cold.

I want to look back. I want nothing more in this life but to look back and have him look at me, but I know he’s now on to more important things, like playing guitar and having eye-sex with other girls, and I just can’t take it.

“Aren’t they amazing?” Dri asks, even though they haven’t started playing yet.

“They look like a real band,” I say, which is the greatest understatement of our time. They don’t look like a real band. They look like rock gods. “I mean, not like high school kids.”

“I know, right? We thought they were going to break up last year after Xander died, but then Liam joined and took his place—” Dri stops talking because the music starts and I don’t get a chance to ask more. Who is Xander? Was he the kid who Theo said overdosed on heroin? Have I completely misunderstood Liam and Ethan? Do they live, like, rock-star lives, with needles in their arms and scantily clad girls giving them blow jobs in their tour van? Is that why Ethan always looks exhausted? Too much partying?

Oville starts with a fast one, and the crowd all knows the words and starts dancing with arms thrown in the air. Liam sweats and belts his heart out: We tried, I cried, you hide, and then we do it all over. Do it all over. We tried, I cried, you hide, and then we do it all over.

Simple lyrics, maybe, but before I know it, I’m dancing too, transfixed. Maybe it’s the alcohol—not maybe, of course it’s the alcohol—but I find myself staring at Ethan. I don’t care if he notices, thinks I’m a cray-cray stalker; he’s onstage asking to be stared at. For a

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