AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER TWO
10 YEARS EARLIER - APRIL 2012
I’d never really been to a concert before, unless you count a few low-key bands who played at the local bars and venues around town, as well as one orchestral concert my friend’s parents dragged me and an old buddy of mine to when we were ten or so. My parents never gave a damn about my interest in music. If I played music aloud in my room, it had to be almost mute, otherwise, one of my parents (or both, in the worst-case scenarios) would bust open my door and fling my radio or my phone or whatever device I was using to play the music against the wall.
To date, I’d gone through an old iPod dock, a radio, another dingier radio, and two phones. Finally, I opted for headphones, which was usually fine, unless the music was on full volume. That would piss them off, too. For addicts who were typically passed out in the living room high or drunk, they had spectacular hearing.
Every night before bed, I curled up in my small twin-sized mattress, plugged in my headphones, got snuggled up under the scratchy quilt I’d had forever, and allowed myself to escape into dream world.
At school, I was kind of in with the cool kids, but not so popular that people flocked to me. I liked it that way. I made good grades, stayed after school to be with my friends instead of going home prematurely, and generally had a decent high school experience. I looked forward to going to school just because it meant I didn’t have to be at home.
At night, I would stay up late and ponder what I’d do when school ended. I was a senior, and though I’d applied to a community college, a couple of universities, and a technical college just to see if I’d get in, each night as I listened to the music in the dark, the only thing I could picture for the future was myself on stage.
I only ever sang in private. The only people who had heard me sing were some of my friends, but that was when we were joshing around, singing at the tops of our lungs in my best friend Sean’s beat up van. During those moments, I made sure my singing blended into the background of the car, terrified that even my closest friends might make fun of my voice.
Practicing my vocals while living with abusive parents who wanted nothing to do with me was a challenge to say the least. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I stayed after school and practiced in the vacant chorus room before scarcely making it to the metro in time to catch the last ride to my parents’ trailer home. It wouldn’t be right to call itmyhome. It had never been mine, and they’d made sure I knew it every chance they got.
Other times, especially on the weekends when I didn’t have a party to go to or a friend to hang with, I went to one of the parks either early in the morning or at dusk and practiced there. I would’ve gladly sung in the confines of a car if I’d been able to afford one for myself. Despite the lawn work I did, and all the cash I had saved up, my parents always seemed to sniff out my hidden stash. Of course, they’d always blow it all on booze or blow before I even realized it was gone.
I had no idea what to expect at a real-life concert, but as we rode into the city in Sean’s beat up van that always reeked of stale weed and dank socks, my heart pounded harder and harder in my chest—especially as we passed the D.C. monuments—that’s when I knew we were close to the venue. We all knew parking would be an absolute bitch, but we’d manage. We were early, after all, which was a fucking miracle with how Sean drove, and how Ronnie was never on time for anything,ever.
I knew my friends were almost as excited as I was. Ronnie started to jump around in the van like a banshee on caffeine as we got closer and closer, and I’d lost count of how many times Sean had screamed,“Hell yeah!”as each new song came on over the speakers.
Blink-182. Simple Plan. All Time Low.
Fuck yeah.
The concert wasn’t held at the Capital City Arena, which I was bummed about until Sean reassured me that smaller shows like the one we were headed to tended to be better. More personal. Less restricted. Sean knew his shit about music, so I trusted him. He had been playing bass for a few years and wanted to start a band of his own at some point.
For once, I could spend the weekend with my friends. More importantly, I didn’t have to worry about tiptoeing around my folks all weekend. I was eighteen, and they were more than likely passed out by now, anyway. Fuck ‘em. I doubted they’d even notice my absence.
The venue was called the Madder Hatter, and had been around since the early 90s. It was nestled in between a slimy dive bar and a McDonald’s right in the middle of downtown. The sign for the Madder Hatter didn’t have lights. Instead, the letters were burned onto a giant wooden sign.
It took us forever to find a parking spot, and the spot was sketchy at best. Ronnie and I told Sean we’d help pay if he got a parking ticket, because you just never knew in D.C.
My skin was buzzing with adrenaline by the time we made it to the line outside of the venue. We were far enough back in line for us not to be noticed, so we all took out our hidden flasks—bourbon for myself and vodka for Sean and Ronnie—clinked them together in a non-verbal toast, then downed a few sips before inching up in line.
A husky, deep throated laugh caught my attention from a few people in front of us.
The laugh was loud, but not in an obnoxious way. It was outgoing and personable—warm, even. I tilted my head a little to get a view of the person who owned that laugh. My breath caught in my throat as I took him in. Tall, and a little lanky, but in a good way. A way that told me he was probably around my age. He had a strong, defined nose that accentuated an even stronger jawline. It was hard to tell in the dark, but I thought I could make out a nose ring. Maybe even a lip ring? He wore a beanie, tight jeans that showed off lean, muscular legs, and a simple black hoodie because it was still a little chilly outside in D.C. at the beginning of April.
He was with a couple of his friends. He smacked the guy next to him on the shoulder and let off that laugh again. A small young woman, not even a total of five feet, bounced around the guys while her girlfriend who was a bit taller, stared off at nothing with a totally unamused expression on her face.
I brought my attention back to my own friends, realizing I’d zoned out for who knows how long. We were almost at the front of the line now, only a little bit behind the guy with the laugh and his buddies, who were showing their IDs to the security person. I didn’t understand why this stranger’s laugh affected me so much. Or why I kept trying to find him again, even as I conversed with Sean and Ronnie. Out of the corner of my eye, I kept looking around for him.
Finally, we made it inside. The line was shorter when we’d arrived, so we lucked out and got decent standing room near the front part of the pit. There wasn’t a lot of room in the Madder Hatter, and I knew it would fill up quickly. In the back and on the sides of the dark-cast room were several reserved high-top tables adorned with tea lights. Above the stage and ground level, I spotted some more chairs and tables on the second floor. A couple of girls in cropped Blink-182 shirts stood against the railing with bulbous, excited eyes. I looked down at my own Blink-182 shirt, which I’d found at a fucking Goodwill of all places. There was a hole in the collar and in one of the armpits, but I didn’t care. It was mine.
There were a couple of rows of people in front of us who lined up directly in front of the stage. Loud music bumped over the speakers. As the minutes ticked on, more people flooded in, chatting and jittery, and my pulse quickened with the knowledge that somethingbigwas going to happen.
Sean left us to smoke one of his “special cigarettes” with the other smokers on the outside patio attached to the side of the stage, though I doubted he’d need to be too discrete about it; the dank, familiar smell of marijuana rolled into the space every time the patio door opened. Ronnie was staring at his phone and tapping a foot to the music.
Meanwhile, I took in my surroundings: the stage and the equipment—a local band was opening, and their band name was proudly displayed on the drum set; the microphone deliberately placed at center stage, the vast ceiling of the venue that reached higher than I thought it would when we were outside; the smell of beer in the air and the stickiness of spilled alcohol on the linoleum under my shoes; the way people gasped and yelled at each other in a frantic, frenzied excitement that made the air around me almost addictive.
Sean came back reeking of “cigarette smoke” with pink eyes. His long, red mane was tousled and sticking up from the wind. He said something to us, but I didn’t catch it–because, at that moment, I heard the laugh again.
And there he was.
He walked up right beside our group with his friends, all of them with fresh beer. I didn’t think they were of legal drinking age, but that didn’t mean shit.
