Sarah Dessen: This Lullaby

By the time we got to Bendo, it was nine o’clock and I had a nice buzz on. We pulled up, parked, and eyed the bouncer standing by the door.

“Perfect,” I said, pulling down the visor to check my makeup. “It’s Rodney.”

“Where’s my ID?” Chloe said, digging through her jacket. “God, I just had it.”

“Is it in your bra?” I asked her, turning around. She blinked, stuck her hand down her shirt, and came up with it. Chloe kept everything in her bra: I.D., money, extra barrettes. It was like sleight of hand, the way she just pulled things from it, like quarters from your ear, or rabbits out of a hat.

“Bingo,” she said, sticking it in her front pocket.

“So classy,” Jess said.

“Look who’s talking,” Chloe shot back. “At least I wear a bra.”

“Well, at least I need one,” Jess replied.

Chloe narrowed her eyes. She was a Bcup, and a small one at that, and had always been sensitive about it. “Well at least-”

“Stop,” I said. “Let’s go.”

As we walked up, Rodney eyed us from where he was sitting on a stool propping the door open. Bendo was an eighteen-and-up club, but we’d been coming since sophomore year. You had to be twenty-one to drink, though, and with our fakes Chloe and I usually could get our hand stamped. Especially by Rodney.

“Remy, Remy,” he said as I reached into my pocket, pulling out my fake. My name, my face, my brother’s birthday, so I could quote it quick if I had to. “How’s it feel to be a high school graduate?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, smiling at him. “You know I’m a junior at the university.”

He hardly glanced at my ID but squeezed my hand, brushing it with his fingers as he stamped it. Disgusting. “What’s your major?”

“English lit,” I said. “But I’m minoring in business.”

“I got some business for you,” he said, taking Chloe’s ID and stamping her hand. She was quick though, pulling back fast, the ink smearing.

“You’re an asshole,” Jess told him, but he just shrugged, waving us in, his eyes on the next group of girls coming up the steps.

“I feel so dirty,” Chloe sighed as we walked in.

“You’ll feel better after you have a beer.”

Bendo was crowded already. The band hadn’t come on yet, but the bar was two deep and the air was full of smoke, thick and mixed with the smell of sweat.

“I’ll get a table,” Jess called out to me, and I nodded, heading for the bar with Chloe behind me. We pushed through the crowd, dodging people, until we got a decent spot by the beer taps.

I’d just hoisted myself up on my elbows, trying to wave down the bartender, when I felt someone brush up against me. I tried to pull away, but it was packed where I was standing, so I just drew myself in a bit, pulling my arms against my sides. Then, very quietly, I heard a voice in my ear.

It said, in a weird, cheesy, right-out-of-one-of-my-mother’s-novels way, “Ah. We meet again.”

I turned my head, just slightly, and right there, practically on top of me, was the guy from the car dealership. He was wearing a red Mountain Fresh Detergent T-shirt-NOT JUST FRESH: MOUNTAIN FRESH!-it proclaimed, and was smiling at me. “Oh, God,” I said.

“No, it’s Dexter,” he replied, offering me his hand, which I ignored. Instead I glanced around behind me for Chloe, but saw she had been waylaid by a guy in a plaid shirt I didn’t recognize.

“Two beers!” I shouted at the bartender, who’d finally seen me.

“Make that three!” this Dexter yelled.

“You are not with me,” I said.

“Well, not technically,” he replied, shrugging. “But that could change.”

“Look,” I said as the bartender dropped three plastic cups in front of me, “I’m not-”

“I see you still have my number,” he said, interrupting me and grabbing one of the beers. He also slapped a ten down, which redeemed him a bit but not much.

“I haven’t had a chance to wash it off.”

“Will you be impressed if I tell you I’m in a band?”

“No.”

“Not at all?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “God, I thought chicks loved guys in bands.”

“First off, I’m not a chick,” I said, grabbing my beer. “And second, I have a steadfast rule about musicians.”

“Which is?”

I turned my back to him and started to elbow my way through the crowd, back to Chloe. “No musicians.”

“I could write you a song,” he offered, following me. I was moving so fast the beers I was carrying kept sloshing, but damn if he didn’t keep right up.

“I don’t want a song.”

“Everybody wants a song!”

“Not me.” I tapped Chloe on the shoulder and she turned around. She had on her flirting face, all wide-eyed and flushed, and I handed her a beer and said, “I’m going to find Jess.”

“I’m right behind you,” she replied, waggling her fingers at the guy she’d been talking to. But crazy musician boy kept after me, still talking.

“I think you like me,” he decided as I stepped on somebody’s foot, prompting a yelp. I kept moving.

“I really do not,” I said, finally spying Jess in a corner booth, head propped on one elbow, looking bored. When she saw me she held up both hands, in a what-the-hell gesture, but I just shook my head.

“Who is this guy?” Chloe called out from behind me.

“Nobody,” I said.

“Dexter,” he replied, turning a bit to offer her his hand while still keeping step with me. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she said, a bit uneasily. “Remy?”

“Just keep walking,” I called behind me, stepping around two guys in dreadlocks. “He’ll lose interest eventually.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he said cheerfully. “I’m just getting started.”

We arrived at the booth in a pack: me, Dexter the musician, and Chloe. I was out of breath, she looked confused, but he just slid in next to Jess, offering his hand. “Hi,” he said. “I’m with them.”

Jess looked at me, but I was too tired to do anything but plop into the booth and suck down a gulp of my beer. “Well,” she said, “ I’m with them. But I’m not with you. How is that possible?”

“Well,” he said, “it’s actually an interesting story.”

No one said anything for a minute. Finally I groaned and said, “God, you guys, now he’s going to tell it.”

“See,” he began, leaning back into the booth, “I was at this car dealership today, and I saw this girl. It was an across-a-crowded-room kind of thing. A real moment, you know?”

I rolled my eyes. Chloe said, “And this would be Remy?”

“Right. Remy,” he said, repeating my name with a smile. Then, as if we were happy honeymooners recounting our story for strangers he added, “Do you want to tell the next part?”

“No,” I said flatly.

“So,” he went on, slapping the table for emphasis, making all our drinks jump, “the fact is that I’m a man of impulse. Of action. So I walked up, plopped down beside her, and introduced myself.”

Chloe looked at me, smiling. “Really,” she said.

“Could you go away now?” I asked him just as the music overhead cut off and there was a tapping noise from the stage, followed by someone saying “check, check.”

“Duty calls,” he said, standing up. He pushed his half-finished beer over to me and said, “I’ll see you later?”

“No.”

“Okay, then! We’ll talk later.” And then he pushed off, into the crowd, and was gone. We all just sat there for a second. I finished my beer, then closed my eyes and lifted the cup, pressing it to my temple. How could I already be exhausted?

“Remy,” Chloe said finally in her clever voice. “You’re keeping secrets.”