But then I see the fists waving in the pit and I hear the Oi’s and I see a live person being passed around on the extended arms of the crowd, and even in this poor lighting I couldn’t miss the bumblebee colors worn by the queen bee. Tris is the crowd-surfer, taking her shot to get passed to the front of the stage and hopefully be ushered backstage.
And I am back at hate.
I part that crowd like I’m f**king Moses, I mean seriously, I am like a five-star general, Commander Pissed-Off Bitch in her own personal marine tank, hurtling through the desert and no one better f**king get in my way. I am in the middle of the mosh within seconds and when it’s my turn to propel Tris forward to the stage, instead of letting her legs pass over my upturned palms, I grab for her feet instead and she falls to the ground and the crowd doesn’t care, they’ve gone on to someone else being passed around and Lars L. is pointing at the new victim and nodding YES to the security goons.
Tris stands up from the floor, then holds her hand against her forehead. “THAT FUCKING HURT!” she yells at me and only if she had also snarled “OW!” like Nick could I hate her more right now. I grab her hand from her forehead and lead her through the masses, a stormtrooper with a hostage now. I don’t bother to say “bye” to Dev and Hunter, watching us leave from the periphery of the slightly opened eyes of their French kiss.
Once we’re outside and I can breathe again, can feel the cold of the early spring-morning air, I am less on hate and more on tired. It’s just me and Tris out here, and the smokers and the users against the nearby wall, and it’s quiet except for Lars L.’s bassline thumping through the walls and the honking taxis on the street. Finally, I can hear myself, and I am saying, “Why?” to Tris, but actually I’m shouting “WHY?” because my ears haven’t yet adjusted to the lower decibel. But already my heart rate is acclimating, slowing down, easing up, released from the suffocation of that club and that noise and so many people inside, who surely all know of my humiliation and my regret.
She’s the reason I could not break through to Nick, and I want to know why.
Tris leans against the building wall and rubs her eyes. “I’m so f**king tired,” she says. “And you don’t f**king have to yell.” Caroline is right, that bitch does go pleather, because otherwise no way would Tris mess with a real leather skirt by sliding her ass down the wall and falling to the ground. Tris rests against the building, hugging her knees, her face pressed into her knees.
I sit down next to her. I ask her again, “Why?” and she says, “Nick?” and I say, “Yeah.”
She looks like she’s going to fall asleep. Her eyes flutter and she almost looks likable, now that she is freed of the club’s confines. This is how she is. She’ll take you to her personality’s farthest reaches of annoying, then manage a late ninth-inning turnaround to being an almost comforting presence.
Caroline and I have known her since Girl Scouts, but she was never a major irritation until high school, after not even the Quakers could tolerate Caroline and I followed Caroline from Friends Country Day to Sacred Heart for junior and senior year. Tris thought our arrival at her school meant the arrival of kindred spirits for her, and she followed us around like a puppy dog, wanting in on our Manhattan music scene. She didn’t get that Caroline and I have always strictly been a Gang of Two. Tris thinks she’s one of us since she likes the same music and no one at that school would have her, a freak like me and Caroline. We have let her be Two and a Half on occasion; she does have decent radar for good bands, even if odds are she’ll make a fool of herself—dancing like a maniac, singing along off-key—whenever we take her along to a music club. But get Tris alone at Starbucks, and she’s normal, at least tolerable—she’s not laughing too loud, trying too f**king hard. She’s my savior with the stick that says negative.
I want to—but I can’t—hate her.
She opens one eye at me. “Are you on a f**king date with him or something? Do you like him?”
“Yes,” I say, because I don’t want to lie, and then “Not really,” I amend, because I don’t want to lie, and finally, “No,” because I don’t want to lie. Nick is—was—this thing, this person, I discovered out of nowhere and then discovered I wanted—and once I tasted it, I yearned for it—but I know I must accept defeat because this whole night was an accident, clearly. My heart literally aches, that shit is not made up; it hurts for an unexpected, brief time warp of suddenly wanting and longing and believing, but then not having. Who am I kidding? The best parts of Nick were ones he doesn’t even know I know he has—the lyrics, the playlists, the loyalty—and all of them, dedicated to Tris.
“Did you tell him about me?” she says. Because at school, in the cafeteria, with all the sweet little Catholic girls lined up like plaid dominoes at the tables, and then me, Caroline, and Tris, with our piercings and goth colors and C and T’s (but not mine) uniform blouses ordered two sizes too tight, Tris brags about all the guys she dates, the clubs she gets into, the f**king backstage pass of it all, because she wants to impress Caroline. But when it’s just the two of us in class, Tris is showing me the mixes Nick made her, the songs he wrote her, the admissions essay he helped her write for FIT.
“No, I didn’t tell him,” I say. I’m glad I didn’t. I didn’t want to be the girl trying to know him, but all him knowing of me is what I knew of Tris. “Why did you do it anyway?” I don’t know which why I want the answer to—why she cheated on him, or why she let him go.