“Seriously?” I asked. Not that driving was such a weird thing to enjoy doing. Just that it had never occurred to me to wonder what Chava and Sally might like to do when they weren’t at school.

“One time,” Sally whispered, looking around as if for hidden cameras, “I let Chava drive this car. And she only has her permit.”

“Did you get in trouble?” I asked.

“No!” Chava exclaimed, and they both burst into giggles.

“Hey, guys?” I said. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Chava asked.

“For giving me a ride tonight. I really needed your help.”

Chava’s face cracked into a huge grin, like she had been waiting for me to say this to her for her entire life.

“That’s what friends do,” Sally said slowly, like she was explaining something to a hearing-impaired child. “They’re there for each other.”

I didn’t know much about friends. But the more friendships I saw up close—with Vicky, Pippa, Harry, Char—the more I suspected that Sally knew what she was talking about.

“Look, Elise,” Sally said matter-of-factly. “We know you think you’re too good for us.”

Chava nodded in unemotional agreement.

“What, did you read that on my quote-unquote blog, too?” I asked.

“No,” Sally said. “But we’re not stupid. Okay, we’re not popular, but we’re not blind either.”

“I don’t think that I’m too good for you,” I said, but they both acted like I hadn’t spoken.

“And you’re clearly using us right at this instant,” Sally went on.

“For Sally’s license,” Chava added.

“For my license,” Sally said.

And I couldn’t argue with that, because that was true. I treated Sally and Chava in the same disposable way that Amelia and her friends treated me. The only difference was, I’d never made them clean up my trash. “I’m sorry,” I said.

They shrugged in unison. “Honestly?” Chava said. “It’s okay. We don’t really mind.”

“What?”

“We like you,” Chava said simply. “You’re interesting.” She added quickly, “Good-interesting, obviously.”

“I wouldn’t ask my parents for permission to take the car out at ten p.m. on a school night if I didn’t like you,” Sally said.

“I like you, too,” I said, and realized that, in a way, I meant it. I didn’t feel about Sally and Chava the way I felt about Vicky. I never would. They didn’t get me like Vicky did—and, honestly, I didn’t get them either. But that didn’t stop me from liking them.

“We know,” Chava said with an understanding nod. “You’re just bad at showing it, that’s all.”

As we drove down the street of warehouses toward Start, Sally muttered, “There’s, like, nobody out here.”

But she was wrong.

A small cluster of people stood at the end of the alleyway, waiting for Mel to let them into Start. On the otherwise desolate gray street, the cluster of brightly colored umbrellas stood out like a poetry castle in a field of cardboard boxes. Sally slowed the car, and together we took them in: the giggling girls in high heels or colorful sneakers. The boys in galoshes, jumping in puddles in the street. The couple sharing one umbrella, kissing, pressed up against the concrete wall.

I saw Sally glance down at her own mom-fitted jeans and too-big sweatshirt, then back out the window. “Who are they?” she asked.

I thought of all the answers to that question. Students. Artists. Dancers. DJs. Guitarists. Photographers. Bartenders. Designers. Club kids. “People,” I said.

“What is this place?” Chava asked.

I had thought I’d never be able to explain what Start was to anyone, but my response actually came out simply. “It’s called Start,” I said. “It’s the greatest underground dance party in the world.”

Sally’s forehead creased. “Why are we here?”

“Um.” I tugged down my skirt. I didn’t want to explain about Char, not now, so I went with the easier explanation. “Because I DJ here.”

“You DJ an underground dance party?” Chava shrieked.

“Only on Thursdays,” I said lamely.

“You never mentioned that on your blog,” Sally accused.

“Sally, I’ve been telling you this for weeks: I don’t write a blog.”

Sally still looked shell-shocked. “But you never mentioned it to us, either.”

“I know.” I stroked the inside of my left wrist. “Don’t you ever want to have just one thing that no one else knows about, so no one can ruin it for you?”

Sally just stared out the window at the line of people and didn’t respond. I was about one second away from saying, “Never mind,” when she opened her mouth. “I have a boyfriend,” she said.

I stopped stroking my wrist. “What?”

“Do you mean Larry Kapur?” Chava asked, looking as surprised as I felt.

“No.” Even in the dark I could see Sally blushing. “He’s an online boyfriend. I’ve never actually met him in person. He lives in California. But we message each other all the time. Our first anniversary is coming up in August.”

“How did you never mention this to me?” Chava demanded.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sally said. “I’m just saying … yeah. I get it. About having a part of your life that’s secret, so no one can take it away from you.” She looked down at her short, plain nails. Sally had told me before that the only nail polish she was allowed to wear was the clear kind, and, as she herself pointed out, “What’s the point of that?”

“Do you want to come in to Start?” I asked suddenly. I wanted to give them something in exchange for the things they’d given to me—not just the ride tonight, but things I’d taken for granted: letting me sit with them when I had no one, welcoming me into their little group of two when we all knew they didn’t need me. “I’m the DJ,” I went on. “The bouncer won’t care if I bring in underage friends, I bet.”

Chava looked hopeful, but Sally shook her head. “I have to get home by curfew.”

I nodded and opened the door. “Thanks again for driving me.”

“Sure,” Sally replied. Then I got out of the car and watched her drive away, at twenty-five miles per hour. My friend Sally was two-timing Larry Kapur. The world is a weird place.

“You’re here pretty early,” Mel commented when I reached the door to Start. “For you, I mean.”

I shrugged.

“Can’t wait for your party tomorrow night,” Mel went on. “It’s gotten fantastic press online. All about Start’s vibrant young DJ sensation, Elise Dembowski, rising from nowhere to nightlife fame. I’m sure you’ve seen it. They got some great shots of you from Flash Tommy.”

“No,” I said, my heart sinking. “I haven’t seen it.”

“Look yourself up, honey!”

“Mel…” I took a deep breath. “I don’t think I’m going to do the party tomorrow.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t think I’m … technically proficient enough. I mean, I’m just not good enough, probably…” I trailed off, waiting for Mel to fill in the blanks.

I wasn’t selling this at all. When I told Char, and Pete, I was going to need to sound a lot more convinced of my inability.

Mel frowned. “Honey, when you came here to me and I asked you whether you had talent or issues, do you remember what you said?”

I nodded and swallowed. “Both.”

“So why are you letting your issues get in the way of your talent?”

“Mel,” I said, “I want to.”

I went inside. Char was alone at the DJ booth. I supposed it was too early in the night for Vicky or Pippa to be here, and I was glad for that. This would be easier if it was just between me and Char.

I stood alone in the back of the room for a moment, watching him. It was early, so almost no one was dancing yet. Char’s eyes were focused on his computer, and he brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. I could see his fingers tapping out a beat on the table next to him.

One last time, I thought about what it could be like, twenty-four hours from now, at my party. If I were the one standing up there, tapping out a beat. If Char were the one in the audience, watching me, swaying to my music.

One last time, I said goodbye to that, and I started toward the booth.

One foot in front of the other, until you reach him. Open your mouth and tell him. Just tell him you give up. It’s easy. Fake Elise did it. You can, too.

I was almost at the DJ booth, reaching out for Char, when I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder. I turned around, and the disco ball overhead illuminated the man behind me.

It was my father.

17

“What are you doing here?” I asked my dad.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. Then, “We’re going home.”

He propelled me out of Start, past Mel, and into his car. Whether Char noticed that I was there or noticed that I left, I don’t know. I never spoke to him.

“How did you find me?” I asked.

Dad ignored me and pulled out his cell phone. “Danielle,” he said into it. That’s my mom. “I found her.” He paused. “No, she’s fine.” Another pause. “Okay, yes. See you there.”

He hung up and started to drive, his windshield wipers flicking furiously back and forth.

“Daddy, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry I snuck out. I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I’m so…” I started to cry then. “I’m sorry,” I repeated over and over. “I’m so sorry.”

When we pulled up to Dad’s house, Mom was already waiting in her car outside. She jumped out and ran through the rain to meet us at the front door.

Inside, we dumped our umbrellas and wet shoes by the front door and went into the living room. Mom sat in one arm chair, Dad in the other. I sat alone on the couch. I noticed Mom glancing around the room. I didn’t know if she had ever been to Dad’s house before. They almost never saw each other at all, because they didn’t have any reason to. They had both been at my middle school graduation ceremony two years ago. And at the hospital on the first day of the school year. Big events only.