During a Performance

During a Performance

“Hey there, Baby Sloan.”

On a Wednesday night, while Feral Children was playing, I was watching some band I had never seen before. Ian had been busy today, busy enough that he wasn’t paying me any mind, and so my non-presence tonight was probably the first time he’d realize that I was fastidiously ignoring him. I was frustrated; it drove me positively and absolutely insane that he didn’t notice.

A Vicious Cycle:
I was ignoring Ian because he wasn’t paying any attention to me—me, his wife—at all recently.
But then he didn’t notice that I was ignoring him.
And that just made me even angrier.

And what upset me even more was that Kyle was absolutely paying attention to me. He’d come and found me at this stupid concert, which was someplace I’d never usually be, for whatever bizarre reasons he had. And it annoyed me that he and Keeley and Dave kept making stupid references to my being younger, most of which included some play on the quote, “Nobody puts Baby in the corner.” I was sick and tired of it all.

“What do you want, Kyle?” I snapped. Honestly, I didn’t mind all that much that he was here, but I sure as spitting wasn’t in the mood for talking. I didn’t like that he made me half happy that at least someone was noticing I existed and half mad that it was him. It wasn’t supposed to be him. It was supposed to be stupid, stupid Ian.

I pointedly kept my eyes on the lead singer, a girl with ink-black hair as she played her guitar with a ferocity I could never imagine to match. I hadn’t played guitar in an awfully long time, because I never had time without the musicians around. I sort of missed it. The calluses on my fingers were slowly wearing away to nothing. Watching her was making me itch to practice again.

“I want to know why you’re here, watching some stereotypical emo kid whine about how her boyfriend doesn’t love her anymore instead of over there”—he motioned in the general direction of Feral Children’s performance—“watching Ian and that crappy drummer play.”

I sighed. “I’m not really talking to him right now,” I said. “And I want him to notice that I’m not talking to him. But since he’s always so goddamned busy, he doesn’t really get a chance to notice such unimportant things. So I’m making it a little more obvious.”

From Kyle, I had expected some sort of slightly bitter, slightly triumphant answer. He had never exactly been a champion of Ian’s. Instead, he placed his hand on my shoulder in a comforting sort of way. “I’m sorry about that, kid,” he said, sounding sincere. “You okay other than that?”

On an absurdly impulsive move, I covered the hand on his shoulder with one of mine. Maybe Kyle was taking a step back. Maybe he would change his motives, and we could be friends. I would have liked being friends with him. He was fun, when he was being nice. If there was no Ian, I might have even liked him in that way. But as it was, I really just wished he would cool off. I didn’t know what I wanted from him. He confused me.

Shrugging, I answered, “I guess I’m alright. I’m not sick or anything. I’m just mad. And I’m freaking sick and tired of all the stupid Dirty Dancing jokes.” Now I turned to glare at him. He wasn’t looking at me, and his expression was thoughtful.

When he realized I was looking, he gave me a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that. I’ll get them to lay off. I promise.”

“Thanks.”

For a while we stood in silence, watching the band, which had a pretty good sound, even if their lyrics were absolute crap. But it was nice to listen without knowing anyone in the band, without having to be there, lest you insult them and make them hate you. It was nice to have absolutely no investment in the situation, and to not feel bad about thinking that the lyrics were crap, and just listen to music the way I had before I’d met so many people that were so critical about listening.

Kyle wrapped both of his arms around my shoulders protectively. Even though I was hugged up against him, and even though I knew it probably meant more to him than it did to me, it felt nice and platonic and comforting and to hell with the consequences, I wasn’t going to feel bad about things, not today, when I was feeling bad about all the things I shouldn’t have been feeling bad about.

“Sloan?”

Kyle was letting go, and pushing me away, still looking musing. I wished he would smile. He looked good when he smiled. I was glad I had him as a friend. I didn’t have any friends, anymore. I had Kay, but more than me she had Mark, and school, and without her I didn’t really have any friends. Keeley and Dave were okay, but they weren’t quite friends, not quite.

And I was feeling sort of lonely.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to stop being such an ass, okay? Like, seriously. I’m going to stop being all in your face and up your butt. You’re a cool girl, but you’re married, and I don’t want to upset you.” All of a sudden he seemed almost angry, but more fierce-seeming than pure anger. “I don’t want to be fucking Ian, who makes you pissed off enough that you’re sulking around at some shitty, shitty band, all upset and looking as if you’re about to cry at any moment because you’re mad at me. And I realize that you’re not in love with me the way you’re in love with him, or whatever, but”—he seemed to deflate—“you know what? Whatever. Forget I said anything.”

He made as if to walk away. I grabbed his arm. “Don’t be mad,” I said—then I winced at my choice of words. That’s what Ian had said to me last night: “Don’t be mad, Sloan.” Obviously it hadn’t stopped me in any way. “That’s not right. I mean, we can be friends, right?”

The music look returned. “You really want to be friends?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” He paused for only one moment too long, just a beat longer than would have been reasonable for processing. He was deciding, apparently. That outburst hadn’t been all for show.

“My charms won you over, didn’t they?” He fluttered his eyelashes at me comically. “I’m just so cute and endearing and lovely that you couldn’t bear the thought of live without me. Don’t worry, dear Sloan. I am here for keeps.”

I smacked him upside the head. “You,” I informed him sternly, “have altogether a too-high
opinion of yourself.”

The self-confidence was charming, sweet, in the same way it was cute when your little cousin said, “But you love me!” with that absolute surety.

“But I am awfully pretty,” he told me. I went to smack him again, but he grabbed my hand and started tickling me. He was such a flirt—and yet, still, I felt like, in that moment, it meant next to nothing. Hadn’t he just said, anyway, that he didn’t want me?

The band began to wind down on its last song, and the crowd in front of us started to leave. Kyle and I started to walk away ahead of the rush—to hell if it was rude to leave before things were finish. “Come on,” he invited. “I want to see you kick Hank’s ass on the keyboards. Keel keeps telling him you’re better, but he doesn’t believe you. I think you should play something seriously intense, like Chopin or I don’t even know what, to completely show him up…”