Shout Down the Moon by Lisa Tucker

with me?” Carl grins as he lowers his sax into his case. “Does this mean what I think it does?”
    “Don’t be stupid,” I say, but I force a smile. “It’s right on your way.”
    He walks close and puts his hand on my back. “But what’s in it for me?” he says, lowering his voice. “What do I get out of the deal?”
    Carl has a running bet with the other guys that he can get me to sleep with him. I overheard them talking about it during the first month of rehearsals, when they thought I was in the bathroom. I also overheard a lot of dirty remarks. For weeks after, I felt so self-conscious standing in front of them. It was stupid, but it had never occurred to me that they’d be scrutinizing my body. I figured they were busy enough judging my attitude (she’s stuck-up, she thinks she’s hot shit), my dealings with Jonathan (she doesn’t understand who’s in charge, she’s a prima donna), my relationship to Fred (she’s got her nose so far up his ass, no wonder he gave her the band).
    Normally, I shrug off Carl’s come-ons, but tonight is different. I want to see Willie so bad and I need to be alone. “Carl, stop,” I whisper, stepping back. “Please.”
    “Please,” he says, and grins. “Is this an invitation? Does this mean you’ve come to your senses and decided it’s time for us to do the deed?”
    “No,” I say firmly, but there are tears standing in my eyes and I’m blinking furiously, hoping nobody notices.
    “What are you doing, man?” Jonathan suddenly says, looking at Carl. “This is getting ridiculous.”
    “I’m just kidding around.”
    “But you’re going too far.” Jonathan shakes his head. “She’s about to cry.”
    I feel like a big wimp, but I tell myself it doesn’t matter, all I care about is getting home. Carl’s cheeks have gone pink; he’s crossing and uncrossing his arms; he won’t meet my eyes. He didn’t mean to hurt me, I know.
    “No problem,” Carl finally says. “I’ll drop you off.”
    “Okay,” I say, trying not to look at Jonathan. I want to thank him for standing up for me, but I know I can’t. Whenever I’ve thanked him for anything, he acts even cooler than usual, like I’m making a big deal of nothing or even like he’s not sure what I’m talking about.
    Carl and Dennis are moving to the back door; I’m following, when I hear Harry say, “Hang in, Patty. Fred goes off, then he chills. We’ve all been there. Don’t take it too seriously.”
    “Thanks,” I yell, but I’m not sure he heard. Jonathan is already playing the first few chords of one of his original pieces, “Susan’s Eyes.” Irene told me Susan was his girlfriend until about a year ago. “They were super tight. They used to read poetry and play chess and go everywhere together. I don’t know what happened, even Harry doesn’t know. My guess is she dumped him.” Irene snickered. “Probably she realized he couldn’t love anybody like he loves his keyboards.”
    I heard him talking to his parents once about Susan. Jonathan doesn’t call his parents that often, but when he does, usually from pay phones on the road, he always sounds happy to talk to them. I can tell from his answers that his parents are both on the line, and they’re asking about the band and the gigs, what he’s composing, what he’s thinking about. They all seem very close, which must be why I remember the Susan conversation—because it was the only time I’ve heard him sound annoyed with them. He said three times that he didn’t want to talk about Susan. Of course then I was dying to know what there was to say.
    Dennis and Carl are outside now, and the instant I’m out there with them, I remember Zeb. I’m so nervous walking to the Camaro that I stumble on the curb. I keep looking around as we drive, trying to see if anybody is following us. After a few blocks, I finally turn around and breathe normally again.
    Carl and Dennis are sitting in the front seat, bitching about Fred. I don’t