One Night That Changes Everything (7 page)

I look around. I guess the good thing about this place is that no one’s really paying attention to the Fiona Apple girls who are singing right now. They’re all, you know, way too cool to be interested in karaoke. Even karaoke that is supposed to be ironic and hip.

Cooper crosses the room in three long strides and sits down next to me.

“Ugh,” I say, turning my seat away from him. I pick up a magazine that someone left on the table and start flipping through the pages. “Stop following me.”

“I have to,” he says. “To make sure you’re doing what you’re supposed to.”

“Just shut up,” I say. “If you have to follow me around, fine,
but don’t talk to me.” I don’t want him to talk to me because obviously I hate him, but also because I don’t trust myself around him. His closeness is making my stomach do flip-flops, and I really don’t want to cry in front of him, or bring up our breakup, or … just, yeah. Being close to Cooper is not a good idea.

Cooper reaches into his pocket, pulls out his cell phone, and snaps a picture of me.

“What was
that
for?” I ask. I hold my hands up in front of my face like he’s a paparazzi stalker, which really makes no sense, since, you know, he already took the picture.

“So I can show Tyler,” he says. “They need to know you’re here.” He looks apologetic.

“They don’t trust you enough to tell them the truth?” I ask, grinning. “They need photographic evidence?”

“I guess so.” He looks like this just hit him. I grin some more.

“Thank you, Helena and Rose,” the karaoke woman is saying. “And now, we have Eliza, performing “Sexy Back” by Justin Timberlake.” A giggle ripples through the crowd. Hmmph. I guess they’re not too cool to make fun of others. And they’re definitely not too cool to scoff at Justin Timberlake. Damn. I really should have used a fake name.

“Eliza, dear, where are you?” she asks. She looks around and finally, I get up, walk to the front of the stage, and take the microphone from her. My hands are shaking, and she puts the Justin Timberlake DVD into the player, so that the words can flash across the screen for me to sing along with.

It’s at that moment I realize this is a horrible plan. Yes, the whole thing is a horrible plan, doing what the 318s say and letting my notebook fall into the wrong hands, but the more horrible thing is that I HAVE PICKED A JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE SONG. “Sexy Back,” no less!

I thought I was being coy, picking a song that no one would care about but, really, it’s having the opposite effect. People are interested because they think it’s so stupid. And when I think about it, it
is
a pretty stupid song. “I’m bringing sexy back”? What does that even mean? Not to mention that it’s pretty arrogant. Like, bringing sexy back all by yourself?
Justin
even got crap for it, I think. Can you imagine what these people are going to think about ME singing that I’m bringing sexy back?

Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod. My mouth starts to get all dry, and I really wish I had some water.

The music starts then, and suddenly it’s like a movie, one of those really bad movies where the person is supposed to be in a talent show or auditioning for something or singing in front of people, and they just FREEZE. That is what is happening right now. I am just freezing.

The words are starting to move across the screen, but I can’t open my mouth. Everyone in the whole place is staring at me, which is making it even worse, and I’m sure it’s my imagination, but it seems like more people are coming in, like some kind of announcement got posted somewhere saying that some weird girl was singing Justin Timberlake in
the hipster café and her name is Eliza and everyone should come watch.

I take a deep breath. Okay. There is nothing to this. It is just singing. In fact, I’ve sung this song tons of times. Of course, I was alone in my room at the time, using my hairbrush as a microphone and making up my own dance moves while pretending to be famous. But still. It’s just karaoke, and I am never going to see any of these people again. I try and picture them all naked. Then I close my eyes and pretend I’m back in my room. But it’s not working. Nothing is coming out of my mouth.

“Come on!” someone yells. I open my eyes. It’s some jerk college guy who looks like maybe he’s the type to put expensive whiskey in one of those silver flasks and then carry it around, thinking it makes him seem super-classy and not just like he’s trying to get drunk in the middle of the day. “Show us how you’re going to get sexy back!”

Then, suddenly, just when I think the crazy, drunk flask guy is going to get up and say something again, or maybe throw his flask at me the way people used to throw tomatoes, Cooper is out of his chair and standing next to me. He takes the microphone out of my hand and starts to sing. What? Why? Cooper is now standing next to me, singing “Sexy Back” by Justin Timberlake!

“What are you
doing
?” I whisper.

“Helping you,” he whispers back. The thing about Cooper is that even though he’s a jerk, he definitely has, you know,
that something. That thing I was talking about that allows certain people to be good at karaoke. He’s suddenly gyrating all over the place, totally getting into it, and acting like he really is bringing sexy back.

And to my surprise, people are actually starting to like it. Of course, I guess it isn’t really that surprising. Cooper is very good-looking. And charming. Which is how he charmed me into losing my mind and going out with him. He’s also not that bad of a singer, although his strength definitely lies in his performance. I’m so caught up in what he’s doing, that when he puts the microphone in my face to sing backup, I chime right in and sing, my panicked feeling gone.

We do the whole song like that, him putting the microphone out once in a while and me screaming song lyrics into it. Finally, at the end of the song, Cooper leaves me up there to do the last bit, and then takes a pic of me on his cell phone, I guess to text to the 318s. And then, just like that, the music is over, and the nice British woman is taking the microphone from me. “Thanks,” I say to Cooper. Because that was pretty nice of him. To save me like that, I mean.

And so for a second, I let myself believe that maybe Cooper was telling the truth, that maybe the 318s were the ones who took my notebook and turned me in to the dean, that maybe he doesn’t even care about what I wrote on Lanesboro Losers, that maybe we can talk and I can find out
why
exactly he did what he did. I mean, he
is
wearing the watch I gave him after all. But Cooper just squeezes my shoulder, whispers, “You’re
welcome” into my ear, and then walks out of the Spotted Frog, leaving me there by myself.

Well, of course he did. Leave right when I thought we were having some kind of moment, I mean. First of all, Cooper is obviously completely and totally unstable. Look what he did to me, for example. Pretending that he liked me, just for some dumb secret society initiation? That is definitely the work of a sociopath. Actually, I’m not sure what a sociopath is, exactly. But I think it has to do with not caring about the feelings of others.

Anyway, the point is, something is definitely wrong with him. So it makes total and complete sense that he would help me one minute, then turn on his heel and walk out the next, acting all put out, like I asked him for help or something. He’s so crazy, it’s pathetic.

I walk out of the Spotted Frog and look around. It’s after nine o’clock, but Boston is alive with people, walking around and looking happy, couples on their way to a late dinner in their nice clothes, college kids walking around drunk, groups of girls giggling on their way to bars and clubs. A homeless man on the side of the street looks me up and down and says, “Girrrl, you got it going on.”

I give him a dollar and actually start to feel a little better. I mean, I just got a super-hot guy to dance with me at Cure,
and
I did karaoke. Not bad for a Saturday night. And yeah, okay, maybe it’s not that amazing for
some
people but it’s amazing
for me. Who cares if Rich just wanted to avoid his stalker, and Cooper had to help me with the karaoke?

I start to feel very happy, until I realize I have no clue what I’m supposed to do next. I’m alone, in the city, with no idea where my friends are or when they’re coming back. And then my phone rings. Marissa. Thank God.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hi,” she says. “You gotta get over here.”

“Um, over where?”

“That’s right, honey,” the homeless man near me says. “You look like a supermodel, for reals. Mmmm mmm.” Hmm. I start to move away slowly.

“To Isabella Royce’s apartment.” The other thing about Isabella Royce? You know, besides the fact that she’s hooking up with Cooper? She has her own apartment. Well, technically it’s not hers. Yet.

See, Isabella’s grandmother died a few months ago and left her this amazing apartment right on Newbury Street, which is like the nicest, most expensive street in Boston. Apparently it was this big debacle, since Isabella’s mom totally thought the apartment was going to be left to her, but it turned out that Isabella’s grandmother, like, secretly hated her mom. (This was her dad’s mom, by the way. Isabella’s dad passed away a while ago, which is why it was so important for her mom to get this apartment, since apparently it’s worth like a billion dollars and Isabella’s mom was going to sell it so that she would never have to work again.)

Anyway, the apartment got left to Isabella but put under the care of her uncle or something, until she turns eighteen next year. In the meantime, her uncle has it all fixed up and lets her use it anytime she wants.

“What’s going on at Isabella’s?” I ask, looking around nervously for Pervert Homeless Man. But he’s now inched his way down the sidewalk and has turned his attention to two college girls coming out of the Spotted Frog. Figures. Typical man, moving on to the next thing.

“She’s having a party,” she says. “And Jeremiah is going to be there.”

“How do you know that?” I say. “And where are you?”

“I know,” she says. “Because I, um, followed him. And I’m here. Outside of Isabella’s.”

“You followed who?” I ask.

“Jeremiah. And Julia. Out of Cure. But they didn’t hook up or anything, I swear. In fact, he didn’t even touch her. I watched them during their whole T ride. And now they’re at Isabella’s party. And I’m going in now, but I have to at least act like I’m meeting someone here, so you have to come.”

“That’s why I couldn’t find you?” I ask. “Because you were
following Jeremiah
?” I try to keep my voice down, but I’m pissed.

“Eliza, I’m so sorry!” she says. “It just happened, I swear. I didn’t mean to, I was just going to follow them a little way down the street, and then the next thing I knew, I was on the T!”

“Why didn’t you at least text me?” I ask.

“You know the service on the T is super-spotty,” she says. I think about yelling at her for ditching me, but then decide it’s not really worth it. I mean, I have way bigger problems right now. “So will you come?” she asks. “To Isabella’s?”

“Fine,” I say, starting to feel very cranky. Isabella Royce’s party is the last place I want to be. Also, who knows what Cooper and the 318s have in store for me next. But what else am I supposed to do? I sigh and end the call, then slide my phone into my bag and head to the nearest T.

When I get down to the T, I realize my subway card is out of money. My subway card is always out of money, which makes no sense, since I hardly ever ride the T, and every time I do, I always make sure to put at least three rides on my card.

I add ten dollars to it using the automatic machine, then double-check my phone, just in case Cooper or the 318s have sent me another text. But they haven’t, so I shove my card into my pocket and head down to the platform.

Everything’s fine for the first couple of minutes, but then it happens. I hear the voice. The very loud, very shrieky, very familiar voice. Isabella Royce.

“OH MY GOD, ELIZA! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” She takes me by the hands and pulls me close to her, giving me a kiss on each side of my face. Sigh. Of all the people to be down here, Isabella Royce is the worst. It’s not that I don’t like Isabella, per se. It’s just that seeing her
reminds me of Cooper. And besides, shouldn’t she be at her own party?

“Just, you know, riding the T!” I say brightly. What else would I be doing down here?

“I know that,” she says, giggling. “I mean, where are you going?”

Oh. Right. “Um, actually, to your apartment,” I say. Then I realize that I wasn’t even technically invited to Isabella’s apartment, that Marissa stalked Jeremiah there and then invited herself and me.

But Isabella doesn’t seem to mind. “Me too!” she exclaims. “What a coincidence!”

“Not really,” I say, even though it kind of is.

“Well yes, really,” she says, as the train pulls up. It’s loud, so I can’t hear exactly what she’s saying, but I think it has something to do with how she can’t believe that we’d both be at this T stop at this exact time, because usually she just drives in, but she was returning some shoes and ohmigod now we can keep each other company. I don’t ask her why she was returning shoes so late at night, since (a) I don’t really care and (b) I’m not sure if I even heard her right.

So I just smile and nod.

“So,” she says once we’re settled on the train. The train is actually pretty dead, and so we unfortunately have no problem finding seats next to each other. “Are you going to the party alone, or … ?” She trails off and then gets super-busy looking through one of the shopping bags she has with her,
and I can tell she’s trying to sound innocent. I decide to make an effort to try to be nice to Isabella. After all, what Cooper did isn’t her fault.

“Um, no,” I say. “I’m meeting Marissa there.”

“Oh, cool,” she says, and I see her face relax. Like, I literally see it relax. It just sort of … deflates. And then I realize why. She was afraid that maybe I was going to the party because I knew Cooper would be there! Am I a pity case? Does Isabella Royce think I’m a loser? Is she maybe afraid that if I don’t get a new boyfriend, I’m going to maybe go psycho on her and freak out and key her car or something? Isabella DOES have a very nice car, this totally cute red convertible that’s not brand-new enough to be pretentious, but not old enough to be lame.