“Here you go,” the guy behind the counter at the Great Grillers food truck said. I looked up to see him holding the bag with the sandwich I’d ordered. “Need anything else?”
I shook my head, suddenly sure that if I spoke, I might burst into tears. So instead I just took some deep breaths and walked over to where Layla and everyone else was sitting. The topic of conversation was band names, one that came up regularly during these discussions. Hey Dude’s new concept, Eric maintained, warranted a new moniker. But, of course, it had to be perfect.
“What about the Logan Oxford Experience?” Irv asked. “Like Hendrix, but not.”
Eric just looked at him. “That is so far away from what I’m talking about, I can’t even justify it with a response.”
Irv shrugged, hardly bothered. Layla said, “It should have something to do with boy bands, though. But with a twist.”
“No, no.” Eric sighed, as if our collective ignorance literally pained him. “What I need is a name that works with the wider concept, not a gimmick. Able to really explain the meaning, the irony, because people are clearly not getting it. I can’t have people thinking we’re just a retro cover band.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t be playing covers of old songs,” Layla pointed out.
“It’s not about covers,” he told her. “It’s about the universal experience of mass consumption of music. How a song can remind you of something specific in your own life, like it belongs to you. But how personal can it really be if a million other people feel the same way about it? It’s like a fake meaning, on top of a manufactured meaning, divided by a true meaning.”
Silence. Then Irv said, “Dude. Did you take your Ritalin today?”
Over on his own bench, where he was cramming for a math test, Mac snorted and opened a stick of string cheese. Since the night he’d shown up at Jenn’s a week earlier, I’d had trouble forgetting that moment we’d stood with both our hands on that five-dollar bill. It, however, was a memory I liked to relive. Unlike the one currently in my head, which was canceling out more than my appetite.
“You okay?” Layla asked me. She nodded at my lunch, still in the bag. “You’re not eating.”
“Not hungry,” I told her.
“What’s that like?” Irv asked, and everyone laughed. Layla, however, kept her eyes on me long enough that I picked up the bag and took out my sandwich. The fries that came with it I handed over to her without comment.
“Great Grillers?” she asked. I nodded, and she wrinkled her nose. “They’re too skinny for my taste, usually. I don’t like a spindly fry. But since you’re offering . . .”
She started her typical extensive preparations. I took a halfhearted bite of my sandwich, then put it down, overwhelmed suddenly with the urge to call my mom. Since my earlier efforts, when she’d shut me down with the party line, we didn’t talk about David Ibarra ever. But sitting there, I suddenly felt so alone and craved someone, anyone, who might understand.
“Hey,” I heard a voice say. I looked up to see Mac, his trash in hand, standing over me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Sydney?” Layla said. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head, quickly getting to my feet. The attention, added to the scrutiny I’d imagined all day, was suddenly too much. “I . . . I need to go,” I said. “I’ll see you guys later.”
No one said anything as I walked away. Nobody tried to follow me. I went to the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. Finally, I was alone, just like I’d wanted. It felt so awful. Like it was just what I deserved.
* * *
By that evening, things were back to normal at home. The paper was in the recycling, the news was moving on, and we would as well. But while my mom puttered around the kitchen making dinner and the usual conversation, I still felt strange. Not only about the article, but the way I’d walked away from Layla and everyone else. She knew Peyton’s history; I could have told her about the story. And yet, I hadn’t. I still wasn’t sure why.
It was just after dinner, while I was helping to load the dishwasher, that my phone beeped. Layla.
My mom wants you to come for dinner tomorrow. Y/N/MB?
I looked over to the counter, where my own mother was making coffee for the next morning, as she did every night right after dinner. I waited for the beans (fair trade and organic, of course) to be done grinding before I said, “Mom?”
“Yes?” she asked, walking over to the sink.
“I’m going to have dinner at Layla’s tomorrow, okay?”
The first bad sign was when she put down the carafe, only half-filled with water. The second was the look on her face. “I need you here. Sawyer and that advocate, Michelle, are coming over, remember?”
I hadn’t, but now it all came back. After failing to find out what Peyton had done to lose visiting privileges, my mom had found a nonprofit that helped families of prisoners navigate the legal system. During the last week, she’d had two meetings with a woman there named Michelle, reporting back that she was “a lifesaver, so knowledgeable,” and “just the person we need in our corner.”
“You guys will just be talking about Peyton, though,” I said. “Do I really need to be here?”
Her face tensed, that crease folding in between her eyebrows. “It’s important that we present a united, supportive front whenever possible. You are part of that.”