“There needs to be music,” I blurted out. “A party with no music just doesn’t sound right.”
“So are you offering to DJ?” he asked.
Wit and charm went right out the window. “Oh, my God, that’s my dream!” I squealed before I could stop myself. “You know how you always see pictures of DJs in New York and everyone’s dancing and they’ve got the headphones on and all this music stacked up around them? That’s like my perfect job!”
Simon grinned. “And if you were a DJ, would you play ‘Audrey, Wait!?’ That’s what all the DJs are playing in New York clubs right now. You’re the belle of the ball in Manhattan.”
“Well, if everyone’s already playing it, then I guess I’ll have to be more original.” But all I could think was, playing in New York clubs? This was a new one. Apparently my Do-Gooders message board rumor mill wasn’t as up to date as I would have liked.
“You know,” Simon continued, “if you DJ, then we can’t talk. Or do anything else.” He bent lower so he could speak into my ear. “Don’t you know that DJs are always lonely at parties?”
A weird chill was going up my spine and down my arms. Conversation, I decided, was way overrated, and I was glad I hadn’t taken the current-events route. “Just three songs,” I told him, standing on my tiptoes so I didn’t have to yell. Then I paused before saying quietly into his ear, “Just enough to get things started.” Holy crap, I’m doing it. Stand back, grasshopper, I am a flirting sensei and the world is my dojo.
Apparently Simon thought so, too, because in five minutes, he had produced several of his bandmates’ MP3 players and a pair of speakers, and I was kneeling on top of the band’s dressing table in front of the mirror, scrolling through songs and frantically making a playlist. (I don’t know whose player it was, and I prayed it wasn’t Simon’s, because somebody had way too many Barbra Streisand songs saved up.) Simon watched as I worked, resting his chin on my shoulder. Even his chin felt good. Not too round and not too pointy. I’ve never felt a hotter chin in my life.
It took a few minutes, and just as I finished, the musical gods decided to do me a huge favor. The dressing room had only gotten more crowded, so much so that all the smokers had to hold their cigarettes above their heads to avoid burning people. (I guess the Los Angeles smoking laws didn’t apply to dressing rooms.) It soon became the place to be, because after the Plain Janes had showered, they appeared in the doorway and started squeezing into the room. I didn’t see them, because I was too busy plugging in the MP3 player, but just as the Plain Janes appeared, fresh from their first show after drug arrests and breakup rumors and assorted dramas that only rock stars could experience, my playlist started and LL Cool J came blasting out of the gigantic speakers.
“Don’t call it a comeback!”
The room went mental.
The Plain Janes thrust their arms into the air as if on cue, and the rest of us started cheering and clapping, and everyone who was standing was dancing, and everyone who was sitting started climbing up on whatever they were sitting on so they could dance, too. I could see Victoria and Jonah on the couch with at least five other people, all of them looking like they were surfing on the same board, they were so unsteady. I stood up on the dressing table because I wanted to dance, too, and Simon took hold of my hand and pulled himself up with me. He was, if I do say so, impressed. “Fucking fantastic!” he was saying. “That was bloody brilliant!”
And then he kissed me.
Mama said knock you out!
12 “In the hands of a rock-and-roll band…”
—Oasis, “Don’t Look Back in Anger”
FOR THE NEXT HOUR OR SO, Simon and I kept to a tight schedule of making out, then talking a little, then making out again. I was so high on adrenaline and caffeine that I didn’t even mind that everyone could see us, but after awhile, he pulled me behind one of the huge wardrobe cases so we could have some privacy.
Right then, though, privacy was the least of my concerns. After all, it had been six months since I broke up with Evan, and in that time, I had kissed no one. No. One. The closest I had gotten to any guy was with James under the counter and—
Hold the phone. Was I insane? Why was I thinking about James? Or Evan? Or the fucking Scooper Dooper? I was kissing Simon, lead singer from the Lolitas! More importantly, he was kissing me back! We were kissing each other! I immediately banished all other boys from my head and focused on the one in front of me.
“So,” I said as we pulled apart to catch our breath. “Where’s your next show?”
“San Diego, I think. Maybe Arizona. I don’t even fucking know anymore.” He grinned and began twirling a strand of my hair around his finger. “You have really sexy hair.”
I love you, hair. I will never hate you again, not even when it’s humid.
“Thanks,” I said. “Yours isn’t so bad, either.”
“Yeah?” He leaned closer and kissed me fast. “What else do you think?”
If I told him what I was really thinking, he’d run screaming from the room. In my mind, I had already imagined myself flying across the Atlantic to visit him in London, having dinner together with our new friends Gwen and Gavin in some cute little restaurant before I went to work DJ’ing while my adoring rock star boyfriend wrote songs and won Grammys and made millions of dollars in royalties. However, I thought it best to keep that little fantasy to myself.