Page 3 of Chasing Chase London, Part 8: Valentines Day

As he turns to walk away, Jessica moves in and takes his arm, smiling up at him adoringly. “Hey, lover,” she purrs.

“Colin’s up front,” he tells her, standing up straighter and leaning back from her a little, aloof.

“Oops, sorry.” She giggles and lets his arm go before heading for the stage.

Oliver looks at me and shakes his head.

I smile and shrug. But I watch him go, thinking how bad it must suck to be Oliver, the one the girls don’t try to hook up with.

Not that he’d hook up with any of them anyway.

But if I had a twin who looked exactly like me, but all the guys wanted her and mistook me for her, and then were disappointed when I turned out to be the undesirable one… I’d probably drive off a bridge.

The club has filled up a lot since we got here.

The band comes on a minute later, and everyone cheers.

A handful of girls at the front scream like Colin is a famous rock star, even though they haven’t even heard him play yet.

Tonight he’s wearing black jeans with a studded belt, a vintage Ramones tee, and combat boots.

Apparently I’ve developed a thing for bad boys, because combined with the attitude, I can sort of understand the girls tripping over themselves to get his attention.

When the screaming dies down and he speaks into the mic in his Irish accent, I’m as captivated as they are. “This is our first show on American soil. We call this song ‘Tyler Durden’s Yellow Rubber Glove.’”

They start playing a thrash-emo-punk-ska song.

Colin sings while writhing like a man possessed, thrashing and headbanging and scissoring his body forward to scream out the incomprehensible lyrics.

Oliver plays guitar, standing sideways from the crowd and not looking up from his instrument the entire song.

I don’t recognize the other two guys in the band.

When the song’s over, Colin chugs from a water bottle, then wipes his forehead and smiles indulgently at all the girls in front of the stage, clearly loving the attention.

Oliver keeps his shoulder to the crowd and never even looks our way.

I wonder how two people so totally different can look so alike.

A few songs later, a cute guy I don’t recognize smiles at me from the crowd.

I glance around to make sure he’s not looking at someone else, but no one around me is paying any attention.

I give a tiny smile back, feeling self-conscious and flattered at the same time.

He tucks his hands in the front pockets of his dark jeans and steps a little closer.

His vintage sweater vest and glasses make him look both preppy and a little nerdy.

By the time the song ends, he’s worked his way over to me.

“Hey,” he says. “You here alone?”

“Uh, no, not really,” I say with a little laugh. “My friends are around here somewhere.”

The next song comes on, too loud for us to talk over. He stays by my side, bobbing his head to the music. I like that he’s not trying to dance all over me, so we bob side by side in companionable enjoyment of the band.

“What school do you go to?” I ask him at the end of the song when there’s a moment of relative quiet and I don’t have to yell.

“Georgetown,” he says, hands still in his pockets. “What about you?”

“I’m in high school here,” I answer, my confidence boosted at the knowledge that a college guy is talking to me, possibly flirting.

The next song starts, and Colin goes back to flailing and jumping up and down.

“What are you doing here?” I yell to my companion.

He leans over to hear what I’m saying, his eyes still on the band.

“Visiting my girlfriend,” he shouts back.

Okay, definitely not flirting.

He glances behind us, then mouths, “Speak of the devil…”

I turn and see Elaine and Lindsey coming towards us, both in short dresses and heels. I have no one to blame but myself for being entirely invisible.

Elaine slinks up to Ian, holding a bottled water in each hand.

He leans over and gives her a little peck on the mouth.

She’s all eyes for him, smiling and sliding against him in her silky dress.

I stare at them a minute, transfixed by this foreign side of Elaine.

I’ve seen her with Todd before, but she’s usually busy either eyeing me smugly or pushing him away in annoyance.

She doesn’t even glance my way now. She may actually like this guy, something I wasn’t sure she was capable of.

Lindsey takes my arm and pulls me away into the bathroom. It’s small and damp, and every inch of the walls is covered with random scrawled names, words, and messages written in permanent marker.

“I see you met Ian,” Lindsey says from the stall.

“Yeah,” I say. “Not exactly what I was expecting, but then, Daria did say he was Nate-Point-Two.”

She doesn’t answer, and I silently berate myself for bringing up the one person in the world who could ever hate Lindsey Darling.

I blame it on the fact that my brain has been scrambled by the noise in the club.

I can’t tell if the acoustics are terrible or if it’s just the band that’s excessively loud.

When she’s done, Lindsey emerges from the stall and wrinkles her nose at the sink, which to be fair, looks pretty sketch. I step over and turn it on for her so she doesn’t have to touch the handle.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling the familiar panic set in that she might be mad at me. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why were you talking about Nate?” she asks, her tone casual but forced as she focuses on meticulously washing her hands.

“I just—she just told me,” I blurt out, instantly feeling like complete shit for lying about Daria, who’s been nothing but amazing to me.

But how can I tell Lindsey that I wanted to know if she bullied someone?

It sounds laughable even in my head. There’s no way I could say it aloud, especially to her.

She’s as delicate as a dragonfly’s gossamer wings, and Nate’s got ‘cooking up a bomb in his basement in his spare time’ vibes.

Lindsey sighs. “She’s such a gossip. I wish she’d keep her big mouth closed.”

“Right?” my mouth agrees, while my heart self-flagellates for being such a traitorous bitch.

“Did you even see her tonight?” Lindsey asks, her lip curling in disgust. “She’s falling-down drunk and making a fool of herself for Colin, like he’s not talking to ten other girls right in front of her face. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

She steps back from the sink and looks at me expectantly. I stand there gaping, speechless. I’ve never heard Lindsey talk about her friends that way. I mean, they all talk about her, and each other, and everyone else that way, but she’s always sweet as pie.

“Hello?” she says, widening her eyes at me and shaking her wet hands in front of her. “Paper towel?”

“Right,” I say, rushing to wind out a length from the rickety dispenser.

“So sorry.” I hand it to her and then shut off the water, wiping my hands down my jeans.

My heart is beating erratically and my palms are sweating.

Does this mean I’m truly in the inner circle, trusted to see the side of Lindsey she only shows her closest confidants?

Or is she finally cracking under the stress of what’s been happening to her family?

She hands me the wad of damp towels and draws a breath. “Thanks,” she says, smiling with her usual charm again. “And you look cute tonight, even if you didn’t dress up.”

“I didn’t know we were doing that,” I explain, tossing her trash into the waste basket. “I dressed down because it was a concert, but next time I’ll look cuter, I promise.”

“Maybe you could straighten your hair,” she says. “You know you can get it done permanently at a salon. Remember how good it looked at Homecoming?”

“Yeah,” I say, self-consciously touching my curls. “But I don’t know about a perm. Doesn’t that damage your hair?”

“People get their hair chemically straightened all the time,” she says. “You’d look so pretty.”

“I’ll look into it this week,” I promise. “You look adorable tonight, by the way. Did I already say that? I love that dress on you.”

“It does make me look thin, doesn’t it?” she asks, turning sideways and sucking in her tummy.

“You always look thin,” I say, not sure if that’s what I’m supposed to say to someone with an eating disorder. I should have researched that after I found out. That’s what a good friend would do, not be so self-absorbed she didn’t even find out what to say about it.

“Thanks,” Lindsey says, looking pleased.

And even though I guessed correctly that time, my stomach is still in knots when we head back out to the show.

Every step feels like walking on eggshells—or a tightrope suspended fifty feet over a concrete floor with nothing to catch me if I fall.

I don’t know how I got here, to a place where being in Lindsey’s good graces feels like life or death.

But now that I’m here, I’m afraid there’s only one way down.