Page 82 of Miss Behaved
“Missed you too.”
“So.” I drop onto the bed, and she leans against my old desk. “What’s this I hear about you dropping out of college to follow some band around the country?”
“Mom told you?”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I temporarily talked her down from having a heart attack.”
“She’s not thrilled,” Merry says, sinking into a beanbag chair on the floor. “And Dad’s pissed.”
“And you’re surprised?” I lift my eyebrow at her.
“They’re the ones who shouldn’t be surprised. It’s like they don’t even know me.” Merry frowns. “College isn’t my thing;schoolisn’t my thing. I want to be around music, always have. I mean, look at you. You followed your dreams, and look where it got you.”
The twenty-one-year-old version of me would be cheering her on, back when I was naive and didn’t understand the failure rate or the work that would go into it. But the twenty-eight-year-old version of Monica knows all about how following dreams really works. Long days, years of disappointment. And just when you think you’ve gotten to where you want to be, you’re climbing another mountain.
Not that I can make her understand. She has to learn her own hard lessons.
“Is there a plan, at least?” I ask, and her face brightens when she realizes I’m going to skip the lecture.
“Yes.” She grins, and I see some light return to her face behind her dark makeup. “So, you remember my friend Rumi?”
I nod.
“Well, she and I went to the Nightingale Festival last month and got backstage passes, and you’re not going to believe who we met.” She runs out of breath.
“Who?”
“Enemy Muse.”
“Is that a person?”
Merry rolls her eyes. “No, the band.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard of them,” I tell her.
“You’re so old.” She shakes her head, and I try to remind myself that seven years really does put a gap between us. “Anyway, their stage crew manager was totally awesome, and he said they’re looking for people to go on the road with them this summer to help out with posters and errands and things, and next thing I know—bam! I’m going on their next tour.”
“To run errands?”
When she said she’d be on tour, I figured it was as a backup singer or something. After all, singing is her dream, not being someone’s errand girl.
“I know, that’s why Mom’s annoyed too. But you have to start somewhere. So if that means running around cleaning up beer cans or fetching condoms for rock stars, then I’ll do it.” She grins.
Condoms for rock stars?
“Please say those aren’t the words you used when you broke the news to Dad.”
Merry shrugs.
There’s no putting a lid on her. Ever since she was little she’s done what she wanted, said what she was thinking, made no apologies. I kind of wish I were more like that.
A movement out my window draws my attention as someone pulls the curtains open in Carson’s old room. It’s a girl who’s probably no older than ten. She shimmies the heavy fabric out of the way and then sits on the window bench to read a book.
The years stretch out in that moment, reminding me how much has changed.
“You’re always so weird about that house,” Merry says, narrowing her eyes at me.
I shrug. “Just thinking.”
