Carly ties the last section of my hair up on itself and sprays my head with a cloud of hair spray that makes both of us cough. She studies me, swishing her mouth from one side to the other. Finally she steps back and nods. “Good to go.” She seems more serious, like whatever was pulling her up has started to wear off. I wonder if it was just adrenaline.

In her car on the way over, she says, “It’s the first time I’ve been out since Rosemary. Since I left Rosemary.” She doesn’t look at me. Eyes on the road.

“It’ll be fun,” I tell her. “You’ll be fine.”

The bouncer tries to smudge the dates on both of our licenses, but the fixative works. He marks Xs on our hands with a black Sharpie before he lets us in. The ink is wet and cold.

“What’s this?” I ask Carly, holding up my hand to show her my X, but the music is so loud she can’t hear me. The music is so loud I can’t even hear it. I feel the thumping of bass and shrieks of violin in my body. My ears can’t make sense of it. Carly points at her hand and rolls her eyes.

The place is packed, and it doesn’t look like there’s anywhere for us to go, but Carly grabs my hand, holds it low. She twists and turns her way through the crowd, pulling me behind her. We sneak between people until we get right up to the stage.

I think I see the James Dean guy and the girl with the lip ring at the other end of the stage, but everyone is pushing and dancing and they get swallowed by the crowd.

None of the members of the band look much older than me. I can’t stand the way they sound, but I love to watch them. The lead singer is wearing a yellow dress with drippy black paint stripes. She has a tiny round face and a long mess of bright orange hair. She screams, “I ain’t, I ain’t, I ain’t” into the microphone like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

The guy playing the violin has this smirk like he knows he’s making painful sounds. When the lead singer screams “You. Ain’t. You!” everyone else screams along with her. Even me.

Four songs in, we’re still right up at the front of the stage. I’ve been staring at the guitar player, watching his fingers, trying to figure out which chords he’s playing and what effect the array of pedals at his feet have on the sound of his strings. He’s wearing a kilt, and by accident, I notice that he isn’t wearing anything under his kilt.