Five
Alex and Kelly's room looked like a bomb had gone off.
Clothes everywhere—black lace and fishnets draped over chairs, makeup scattered across both desks, shoes kicked into corners.
The air was thick with Poison perfume, Nag Champa incense, and hairspray.
Jesus and Mary Chain's Darklands was blasting from a small stereo.
The girls weren't quite dressed yet. Or maybe they were—it was hard to tell. A black bra, a bustier. I wasn't sure if they were going out like this or if there was more to add. Maybe just shoes and accessories.
Alex was cross-legged on her bed with a makeup mirror balanced in front of her, loading on mascara. Her hair was enormous—twice the size of Robert Smith's, teased and sprayed into a dark halo. Without breaking her focus, she glanced up and said, "You guys look amazing.”
Kelly, on the other hand, squealed—actually squealed—and clapped her hands together before throwing her arms around Nathan in a full-body hug.
I lifted my eyebrows. She was wrapped around him like she'd won something.
Nathan looked stunned, his arms awkward at his sides, not really hugging her back. Kelly was murmuring something in his ear—I couldn't hear what—and when she finally pulled away, she spotted a smudge of her own lipstick on Nathan's neck.
"Oh no!" She was touching him now, rubbing at it with her thumb and only making it worse. “Guess it'll just look like another vampire got you."
I stared at the smear of red she'd left on him. I'd spent almost an hour perfecting his makeup, getting the pale base just right, the veins delicate and precise. And this girl had just destroyed it in a matter of seconds.
There was also lipstick on the collar of the pirate shirt. My pirate shirt.
Fuck.
"You guys want a vodka cranberry?" Kelly asked, a little too bright, a little too buzzed already.
Nathan said, “Sure.”
I couldn't hide it. I was beyond annoyed. I said, "I'm going outside to have a cigarette."
"Give me five minutes!” Alex yelled after me.
I left.
There were a lot of people out. Groups in costume heading toward the square, the energy building as we got closer. The whole town had shown up for this.
We walked four abreast—me and Nathan in the center together, Alex on my left, Kelly clinging to Nathan's arm on his right. Louis and Lestat were meant to be seen side by side. That was the whole point.
Kelly was swinging a tiny purse shaped like a coffin, talking about something I wasn't listening to. She had her finger waves pinned perfectly, dark lipstick, cheap plastic fangs. She looked like a silent movie star playing a vampire.
Alex looked like herself but more—bigger hair, darker makeup, fully realized goth slut, just like she'd promised.
I was kind of annoyed that the girls hadn’t commented on our specific characters.
But then, we'd already discussed our costumes at dinner.
They didn't have any reason to bring it up again.
Or maybe Kelly didn't even know Louis and Lestat were a couple.
And maybe Alex didn't want to draw attention to it—either because it might embarrass me or Nathan, or because it might make Kelly doubt her chances.
The Stone Lion was already crowded when we got there.
The bouncers never carded women, but it was a hit-or-miss with guys.
If you were cool enough, or looked old enough, or got lucky with whoever was working the door, you might get in.
I'd gotten in once—a fluke, probably. Every other time I'd been turned away, and I was usually with Nathan.
I had a feeling it was because of him. I hated to think that, but I did.
Kelly and Alex walked right in, of course. We were stopped.
The bouncer said, "Sorry, guys." But he didn't look sorry at all.
It was humiliating.
Alex called back over her shoulder, "We won't be long! Just wanna see if he's here!"
Kelly's face fell. She clearly regretted not being stopped outside with Nathan.
I started moving down the sidewalk. "Come on. Fuck them. Let's go smoke."
We moved toward the alley a little ways down, where other people were milling around outside, smoking and talking. I pulled out my tobacco and papers and looked around for somewhere to squat and roll them. The cold brick wall. The curb. Nothing appealing.
I said, “Turn around. Let me use your shoulder.”
Nathan was too tall. I couldn't get the angle right.
He took the papers and tobacco from me without a word and rolled me a cigarette standing.
He said, "Can I roll one for myself too?"
That was new.
"Sure."
When he was done, he brought both cigarettes to his mouth, lit them together, and handed one to me.
Alex showed up at the mouth of the alley, her enormous hair backlit by the streetlight. She pressed a flask into my hand, warm from being tucked inside her bustier.
"Consolation prize," she said with a smirk.
Then she was gone.
I unscrewed the cap and took a swig. I hated warm vodka in a metal flask. It reminded me of rubbing alcohol. I passed it to Nathan. He drank and made a face.
We stood there in the alley, sipping and smoking like we had nowhere better to be, until I said, “Fuck it.” I stubbed out my cigarette. "They can find us at the show."
The Majestic was an old movie theater from the late thirties.
Legend was, it had opened with a screening of The Wizard of Oz.
Now the lobby and concessions area had been turned into a vintage bar, all brass fixtures, dark wood, and Art Deco posters on the walls.
The marquee out front was lit up with GREY CRAVENS in block letters.
They stamped our hands "underage" at the door. It didn’t matter. Drinks were expensive, and we’d just had the vodka in the alley.
Inside, it was smoky and packed. The smell hit me right off—stale popcorn and old velvet competing with sweaty polyester costumes, greasy pancake makeup, and way too much patchouli.
The lobby lights were too bright, showing every bit of sloppy eyeliner and the way faces were already starting to run.
Up close, it all just looked cheap—peeling latex and fake blood turning into a syrupy mess.
We headed into the theater itself. It was general admission, so we could sit wherever we found seats. Most of the main floor was already full, with people hanging around the aisles, but I spotted some space in the balcony.
I pointed. “Up there.”
We climbed the wide, carpeted stairs and found two seats near the railing.
It was the perfect view of the stage. We caught a few nods from people we knew from school, but most of the room seemed like they'd been shipped in from somewhere way cooler than Edgewood. I recognized faces I could’ve sworn I’d seen in magazines or on MTV—and some others I could just tell I’d be seeing there soon.
It was impossible to know who was in costume and who lived their life looking this way.
There was a sea of black clothing, heavy makeup, and gravity-defying hair.
Ironically, if Nathan and I didn’t bare our fangs, we could pass for genuinely sophisticated.
I looked at him, trying to see him through a stranger’s eyes.
I wondered if they’d buy him as this beautiful, dark creature with slicked-back hair and eyeliner, or if they’d see right through the disguise to the preppy kid underneath.
A guy trying to squeeze past us to get to the middle of the row glanced down and did a double-take. "Oh shit—Louis and Lestat, right?"
Nathan’s face broke into a grin. “Yeah,” he said, beaming.
“Very cool.” He gave us a short nod and kept moving.
He hadn’t seen two freshman posers trying too hard.
Nathan leaned his shoulder into mine, waggled his eyebrows, and said, "You nailed it." He belonged in a black-and-white photograph.
“You do look cool,” I said.
His grin softened, and he didn't look away.
The house lights cut to black.
The roar of the crowd died out for a split second as everyone turned toward the stage, that weird, heavy silence you only get right before a show starts.
Then Grey Cravens walked out into a single spotlight, and the room just blew up.
A wall of noise hit us—screaming and whistling so loud it vibrated in my teeth. Beside me, Nathan was already up on his feet, shouting and pumping a fist in the air, his face lit up by the stage lights.
Grey looked nothing like I expected. Back in his days with The Orchards, he’d always had that college rock look—rumpled flannels over vintage band tees and shaggy hair that flopped over his eyes like a nice-guy nerd you'd see waiting for the bus. But tonight, he wore old denim overalls and a stretched-out white v-neck—the kind of undershirt you’d sleep in.
His work boots were trashed with paint splatters.
His hair had grown out since his last show, and he had it pulled up into a messy knot held on top of his head with a pencil.
I'd never seen a guy wear his hair like that, and I was so glad I was already growing mine out.
He reminded me of the sculpture guys you’d see welding in the foundry or carving stone behind the art building.
He didn't dress up for the show. He just showed up. And that made him cooler than anyone else in the room.
I felt kind of silly. Nathan and I had spent an hour on our costumes just to sit in the audience, but Grey was performing on stage in something you’d wear on laundry day.
He stepped up to the microphone, adjusted the strap on his acoustic guitar, and started playing.
His voice was nothing like his old records.
That had been safe. This was something else—high and androgynous, almost like something out of a fairy tale, with a thin, haunting quality that made the hair on my arms stand up.
Then it swelled, this huge range that went from a whisper to a wail, and I realized Grey wasn't hiding anymore.
He wasn't fronting a band of straight guys making rock for frat parties.