I look back at her. “I have to, Mia,” I say, my voice low, my gaze pleading. “Please don’t say anything to Grandma.”
Her lips thin in obvious disapproval. She feels the same about Tate that Carlos does: that he’s hurt me too many times, that it’s a mistake to keep taking him back. But she’s also my sister, and I think she sees how in love with him I am—she knows the feeling all too well. So she nods quickly. “Okay,” she says in a hush. “But you better hurry before—”
She doesn’t get a chance to finish her thought, because Grandma appears in the doorway—she must have heard us talking from her bedroom. “Where are you going?” she demands.
My eyes flinch from Mia to her, feeling a pang at her hard gaze. “Out,” I say. And then I yank the door open all the way and dash into the dark.
I hear Grandma calling after me, but I push into a run, out to the street and to my car. I know she won’t chase after me, but I slam the keys into the ignition and peel away down the street regardless—the adrenaline still pumping through my veins.
My phone rings from my purse on the passenger seat and I fish it out, looking at the screen. It’s her. I hit IGNORE.
She’s probably going to ground me until graduation for this, but it doesn’t matter. After graduation I’m gone anyway. I shove down the sorrow that rises in my throat at how bad our relationship has become. Reaching up, I turn on the radio, hoping the sound will drown out my guilty thoughts.
Traffic is a blur of steady red lights and backed-up cars. I exit the 101, hoping to wind my way through the backstreets, but find I’m only inching slowly closer to the Staples Center. I should have left earlier, should have anticipated this. It’s like I’ve been a step behind all day.
When I finally arrive, a parking attendant waves me into a spot not too far from the front entrance. But the show has already started; I can hear the amplified buzz of music rising out from the stadium, the air vibrating. I run in heels toward the entrance, cursing myself for being so late.
I don’t go to the main entrance, where the lights of the Staples sign make everything look smeared in red and blue. Instead, I run along the outer wall to the side of the rounded structure. I’m nervous, I realize; it feels like something big depends on me seeing Tate perform. Like if I miss the show, something terrible will happen.
The steel double doors, just like Tate described, are illuminated by a bright single light against the gray concrete wall. A red-and-white sign reads EXIT. It seems so unofficial.
I knock twice.
Nothing.
I knock again. Still nothing. A car circles through the parking lot, probably looking for an open spot, its headlights fanning across the doors.
I lean into the door and press my ear against the cool metal. I can’t hear anything on the other side. Maybe this is the wrong door—the wrong exit.
But then there is a shuddering and the door swings open. I take a half step backward before it collides with my face. An official-looking man with a goatee stands in the open doorway. “Yeah?” he asks distractedly, looking over my head as if expecting someone else. Around his neck hangs several passes of varying colors, credentials that anoint him as the keeper of the backstage.
“I’m on the list,” I answer, feeling like I’m in one of those movies where the groupie tries to sneak backstage so she can sleep with the rock star. Except I’m not a groupie, I’m his girlfriend.
“What list?” he asks, scratching the sideburns that threaten to overtake his entire face.
“Tate said to come to this door,” I say more confidently than I feel. “I’m Charlotte Reed. My name should be on a list.”
His stare is hooded by the dim light over the doors, and the hallway behind him is a shadowed cavern where I can hear the reverberation of the concert echoing down the bare corridor. He reaches into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt and extracts a folded piece of white paper. He pulls it apart and I can just barely see names printed on the other side. There are only half a dozen or so.
“Reed, you said?”
“Charlotte Reed.”
He glances at me over the paper. “I recognize you. You’re his new chick.”
I nod, the fluttering of wings pushing up into my throat again—excitement and anxiety, merging into one.
“Sorry,” he says, refolding the paper and slipping it back into his breast pocket. “You’re not on the list.”
He starts to step back into the hallway, letting the door slide shut, but I stop him. “No.” I grab the edge of the door to keep it from closing. “Wait. I know I’m on there.”
“Sorry, honey. You’re not.”
“Will you check again?”
“Don’t need to. You’re not on it.”