White Teeth Teens

13. The Attic and the Addict

On Saturday, Ben picks me up at seven. Instead of waiting in the driveway, he walks to the front door and says hello to my parents. I'm nervous my parents will cross-question him, but they are so blinded by his charm that they happily let us go on our way.

He's wearing dark-washed jeans, Nike sneakers, and that black jacket that makes him look like a punk rocker. I follow him to his car, trying to make small talk about soccer practice and Drawing class but I'm distracted by the unfamiliar music playing from his speakers.

"What is this?" I ask, turning up the volume.

"Foster the People. You don't know them?" Ben asks. "They're incredible. Seriously, their stuff is amazing. What do you normally listen to?"

"Kinda like alternative nineties stuff. Like Nirvana, Sound Garden."

"No way," Ben says in disbelief.

"Yes!" I laugh.

"That's... really cool. I don't know any girls that listen to that stuff."

"I'll make you a playlist if you make me one," I offer.

He smiles. "Deal."

We continue on to Hudson as an incredible, hypnotic beat fills the car. I hold my arm out the window and try to catch the breeze. With the trees above us masking everything in shadow and the bright lights of cars flashing by, I feel like I'm in a music video.

We park behind Main Street in Hudson and go to the little pizzeria across from Bank of America. Ben gets two slices but I only get one. After we finish, I go to the bathroom to check my teeth and my make up. When I return, Ben's already got his coat on.

"Wait, what about the check?" I ask, about to unzip my purse.

"I already got it." He leads me ahead of him out of the pizzeria and towards the Attic.

The alley is fairly sketchy. There are two floodlights that illuminate the pavement and flyers that litter the sides of the buildings. A few people lean against a wall smoking cigarettes across from the entrance. I hear laughter reverberate around me.

Ben leads the way up these creaky stairs and voices getting louder as we ascend. At the top is another room full of flyers and two middle-aged women sitting behind a table with a cash box. Ben hands them a ten-dollar bill. One woman presses a stamp of the letter A on my hand. She does the same to Ben's and we go down a hallway into a large room full of people.

The stage is about three feet off the ground and covered in graffiti. The band's setting up their amplifiers and drum set. The room feels hot from the overhead lights and the air is stale. There are people sitting on tall stools around tables and on ripped leather couches. Ben powerwalks to the only empty table and pulls out the stool for me.

I lean my arms on the table, which is laden with broken disk pieces that pinch my skin. We both scan the place slowly, and I hope he'll say something because this is getting awkward. The bass drum on stage is painted with stars and the words, "New Media". A tall, lanky guy stands in front and taps at his microphone while the bass and drum players tune their instruments.

I poke Ben to get his attention. "You come here a lot?"

Ben shakes his head. "When I was younger. My brother's band played here a bunch."

"How old's your brother?"

"He's a junior in college."

I wonder what it would be like to have the house to yourself—be the only sibling for most of the year. A luxury I'll never have.

"Alright guys, thanks for coming," says the lanky guy. He grasps the microphone and presses his lips into it so we can hear them smack together. "We're New Media and we're gonna play some sick music." He turns to the drummer, who starts the beat, and then he starts to sing.