Here's a secret: I hate Friday nights.

When you run with the sort of crowd I do, even uttering those words is close to blasphemy. Friday nights mean parties at the McHenry McMansion (with posh trust fund babies going wild), reckless behavior at the pier (with try-hard misfits dying for attention), or scouting out clubs to hear new music (with indie bands who think they're the second coming of The Strokes).

Tonight's event featured the latter. Macey McHenry blew off throwing her weekly bash to drag our little group of the usual suspects (me, Bex Baxter, Liz Sutton) to The Basement, a rundown music club hosting an open mike night. That's Macey for you. Give her a good beat, dark lighting, and a dirty musician to fawn over and the girl goes mad.

The Basement was exactly as I expected it to be. Small, smelled strongly of sweat and cheap perfume, seizure inducing strobe lights, and pseudo-deep lyrics echoing through the air courtesy of the underground band du jour. Unimpressed doesn't begin to cut it.

From the moment we stepped in the venue, the four of us drifted our separate ways to spend the evening doing what we've done at every other club. Macey immediately takes a seat in the front row. Her bright eyes informed me that she—like half of the other girls here—have eyes for the guitarist of the band playing. But Macey's making plans, you can see it in her smile. One half-glance in the boy's direction tells me everything I need to know about him: I'm not interested.

Bex, always the cool one, takes a seat towards the side, sipping her water and intently listening to the music like she might not ever hear these four chords again. Good girl Liz sidles up to Macey, making sure that it's water in her bottle and not vodka, even if it means sacrificing her night in return.

I stay in the middle, it's the safe option. Get too close to the front and the chances the band might sweat on you increases and you might as well be wearing a "groupie for hire" sign on your forehead. Stay in the back and you're forced to hear the tired conversations of hipsters and musical snobs, each and everyone claiming that they heard this band before they ever played here.

"This band is killer," a girl, who couldn't have been older than fourteen, coos to me. Her heavy eyeliner and revealing clothes made it obvious she was trying to look older. The club was seventeen and up, and who was I to talk? People still thought I was fifteen.

I shrug. "They're decent." And I meant it. The lyrics were good, but nothing special. The singer's voice bordered on screechy, while the bassist and the guitarist looked unsure of themselves. The only competent player was the drummer. He was so preoccupied with maintaining the pounding beats that I doubted he noticed the hordes of girls eyeing him with desire, unlike the guitarist. At least you know he's in for the music.

"We are Lost and Found," the lead singer roars, only to have the audience scream back with more enthusiasm. "You've been a great crowd! Good night!" Despite the calls of "encore, encore", the band packs up their instruments to make way for the next band. Even the crowd can sense that the next band is your standard indie fare: acoustic guitar players pretending to write insightful words about seeing the world. It's been done.

I take this opportunity to reconvene with my group in the corner. It's a ritual of ours: after we hear a set, we all discuss the merits of the band's lyrics (Bex), musical skills (Liz), looks (Macey), and general aura (me). I'm sure if we put our minds to it, the four of us could start a music magazine for the club scouters.

"Gotta say," Bex began with an amused expression, "it wasn't terrible. I'd see them again, hell, maybe even buy a demo from them."

Liz nodded her head. "The drummer was pretty good, he definitely made the others look better. The arrangements in the songs were unique, too." Liz was our little band geek: piano, clarinet, flute, you name it. She had a better ear than the rest of us, for sure.

Macey was suspiciously quiet. "Do you think the guitarist has a girlfriend?" she asked with hint of worry. Macey McHenry doesn't do worry. She is impossibly relaxed about boy problems, and she's most definitely a pro when it comes to dealing with musicians. This was an unsettling change. "He kept looking at some girl in the audience."

"Nine times out of ten, Mace, that girl is you," I tease with a grin. "I'm gonna go get some water. Be right back."

In the last five minutes, it seems like the number of people in the club tripled. There was a large crowd around the band that just played, Lost and Found. The sentimental side of me loved watching new bands get (often rabid) fans, but the cynic in me doubted that the band was getting attention for their musical merits. This usually makes it hard to enjoy music, when you stand so precariously between admiration and realism.

The air was suffocating to say the least, the smoke seemed to envelope everyone in it's tight, asphyxiating embrace. The band playing insisted on using seizure inducing strobe lights to distract from their lack of talent, which only clashed with their wannabe chillwave music. It also made it impossible to see anything around me. This night was crashing heavily on all of my senses, and I wanted nothing more at that moment to curl up and—

"Will you pretend to be my girlfriend for the next five minutes?" A guy's voice cuts through the music, and it takes me a split second to realize that the guy is Lost And Found's drummer, and he was directing that question to me.

Before I have the opportunity to respond or even stammer like an idiot, Drummer Guy leans in and places his lips on mine. It happens so fast that I can't even properly react, like my brain decided to shut off and let this strange boy kiss me and ask me ridiculous questions. It's like fast forwarding a movie until the end, and wondering where the hell the middle went. Except this is in real time and I can't pause to think about what's going on. Pathetic. Three seconds in, and all I can think is, "Who is this boy and why is he kissing me? More importantly, why am I kissing him back?"

Here's to Friday nights.


an: so yeah, i just watched "nick and norah's infinite playlist" (the book was way better) and i kinda felt like writing a zammie for the movie challenge thing. this sucks, i know, but bear with me. i'm still rough at this.

i'm halfway through a bex/grant story for this challenge, so watch out for that.

not sure how i'm going to continue this, seeing as i only planned for the whole "will you pretend to be my girlfriend? -kiss-" part. i don't plan very well in advance.

yeah. this AN is strange, ain't it? ah well, tell me what you think :D you all are pretty damn fantastic.

peace out, cub scouts,

-asha :D