Chapter 15: Ricky

The music was still thumping, a heavy, rhythmic pulse that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards of Fran’s house, but for me, the adrenaline of the performance had already started to sour. I stood near the edge of the kitchen, clutching a lukewarm soda I didn't actually want, my eyes fixed on the center of the living room.

There she was. Roxie. She looked incredible in that angel outfit—all white feathers and sharp edges—but that wasn't what was making my blood boil. It was the fact that she was currently leaning against a decorative pillar, laughing at something some varsity-jacket-wearing meathead was saying.

I recognized him. It was the blonde jock from the hallway on my first day. The one who’d called me a loser and asked to borrow my eyeliner. He was leaning into Roxie’s personal space, his hand resting on the pillar just above her shoulder, radiating a level of unearned confidence that made me want to go back on stage just to play something loud enough to burst his eardrums.

"You’re going to burn a hole in the back of his head if you keep staring like that," a voice muttered beside me.

I jumped slightly, nearly spilling my drink. I looked down to see Georgie standing there, holding a plate of half-eaten wings. He was leaning against the counter, watching me with an expression that was far too observant for a thirteen-year-old.

"I'm not staring," I snapped, turning my back to the living room and pretending to be deeply interested in the refrigerator magnets.

"Right. And I’m a world-class drummer," Georgie retorted, taking a bite of a wing.

"What do you want, dork?"

"Ricky, you’re literally vibrating. It’s embarrassing."

"I am not!"

"You look like a territorial chihuahua."

"Shut up, Georgie. I’m just... observing the local wildlife. That guy is a tool. I’m concerned for her safety. It’s a civic duty."

"A civic duty," Georgie repeated, deadpan. "Is that what they call 'being insanely jealous' in high school? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re mad that the 'Miss Perfect' you claim to hate is actually talking to someone who isn't you."

I risked a glance back over my shoulder. The jock had said something else, and Roxie let out a bright, melodic laugh, tossing her head back so her blonde hair caught the light of the disco ball. She reached out and playfully swiped at the guy's arm. It was a classic move. She was flirting. Hard.

The jealousy hit me like a physical weight in my chest, heavy and cold. It wasn't just that he was with her; it was the fact that he represented everything I wasn't. He was the safe choice. The popular choice. The guy who fit perfectly into the East Shore ecosystem while I was still trying to figure out if I was a guest or an intruder.

"He’s a cliché," I muttered, my grip tightening on my cup. "Look at him. What does she see in him?"

"He probably thinks 'Metaphor' is a type of protein shake."

"Why would she even waste her time?"

"Maybe because he doesn't stare at her like she’s a puzzle he can’t solve?" Georgie suggested, stepping up next to me. "Look, Ricky, you played a great set. People actually like us now. Why don't you go over there and, I don't know, be a person? Interrupt them. You're a rockstar, remember?"

"I can't just walk over there, Georgie. She already thinks I’m a freak. If I crash her conversation with Captain America over there, she’ll probably have me escorted out by the glitter police."

"So instead you're just going to stand here by the trash can and sulk?" Georgie shook his head, looking genuinely disappointed in me. "You’re a senior. You have the van. You have the bass. Use your assets, man."

I watched as the jock leaned in closer, whispering something in Roxie’s ear. Her smirk widened, and for a second, she looked toward the kitchen. Our eyes locked for a moment—a sharp, electric spark that cut through the crowded room—before she quickly looked back at the jock, her expression shifting back into that practiced, icy cool.

She knew I was watching. She was doing this on purpose.

"She’s playing games," I realized, the anger finally overriding the hesitation.

"Duh," Georgie said, wiping his hands on a napkin. "Everyone in this room is playing games. You’re just the only one losing right now because you’re standing still."

I stood up straight, squaring my shoulders and adjusted the collar of my vest. The jealousy was still there, but it was being fueled by a sudden, frantic need to prove that I wasn't just some background character in her story.

"I'm going in," I said, handing my soda to Georgie.

"Good luck, soldier," Georgie chuckled, picking up another wing. "Try not to mention your big toe. It’s not as charming as you think it is."

I didn't answer. I started walking, my boots thudding against the hardwood, weaving through the clusters of fairies and superheroes. I didn't have a plan, and I definitely didn't have a wingman, but as I closed the distance between me and the pillar, I knew one thing for sure: the Rising Moon wasn't done making noise tonight.