Page 1 of Over the Edge

1

Evelyn

Ihadn’t expected to end my night playing therapist to a werewolf in a jazz bar bathroom, but life hasn’t been exactly going my way recently. And I’m not quite sure she’s a werewolf. She could be a vampire. It’s not like it matters, because whatever paranormal creature Elodie plays is about as realistic as the fact the show's producers are passing her off as fourteen years old. But isn’t that the time-honored tradition? Hot people in their mid-to-late twenties playing freshman in high school is about as classic as the lie I’ve been repeating all night.

“No. I’m totally fine with being here,” I comfort her.

I like parties, just not this party. But I couldn’t exactly back out when Avery, my oldest friend and confidant, is about to leave for eight months to rehearse for, then co-headline a North American tour. I don’t exactly want to celebrate her leaving, even if I should be excited for her.

“I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to bring down the mood. It’s just so…” Her defined biceps shift as she leans back against the edge of the sticky bathroom sink. Werewolf, definitely werewolf.I think it’s the skintight red leather dress that threw me off for a second. But her brown skin has been emphasized by a spray tan that gives her an extra glow no undead entity would have.

I offer her a soft smile. “Overwhelming?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s supposed to be the best night ever.” She sags further.

Tonight’s party is good, but that’s not hard when you have live music and an open bar. Still, tomorrow there will be another party, documented for outsiders to experience through glimpses on social media, declared to be “the best night ever.”

“And we’re having so much fun we’ve run to hide in the bathroom,” I say, cheerily. I can practically see herHoly shit, I’m in New York!dreams lose a bit of their shine.

“Am I bad at this?”

“Where are you from?”

“Nebraska,” she says. “Is it that obvious?” Yes. More that she’s new to the people and places like this, not that there’s any Midwesternness about her that gives it away.

“Give yourself some time to get used to it, and you’ll be just fine.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“Yes,” I say, because that’s far more relatable than the truth. It’s not like being the younger sister to an internationally beloved member of the boy band Fool’s Gambit is a typical bonding experience. Elodie seems nice enough, and if I can be a comforting stranger in a bathroom in some post-midnight hour, I’ll gladly be that for her.

I grew up around this; by the time I was fourteen, my brother’s face was on posters in my classmates' bedrooms. Everyone loved Fool’s Gambit, treating whoever your favorite member as a crucial personality trait. The lead singer, and my long-term personal nemesis, Wesley, was the charmer, for those who wanted a lighthearted clown. My brother, Drew, was thedrummer for the ones who wanted a broody, shy type. Jared is a sweetheart and was the rhythm guitarist with a heart of gold who’s turned into a great dad. Then there’s Garrett, the bassist who is currently on my shit list after backing out of helping me move to Manhattan a few months ago.

It was weird growing up like that, sure, but it was something that’s become normal over the last fifteen years. Eventually, I was old enough to go to the parties, and by then I was desensitized to it. It was never new and exciting like it is for Elodie now. And because I’m friends with America’s indie-pop sweetheart, Avery Sloane, the award shows and after parties never stopped, even when Drew’s music career came to a crashing halt.

A desperate knock rattles the bathroom door, and I turn to Elodie. “Ready to face the music?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she says, putting on a brave face and rolling back her shoulders.

Music blasts as we push through the door, the bass so unrestrained I feel it in my skull. Blue and pink neon blankets the room, and the well-dressed attendees are scattered around the stage. Before the door has a chance to fully close, a girl in a velvet pantsuit rushes to grab it and locks herself in the bathroom. Elodie and I exchange a few more words before someone, maybe her co-star, whisks her away. It’s for the best because Avery finds me soon after.

With fiery red hair and a mosaic of dark tattoos contrasting against her pale skin visible from the slit of her black dress, she’s hard to miss. In heels, her height rivals even the tallest attendees of her party. As always, she’s unapologetic about the space she takes up. That’s how she’s always been with her appearance, words, and music. She doesn’t have time to care if it bothers anyone. It’s a trait I used to wish would rub off on me, but after knowing her for fourteen years, I’ve started to give up hope.

I’m loud in my own right, but it’s more that I word vomit in the hopes something I say is worth listening to. I like people and want them to like me right back, but sometimes I struggle with the whole having a filter thing. I dance like everyone's watching on purpose, so they’ll be comfortable enough to dance with me. But in a room like this? Most people here barely spare me a passing glance.

If you were to rank people in the room by their status, at face value, I would occupy one of the lowest rungs. That’s pretty much irrelevant because I met Avery when she was opening for Fool’s Gambit and the both of us were mere mortals in comparison to the sensation my brother was a part of. There’s a sort of kinship that can only come from being the only two young girls on a music tour. Years later, she keeps me along for the ride.

The cover band on stage transitions into a new song just as Avery reaches me. My brows arch into ayou can’t be seriouslook.

“This wasn’t on the approved setlist. They must have gone rogue,” she explains with a shrug. “It’s not my fault that Lyla West has been hanging out in the Hot 100 for so long.”

I don’t hate the song. I mean, I liked it enough to write and record it. There’s the simple fact that it’s always a bit jarring to hear my own lyrics in someone else's voice, especially when they don’t know Lyla West is in the room with them.

“I don’t mind,” I insist.

“It’s my party. I can tell them to stop.”

“Don’t. People are dancing,” I tell her, and she follows my gaze to the dance floor in front of the low stage. Bodies gyrating. Wide smiles. Drinks held high and spilling over onto sweat-drenched skin. Something like pride swells in my chest knowing I contributed to the collective euphoria.

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