Unclassic Hero

“Syd, you can’t dodge this one,” Desiree says, handing me the new fake ID she got for me this week.

“Who says I’m trying to dodge?” I retort, taking the card and giving it a once-over. “Jane Johnson? Could this be any more plain?”

“It needs to be easy to remember, and don’t forget the birth date. They’ll ask if they suspect it’s a fake,” she advises.

Desiree, my best friend, loves hitting the clubs, but since she’s not twenty-one, she depends on her fake ID. I memorize the birth date, repeating it in my head.

Tonight, I’m twenty-one, not eighteen.

“You always back out. Every time you agree to do this with me, it never happens,” she grumbles, “but not tonight. Honestly, I’m surprised I got you this far, so that’s progress.”

“What if we get busted?” I ask.

“Worst-case scenario, they take your ID and cut it in half, that’s it. It’s happened to me a couple of times. But, I’ve got a new guy for my IDs now, and they always pass. They’re perfect.”

“If you say so,” I sigh.

Desiree has spent the whole summer trying to get me out of my comfort zone, and I figured I could use a fun night out before school starts again next week.

Senior year. This summer, I’ve been busy with my summer job at a day camp for local underprivileged kids and tutoring math at the Learning Center.

I’m trying to beef up my college applications, so I thought these activities would do the trick.

“Ready?” Desiree asks, grabbing her purse from the backseat of her brand-new Jeep Wrangler, a lavish gift from her dad for her eighteenth birthday.

Being an only child, Desiree has always been spoiled, even more so since her mom passed away when she was ten.

My car, an old black and grey Chevy Blazer, was a hand-me-down from my parents when they bought a new truck last year.

“Ready,” I confirm, picking up my purse from the floor.

We get out of the car, and I trail behind Desiree as we cross the street toward the end of a long line leading into a nightclub called The Wrecker.

“How’s my hair?” Desiree asks me, smoothing her hands over her long black hair that she spent an hour painstakingly straightening.

“Great, as always,” I assure her. I fiddle with my hair, twirling it around my fingers in a nervous habit.

“Stop it, you’re going to mess up all the work I put in,” she swats my hand out of my long blonde hair that she had styled for me, although it felt more like an attack with all the teasing, curling, and hair spraying.

My hair now has more volume than I’ve ever seen it have, with the ends all perfectly curled.

Desiree made me swap my glasses for contacts tonight, and I’m wearing her clothes, too-tight skinny jeans, and a slinky black camisole.

I don’t look like myself tonight; I look more like her, which I guess is not a bad thing. My usual style, as Desiree would say, is geeky chic.

I don’t know what that means, but I think it’s kind of like a hipster or something.

“So, have you finished your summer assignment history essay?” I ask her.

“Oh no, you don’t, Sydney, there will be no talking about school tonight. Tonight, we are twenty-one years old, and we don’t go to high school.”

“Fine. So what am I supposed to talk about?”

“Anything but school. We only have another week of freedom before we have to go back, so I’d like to forget about it.”

“I know, you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”

“No, you think you’re always right,” I laugh at her.

“Well, most of the time I’m right,” she counters.

“If you say so.”

We reach the front of the line where a three-hundred-pound bouncer, covered in tattoos, right up to his shaved head, stands guard at the door.

“ID?” he demands in a deep, intimidating voice.

Desiree reaches into her purse and hands it to him. He glances at it, then at her. Desiree smiles and bats her eyelashes at him. He offers back a hint of a smirk and hands her back the card.

“Okay,” he nods and gestures with his chin for her to go in.

She steps aside as I hand him mine. He glances at it, then at me, then back at the ID.

“Jane Johnson, is it?” he asks, sounding skeptical.

“I know, right? My parents weren’t very creative,” I say with a dismissive shrug.

The bouncer man looks up at me.

“Birthday?” he asks.

“July 3, 1992,” I answer as quickly and confidently as possible.

He sighs loudly and hands me back the ID.

“Alright, in you go, then,” he says, waving me in.

I let out a breath of relief and join Desiree at the door.

“That was a close one,” she whispers as we go inside.

“Yeah, I guess I’m not as charming as some people,” I say dryly.

Loud music hits my ears as we head deeper into the club. Desiree has a firm grip around my wrist as she pulls me along toward the bar.

“I think we should start with some shots to loosen you up,” she yells in my direction.

“I don’t know, Des…” I start to protest.

“Nope. Nope. Nope. I don’t want to hear it, Syd.”

Desiree pulls a twenty out of her purse and flags a bartender. I can’t hear what she orders, but I see her hold four fingers up. I sigh in defeat.

She’s not going to let me off easy tonight, I just know it. I take a moment to examine my surroundings.

The club is dim, with lights flashing and swirling over a packed dance floor.

Music thumps from speakers tucked into every corner, leaving no room for silence.

The place has a grungy vibe and reeks of stale beer, but it’s crowded, so it must have its appeal.

My gaze drifts to a large stage at the front, set up with instruments, just as Desiree nudges my shoulder.

“Here, drink this,” she commands, handing me a shot glass filled with a green liquid that looks suspiciously unappetizing.

“Ugh, what is this?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.

“It’s delicious, trust me. Just down it.”

I take a deep breath and cautiously raise the glass to my lips.

“Here goes nothing,” I mumble, tipping it back in sync with Desiree, who downs hers with gusto.

Expecting it to taste awful, I’m pleasantly surprised to find that the drink tastes like key lime pie. I glance at Desiree, who is grinning triumphantly.

“See? I told you it was good. Here, take another one.”

After our shots, we order some fruity cocktails and try to find a table.

“I want one near the stage if we can. There’s a band playing tonight that I heard is really good.”

“You didn’t mention live music,” I say.

“So? Why do you think this place is so packed? Every weekend they have a few bands play here. Some are well known, some are up and coming, some are…well some are terrible, but those bands never get asked back.

“Someone told me the band playing tonight has been here almost every weekend all summer. Teagan said she was here last weekend and saw them, and she said they were great.”

“What’s the band’s name?” I ask her.

She digs into her purse and pulls out a flyer, handing it to me. Four guys in their late twenties stare back at me with their best I’m a rock star and I don’t care expressions.

Their band name, Unclassic Heroes, is emblazoned above their heads.

“This one is cute,” I say, pointing to one of them.

“Which one? They’re all kind of cute,” she asks, leaning over to see who I’m pointing at.

“This one,” my finger lands on a guy with shaggy dark brown hair that curls slightly under his ears, intense brown eyes, and a hint of scruff along his strong jawline.

“Cute? I’d say he’s downright hot,” Desiree agrees, “Wow, Syd, I didn’t know you had such good taste. The only guy you ever hang out with is Dane.”

“Dane is just my friend,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time.

“Maybe he is to you, but he’s in love with you, and everyone but you knows it.”

“That’s absurd,” I shake my head firmly.

“Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that,” she snorts.

Luckily for me, the stage lights brighten, and the rest of the lights around the room dim, cutting our conversation short.

Desiree never believes me when I say that Dane and I are just friends. I’ve known him since fifth grade. He’s like a brother to me.

He’s been away all summer, volunteering with a charity called Homes for the Heart, building houses in areas hit by hurricanes. I won’t see him until we get back to school.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome once again to The Wrecker stage, Unclassic Heroes,” a DJ announces loudly over the system.

Everyone starts clapping as the band takes the stage. My eyes quickly find the hot one, who seems to be the lead guitarist.

“Ooh, lead guitar. Very sexy,” Desiree shouts.

“He’s even better looking in person,” I add.

“You should try and talk to him after the show,” she suggests, giving me a friendly nudge.

“Are you crazy? Look at him. He’s at least thirty.”

“So?”

“Des, I’m only eighteen.”

“That’s old enough.”

“Also, someone that looks like him probably already has a girlfriend, or a dozen groupies lining up in the back.”

“Ew, groupies. Come on, Sydney. You can talk to him. It doesn’t mean you want to do more than that, not that you’d give it up anyway,” Desiree giggles.

“Yeah, yeah. I know my virginity is a big joke to you,” I snap.

“Oh, lighten up, tiger. It’s not a joke. I’m proud of you for holding on to it. I wish I could say I did the same, but then Sean Harris came along and…well, you know the rest of that sad story.”

“Then Curtis, and John and…”

“Hey! Shhh…”

Desiree smacks me on the shoulder, and we both laugh. Despite our differences, Desiree and I have always just clicked. She transferred to our school in ninth grade and was instantly popular.

We ended up sitting next to each other in science, and I found out that she was different than the other popular girls. She was kind, funny, and didn’t care about social cliques.

She just liked people for who they were, regardless of what anyone else thought. She instantly took me under her wing, and we’ve been inseparable ever since.

She can be a bit brash at times, but my level-headedness balances us out. We complement each other.

The band starts to play, and Desiree and I quickly understand the hype. The band is really good.

“You know, the lead singer is pretty hot, too. Maybe we should both try and talk to them when they take a break,” Desiree says.

“You think we’d even get close to them? How many other girls do you think are waiting to do the same thing?”

“I have my ways. Just wait and see, we’ll be the ones leaving with them tonight.”

“You sure are confident,” I tell her, shaking my head. “And for the record, I’m not leaving with anyone tonight. Except you, when we head home.”

“Alright, fine. But we’re still going to chat with them. Maybe even snag their numbers.”

I quickly understand that this is a situation I won’t be able to sway her from. So, I just roll with it.