And here we were, the Girls, about to play our first live gig.
I stared out at a crowd who had come to see Johnny Holm play and was likely wondering what the hell three girls were doing onstage. My knees were visibly quavering. Knockity knock knock. Maureen cradled her bass and Brenda held her guitar, but I was seated at the Johnny Holm drummer’s gear because there wouldn’t be enough time to tear down mine and put up his between sets. The drummer had been nice when he’d shown me how to adjust his seat, everyone had been kind, yet I was so terrified that I felt like the color white held together with electricity. If anyone looked at me sideways, I’d split into a million zinging atoms, never to be whole again.
Brenda was testing her pedals, her hair brushed glossy, ears bright with the peacock earrings her mom had let her borrow for the big show. Maureen looked fearless peering over the crowd. She wore new earrings tonight, too, gold balls the size of grapes hanging off dangling chains. They looked expensive. We hadn’t been able to get ahold of her for practice earlier, so it’d just been Brenda and me in the garage, worried if Maureen would even show up tonight.
But of course she had. She was hungry for these people to love her, and they would once they heard us play. After what I’d seen last night, I’d expected her to be off today, weepy maybe, but she acted just like her regular self, casual and confident, and she was dressed like a million bucks. She wore her brown corduroy hip-hugger bell-bottoms with the tiny orange-and-yellow blossoms embroidered all over them. She’d paired her pants with a white peasant blouse, its drawstring neckline loose enough to hang off her naked shoulder. She’d feathered her hair like Farrah, and the stage lights made the green streaks look so cool.
Maureen was a rock star. Brenda, too, in her vibrant orange T-shirt, H.A.S.H. jeans with the star on the butt, and Candie’s leather-and-wood platform sandals. She’d shown up with mood rings for each of us, presented them to us solemnly.
“For luck,” she’d said. “Aim for deep blue. It means all is right with the world.”
I slid mine on. It immediately turned a sick yellow.
“Give it a minute,” Maureen said, laughing and smacking my arm before Brenda pulled all three of us into a hug.
We released each other, went to our instruments, were waiting for our cue to play.
I stared over the crowd, still feeling the warmth of Brenda and Maureen on my chest. As scared as I was, I could feel the pulse of the moment. With dusk falling, the twinkling lights of the midway made it look like Las Vegas out there. These people might not have come to see us, but we were going to give them a show.
A hard rap on the stage pulled my attention. I realized I’d been staring up at the Ferris wheel, mouth open and dry. I snapped it shut and looked over at Jerome Nillson in full uniform. Maureen, Brenda, and I had seen Smokey and the Bandit at the Cinema 70 earlier this summer, and on our way out of the theater after, Maureen swore that if Jackie Gleason and Burt Reynolds got dropped in a blender together, what you poured out would look exactly like Sheriff Nillson.
Brenda and I had giggled so hard, mostly because it was true.
My dad stood next to Sheriff Nillson, beaming at me like I was about to discover the cure for cancer. The BCA agent, the Irish-looking one, stood behind them, his expression grim.
“We’re so pleased you’ll be performing,” Sheriff Nillson called loudly, pulling his hand back from the stage. “Local girls. Good stuff. You make Pantown proud.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, though I doubted he could hear me over the noise of the fair.
“Although,” he continued, staring at Maureen and Brenda and then over at the row of carnival workers gawking from their booths, “in the future, you might not want to wear so much makeup. You don’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention.”
Maureen’s shoulders tightened. “Why don’t you tell them to stop looking instead of us to stop shining?”
The BCA agent’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile. Gulliver Ryan, that was his name. The fact that he was still in town couldn’t be a good sign.
The sheriff held up his hands as if to placate Maureen, his grin easy. “Hey now, it’s just how men are. Beneath the nice words and clothes, we’re animals. Might as well get used to it.”
Junie’s tambourine jingled, cutting through the awkwardness of the moment. She’d been hiding behind one of the speakers, her platform heels almost as high as Brenda’s. Her cherry-colored short shorts and matching Mary Ann top, red as blood, revealed more than they covered.