“How is it possible that two of us reasonably attractive people aren’t killing it on the Austin dating scene?” he asks.
“Maybe it’s because you called me ‘reasonably attractive.’ I guess it’s nicer than saying I’m a solid six.”
He’s taking a drink from his beer when I say this, and he splutters. I smile. “There’s nothing wrong with being a six, but I’m objectively at least an eight.” Maybe I’d be a nine with two more inches on my height and chest.
“I was just trying to be modest aboutmyself,” he says. “You are clearly an eleven.”
I smile. “Nicely done.”
“It’s a scale of twenty, but you’re welcome.”
That makes me laugh out loud. I don’t have time to think of a good comeback before Jasmine calls his name and he gets up with a smile for me before he goes to chat with his other-side neighbors.
Ruby shoots me a “how’d it go?” look. I give her a neutral face, like “Fine, I guess.” She nods. I eat three more cookies and chat with Mrs. Lipsky about her dog’s tooth decay for a while longer before I excuse myself to go inside and get ready for our show.
I love the costume part of each night where I slip out of my normal person clothes and into my rock goddess outfits. I always do this in the car or at whatever club we’re performing in. There’s no way I can walk out of the house in a thrifted prom dress and combat boots without the girls asking questions. Someday I’ll tell them. But for now, this alter ego is just for me and the hundreds of Austin music fans I share it with.
It’s a complicated balancing act involving spreadsheets. For real. I keep one to track which outfits I wore to which shows so I don’t repeat at a venue. I have five main outfits I work with. Besides the prom dress and plaid mini skirt getups, outfit three is a pair of pleather leggings from Walmart and a UT shirt, arms ripped off, neckline cut out, worn over a mesh tank top and knotted at the waist. The rock star wardrobe is rounded out by a knee length peasant dress, and the final outfit is a pair of black hot pants with a black and white striped shirt, generally worn with red Converse high tops.
There will come a time when we’ve played a venue more than five times and I’ll have to either mix and match or scour the sale racks and thrift stores again for a new look. But five is about right for weaving the clothes into my closets and drawers without the girls wondering what kind of cosplay is going on when they come into my room to borrow stuff.
Outfits matter, of course. But even more important, fronting a rock band is about attitude, and I have plenty of that onstage. I can use all the things I don’t say to the family members of patients who rarely show up but only complain when they do, as if to offset their neglect. All the CNAs that call out sick because they don’t feel like coming in. The angry calls from stressed-out people who are shocked that we have a waiting list at our facility and can’t take their relative immediately.
All of that gets channeled into the performance, the driving guitar riffs, the wild drums. It’s probably why I don’t boil over at work; performing a couple of nights a week is my release valve. If I could get more gigs, I’d perform even more.
The lyrics, though, are about something else. Anger I’m still working out for things a long time ago. And sometimes newer hurt.
So, therapy, basically. But with costumes. And crowd surfing.
My reserved spot is in the aisle behind the sidewalk spots, so if I go the long way around to my car, I don’t have to walk past everyone still on their patios and deal with a dozen goodbyes. Slipping out quietly so no one notices is what my grandma calls an Irish goodbye. You tell everyone bye or no one bye. No one is easier. I only like a spotlight when I’m onstage.
As I put my trusty Honda in reverse, I glance in the rearview mirror at the glow of their patio lights. Then I turn my attention ahead, turn up the classic rock on the radio, and begin the shift into Lady Mantha, lead singer of Pixie Luna.
Chapter Five
Josh
I’mgoingtolikeliving at the Grove. It may end up beingtoosocial for someone with a schedule as busy as mine, but the neighbor party was cool. I’ve had worse neighbors than a condo full of cute girls.
I glance at the time on my dashboard as I start my car in the dark work parking lot. Seven o’clock. It’ll probably be the earliest I get home this week.
I pull into my parking space back home fifteen minutes later after debating whether to stop by my gym or hit the one at the Grove. I might as well check it out. A quick change into workout clothes and a short jog across the complex later, and I’m stepping into the community gym. It’s small but it has the basics, and there are only two other people there, which is the main advantage over my other gym.
I recognize one of them, the girl on the treadmill. Sami. I make sure I spell it with anieven in my head. She’s running pretty fast and wearing a look I recognize, one that means she’s hit the zone, her eyes slightly unfocused while her brain is elsewhere. Based on the sweat on her flat stomach and well-defined back, I’d guess she’s been at it for a while.
A free weight bench catches my eye and I position it so that I’m not staring at her, although it’s hard to avoid in a mirrored room. Still, I put in my own earbuds and get to work. My gym will be better for leg days, but I can get in a pretty good upper body workout here.
I’ve finished my bicep curls and moved to triceps dips on the bench when Sami enters my field of vision. She’s breathing pretty hard, and as she takes a swig from her Hydroflask, she notices me and nods, too busy drinking to stop and say hi.
Respect.
“Hey,” I say. “You left the neighbor party early the other night.” I’d wanted to pick up our conversation, but when I turned from Hugh and Jasmine, she was gone.
She swallows and takes a deep breath, like she’s trying to even out her rhythm. The movement draws my eyes to her chest for a split second, but I flick them back to meet hers so I’m not That Guy. It’s enough to gather critical information. Pink sports bra, camo leggings, and she wears them both well.
I fight to keep eye contact even though I’d like to gather more data.
She shrugs. “Had things to do. Sorry I bailed.”
