Ruby rolls her eyes. “You mean her Pixie Luna shows?”
I freeze. “You know about those?”
“Of course. We all do. We take turns going and supporting her but staying out of sight. We’d go together but we’d be too easy to spot. The only question was whether you knew. I’m shocked she told you.” She almost looks hurt that Sami might have brought it up with me and not her.
“She didn’t. I recognized her when I had to take clients out one night. How did you find out?”
“We put it together over time. We’re always in each other’s rooms borrowing clothes. I think Ava was the first to notice some boots tucked out of the way that we never see her wear. I went looking for a shirt and found a shredded UT jersey. We ran across a few other things that were not Sami’s usual style. There were the nights she was going to do an ‘open mic,’ but we couldn’t find anywhere advertising open mic nights. We knew something was up, but we weren’t sure what until one night Madi came home and told us that she’d seen Sami on stage in a band.”
“Scary,” I say.
“It’s not stalking if you live with them,” she says, totally unruffled. “Anyway, we kept asking Sami leading questions, trying to give her chances to confess, but she didn’t. So now we make sure one of us is at every show, low-key, supporting her until she’s ready to tell us.”
“That’s pretty awesome,” I say.
“Is it? Or is it plain old showing up for someone we care about because that’s what you do when you care?”
“Gee, Ruby.” I open my eyes wide. “Was that a clue?”
“Who’s the smart-mouth now?”
“So go to her shows. That’s what you think I should do.”
She stands. “Doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what you decide to do, whether Sami notices, and mainly, it matters how she feels about that.”
“Why doesn’t she want anyone to know she’s doing this?”
Ruby smiles again. “That’s part of what you’ll earn from her. Good luck.” She slips out the door, still smiling to herself.
At9:00onTuesdaynight, I shut off my computer after a full day of work. I’m tired. I’d love to hit the gym and go to bed.
Instead, I change into a pair of jeans and a black button-down shirt that I hope will blend in with tonight’s crowd. Then I grab my keys and head out to my car, arriving twenty minutes later at the venue listed on the Pixie Luna website as their next show. Four bands are playing and they’re third. That has to be good. Means the promoter thinks only one more band will have a bigger draw.
I get my wristband at the door and slip in. The group onstage has the crowd amped up, and they bounce and flail to the beat. It turns out to be their last song as the singer announces, “Thank you! We’re the Mop Buckets, and after a short break with DJ Boss, Pixie Luna will be up next!”
The crowd responds with energetic cheers.
The deejay plays some ska to keep the crowd’s energy up, but I don’t need it. With each minute that passes, my anticipation grows, waiting for the moment Sami takes the stage.
Finally, after about five songs while guys in black shirts mess with the instruments onstage, the deejay announces over the music, “Boys and girls and everyone in between, let’s welcome Pixie Luna!”
The crowd cheers again, and the band walks out, Lady Mantha practically skipping ahead of them, energy spilling off her. Everyone takes their spot with a sense of tightly coiled anticipation about them. The drummer is hard to read, but the other three guys range from looking like they want to join Sami in her skipping or already nodding in time with a beat the rest of us don’t hear yet.
Sami stops center stage, turns her back to the crowd, and takes a power stance. The drummer gives her a look, then BAM. He bangs his snares once, and they’re already tearing into their first song, Sami spinning, her half mask glinting, her hair looking even darker pink depending on which lights catch it.
She performs full-out, like she’s leaving everything on the stage starting with the first note, and the crowd goes nuts for it. Their bounce is higher, their flails are bigger, and . . .
I pause, straining to listen. Yeah. Some of them are singing along.
I grin. This isawesome. From the performance to the response, it’s all pulsing. I survey the crowd, looking for any of my other neighbors, working off the instinct that they’ll stay out of Sami’s line of sight. I don’t see anyone until I eventually notice a woman hanging out behind a column that would block her from the band’s view.
I walk over, squinting. This woman has Ruby’s dark hair, but she’s taller. When I’m a few feet away, it hits me. It’sAva. In a wig. I turn before she notices me and move to a spot near the back on the other side of the room. I’ll let Ruby break the news to her roommates that I know what’s up, but it makes me smile that they really do make sure one of them is always there for Sami’s shows.
I turn back to the stage, giving them—especially Sami—my full attention. They do a total of eight songs, every one as good as the last. Sami is incredible. She doesn’t hold back, none of the reserve I sometimes sense in her showing at all. I must have seen hundreds of bands back in the day, and Pixie Luna’s as good as the best ones I remember. I love this. I’vemissedthis.
And even as I jump and sing along to the chorus, I wonder what it would take for her to feel comfortable enough to be this free with me. I don’t know, but I’m definitely going to find out.
I can tell they’re getting to the last song when she jumps out for some crowd surfing, and I hustle out to the club’s entrance. Merchandise tables are set up, and sure enough, there’s one with Pixie Luna shirts. “Can I get one of those in XL, man?” I say to the guy behind the table. He looks barely old enough to be in the club, but he nods and gives me the size. I hand him the cash, and then I pull the T-shirt over my regular shirt as I head back to the floor.
