It’s black with Pixie Luna spelled in clean lettering, bordered on the left by a moth wing. It’s cool. It’s the kind of shirt people will stop and ask me about at the gym.
The crowd is returning Sami to the stage when I make it back in, and the band finishes the song with a flourish of cymbal crashes as Sami throws her arms in the air like she just won a marathon.
The crowd was happy to see them before, but now they roar, and Sami’s grin below her mask is huge. “We love you, Austin!” she calls into the mic, and they roar again.
When the applause finally starts to wane the tiniest bit, the band files offstage, and I head toward the backstage area. It’s not a big enough venue to require backstage passes, but even if they did, acting like you’re supposed to be somewhere is usually enough to get you in. When the security guy at the backstage entrance stops me, I point at my shirt. “Manager,” I say.
It helps that I’m as unthreatening as it’s possible to look, like at worst I’m there to sell life insurance, not stalk a band. He nods and waves me through.
I wait near the end of the hall and watch as the members of the band accept their high fives from the other musicians. I lean against the wall, watching Sami interact with everyone. She’s comfortable here in a way that I don’t usually see her. I would bet she’s like this with her roommates, but I only see her with them when I’m there, changing the equation.
As the backslapping and hugs settle down, she glances up and spots me. She pauses, not as surprised this time as last time, but I can’t read her expression beyond that. I’m on her turf, so I straighten and walk toward her.
“Great show. Even better than the last time I saw you.” I stop a few feet away.
She looks me up and down. “I’d ask you what you’re doing here, but . . .” Her eyes fall to my new T-shirt.
“Yeah. Busted. Throwing around my money for a hand stamp and some sweet, sweet merch.”
She scratches her forehead above the mask. “I deserve that. Look, about the other morning—”
But I interrupt her by singing one of their lyrics. “‘I’m not like the other girls, the ones with manicures and pretty curls, the ones who know the right thing to say, the lacquered ones who show up and slay.’”
Her mouth quirks up on one side. “You’re definitely not like any girls I know.”
“I was listening to your stuff on the way over. That one stuck with me. I like the use of the word ‘lacquered.’ It’s not used in pop punk enough.”
“Rock and roll,” she says, trying to find a smile.
“I also like that it answers its own question.”
She quotes the third verse of the song. “‘I’m the girl who always says the wrong thing, the one you don’t bring home or gift with a ring, the one who comes from the wrong side of town, but the one you can call when bad stuff goes down.’” It answers the song’s title, “What Kind of Girl?”
“Is that true?” I ask. “Are you that girl?”
She lifts and drops her shoulder. “I write the lyrics.”
I nod and give her a small smile. “I’m glad I got to see that. I’ll get out of your uncurly hair. See you around? Maybe tonight?”
“Maybe.” Her small smile is back.
I turn toward the exit, knowing that’s as close to a “yes” as I’ll get, but I only take a couple of steps before she calls my name.
“Josh?”
“Yeah?”
She rushes to close the short distance between us and slips her arms around my waist. “Thanks for coming.”
I barely hear her above the noise from the club and the backstage clatter, but it’s enough.
I hug her back, a tight hug, and when she lifts her head to smile at me, her eyes shine through her mask.
“See you around,” she says. Then she turns and runs back to her bandmates, moving as lightly as the moth on my shirt.
I glance down at it and grin at the glitter smudged on it from her mask.
Sami Webster is a girl who knows how to leave her mark.
