Fireworks

I run back to my house, quite a feat considering the bags I am heaving with me. They are not heavy but dig into my arms. By the time I’m home and inside, they’ve left lines in my skin.

I climb the stairs and down the hallway into my room. Just as I suspected, Rachel is making herself at home in my bathroom.

“You know it’s four forty-five,” she says as I dump the bags on the carpet next to my bed.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I forgot.” I take a five-minute rinse in the shower to shampoo and condition my hair. As the water is pouring, Rachel is quiet and doesn’t reply until I am drying off.

“So how’d it go with Robin?” she inquires curiously, all annoyance gone. “Worst date ever? Average? Best?”

“We had loads of fun,” I answer, a happy bubble blooming in the pit of my cave of a stomach. “He bought me most of my stuff.”

“You let him?”

“He wouldn’t waver.” I plug in my blow-dryer and distribute hot air onto my shorter layers, fluffing them up. Rachel yells to be heard.

“What a gentleman.” She’s pawing through a huge Chloé canvas bag and inspecting different articles of clothing. To a pair of paisley print skinny jeans, she muses, “What do you think of this?”

Once my layers are warm and straightened and are holding in some volume, I wait for my flat iron to heat up. “No way. Try something else. What about that miniskirt you got?”

Rachel fished up her greyscale plaid Theory Fairytale Onella pleated mini. She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “You might be onto something. I haven’t looked at this in days since I bought it.” More rummaging. “Aha!” She matches it with a black long-sleeve Craig Taylor wrap shirt.

I give her the thumbs-up and straighten my longer layers. Soon I have the perfect look – poof on top, skinny on bottom. I leave my flat iron to cool and sort through my options in my closet.

Rachel peeks over my shoulder and immediately comes up with a few possibilities. I have already decided on my flannel boyfriend shirt from Barneys that Rachel had gifted to me when she visited New York. However, I was indecisive among three pairs of pants.

“White, grey, or metallic black?” I rattle off, laying them flat on the bed for Rachel to scrutinize.

“Metallic black,” she picks, and I oblige. They’re yet another gift from her, DKNY skinny jeans with a shimmery bits-of-metal-sewed-in-it look. But not so noisy that it causes accidents at the intersections.

I swipe on a sparse layer of eyeliner and leave the rest of my face plain. To me, I look decent. Almost pretty. But then I look at Rachel and I feel inferior.

A short walk awaits us to Barnes and Nobles. It’s in the plaza right outside my neighborhood and my maroon high-tops are silent against the sidewalk, while Rachel’s black Chico sandals clap and cheer us on. Before I left I’d eaten a frosted chocolate fudge Pop-Tart to keep me up with the festive atmosphere of the gig.

The place isn’t too crowded. They are in a cleared space in the back of the store, under the fluorescent lights and surrounded by fans. They are a local band represented by a shaggy brown-haired acoustic guitarist and a blond singer. Barnes and Nobles didn’t even have to move any bookshelves to give them room. When Rachel and I walk in, everyone stops and looks at us before returning to whatever they are doing. Maximum, the total count of human beings is fifty.

The singer, Max, is perched on a utility-tan steel chair, his straight blond hair sweeping across his forehead. He doesn’t have a mike, he doesn’t need a mike. Rachel and I gently squeeze ourselves through to the front and I plunk down onto the rough navy-blue carpet without preamble. I stretch out my legs and they almost kick Rennan’s chair, where he is rechecking the tuning of his guitar. My fingers itch to take it and play until my bones are exposed, but I resist. I can play when I get home, and Michelle can visit me too.

Max shifts in his chair and everyone is at attention.

“Hey, guys, we’re Skeleton Keys and welcome to our little gig,” he starts, surveying the store with a sincere smile on his face. “I just want to thank everyone for coming, it means a lot to us.”

“One day we are going to get signed and every single one of you, we’ll remember,” Rennan adds, and I crack a smile. His gaze lands on me and he looks as if he’s concealing his own grin.

“So let’s get started.”

Rennan starts strumming an easy pattern on the guitar, up down up down, his left hand switching lightning-fast between the chords. I blink. Michelle is sitting across from me, behind Rennan’s chair. She’s so transparent I can hardly see her.

But her voice is crystal clear.

“C, A minor, E minor, D minor,” she lists without even looking at Rennan’s hands. “Maybe you can play for me later.”

I can’t respond because they’re in the middle of playing, but instead I give her a small, genuine smile and file away the chords in my head. Maybe I will. Max opens his mouth and when I look back, she’s gone.

“In the last hour of darkness, my body will lay to rest. My memories will remember their wings and fly with the wind, showing the world of human machines the noose around my neck and the monsters that claw themselves free from my cages of calcium. As I lay in the acid puddle of every lie I’ve ever told, my secrets will unfold, with every story come the stars. They come with magic wands and sparkles in their eyes to take me to a place where butterflies brush away my scars and stitches with poisoned wings and witches, where I will be alone with the ghosts of ghosts, afraid to move on, to be gone, because this is the perfect state of being.”

It’s less than three minutes long and I am entranced. Max’s eyes are long closed and Rennan is seeing past the neck of the guitar at which he is staring. They sound better without the barrier of the iPod earphones, the studio that they record their demo in.

12 + 60 + 240 + 200 = 512.