“Same,” says Keesha, always practical.
“Nonsense,” Zaza interrupts. “Drinks are on Jimmy tonight, right?”
The server discreetly checks her device. “Yes, of course. And I see we’re celebrating a birthday. Champagne, perhaps?”
“Cristal, please," Zaza says with the confidence of someone who can charm her way through just about anything. “That’s how we roll!”
When the server leaves, Keesha leans forward. “Who exactly is this Jimmy?”
“One of my many admirers from Equinox,” Zaza replies with a flip of her dark hair.
Equinox is a high-end fitness center where Zaza works the front desk.
“And what does this admirer expect in return?” Keesha’s voice carries a bit of judgment. Or maybe it's just her playwright’s talent for loading simple questions with subtext.
I stifle a groan, wishing I already had that Champagne. Playing referee between my conservative roommate and my more audacious friend constantly tests my diplomatic skills.
“Just my sparkling company,” Zaza says with a wink.
“The VIP hotties at Equinox have more money than sense. They’re generous guys who like my smile. And they’re only too eager to lavish their wealth and connections on me, so I can share it with my friends.”
“Those gossipyNew York Heraldarticles indicate that the VIP Equinox guys use their locker suites for more than changing clothes,” Keesha counters, arching an eyebrow.
“Well, they wouldn’t dare try that with me,” Zaza says, her tone playful.
Despite her flirtatious demeanor and show-stopping outfits, Zaza has never been what anyone would calleasy.
“Let’s scan the room,” I suggest, eager to change the subject. “See anyone famous?”
“Speaking of gossip, that’s Vanessa Sinclair from theHeraldin that corner booth!” Zaza whisper-yells.
”And that’s Maxwell Sterling,” I say, recognizing the CEO of Sterling Records from all his interviews inRolling Stone. "That’s Slayer’s label. Maybe Slayerwillmake an appearance tonight.”
Our server returns with the Champagne, opening it with theatrical precision.
Once it’s been poured, Zaza raises her glass to me. “Happy birthday, bestie. What’s your wish?”
I think of my cherished vinyl collection of Slayer’s early albums, the poetry of his lyrics, his dark vibe, and that gorgeous face and body that thrilled my thirteen-year-old self.
“Birthday wishes are secret," I say, clinking glasses with my friends. “They never come true if you say them out loud.”
Instead, I pull out the red diary I carry in my bag to jot down ideas and lyrics. I write my birthday wishes there.
1. Meet Slayer. 2. Get that record deal. 3. Achieve the dream.
My dream is the stardom that always eluded my Grandmother Lola. She sang backup on tour with the legendary jazz great Ella Fitzgerald in the 1970s.
But nothing more ever happened for her. So she transferred her ambitions to me and Hilary, my twin sister.
Now it's up to me to achieve it for us all.
Suddenly, the DJ’s rhythmic pulse cuts off without warning. A spotlight sweeps across the room, catching the glitter suspended in the air.
A parade of shirtless waiters appears, carrying a three-tiered cake exploding with sparklers.
The crowd parts, and the procession heads straight for our table.
“I told you not to make a fuss,” I say to Zaza, mortified as the waiters break into “Happy Birthday.”
