“There’s nowhere else she would go?” I asked. “Friends? Boyfriends?”
Sicily stood in the doorway, studying the wall over my shoulder. “Is that… you?”
It was a framed poster for a gig at McPhee’s, Squad Goal’s first-ever show. The photo of the band was from a rehearsal, and I’m front and center, mouth wide, eyes dark and sparkling. I’m a deity brought to earth, fire incarnate.
Alex had put in the stage, had done up promotions, made a big deal. Then he’d framed one of the notices for the office like it was the college diploma I’d never attempt. I didn’t blame him for taking the opportunity. A life like mine came with few frame-worthy artifacts.
I hadn’t seen the point of canonizing the moment. I’d assumed, I guess, that it was a short road up the food chain to a bigger club, a larger stage, to fame.
The frame was furry with dust.
“That’s me,” I said.
“You’re the lead singer, right? That’s pretty cool,” Sicily said begrudgingly. “I couldn’t imagine standing up in front of people and singing. Standing up in front of people and doing anything.”
“Stage fright,” I said. “You get over it.”
“Not if you’re not any good,” she said. “I’m not good enough at anything to want to do it on a stage.”
“I’m sure you’re good at stuff,” I said. “Maybe nothing you need a stage for.”
Or maybe her childhood hadn’t turned her into a whore for attention, a gaping open wound needing to be filled with applause and validation. Maybe she could work in an office, get by with a hot cup of coffee and a rich inner life.
The computer was still churning. I sighed over the keyboard. “You can sit down,” I said.
Sicily picked her way across the room, took a stack of papers off the chair across the desk from me, and sat tentatively.
But then we were face-to-face, just sizing each other up without trying to seem like we were. In the next room, the dogs’ nails clicked on the floor as they explored the bar for errant tater tots. I’d never swept the floors the night before, I realized. I had no doubt that Alex would notice.
“So,” I said. “Tell me about… you?”
It was like a job interview. The kid chewed her lip. She wanted the job, whatever it was.
“I go to Northwest Illinois?” she said. “The college?”
“Freshman?”
She’d realized her mistake. “Senior.”
“Freshman,” I said.
“Okay,sophomore,” she said. I looked hard at her until she finally said, “I had some advance credits.”
“Studying what?” This kind of thing was a mystery to me, but that was what you asked, wasn’t it?
“Accounting,” she said.
“Really,” I said, without actual enthusiasm.
“Yeah, it’s…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. “They said I should have a skill.”
“Like your advisor, you mean?”
“My… parents,” she said. “They both went to Northwest Illinois for undergrad, and they—”
I burst out laughing.
“What?” she asked defensively.
