“Can I help?”
I ignored her and arranged my Frye boots side by side in the back of the closet. Then I turned my attention to the tangle of hangers, my wrinkled show dresses.
I had imagined meeting up with Marisa again, of course.
I’d be headlining a show somewhere big, Thalia Hall or the Hideout. The House of Blues or Chicago Theatre, since we were dreaming. Or maybe the girls and I were on tour and just happened into whatever town she’d been subsisting in. I could see it so clearly: After the show, when I’m flying high and dripping sweat, I’d come out to find a long line of autograph seekers. Of course I’d make time for them—those people got me where I am today, et cetera—but then there’d be a sun-cracked face watching me with hungry eyes, and the crowd would part. Marisa, come to beg forgiveness.
I’d be kind to her. That’s who I was, deep down.
Reallydeep down.
Maybe there’s a paparazzo snapping pics, or a film crew even, capturing the moment, but even if no one got out their phones to grab video for their socials, I could spare her a meal. Here’s fifty bucks. Don’t spend it all in one place. Don’t let your babies grow up to be cowgirls.
“What are you smiling at?” Marisa said.
“Nothing,” I said.
I shopped for tonight’s outfit from among the rack and started to warm up my voice, too, motorboating my lips up and down my scales.
Behind me, Marisa cleared her throat. “It was time I—”
“BpbpbpBPBPBP,” I raspberried loudly through two octaves.
Thiswas a job for my favorite dress, the blue Nudie-style Western one stitched with bright blue beaded peacocks and enough spangles to make an audience see God or go blind. It had also suffered the least from the rough transit from the apartment.
I switched to a siren voice exercise, gliding from the lowest note in my vocal range to the highest like an ambulance. “OooooooOOOO.”
Lemon lifted her head and howled with me. That’s my girl.
I took off my jacket, pulled the sweater over my head, unbuttoned my shirt.
Behind me, Marisa gasped. “Dahlia, what in the world have you done to yourself?”
She meant the tattoos. “Expressed myself as I saw fit as the owner of my own body,” I said.
“And you don’t wear a bra?” she said.
“What is feminismfor?”
I brought the dress down over my head, careful of the pins in my hair, and let the skirt swirl around my knees. Kicked off my boots, my jeans, and then slipped the boots back on. Boots were made for walking, Marisa. Best to be direct this time.
“I have to go see Alex about the door,” I said, tucking a lipstick tube into my cleavage. “And you? You need to disappear.”
5
But, of course, she didn’t. Marisa followed me down the stairs, complaining about the low railing, past the broken door and into the pub. As we entered, Alex looked up from the tap.
I had known Alex most of my life, all things considered, but I had never seen the expression that passed over his face when he saw Marisa. Anger? He had weathered a lot of bad behavior in his life—drunk people,me—but I had never seen him truly angry. Or was it something other than anger?
Fear?
Everyone at the bar, including all three Jims, turned to see what he was looking at.
“Who had twenty years in the pool for when the circus was back in town?” I said, loud firecracker tones, the wink built in.
Alex was frozen in place. The glass of beer he’d pulled was still in his hand, and he couldn’t seem to decide where to put it.
“The back door is wrecked, Alex,” I said, putting my guitar on the bar. “It’s hanging open. I swear I didn’t do it and this one saysshedidn’t—can you take care of it?”
