“Happy now?”
She took a pair of Jackie-O sunglasses out of her snug denim shorts and placed them on her face. She grinned, her white teeth flashing like lightning against a cocoa sky.
“Getting there,” she said and opened the driver’s door. That smell of garbage wafted out and we both tried not to gag.
“Seriously,” I said as I eased myself onto the passenger’s seat. “Does he haul trash around in here or what? You know, maybe he’s living out of his car in Seattle, ever think of that?”
“Oh, I’ve thought of that.” She started the car and it chugged to life. Within seconds we were roaring down the country road, windows open, Alice Cooper’s “Hello Hooray” blaring from the radio. The breeze wasn’t doing anything to get out the smell or cool down the car. My jeans stuck to the seat. Dust and heat blasted my face.
“Are you worried Ryan’s going to start picking up trash once he goes?” she asked as she whipped the car violently onto the main road.
I would have laughed at that but it hit a little close to home.
“A little.”
She looked at me beneath her shades. “You know you have to give up on him, girl.”
I shrugged and started paying attention to the way the wind was tangling my long, curly hair. I was going to end up at the show with a rust-colored rat’s nest.
“We could make it work,” I said with quiet determination.
“You mad? I mean, I love the dude like I love my brothers, but you know this fairytale ain’t having a happy ending here. He was good for sloppy kisses and cherry popping and looking slammin’ at our prom, but you guys have been dullsville ever since…well, ever since you started school.”
This was all true, so I couldn’t argue. Ryan was my first steady boyfriend in high school and we were the envy of everyone there. At least, I told myself that. We looked good, both of us tall and very athletic, both of us competed in the rodeo every year (me in barrel racing, him in calf roping), and we were one of those tongue wrestling in public, sickening couples. Since I grew up towering over most of the girls and was predisposed to muscles and a small chest (and therefore a plethora of teasing), I always felt that Ryan’s love for me was like an award for staying alive or something. It definitely helped the high school years go down a lot easier. But after we graduated, everything changed—as it should, I guess.
“I don’t know, Mel,” I said, wanting to change the subject. It was making me feel hotter, dizzier. “We broke up but it doesn’t mean the end. You never know where the future will lead us.”
She snorted then shot me an apologetic look. “Hey, I just don’t want to see you spend the rest of the summer pining over him when you’ll probably get hurt in the end. Dude was a creep for dumping your white ass anyway.”
I leaned over and slapped my thigh. “And it’s a good ass too.”
“You can bet on it.”
I grinned at her and looked to the dry, quaint streets of downtown Ellensburg as they came into view. I had to get Ryan out of my head. There were more important things to worry about, like the shitty run I had with Moonglow that afternoon, or the rock concert we were about to infiltrate.
The venue was this small club near the university called The Ripper. It was one of the few places in town that played all ages shows, which was awesome when I was underage, but now that I had turned twenty-one and was a lot more serious about music, competing with teenyboppers for the best spot in the house was always a full contact sport. Tonight’s band, PASTE, featured Terry Black, the extremely foxy lead singer who screamed better than he sung—and that wasn’t saying much. I had reviewed the band’s debut album earlier this year for the college paper and called it “mediocre and malicious,” but still secretly hoped I could score an interview with him before or after the show. The band was popular-city.
Yup, part of me dreamed that an interview with Terry Black could be my big break. I had been writing articles, interviews, and show reviews all summer long and sending them to Seattle and Spokane papers hoping to be picked up. Last year I wrote for a few community newspapers, highlighting up-and-coming bands such as Boys N Snakes, and my current obsession, Hybrid. This June I got my biggest break when the Seattle Times published a review I did of a Bad Company show. No one had really heard of the band, despite having the all-mighty Paul Rodgers from Free in it, so somehow my review got attention. It also got me a big fat check—which I promptly spent on groceries for the house and a bottle of Wild Turkey for my dad. Ever since then though, I’d had no bites. I was hoping Black would fix the slump and maybe get me enough cash to buy a new saddle for Moonglow. Continuing on with my wishful thinking, I was hoping Big Ears, the music section of CWU’s paper, would make me editor and I could finally write about the bands I wanted to without hearing “but you’re a woman, let the men handle the noise.”
As Mel pulled the Dumpster into a packed parking lot full of blaring 8-tracks and Pabst Blue Ribbon, my hopes sank. Because I was writing on spec, I didn’t have a press pass so I looked just like every other concert goer.
Except not.
The girls were young and beautiful, wearing short shorts and skinny strapped tops. Some had on bikinis, other see-through shirts made of crochet and netting. They were all tanned with ironed hair and large platforms. There were even a few wearing PASTE t-shirts that were clearly meant for children considering the way they showed off their abs. Their lips were frosted pink, their smiles drunk and seductive.
I was wearing a thin red t-shirt that stuck to my skin from sweat. From a quick glance into the rearview mirror, I could see my hair really was a rust-colored rat’s nest, my dark brown eyes didn’t have a lick of makeup on them, and somehow my freckles had multiplied in the last hour. My jeans were bell-bottoms, my shoes were Frye boots—with horse shit on them. I was going to have to compete against these girls for Terry’s attention, and I had a feeling he wouldn’t give a f**k that I was a so-called journalist.
Especially one that compared his voice to a cheese grater.
I sighed, suddenly not wanting to get out of the car.
“Dawn, you’re doing it again,” Mel warned.
“Doing what?”
“Turn off your brain.” She began to reach behind her for the flask.
My hands flew up to my mouth in protest. “No, I’m fine. I need to think clearly tonight.”