Strange Girl

Chapter Two

THAT EVENING AT TEN FIFTEEN I GOT TOGETHER with the band at Shelly Wilson's garage. The reason I was so late was because the hardware store where I worked was doing inventory and the boss wanted me counting the stock on the shelves until exactly ten o'clock. I was flying high from my lunch with Aja but the joy dimmed as I slipped back into the usual grind of my life.

Since a Walmart had opened in Balen, the hardware store was losing money and my boss was always tense and taking it out on us employees. He'd given me a dollar-an-hour raise at the start of summer but had since cut me back to minimum wage. The loss of the extra bucks hurt.

Still, I looked forward to playing with the band. We usually practiced at Shelly's garage since her parents were the only ones who'd allowed us to insulate the space. We'd fastened large bags of powdered cellulose-a fancy name for ground-up wood pulp-to the ceiling and walls so that we could play as loud as we wanted and a person standing right outside the garage door couldn't hear a thing.

Shelly's parents had been supportive of her musical career from a young age. At sixty-one, her father was twenty-five years older than her mother and was retired, but in his prime he'd played piano with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra-no small feat. He'd developed serious arthritis in his hands when Shelly was only five yet had persisted in tutoring her on his favorite instrument. As a result Shelly was the most trained musician in our band. Anything she heard, she could play back on any form of keyboard; it didn't matter how complex it was.

But despite Shelly's skill and dedication, she had a major handicap. She never came up with anything new. Whenever we jammed, chasing one crazy riff or lyric after another, just throwing stuff out into the air, she'd get lost. Though it pained her, and her father, she was devoid of creativity. The flaw showed itself in the lack of emotion in her playing. Yet, because of her technical abilities, most audiences didn't notice the problem.

But we did and so did Shelly.

Janet was also at our practice. As our manager, the one who set up our gigs and handled our finances-for 15 percent commission plus expenses-she wasn't required to be at the garage but I suspected she was more interested in cornering me on Aja than in reviewing how much I still owed on my Marshall amp. And sure enough her eyes lit up the second I walked in, which told me I'd better get her outside quick.

The reason was Shelly. She'd had a crush on me since we were in middle school. I tried not talking about my love life around her. The short time I'd gone out with Nicole, Shelly hadn't even come to practice, and it had been at her house.

"I saw everything," Janet said the second we were alone. "I followed you to Aja's locker, and the windows, and was watching the two of you the whole time you ate on the bench. By the way, that was a smart opening when you faked sharing a locker beside her."

"Thanks. I assume you were able to read our lips so there's no point in telling you what we talked about."

"Don't you dare! I want to hear everything!"

"On one condition. Get me her number."

"You don't have it yet?" Janet asked.

"No."

"Done. Speak."

Since the others were waiting, I gave her a condensed version of my conversation with Aja. Janet listened without interrupting; she was a good listener. When I was done she appeared puzzled.

"Why'd you get dizzy around her?" she asked.

I shrugged. "It was no big deal."

"It was probably nerves."

"I wasn't that nervous."

"Fred."

"I'm telling you the truth. Look, I just met her. I like her, I don't love her." I added, "We'd better get back inside."