go of my wrist after a minute, but I kept following her and her friends until there was enough distance between us and the fight. I sagged against a wall that smelled of old beer and something worse, trying to catch my breath.
“You okay?” The tall girl leaned down with her mouth set into a thin, worried line. She reminded me of a younger version of my mom, if my mom wore liquid eyeliner and fishnet gloves. “Fuck, did he hit you?”
“I’m fine.” The band’s music kept thumping away, and all I wanted was to get lost in it all over again. The point of coming to shows is not having to think, but between almost getting knocked down and your letter running through my head, tonight was turning out to be unlike any other show I’d ever been to. “Sorry I bumped you.”
“All right, if you’re sure…” The tall girl nodded, not looking especially sure herself, and went back to her friends.
I nodded at her retreating back—and that was when I noticed Midge Spelling standing a few feet away.
Have I told you about Midge? She’s the singer for the Prudes, the first band I ever saw live. You should check to see if your store has any of their records. Their music’s just okay, but Midge is amazing. I’ve seen her perform a couple of times now, and she’s got—I don’t know if it’s what my English teacher calls “stage presence” or something more, but she’s amazing when she sings. It’s impossible to look anywhere in the room but at her.
I met her once, weeks ago, but I figured she wouldn’t remember me. So it was a total shock when she walked right up to where I was standing against that beer-smelling wall and asked, “You got a light?”
She was wearing a fitted denim jacket over an even more fitted blue, green, and yellow striped dress with a red belt. She had red tights on, too, and matching red lipstick. I don’t know how I hadn’t spotted her in the crowd before.
“Sorry. No.”
“S’okay.” Midge motioned wordlessly toward a guy across from us. He smiled, leaned over, and lit the cigarette dangling from her lips. I expected her to start talking to him, or at least walk away from this gross wall, but she turned back to me instead.
My face was getting warm. Having her stare right at me was unsettling. As though she could tell everything about me, just by looking. “I met you that one time, right?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I figured she wouldn’t remember my name, so I added, “I’m Sharon.”
She blew smoke at the ceiling. “Cool. I’m Midge.”
“I know.” All of a sudden, I was babbling. “I saw you. With your band. You were incredible.”
“Thanks.” Midge smiled, but it was a mature, unbothered smile. As opposed to the goofy grin that was probably on my face. “The guys are great.”
“Yeah, they are.” I tried to think of something to say about the three men who’d clanged out the music behind Midge on the stage, but all I could remember was her crooning into the microphone. “Have you ever thought about going solo?”
She laughed. “You ever seen a girl punk singer without a band behind her?”
“No.” Now I felt stupid for asking.
“Relax, it’s cool. You ever listen to the Runaways? They’re an all-girl rock band. Their stuff’s rad.”
I shook my head. Midge was somehow managing to make me feel both completely out of place and like I was the coolest person in the club at the same time. “I’ll look for their record.”
“Do it.” Midge lifted her chin toward a guy who’d just come in. He waved her over, and she glanced back at me. The briefest, most dismissive glance I’ve ever seen. “Hey, so, later.”
“Later,” I said. To her back, because she was already walking away.
I don’t know, Tammy. I’ve never seen a punk band whose music had anything close to the power of Patti Smith’s, but the energy at these shows is incredible all the same. Almost like a high.