The two of us wandered the displays, my fingers drifting over the articles of clothing. Brenda would stop occasionally, forcing something into my arms while pointedly ignoring my dubious stare. Once I was trembling with the weight of it all, I coughed. “This is too much. Let me get a basket to carry it easier.”
“Don't waste your time.” Leaning over me, she waved at the far wall. “Lug it all back to the changing room. We don't have the luxury of dilly-dallying here. Just try everything on, decide what you want to keep, and then we'll get out of here.”
She's so business, even when the topic is playing dress-up. Brenda reminded me of my brother. “Alright. If I don't come back soon, send help,” I laughed, grimacing while I walked away. “I've probably been crushed by all of these clothes.”
In the far corner of the store, the changing room was easy to miss. There was no one standing around running it. Hope they don't think I'm trying to steal any of this. I would have felt more comfortable if someone had been around to see me go in, or to count my items and hand me one of those tiny plastic numbered cards.
Inside the hall there were four doors, my only companion was the pop-music piping in through the speakers. It reminded me of the time of day, how most teen-shoppers would be just getting out of school. This place will be flooded later. Brenda's right, we shouldn't waste time, I thought grimly. Even if I'm new to the band, after last night... The memory of being on stage, basking in the glow of the crowd, sent a rush to the base of my brain. There's a good chance people might recognize me.
But could that really be so bad?
In the mirror, I studied myself in a new pair of dark denim jeans. They clung to me fantastically. In my tall boots I looked like a beast from hell, and I thrilled at the idea. I'm getting addicted to the thought of being noticed, of being out there while thrashing music free from my guitar.
Goosebumps lifted with my delight. I'm changing, aren't I? With no one to answer my silent musing but me, I brushed it away and slid the jeans to my ankles. The sight of my own lower back in the mirror reminded me of the long scar on a certain singer.
Drezden. My eyes fixed on my reflection, but I wasn't really seeing myself. I wish I could just pretend I never saw that. He clearly didn't want me to see the scar, but why? Too many questions, too much paranoia, flooded my mind.
The sound of someone knocking on my door turned my heart into an earthquake. “S—sorry! Someone's in this one,” I said, quickly bending down to pull my old jeans back on. Below the edge of the door, a pair of white flats waited. Whoever was outside my door wasn't moving or speaking.
Swallowing down a wave of unease, I squinted at those feet. “Hey,” I said briskly, “Didn't you hear me? Do you need something?” Maybe it's the girl who runs the changing rooms. The thought was a flicker of comfort over my rising tide of warning.
In front of my eyes, the feet shifted until whoever it was stood on the tips of their toes. I knew what I would see even before I tilted back my head. That was, in a way, the worst part of it all.
Gawking at me over the top of the door was a young woman, maybe my age. Her hair was a mess of blonde ringlets, thick eyeliner piled on to match her dramatic crimson lips. The lines on her forehead spoke a weird mixture of shock and disgust. “It is you!” she gasped, fingers digging into the wood.
I'd removed my sunglasses in the safety of the room. Now, faced with the seeking stare of a stranger, I wished I hadn't. The girl flicked her accusing look from my pale face, down to my right arm; I knew she was eyeing my tattoo. I'm an idiot. Of course someone would recognize my tattoo.
Narrowing my eyes, I blindly felt around for my sneakers. “What the hell are you doing? Get out of here!”
“You're really her,” she whispered.
I crouched, shoving my feet into my shoes. Yes, I thought while I tangled the laces. Yes, I'm her. I'm the new guitarist for Four and a Half Headstones, Lola