Me: “Foreign types with the hookers fight…”

  I sat in a chair in Jeannie and Scott’s family room, quietly singing the obscure lyrics of The Bangles’ Walk Like an Egyptian as Jeannie worked on my hair, her fingers deftly clipping and brushing. She was determined to turn me into a young Susanna Hoffs, her enthusiasm as infectious as ever.

  “I think it’s ‘when they hook-up nights,’” Jeannie said, pausing to adjust a clip, her brow furrowed in concentration.

  “Foreign types with the hookah pipes,” Scott corrected definitively, walking through the room with a sandwich in hand, his tone carrying the confidence of someone who’d just looked it up.

  “What’s a hooker pipe?” Jeannie asked, her confusion making me giggle.

  “That makes no sense, Scott,” I said, taking her side, my voice teasing as I gnced at him.

  “Hookah pipe. Just a sec…” Scott tapped on his phone, then turned the screen toward us, revealing a picture of something that looked vaguely like Addin’s mp with hoses coming out of it. “It’s a pipe, for smoking.”

  “Oh!” Jeannie and I said in unison, our ughter filling the room as we exchanged a look.

  “I’ll print you out the lyrics, Dani, so you’ll have ‘em before rehearsal,” Scott offered, his tone warm despite the teasing edge.

  “Thanks, Scott,” I said, smiling. The room was a chaotic explosion of beauty supplies—boxes and cases of cosmetics, hair tools, and things I couldn’t even name, as if Jeannie had raided an entire Sally’s Beauty Supply and deposited it in her parents’ family room. “If you’re singing lead on ‘Walk Like an Egyptian,’ we’re stepping it up,” Jeannie had decred when I arrived, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “But Jeannie, this is just rehearsal,” I protested, my voice tinged with uncertainty. I wasn’t sure I was ready for all this—not the lead vocals, and definitely not the full ‘80s makeover.

  “But your look is part of what we need to rehearse—it’s part of the show,” Jeannie countered, her tone firm but encouraging, like a coach pushing me to step up.

  Scott nodded in agreement, leaning against the doorway with his sandwich half-eaten. “Jeannie has a point. It’s like everything else—you gotta practice. Can’t wait until the night of the gig.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a supportive edge to it, as if he knew I needed the nudge.

  I sighed, outnumbered, and settled back into the chair, letting Jeannie continue her work. I gnced at my watch—we still had an hour, and Logan lived just down the block from Scott. Scott, Logan and I graduated together from Kentridge High School st year. When Logan decided we’d form a band, there was never any question that he’d be the leader. Logan was the leader in everything we did—always had been. Scott was his right-hand man, steady and reliable, while I was the sickly kid Logan took pity on, I guess.

  The only “outsider,” if you could call him that, was Kyle. We’d needed a drummer, and Kyle was a friend-of-a-friend. I don’t think he had to py for more than a minute before the three of us knew we’d struck gold. But when I first heard the power trio of Logan, Scott, and Kyle py together, I knew I didn’t belong. Those three could rock, and I was just along for the ride. To my credit, I worked my butt off to get better—and I did. The guys were super nice, encouraging me, telling me I was improving, even when I felt like I’d never catch up.

  “Ouch!” I cried, wincing as Jeannie accidentally closed a banana clip on my ear.

  “Sorry, slipped,” she apologized, her hands quickly adjusting the clip with a sheepish smile.

  Jeannie curled my brown hair into loose waves, pinning a dramatic ponytail extension to the back for what she called “instant ‘80s vibes.” Scott had wandered upstairs to print the lyrics, leaving us alone in the family room. When Jeannie handed me her handheld mirror, I barely recognized myself—dark eyeliner, a pleated tartan skirt, a fitted sweater, and the hair… oh my gosh, loose curls falling like a waterfall around my face and over my shoulders. It was magical. I tried to stay casual, to act like it was no big deal, but as Jeannie watched me like a bug under a microscope, I couldn’t hold back a smile and a ugh.

  “You really like it, don’t you?” Jeannie asked quietly, her voice almost a whisper, as though sharing a secret.

  My smile dropped, and I bit my lip, holding back unexpected tears. “Yeah,” I said, nodding, meeting her eyes. She pced a hand on my back, rubbing up and down, her touch comforting. “It’s okay. It’s okay, you know,” she said softly.

  I nodded again, the lump in my throat making it hard to speak—relieved that Scott had gone upstairs, not here to witness my guard slip, revealing my feelings about all this. For a moment, we sat in silence, the weight of her words settling over me.

  “Let’s touch-up your eyebrows, okay?” Jeannie said, breaking the silence. “You’re going to look so pretty!” She hugged me around the shoulders, and I squeezed her arms in response.