Mom rubbed her temples. “She’s difficult—yes—but she means well.”
“Living out of your old pickup truck was better than this.”
Mom smirked and handed me a box of effect pedals for my guitar. “Oh, yeah? Do you miss Cheetos that much?”
My stomach turned at just the thought. Mom decided to go to some campground in California once where the only sign of life was a dirty gas station. I lived on cherry cola and ninety-nine-cent bags of Cheetos because I didn’t trust anything there that didn’t come in a sealed bag or bottle.
“I’m going to take these in,” I said, right before colliding with a strange girl standing behind me.
She looked about my age but stood a couple inches taller. Judging from the band on her T-shirt, she had horrible taste in music. “Hi, you’re Andrea, right?”
“It’s Drea.”
Mom heaved a sigh behind me. She thought I was being rude when I didn’t offer a bubbly hello and plaster a big smile on my face. Strangers made me nervous; I always ended up saying too much or too little.
The girl grinned even wider, and her blue eyes sparkled despite the dark eye shadow around them. “I’m Naomi. I live in that light blue matchbox across the street.” She nodded to an aging house with an overgrown yard. “My dad sent me over to ask if you needed any help.”
“Definitely. Thanks for offering.” Mom smiled and held out her hand to Naomi. “I’m Juli. It’s nice to meet you.”
Naomi tucked a lock of tangled purple hair behind her ear, revealing a skull stud. “You too.” She glanced back at me, her eyes falling on my guitar case. “Dude, you play guitar?”
“Yes.” I played a mean rhythm, but processing and manipulating sound through my computer was my passion. Unfortunately, most people didn’t understand the concept of sound design. Mom told me not to bring it up unless someone asked.
Naomi grabbed a box and followed me into the house. I caught a whiff of something that smelled like boiled cabbage and potpourri. “Don’t ask me what that smell is because I have no clue,” I said over my shoulder, heading downstairs to the basement.
Naomi giggled. “It’s cool. You should see it when my dad tries to make egg salad. He burns the eggs every time, and our house smells like a sewer for a week.”
I yanked the lightbulb cord so we didn’t trip over anything. The basement reeked of mildew, but it was roomy and dark. Just the way I liked it. “My grandma thinks liver and mustard sandwiches with boiled milk make a tasty dinner.”
Naomi wrinkled her nose at me. “Boiled milk, for real?”
I set my guitar case and box of effect pedals on the floor. “Yeah, it gets this layer on top that looks like crusty skin and—”
“Stop!” She winced. “Where do I put this?”
I motioned for her to put it next to the stuff I set down and tried to imagine how the basement would look once I made it mine. Lime-green walls, purple Christmas lights strung around like ivy, and my small collection of instruments circling the bed. Sure, Grandma would have a fit—but it would be after the fact. Sometimes it paid off to be a night owl.
Naomi chewed on her thumbnail. Bits of turquoise nail polish flaked off into her mouth. “My brother left me his old drum set when he took off last year. I’ve been dying for someone to jam with. We should start a band or something.” She pulled a strip of polish from her tongue.
“Do they have edible nail polish now?” I asked. The thought of playing with other people terrified me. It was hard enough collaborating with other people online where we just sent files back and forth.
Naomi peered down at her frayed shoes, cramming her hands in the pockets of her gray cords. “I kinda forgot I had it on, but it’s no biggie. I’ve ingested worse.”
“Like what? Paint thinner?”
She let out a laugh and looked up at me. “You don’t screw around, do you? Most girls are all fake and shady.”
“People are fake in general.” I headed back up the stairs and Naomi followed.
“I guess you’d know better than me. I’ve never lived anywhere but Bellingham. Did you grow up in San Francisco?”
I held open the front door and waved her outside. “No, we just lived there for the last two years—which is a record. We’ve covered every major city in California, plus Vegas, Denver, Salt Lake City, and—”
“Bellingham must be a big change.” She nibbled on her ring fingernail this time.
“You have no idea.”
In my sixteen years on earth, we’d never lived more than a thirty-minute drive from a big city. Urban chaos was intense stimulation for a mind that didn’t have an off switch—jarring sirens, drunk people fighting with their lovers on cell phones, six-inch robo-heels chasing the bus, and the scent of piss on newspaper. Watching humans on any downtown street corner was no different than watching a group of sea lions fight over that perfect spot at SeaWorld.
Naomi stuck around and helped us with the rest of the furniture and boxes. Luckily, we had learned early on that the less we kept, the easier the moves got. Mom sold her bed back in San Francisco because she knew Grandma would insist she use the bed in the guest room.
After we shoved my mattress down the stairs, Naomi leaned against a wooden beam and watched as I opened my guitar cases and put the guitars on their rightful stands.
“So you never answered my question about starting a band.…”
