I hit the jackpot in Pat’s room, where I find a big black Kate Bush T-shirt. And I actually know some Kate Bush songs, so I won’t feel like a complete imposter wearing it. I cut up an old pair of black jeans into shorts and put the fishnets on underneath.
After a good hour of scrutinizing the mirror, I decide that I look like someone who belongs at a gig.
Now the only trouble is going downstairs.
“Oooooh, look,” says Mum.
“Oh, look at you,” copies Jo.
“Rocker chick!” Dad cries enthusiastically. “Rocking girl!”
“Please stop,” I plead.
“No,” says Dad. “Shan’t.”
“Maeve, that shirt is miles too big on you,” Mum says, with scrutiny.
“That’s the point,” I say uncertainly. “Jo, can you bring me in now please?”
“Yup,” she says draining her coffee. “To the les-mobile.”
She’s quiet in the car, but keeps smiling over at me.
“Stop.”
“I can’t help it. You look so cute. My baby sister!”
“Jo, I swear to God…”
“Is your boy in the band then?”
I am silent. Roe and I have still not spoken. I wonder whether it’s a good idea to go to his gig at all, but the only thing worse than going at this point would be not going.
“Still all this secrecy? Jesus, it must be serious.”
“I actually…” My voice cracks. “I don’t know whether we’re still together.”
“Oh no! Why?”
“I think I screwed it up. I was too … myself.”
“What does that mean?”
I laugh hollowly. “You know.”
“I don’t.”
“Angry. Jealous. Bitchy. Manipulative. Whatever.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, being yourself can mean more than that. You’re also funny. And confident. And you know your own mind.”
God. This is rare. And suspicious.
“Why are you being nice?”
“I’m just telling it how it is. I wish I’d had your confidence when I was sixteen. I wish I had your confidence now.”
“I’m not confident.”
“Maeve, you’re wearing your older brother’s sweaty T-shirt to a gig. That’s confidence.”
“Oh shit,” I say, panicking and smelling the armpits of Pat’s T-shirt. “Do I smell?”
“You smell fine.” She smiles, pulling the car over. “Go on, get out, be young, support the baby queers. God, I can’t imagine what life would have been like if we’d had queer all-ages gigs when I was your age.”
“Do you think I shouldn’t be there?” I say, suddenly very worried. “You know, because I’m not…”
“No,” she says firmly. “Community is important, no matter who it is. As long as you’re supportive and don’t, I don’t know, ask anyone weird intrusive questions about their gender or their sex life. We need support. Especially the way things are turning.”
“What do you mean? The way what is turning?”
“The world, Maeve. Hate crime is still very much a thing. The other day me and Sarra were holding hands at the sandwich counter in Centra and a boy not much older than you started screaming at us. I mean screaming.”
“What?” I say, alarmed. “Why? You never said anything.”
“I wouldn’t say it to Mum and Dad. They’d only get upset.”
“Jo, that’s horrible.”
“It is,” she agrees. “Now, I’m parked in a bus lane – get out.”
She turfs me out onto the street. I’m still reeling with the thought of someone screaming at my sister – at my sister! – in a Centra.
I pay my seven euro to get into the gig, climb the narrow rickety stairs to the venue and nervously buy a Coke. Everyone here is colourful, with pink glitter in their eyebrows and interesting, gender-unspecific haircuts. A bearded drag queen in a turban is making the rounds, saying hello to everyone. No one is doing the stupid 1990s grunge look I’m doing.
Roe and I haven’t spoken since the disastrous tarot reading. What if he doesn’t want me here? What felt like a gesture of loyalty in my bedroom now feels like an insane suicide mission.
I scan a poster as a way of not making eye contact with anyone, and realize that I don’t know the name of Roe’s band.
I don’t know the name of my own boyfriend’s band.
This, surely, is the confirmation I need that I never actually had a boyfriend. Girlfriends know their boyfriends’ band names! That’s just a fact! There’s someone called Miel in the band, but that’s all I know. I haven’t even got a clue what music they play or anything. God, I’m rubbish. I need to leave. I should leave.
I head to the door and make my way down the stairs, pushing past people on their way up. Suddenly I hear Fiona’s voice.
“MAEVE!”
I whip around, my heart melting with gratitude. Fiona’s here, and she’s wearing black jeans, a Penelope Pitstop T-shirt and her big leather jacket. She has a little bit of winged eyeliner on. She’s infinitely cooler than I am, but at least we look like we belong together. I throw my arms around her.
“You’re here!” I squeal. “I’m so glad you’re here!”
“I’m so glad you’re here!”
We grin at each other, happy to be doing normal things, like going to gigs together. We will not discuss witchcraft, or spells, or sensitives. Not tonight.
“Did he…?” I begin, trying to smooth the spikes of jealousy in my voice. “Did he invite you?”
“Roe? No. A couple of the drag queens performing are in Othello with me. I only found out Small Private Ceremony were playing today.”
“Who?”
“Small Private Ceremony,” she repeats. “Roe’s band?”
“Oh, sure,” I reply quickly. “Of course.”
Fiona knows Roe’s band. Fiona. Who has only met him a handful of times, as opposed to me, who has known him for ten years.
The room goes dark and a single spotlight falls on the bearded, turban-wearing drag queen who is hosting the evening.
“Hello, hello, hello,” she purrs into the microphone. “Guys, gals, and those of
