“That skirt is literal fire,” Jordan tells me as she tunes her bass. “I love the colors.”
“Thanks. I got it at Goodwill for three bucks.” I blush. I realized last year when Jackson said something about my “thrift-store trash outfit” that not everyone thinks thrifting is cool.
Jordan doesn’t bat an eye, though. We talk about punk bands while Olivia bangs out a messy rhythm on the drum set. Rex startles at the sound and goes back into the house via a doggy door. As Jordan and I talk, I study her, trying to figure out if her works-with-any-gender name and her short hair mean she’s like me. But then she says she’s the only Black girl at school who’s hard-core into punk, so I guess she’s all female. She and Olivia and Zoey start talking about why girl punk bands are infinitely cooler than boy punk bands. I sit on my hands and pretend the guy bashing isn’t bothering me.
“What are we starting with?” Olivia finally asks.
“Let’s do ‘Typical Girls,’” Zoey says. “Ready?”
“So ready.”
The girls crash into a sloppy rendition of the song. Zoey’s A string is tuned too low, Olivia’s barely on the beat, and Jordan has more energy than skill, but they’re having such a blast as they shout into their mics that it barely matters. I spin on my stool and play air guitar and sing along to the gritty, jangled steel-wool shapes of Zoey’s guitar chords. The song’s about girl stereotypes and the blasting punk shapes are shaking the boy feeling through my blood and bones, but I don’t even care. When they finish the song, I go wild with applause. They all bow and laugh. I point to a dusty keyboard in the corner. “Does that work? I could join you.”
“Sure, let’s plug you in. Do you know ‘Rebel Girl’ by Bikini Kill?”
I’ve listened to the song a few times because Mom likes it. “Is that . . . A, G, G sharp, A?”
Zoey laughs. “Are you a legit musician? Like you know how to read music, not just tab?”
“I took piano lessons for a kajillion years.” Zoey plugs me in and I play a scale. The jack is janky and static crackles every time I come down hard on a note.
“Wow!” Zoey watches my fingers fly. “You play any other instruments?”
“Guitar.” I’m proficient, but not as good as I am at piano.
My nerves flutter as Zoey strums the chords for “Rebel Girl.” I find a voice on the keyboard called “Overdrive” that looks like wiry hair with a curving metallic ribbon in it. Jordan and Olivia fool around for a moment, and then Zoey says, “Okay, go!” and plows in.
It takes a few measures for us to line up. I don’t have a mic, but I shout the lyrics I know. I can almost hear my voice over the noise. Goose bumps prickle my skin as we head for the chorus. This sound is a living, breathing creature coming out of us, like we’re calling it into being. I throw myself into the music, banging the keyboard and shouting the lyrics and breaking the best sweat I’ve ever sweated, losing myself in the wild joy of shoving all these jaggy excellent shapes into the world’s empty spaces.
“Holy heck, I am hooked!” I say when the song’s over. My ears are ringing and my heart is hammering. “That made writing laptop music feel like playing with Legos!” I wipe sweat off my forehead. “Does Tyrannosaurus Rocks have room for a fourth?”
“Hmm,” Zoey says, tapping her chin and looking at Olivia and Jordan.
Their faces go flat and blank.
My stomach dips. It was way too forward to ask to join their band. And what’s going to happen when girl fades all the way out and dude barges in? What if I can’t fake female and they turn on me? What if they tell everyone I’m a liar? What if—
“You’re so in,” Zoey says. Olivia and Jordan melt into laughter. “But you gotta teach us how to read music.”
I grin. “Totally can do that. I can show you how to use GarageBand too if you want.”
“Oh heck yes!” Zoey looks at Jordan and Olivia. They both nod and she turns back to me. “So there’s this thing next month called Girls Who Rock the Future. It’s a fundraiser for a women’s shelter my aunt volunteers at. Basically a battle of the bands for local under-eighteen girl groups. My aunt got us a spot and we’re supposed to play two songs. You think you could maybe help us? Like teach us to play better?”
My heart leaps. “I would love to help you!”
“Awesome. My mom was gonna get me lessons, but I’ll tell her you’ll help us instead.”
Yikes. I don’t know if I’m good enough to fill that role. “Do you, um, do you have your songs picked out?”
“We’re supposed to do one cover and one original. We’re thinking about ‘Rebel Girl’ for the cover, but, well . . . we’re not doing too hot on writing an original song.” Her shoulders slump and she makes a face. “None of us are there yet.”
I suck in my breath and hold it for half a moment. Boy-me wants to jump in and run this show. Girl-me is feeling intimidated. I need to shift my mindset if I want this to work. “I can write a song to fit everyone’s skill level,” I blurt.
Zoey brightens. “Holy cheese and crackers. You’re our new best friend.”
Olivia and Jordan laugh. To say I’m suddenly on cloud nine is a vast understatement. This is the perfect antidote to lunch with Dad. And wow, it feels good to give into the boy feeling I’ve been fighting. Even if it’s just for a little while. And sort of undercover.
“The judges at Girls Who Rock will pick the three best bands,” Zoey says. “Those bands get to go to a
