Neon Girl

Scene 1 - Best Day of the Week

(Hair dye, yes or no?)

(Yikes! No!) Presley is crazy if she thinks I'm risking a hair dye mishap with my LBD.

I jab my finger on the elevator button and glance at the machine room door at the end of the hall. A familiar tune drones out of the depths, performed by some rock band from the seventies. I know the song but can't place the group, and I'm not sticking my head in there to find out. Nobody enters Marty's lair unless he invites you, and he never invites you. The guy takes hermit to the next level. You'd think an apartment super would actually talk to people.

My voice echoes as I sing the song. The elevator dings. The door chugs open. It's empty. I step in.

"Hold that elevator!"

I poke my head into the foyer and watch my friend Loki wrestle his cello case through the armored front door. Okay, his real name is Logan. Loki is his stage name. I hold the elevator open with my elbow, causing the gears to grind as Loki props the monstrosity against the wall and locks up.

He's in full performer mode: Frankenstein boots, ponytail, braided beard, Ozzy tee, and tat sleeves. The real tats have to wait until he can provide proper ID to the nice folks at Fake Me Body Art. Apparently, his birth certificate got lost. I think he's just chicken. After securing the front door, he jams the case under his spindly arm and sprints down the hall.

"Shouldn't you be lugging that thing the other way?" I say as Loki and his musical beast stumble on board. "I thought you had a gig tonight."

The door closes and I finger the third and fourth floor buttons as Loki slumps his tallness against the cello case, hugging it like a girlfriend. He calls her Mavis.

"We did. The place got shut down. Happened as we were rehearsing. The cops came in...arrested the owner right there. Outstanding warrant." He stops to pant. "That's the second club to shut down on us in three months. How's a guy supposed to fund his World of Warcraft habit?"

"Sorry to hear that. Wanna go to a rave tonight? I might be going to one. I'm sure I can get you an invite. You could enjoy yourself and not be the entertainment for once."

Loki rubs his hand across his face, smearing his eyeliner. He doesn't need it. He's got the kind of eyelashes women pay money for, thick at the base and fanning out at the tips. The perfect accent to his violet-blue eyes. Definitely his best features. If he wasn't such a geek-squader, he'd be decent boyfriend material. His love of music saves him.

"Actually, I had plans."

"How can you have plans when your gig just got cancelled?"

"I was thinking World of Warcraft marathon. I'm heading to Seven-Eleven after I drop off Mavis. I need supplies for two days of pillaging and pummeling. Do you want to join me?"

Geek.

"I hope you're asking if I want to go to Seven-Eleven, because I have no interest in pillaging or pummeling."

"Don't knock it till you try it."

He looks a little embarrassed, like he's just asked me on a date. He only started talking to me a year ago after I cornered him in the elevator and told him a dirty joke. He confided later that he thought I was crazy. I doubt his opinion has changed. The elevator jerks again and the door shimmies open.

"Rain check on the gaming," I say. "But a Slurpee and a bag of Funyuns sounds delish. I'll text you when I'm ready. Say 'hey' to your Aunt Cheryl for me."

"Tell your papa to 'hang loose spruce goose'." He flicks his thumb and pinky up and down like a surfer going through drug withdrawals, which makes me laugh.

"It's only cool when my papa says it. He actually knows what a spruce goose is. Come up with your own quotes, dude."

I step off the elevator and drag my backpack toward apartment 3A. Maybe Mom will let me wear her new black boots. They'd pair perfectly with the trench coat I bought at Flashbacks. Of course, everything depends on Ripley, the boy at the center of the universe. My cell quacks.

(Leah just texted that Emma says Finn broke up with Mandy and he'll be at the rave)

Ugh. Remember Mel, nothing can ruin the mood of a Friday.

(I'm not into ancient history)

(It's only been two months)

(Don't care)

I drop my backpack in front of the door, fumbling with my key and wishing that jerk's name hadn't come up. How am I supposed to have fun tonight with him breathing down my cleavage? To this day, I still don't know whether he was in love with me or my boobs.

The door clicks open, and a Brit's voice echoes out of the television, explaining how to brine chicken with a simple salt and sugar mixture. Prodding my backpack into the room with my shoe, I glance at Papa's recliner. It's empty, which is rare. Maybe he's in the bathroom. As I shut the door, I notice his cane lying on the dining room floor.

"It's about time yougot home." Papa's disembodied voice calls from the kitchen. "I had a fight withthe peanut butter jar. Guess who won?"