Neon Girl

Scene 7 - Preshow Prep

I send a quick (Home) text and swipe through my contacts to Loki's number. He's probably lost in geek world.

(You on for def jams tonight?)

I toss my phone on the bed and begin the ritual Presley and I call putting on the shit. It's tacky, I know, but she started it and I've been forced to adopt it. I shuck off my Toms, peel off my jeans, and grab a towel just as my Lennon screen saver lights up with a message from Presley.

(Be ready for a drive by at 11)

Damn. That only leaves an hour for prep. I hate being rushed. I set up my gear in the bathroom and lock the door. There's only one bathroom in Papa's place and it connects to my bedroom as well as the hallway. First rule around here—always lock the door that leads to the hallway. Papa and Ripley don't know the meaning of privacy.

I turn on the water and get naked, jerking to Benny B as I watch myself in the mirror, mostly my boobs. They were gifts from Grandma Shirley. She has big knockers. Who wouldn't be grateful for a gift like that? I sure didn't get height from anybody. Short and stacked. That's me in a nutshell. I should brand myself.

The room fills with steam, and I inspect my face before the mirror fogs up. The zit on my chin has faded into a red spot, easily concealed with Ivory 200. Other than that, my skin looks decent for a hormonal teenager. Of course, my head still hasn't grown into my nose, but only surgery can fix that, and Mom says she's not paying for it. My hair is a tad dry, probably from the cheap gel I have to buy. Eight hours a week at the Monte Carlo food court and a Sunday gig at Fire in the Hole isn't going to cut it much longer. I hate being broke.

Deadmau5 explodes from the speaker, and I climb into the shower, adjusting the temp as my feet get blasted with scalding water. I step under the spray and try not to worry about annoying bums and mooching strippers. Maybe a little pep talk will help to distract me from my thoughts.

Hi, Mel. How's life been treating you?

How nice of you to ask. I'd love to say life is perfect, if only I wasn't responsible for Ripley every weekend while Mom is out having intelligent conversations with topless dancers and homeless guys.

Bummer for you. But she wouldn't bail on you tonight. She already said yes.

You don't know my mom very well.

I suck at pep talks.

I reach for the peaches and cream body wash and change the subject.

Hello, Batman. You smell amazing, like clean sheets in a forest.

Hello, Mel. You smell amazing, too. I love peaches and cream. Can I taste you?

Knock yourself out.

I let Batman wash me from top to tail. He knows a woman's body very well, but we have to cut our interlude short. I'm on a tight prep schedule. When I climb out of the shower, Earth, Wind and Fire starts kicking it old school. I dance into my bedroom, dropping my towel and standing under the ceiling fan to get a quick air dry. That's when I realize my curtains are spread wide open and the pink lights of the Flamingo Hotel are flashing across my skin. I yank the curtains closed, but I'm sure some lucky tourist just got a free show.

I pick up my cell and swipe the screen, reading a text that came in from Loki while Batman and I got to know each other better.

(Yes on the party. Do we have a ride?)

(Yep. Meet me downstairs at 11)

I shake the excess water out of my hair and grab the cheap gel, squeezing a glob into my palm. Through the thumping bass, I hear a knock.

"Mel! Can I come in?"

It's Mom. Here comes the bail.

"Just a sec!"

I grease up my hair and wipe my hands on the towel before lowering the volume on my jams. Swaddling my naked bod with a robe, I open the door and Mom sticks a pair of black boots in my face, her new ones with the four-inch heels. Any higher and I'll be eating asphalt.

"The boots, as promised." She walks in and gasps dramatically at the week-old mess on my floor. "I know what you'll be doing this weekend."

"Yes. I'll clean my room before Monday." I stand in front of my mirror and start the process of twisting strands of hair into spikes.

"Just make sure you arrange it around your Fire in the Hole gig. Guy is still celebrating Oktoberfest, which should bring in a few more people."

I laugh because I know the only people who will be there are Papa and his cronies, and because Guy's version of Oktoberfest is a few pumpkins sitting on a bale of hay and Michelob Light served in novelty, boot-shaped glasses. "My lederhosen is ironed and hanging in the closet."

She smiles but not at me. She's staring at herself in the mirror, clearly distracted. "So, the girls and I are going out for a bit."

Oh, hell's bells.

"I won't leave until Ripley is asleep," she says as if it makes her a better mom.

"Papa is going to be in charge? He's eighty-four, Mom, and it takes him five minutes to get to the bathroom. He can't take care of Ripley." I'm not bringing up the fact that I found Papa on the kitchen floor today. He doesn't want her to know, and I'm not a snitch.

"Your papa is not completely helpless. He knows how to dial a phone. Don't worry about it, honey. I'll probably be home before you. Go have fun and dance your ass off." She leaves the room, shutting the door and her guilt behind her.

I turn up the volume and Mr. Timberlake reminds me that it's Friday night and I'm going to have fun despite my irresponsible mom. I sit in front of my make-up kit and start the transformation. First, concealer to hide random imperfections. Then bronzer for that overall glow. Plum on the lids, smoky grey in the crease, and a touch of metallic pink under the brows for pop. A single pinstripe of liquid eyeliner, top lids only, followed by mascara. And finally, a healthy coat of smoldering sunset on the lips.

As the beat changes to Bass Nectar, I drop the robe, slide on a fire engine red thong, and wiggle into my totally amazing LBD. I dance to the closet, retrieve the black trench, and lay it on the bed. After I pull on Mom's boots, I stand in front of the mirror.

You're smokin', Mel.

Why, thank you.

I swipe the screen on my cell. It's ten-fifty. Just enough time to say goodbye to the family and head downstairs. I grab my silver sequined clutch and throw in my wallet, keys, cell, pepper spray, smoldering sunset lipstick, and strawberry sorbet lip balm.

With the clutch arranged against my hip, I pose one more time. Apart from the height issue, I could totally pass for legal. Damn. I forgot to research London punk. Oh, well. Nobody is going to care. 

I'll be killing it tonight.