It came out so much easier with strangers, and it felt good to say it aloud. Share it with someone, even if it was Bleeder Valve.

“Can you fucking sing?” This came from the other guitarist, the pudgy one. Kohl eyeliner circled his eyes by a good inch, more drooping down and contrasting with the polar-white skin of his round face, making him look sort of panda-ish and sad. The plug piercings wedged in his lobes looked more like something the zoo had tagged him with to track his movements than jewelry.

“Well … never in front of anyone, you know, in the shower and stuff, but yeah I think I sing okay.”

“Fuck that then,” Marc said, even though he looked like he might suggest a shower audition.

Ling-Ling Panda-boy all of a sudden developed a major case of fleas and rubbed his face with both hands—for a moment all I could see were his full-sleeve tattoos. Impressively, he didn’t smear his eye makeup.

“Dude, just let her sing. It’s one song. What the hell, right?” Ah, my sole supporter, the drummer, Derek, whose face looked like a giant magnet that had been run between a seamstress’s couch cushions. No one ever needed to ask if he had a safety pin.

“This isn’t fucking American Idol; you know who’s here. Hell, that’s the only reason we agreed to Kori coming in the first place.”

“So what? He’ll still hear all our shit, what’s one song? We’ll squeeze her in when he goes for a piss or something.”

Panda-boy started acting very panda-noid—pacing and shaking his pawlike hands in jerky, random convulsions. “Look, I’m not making the decision. I’m not going down like that. If she does this, it’s on everyone.”

“Just let her sing, man, her friend died.”

“Yeah, what the fuck, dude.” Marc slicked back his black hair with ring-covered fingers. He had that whole Dave Navarro thing going on. I bet Kori crushed hard on him.

“Fuck. Fine. Fuck,” Panda-man growled, welcoming me into their band.

Marc nodded to me, and I mouthed a thank you. “S’all good. You’ve got spooky cool eyes, you know? Blue with black hair, that’s damn sexy.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, making a hasty retreat to wait with Shay.

From the back of the stage, the crowd mashing in the pit looked hostile. One level higher, a few people mingled at tables, but most leaned on railings.