Free Kill Me by Alex Owens

conversation with the parents of a young girl, was clad in dark washed jeans, a black peasant top, and black heeled boots. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, allowing her silver and teal beaded necklace to stand out.
    Vera, not surprisingly, had on all black, though her fitted t-shirt did have a pink cat on the chest. I leaned a little closer to read the phrase at the bottom. Vera chuckled, and when I finally read her shirt I realized why she’d laughed.
    The shirt read, “Real Women Like Pink.”
    I laughed too, as the tongue-in-cheek humor suited Vera perfectly.
    “Choose your poison, Claire,” said Vera, sweeping her arm out to all the guitars I could choose from. There were so many, I took several minutes to wander through the display. One guitar called out to me above the others. It was baby blue and decked out with chrome, except for the neck which was made of rosewood and inlaid with delicate pearl butterflies.
    “Ah, good choice,” Vera said coming up behind me and taking down the guitar. “C’mon. Let’s fire this baby up.”
    I followed her to the center of the booth, where a small platform had been set up, with a couple of stools, a microphone, an amplifier and two towering speakers. I backed away, shaking my head.
    “No way,” I said. “I can’t play the guitar Vera, putting me in front of people won’t help that!”
    “Do you trust me?” she said.
    I guess I did. Vera seemed like a trustworthy person and not the type to make an idiot out of me in front of half the convention goers. Still, I shrugged.
    “You’ve got to have more faith in people, honey.” Vera patted the stool on the right and I sat down. She handed me the guitar and then stepped away to grab one for herself. She came back with striking all-black guitar with bright pink strings. Vera hooked long cables to both of our guitars, then sat beside me and showed me how to hold the instrument. She was so close that I could hear every intake of breath, close enough that I could swear I even heard her heart beat.
    She gave me a quick overview of chords, guiding my fingers into the proper positions. Finally, she settled on one chord that she wanted me to play, only varying in how quickly I strummed the guitar for different effects.
    “Okay, good. Now do it fast three times.” she said.
    Careful to keep my fingers in their proper place, I did as Vera asked, and within minutes I was making music! It was a good feeling. Not as good as when I’d held the violin, but in a way this was better. Probably because it felt real in a way playing the violin had not.
    “Now, put one foot on the floor and tap it to keep time with me. Keep the rhythm, one strum for one tap of the foot,” she instructed, “then, every time I wink at you, do the three. If I shake my head, stop. And when I nod wait three beats and start again.”
    That sounded simple enough. Now, if I could just keep it up without looking like a fool.
    Vera leaned over to the amplifier and adjusted the knobs. An electronic hum filled the air. “You ready?”
    I gulped, then nodded, and watched as Vera began. Slow, sultry notes filled the area and conversations around us quickly died down. At least a hundred pairs of eyes turned to us. In my peripheral vision, I saw movement coming my way. Cassidy, with her fiery hair and short purple tutu skirt sauntered up on the little stage, claimed the stool to my other side and produced a second microphone. She gave me a you-can-do-it smile before singing the opening line to a Joan Jett classic. Her voice was deep and dangerous, and I almost forgot that I was supposed to be playing an instrument at all.
    Vera nudged me with her foot, prompting me to look at her. At the appropriate time, with Vera’s nod, I began my rhythmic strumming. It was a little odd, having to stare at Vera so I’d know when to triple-strum. It felt more personal, more intimate than it should. Eventually though, I relaxed and let the notes take over.
    Cassidy