Free Strange Girl by Christopher Pike Page B

choice.
    We arrived late and were hastily setting up in the hotel’s ballroom when Aja suddenly appeared. She stepped from behind the hall’s stage curtains, wearing a tight pair of blue jeans and a white sweatshirt with our band’s name, “HALF LIFE,” printed in bold letters across her chest.
    I had no idea where the sweatshirt had come from.
    It looked like she had made it herself.
    “Hi,” she said.
    I was too stunned to think up a great comeback.
    “Hi yourself,” I said.
    She came closer, took the power cord running from my guitar, and plugged it into our stack of Marshall amps. “I remember that’s where it goes,” she explained.
    “What are you doing here?”
    “I came to hear you play. You invited me, remember?”
    “I didn’t think you’d come twice. How did you get here? Did Bart drive you?”
    “I took a bus.”
    “Does Bart know where you are?”
    “I don’t know, he might.”
    “You didn’t say anything to him?”
    Aja considered. “He said something to me.”
    “What?”
    “Bart told me that boys usually ask girls out on dates—when they like them. He said that’s normally how it’s done. Then he contradicted himself and said you might be an exception to that rule and that I should give you another chance.” She paused. “That’s why I’m here.”
    “Hold on a second. What about Bobby Dieder and James Caruso?”
    “What about them?”
    “Aren’t you dating them?” I asked.
    “I don’t think so. But they keep asking me to go to places with them. And they talk to me every day at lunch and try to see me after school.”
    “Try? I heard they do more than try.”
    “Not today. They both wanted to see me this evening but I told them I wanted to watch you sing with your band.”
    “Why?”
    “I told you, because you invited me. And because I like listening to you play your guitar and sing.” She paused. “Are you trying to tell me your invitation was good for only one date?”
    For some reason, right then, I couldn’t take it anymore. Here I’d been feeling miserable over Aja’s rejection and now she was telling me she wasn’t even aware what the word “rejection” meant. Or else she was trying to tell me she liked me. Either way what she was saying was so bizarre I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Pulling her close, I leaned over and whispered in her ear.
    “You may not know this but you’re one very strange girl.”
    I assume she thought she had to follow my example. She whispered back. “Does that mean you want me to stay?”
    I let her go and handed her a bundle of amp cords. “What I want is for you to get your ass in gear and help me set up our equipment.”
    She took the cords and smiled.
    And just like that I was happy again.
    It was then I knew I was in serious trouble.
    • • •
    To the band’s relief, the crowd appeared open to almost everything we played. The nerds liked our oldies section and recent hits by U2 and Coldplay, and they even got up and danced—like normal Homo sapiens—when we played hard rock. They especially gave me plenty of applause when I played my own songs solo with my acoustic guitar. The only thing they hated was when we tried our hand at rap, which we couldn’t blame them for. We were way too white-bread to pull off Jay Z or 50 Cent.
    This time Aja hung around for the show, standing on the far edge of the stage on my left. Janet even put her to work: having Aja bring us drinks between songs; helping us switch out our instruments when we went from acoustic to electric; swiping cans of beer from Mike before he could finish them. All in all it was a pleasant evening.
    It was only when we were breaking down our equipment that I saw a group of people from the convention crowding around Aja. I was too far away to hear what they were saying but they had a collection of tablets on hand and appeared to be grilling her about something online. I asked Janet to check it out and when she returned she looked