Free Screaming Divas by Suzanne Kamata

picked up her guitar, and waited for the phone to ring.
    â€œHey, what’s this?” Madeline barged into her room just after midnight, smelling of booze and smoke. She waved one of Trudy’s flyers in the air between them.
    â€œI’m starting a band,” Trudy said. “I told you already.”
    Madeline shrugged. “Yeah, whatever. I wish you hadn’t put our phone number down, though. We’ll get half a million calls from creeps.”
    Trudy didn’t answer. Why was Madeline being such a bitch? She looked really cool with her tattooed shoulder and asymmetrical haircut, but sometimes she could be totally square.
    â€œI’ll get my dad to buy us an answering machine,” Trudy said. “That way we can screen calls.”
    Madeline nodded, seemingly consoled, and wandered off to her room.
    Trudy giggled softly. Jack would never fork out cash for something like that, but the lie had worked.
    The first call came at noon the next day.
    â€œHey, I’m calling about the band,” a gravelly voice said.
    â€œWhat do you play?”
    â€œBass, drums, whatever. I’m versatile. Hey, wait. You sound really familiar. What’s your name?”
    â€œTrudy B.” She was trying out different names. “Baxter” sounded so boring.
    â€œHey, I know you. You’re that psycho jailbird.” The line went dead.
    Later, Southern Bell called about an overdue phone bill. The manager at Yesterday’s, where Madeline waited tables, called asking Madeline to report to work early. Someone dialed a wrong number.
    Where were all the budding musicians, the soulmates in tune with her dreams? Trudy set aside her guitar and put on some music. She threw herself on the bed and let Patti Smith comfort her.
    How was she ever going to get this thing off the ground? Trudy sighed. Maybe she could go solo—set up a drum machine and play the guitar herself. She wracked her brains trying to come up with someone who’d gotten famous without backup. Her mind went blank.
    Two nights later, when she came home from a trip to the Quick Mart down the street, Madeline greeted her with, “You got a phone call. Someone wants to join your band.”
    â€œGreat.” Trudy felt like pogoing. “Who?” She pictured a pale, black-haired guy in leather, a guitar strapped across his hard-muscled body.
    â€œI don’t know. She said she’d call back.”
    She?
Well, okay. This could be good. A girl group. Yeah, that’s the ticket
. They’d be like the Supremes with instruments. The Go-Go’s with attitude. It would be a good gimmick, something to get them started while they developed as a band.
    â€œYou know, Madeline, you can still get in on the ground floor,” Trudy teased happily. “I think you’ve got what it takes to be a first class drummer.” She reached over and squeezed her housemate’s biceps. Her muscles were hard from carrying trays of beer mugs and beef burritos.
    The phone trilled and Trudy dove for it. She snatched the receiver on the second ring. “Yeah?”
    â€œHi, I’m, um, calling about the band?”
    Trudy gave Madeline the thumbs up sign. Madeline rolled her eyes and retreated to her bedroom.
    â€œDo you play an instrument?”
    â€œNo, but I can learn. I took piano lessons, so I can read music and I sing. I’ve written some songs, too.”
    Trudy didn’t have much use for a piano, but keyboards—yeah, maybe. Anyway, this chick had a musical background. Her phone voice wasn’t bad. She could probably sing backup.
    â€œCool. Why don’t we meet and discuss this?”
    â€œUm, okay.”
    â€œWhat’s your name, by the way?”
    â€œCassandra Haywood. Cassie, for short.”
    Cassie? Trudy groaned inwardly. She’d seen her before at The Cave. Cassie, the poseur who looked like Barbie, but pretended to be a punk. She was blonde and whenever she took the dance