-> with the band chapter 2
Go! Dance!
warning: 18+ minors DNI due to smut in the next chapter. also, people pleasing, anxiety, codependency (just with mc’s mom, thank god), huge amounts of really ugly fabric from the 60s, repression. still not for larries :(
A/N: first story post on tumblr, first attempt writing a book of any kind.
chapter 1 is right here
word count: 3.32k
That fucking voice.
Izzy couldn’t stop playing the song over and over and over in her mind. Harry drowned out the 50s acapella always on in the background of the store. The od music matched the venue: wall to wall paisley carpeting and wallpaper, taupe and yellow fabric samples draped from the ceiling, and mannequins dressed like 1962 framing a fitting area with a three way mirror that made the brown room seem like an infinite prison Izzy would never escape. Izzy had never been to a concert. Her whole life seemed to her like a long list of things she had never done.
Izzy did another lap of the store with the duster, nervous. Maybe she could say she couldn’t make it because of the thunder storm that was going to happen that evening? Why did she use up her food poisoning excuse last week on that house party? She could stay in the store and do Mrs. Shepherd’s appointment and take care of the shoe inventory, like she did every Friday night.
But she couldn’t get that voice out of her head. And her secrets urged her on. The super pretty and way too short green dress waited upstairs, demanding to be worn. It was laid out on her bed, spiting The Boulder, shocking her room’s brown wallpaper and brown carpet.
She was going to the concert tonight. She was going to the pit. She’d hear the song live, the song that Meg sent her with that voice.
Izzy checked her phone: it was another mysterious text, this time not from Meg.
can’t wait to meet you tonight
It was from a number she didn’t recognize. Did that weirdo who messaged her on the app last night somehow find her number? Noah whatshisname?
Izzy checked Instagram, where Meg had just posted another one of those couple posts: legs and hands and sheets intertwined. Izzy loved Meg too much to be nauseated by the post, but she did want what she had. Izzy thought, feeling a change in the air, maybe she would have to do what Meg did to get it—starting with leaving her house.
A huge iron cross hung over her at the register, above the shop entrance. The guilt landed on her chest with a thud: how could she selfishly just leave this struggling business, abandoning her mom to fend for herself? Her mom was getting older. She was an only child. The cross was the first thing her grandmother put in the store, her mom told her. Everything her mom had learned about being the most conservative, hardworking person on earth, she had learned from Ila, a name that sounded way too soft to have belonged to a woman so formidable. Ila built the store from nothing. Her mother’s sister was supposed to take over the store, but that was before the accident. Izzy’s hand reflexively drifted to her stomach, where her scar was. Her aunt, Lydia’s mother, died in the accident when Lydia was just 16. Ila left the store to her mother so that the family could survive and everything Izzy had was thanks to the store. This is what her mother had told her thousands of times.
Izzy checked over her shoulder—a reflex—then dusted off the ancient 2002 boombox always on Easy Vintage Listening FM. She fiddled with the tuning dial until she struck gold: it was that voice, singing about a girl crush and a heart rush. That voice on the radio by chance was clearly a sign. Izzy decided: she was going to the concert. For sure.
botticelli’s at 1, right?
Another text from the mystery number. Botticelli’s, across from the store, was as old as the store. It was a restaurant for geriatrics with a last seating at 4 for a 5 PM closing. Izzy texted back: I think you have the wrong number! Sorry :)
Just then, her mom swept in, silent as usual. Izzy jumped when she appeared on the other side of the counter.
“Izzy, crisis,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air. “The inventory is arriving a day early!They said it should be here by 6 at the latest—“
Izzy took a deep breath. “Mom, I have that concert later, and I’m supposed to be at the doors at seven.”
“Was that tonight?” Her mom neatened the receipt stack on the counter and abruptly changed the music back to the preselected station.
Sudden text from Lydia (they were always sudden): you owe me $86 for the tickets
you said they were free, Izzy fired back.
fees face value etc, Lydia texted.
Just then, the mystery texter struck again: haha, I heard you were funny Izzy
Izzy watched her mother move around the store, dusting and straightening everything more frantically than usual. The vibes were off.
Izzy caught a glimpse of herself shattered in the store’s folding mirror, refracted with slices of brown and brocade. She transferred Lydia the money without checking her balance. She couldn’t stop thinking about that voice, listening to it in her mind: it was so deep. There was so much longing in it. It spoke directly to her.
Izzy was the kind of broke where she had to check her chequing account before sending that kind of money over. She earned less than minimum wage at the store (and free rent, as her mom always pointed out). She had a small nest egg of $2,314 she was saving for her own apartment, first and last month’s rent, in another account that wasn’t joint with her parents’.
She hatched a plan: whispering into her phone, she called the supplier and asked for the shipment early, which she had done before. It was many bolsters of fabric and would take ages for her to unload and set up in the store. The supplier would arrive at noon, giving her plenty of time to get to the concert. As she hung up the phone, her mom turned on the hand vacuum, which she used on the many hangers that hadn’t been touched in months. It was noon and there were no customers in sight, as usual.
This was new: an image of herself appeared on her phone screen—a photo taken three summers ago, Meg cropped out of the frame. An alarming text accompanied it: You’re so pretty in your photos. This one’s my favourite.
The truck pulled up with its usual horn—same driver for forty years—and Izzy rushed out to meet it. Her mom was close to follow.
“I wanted to start unloading over lunch, so I could be sure to make the concert,” Izzy explained, noticing her mom seemed distressed by the early arrival, wringing her hands. The driver opened the back and started unloading the rolls.
“I’m not sure you can unload it over lunch, sweetie,” her mom said. “I have a surprise for you.”
More ominous words had never been spoken. The fabric bolsters piled up inside the store entrance. Izzy’s phone pinged again.
Her mom smiled. She nodded toward the door.
A balding man, wearing the same suit cut as her father, strolled into view beside the truck. He was maybe 40.
“Izzy?” He asked in her direction. Izzy looked behind her, then back at him, confused. His voice was high and tight, like a balloon.
Her mom nudged her forward. Izzy stumbled over one of the fabric bolsters.
The man smiled at her and extended his hand. “Hi,” Izzy managed. His hand was slick with… sweat? Hand sanitizer? What the fuck is this? Izzy thought.
“I’m Josh. I’ve heard so much about you.” Josh took a small tube of hand sanitizer out of his pocket and rubbed his hands. He extended it to Izzy. Izzy shook her head.
“She’ll be ready in just a second,” her mom said. Josh took a step back. Upon closer inspection, his suit was definitely from the store.
Her mother pulled Izzy aside: “I put aside an outfit for you. You can match.”
“Mom… what is this?”
“Just a lunch date! You haven’t been out on a date in so long, not since Roger. And this is your father’s youngest friend.”
A tremor ran down Izzy’s spine. Roger. Yikes. One of dad’s friends… and not in a hot way. Big yikes. Izzy felt panic spread from her hands up her back to her scalp: a burning she knew well. She had a name for it now: anxiety.
But she couldn’t say no. That was even more terrifying.
Izzy found herself sitting in front of a plate of half eaten Waldorf salad—nuts, mayonnaise, grapes, nightmares—opposite this old stranger, watching the truck pull away, leaving about eighty fabric bolsters piled up in the store entranceway. She caught her mom peering at her from the store from time to time, and had to stop looking over at the fabric piling up.
Their outfits matched. One of her mother’s more evil moments—well intentioned, but good god. Izzy shuddered when she caught the sight of them, the matching couple, in the glass. She remembered Meg’s photo of her and her husband, arms intertwined, in bed. Josh’s vibe was grave and stately, and his manners were very formal, but he hadn’t noticed the big dollop of mayo that had landed on his brown tie.
“You’re even more beautiful than the photos,” he said, breaking his monologue about the benefits of rising home prices for the middle class. He dropped his wet hand onto hers. The mayo dropped into his lap.
“The photos?” Izzy stammered.
“That your mom has been sending. She wanted to wait for me to ask you out, and then all of a sudden, late last night, she said now was the perfect time.”
Josh was handsome in a sort of flat-faced way, with defined, narrow shoulders and overlong legs. Izzy would forgive any physical flaw, if it weren’t so emphasized by all the personal ones: he had been talking for an hour without asking her any questions. Josh’s obliviousness helped to soothe her anxiety; he didn’t seem to notice her enough to note what was wrong with her, and her burning need to make a good impression on him to please her mother faded by the minute.
Josh sat ramrod straight in his chair and kept straightening his napkin in his lap. He had insisted on pulling out her chair when they sat down, almost tripping her in the process, and asked for a salad fork when the first course came. An Izzy from last year might smiled and nodded and found nothing wrong with his monologuing.
Izzy wasn’t sure how many courses there were, but she had to get out of there if she was going to make the concert. She decided to speak up.
“Josh—”
“And that’s when I realized that supplier logistics was my passion,” He squeaked. “The data available now, it’s incredibly exciting: everything from customer retention to granular behaviour, down to order patterns by the season…”
“Josh—”
“And I wanted to tell you, as I told your mother, that I’ve saved up enough for a three bedroom condo and I intend to purchase one in this neighbourhood within the next year, if the interest rates—“
“Josh!” Izzy dropped her fork.
Josh looked at her, maybe seeing Izzy for the first time.
“Sorry! Interest rates aren’t really first date material, are they?” He cleared his throat, but started again before Izzy could get a word in. “Where do you think the housing market is going to go?”
“I have to get back to the store,” Izzy said.
Izzy folded her napkin and put it back on the table. “This was great,” she lied. She scolded herself internally: she was trying to lie less, even if it made things awkward. She stood up. “I have to put away all that fabric. Thank you so much for lunch.”
Josh awkwardly stood up and hugged her: “I get it! Girlboss gotta girlboss.” Izzy laughed awkwardly. The mayo had transferred to her vest.
“You’ve got a little something,” Josh said, gesturing to her shirt. Izzy smiled and brushed it off, waving as she sprinted back across the street to the store.
She was soon lugging large swathes over to the display cases: greys, beiges, synthetic corduroy, synthetic everything. It was 6 PM. Her mom hovered over her, asking questions until she felt like she might explode:
“Was it a love match? Did he tell you about the condo? Three bedrooms! He wants to start a family. Did he mention how long he’s known your father?”
Izzy was about to snap when her mom dropped the final bomb: “Mrs. Shepherd had to move her appointment back to seven. I hope that’s okay. I’m sure you can see that band tomorrow night. I have to go look at the books upstairs, but you can handle it, right?” Izzy barely heard the door close behind her. She was alone in the store, again. Like always.
Izzy’s shoulders sagged. She stepped up onto the pedestal in front of the three way mirror and surveyed the damage.
Her face was slick with sweat. Her vest was stained. Her stockings had a run. She looked into the mirror, and saw her mom’s face staring back at her. Her chin wrinkled suddenly. She was about to cry.
“Elisabetta?” Izzy wiped her eyes. She turned around to see Mrs. Shepherd waiting behind her. She was a short woman, in a tweed skirt suit, grey hair. The same age her grandmother would have been, and the store’s longest customer. She had always called her Elisabetta, just like her grandmother did.
“Hi, Mrs. Shepherd. Let me grab your sample.”
“But what are you doing here? It’s Friday night!”
Izzy emerged from the changing room, holding out a pink skirt suit in the same conservative cut. Mrs. Shepherd and her grandmother had been friends back in Italy, all the way back in the tiny Sicily town where they were born just days apart. They had come over soon after one another, when they were done high school. Both raised Catholic, both married off when they were teenagers. They went to church not once a week, but three times, after they moved to America.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Shepherd didn’t look at the dress.
“But I hope you’re not staying home on my account,” she said, frowning.
“No, no,” Izzy replied. Mrs. Shepherd looked her best friend’s granddaughter up and down. Izzy self-consciously tugged on her vest.
“I remember when you were a little girl,” Mrs. Shepherd said, sadness in her voice. “You used to dance in this room, twirling all the bolsters. You used to make your mom change the music to whatever you wanted.”
Mrs. Shepherd disappeared into the dressing room. Izzy couldn’t remember ever dancing here. She checked her watch. It was 6:30.
“You’re early, thank you,” Izzy said.
“I got a call from your mother this morning moving the appointment back all the way to seven, but I thought I’d come at the usual time just in case,” Mrs. Shepherd said from the dressing room.
Izzy’s mouth dropped open in shock. She couldn’t reply.
“She said she set you up with that Josh, finally,” said Mrs. Shepherd. “She’s been talking about setting you two up for years! Your mother and his father have planned it practically since you were born. He’ll never move out of this neighbourhood, that’s for sure.”
Izzy couldn’t move.
“But he is a bit of a bore, no? Self-important, over obsequious, I think. And I told her that I was sure a bright young thing like you had many suitors—you must be drowning in suitors!”
“Not really, Mrs. Shepherd,” Izzy tried a weak laugh.
Mrs. Shepherd came out of the dressing room fully enswathed in a dusty pink.
Izzy held her hand as she stepped up onto the pedestal in front of the mirror. Rather than letting go, Mrs. Shepherd’s grasp tightened suddenly around hers. She pulled Izzy in close, her face just inches away.
“Your grandmother,” Mrs. Shepherd whispered, “she was a wild woman.”
Izzy gasped. Mrs. Shepherd continued, pulling her even closer: “She was wild. The way we used to go out dancing. She used to sing, you know, and play guitar. She could have really been something.”
“Ila?” Izzy asked, stunned. Her eyes flitted to the heavy iron cross hanging above the door.
“Ila was truly free. She left Italy because she had to,” Mrs. Shepherd said. She dropped Izzy’s hand and pointed to the door. “Go. Be young. I’m sure your friends are waiting for you somewhere.”
Izzy stumbled backwards. “No excuse—I know how to close, of course,” Mrs. Shepherd said, laughing. “I’ve only been coming here for forty years. Keys under the cash register.” Izzy nodded, dazed.
She started toward the door, turning back to say thank you. Mrs. Shepherd smiled broadly and waved her onward. “Go!”
Izzy was soon upstairs and out the door in her green dress, fanny pack hastily slung around her shoulders with her wallet, a chapstick, and her phone. She ran down the sidewalk with her sneaker laces flying, casting one last glance over her shoulder to see her mom in the upstairs window hunched over a laptop, and Mrs. Shepherd downstairs locking the front door.
The parking lot outside the venue was a pulsing throng: thousands of girls, a beat in the background, everyone glistening in the humidity and swarming toward the venue gates.
Izzy heard a clap and turned to see Meg: “You made it! Yay!”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,” Izzy apologized a few more times for good measure. She was fifteen minutes late.
“Bleh, shut up,” said Lydia. She had no filter. Wearing a rainbow sequinned jumpsuit, a shearling jacket, and star-shaped glasses, she jumped up and down in front of her phone, taking a video.
“You guys look like rubes,” she said, closing the video.
Lydia was truly beautiful, a tall pale fairy thing who looked like she was from another family, or another planet. Her skin was almost translucent, like porcelain except the few moles dotting her arms. She had wide open eyes a blue so pale that they were almost clear. Her hair fell nearly down to her waist.
“What’s a rube?” Izzy asked, pulling her cousin in for a hug. Izzy often wondered: How do we come from the same family, and Lydia ends up this glittering cool chaos person, and I…
Lydia took lipstick out of her purse and yanked Izzy’s dress down on the left side to reveal her bra. Izzy stood placidly. Nothing Lydia did shocked her anymore.
“We have to get inside! The opening act has already started!” Meg tapped impatiently on her smartwatch. Meg couldn’t be more different from Lydia: shorter, darker, with full lips, wide hips, and deep, piercing eyes.
Lydia drew a heart in red lipstick on Izzy’s chest, coming to a point just above her nipple. Izzy pulled the dress up slightly, but the heart was still mostly visible.
“Much better,” said Lydia. She drew a smaller heart on Meg’s cheek.
“Izzy, you look like super amazing,” Meg said.
“You too,” Izzy replied. Meg was one of the few people Izzy could see clearly. She felt totally calm around her.
Lydia grabbed both their hands and pulled them toward the open gate, past security, and down a broad flight of stairs. They moved with the crowd and the beat, getting closer and closer to the throbbing inside of their town’s largest venue. Izzy’s phone pinged, and she scrambled to get it out of her bag as Lydia yanked her along; it was her BeReal alarm. But she forgot it entirely when they ran through the final doors, nearly dropping her phone on the ramp.
They burst into the concert hall: Izzy did a full circle, awestruck by the sight of thousands of girls, dozens of rows high, all around the stage. She and Meg grinned each other, eyes wide. The whole room was screaming and pulsing to an insane drum solo coming from the stage. Lydia explained, shouting over the crowd, that this was a new opening act just for this city.
They followed Lydia, running after her to keep up, as she got closer and closer to the lights, past more and more security guards in yellow vests. Water bottles already littered the concrete stairs and everyone stood with their hands up, swaying in front of their seats. Izzy just felt like one of them; The Boulder was reduced to a pebble in her shoe. Mrs. Shepherd’s words echoed in her mind: Go! Dance!
They were on the floor, breaking past groups of women holding up signs and throwing things on stage. Izzy could make them out now: four women, on drums, a guitar, keyboard, and at the mic. Lydia’s eyes were fixed forward—she was totally determined to get to the front. Izzy followed her gaze up to a shirtless base guitarist with deep brown eyes and a curl dropping over his forehead, sweat gathering on his bare, muscled chest. He looked like he was carved out of marble.
“Best girl band in the country,” Lydia screamed over the music. “Check out that fucking drummer.”
They had reached the stage—Lydia reached out to touch it, eyes closed, as if she were touching an altar. They were close enough to see the smudges on the band’s members’ shoes.
The drummer accelerated, her hands and sticks a blur. Lydia dropped her hands and started dancing, possessed. Meg followed. Izzy looked up at them, awestruck: the women were absolutely raging. The lead singer started and the guitarist strummed over the drums, a low wail that built and built. The crowd fucking lost it. She hadn’t heard them before, but Izzy couldn’t help herself—she let go in the swelling beat. She felt like she was inside the music. She threw her hair around and put her arms above her head, dancing like she was a kid again. It wasn’t a performance, like so much of what she did in front of other people; she danced the way she felt, for herself.
Lydia seemed to be in a trance. Izzy followed her eyes up to the lead guitarist. The guitarist’s hands climbed and fell manically, hitting crescendos during the chorus that sent the crowd into a frenzy. He wasn’t the voice, but oh god.
Just then, he turned and their eyes met. Izzy looked away, embarrassed. That grin. Those furious fingers. Mrs. Shepherd’s words floated over the music: Go! Dance!
Izzy looked back up at him. His eyes were still on her. He smiled. She beamed back.
The guitarist was so far beyond the guys she had ever met in person; not just in the way that he looked. It was the way that he moved.
They laughed and danced and anytime Izzy stole a glance, the guitarist was looking back at her.
That voice hadn’t even come on yet, and it was already the best night of her life.
chapter3
