‘ we’re alike. i knew we would be. ’
She still doesn’t know how to respond to any of this. And how’s she supposed to, anyway? Lou’s so patient and Tammy’s so warm and Debbie reminds her of Willy Wonka, honestly, ‘cause she’s always so-- a lot. A lot? But a good kind of a lot. It’s a happy a lot. It makes Trish thing the Willy Wonka things she used to dream about were real, like the chocolate fountains or the rivers of-- was it sodapop? She can’t remember. But all the kids who took all those things were bad, and Willy Wonka was, like, mad and punished them for it, but she doesn’t think she’s ever seen Debbie get mad. Does Debbie get mad? She’s loud a lot, Trish notices, but it isn’t mad-loud, it’s happy-loud. Like a dog with a tail that wags really fast.
Tammy’s almost a lot. She’s so warm and so soft, like hot blankets out of the dryer whenever she used to get to wrap herself up in them. Tammy’s lots like that, and at first, she thought (and knew) she was scared Tammy would be mad. She knew by the way Debbie and Lou were talking Tammy didn’t know they wanted to take her away from mother. And when she’s something people don’t know about, she knows she’s in trouble. It’s happened before with guys mother likes. They always get big mad at her.
Tammy doesn’t get mad. She doesn’t even get sad. She doesn’t yell. She gets down really low and talks to Trish, who can’t do a lot more than look at her while she’s still holding Lou’s hand real tight. And both of them tell her this is Tammy, sweetheart, you don’t have to be scared. And she’s still scared, anyway.
There’s a record. She likes records! Movies call them vinyls, and she likes that word, too, and the record’s The Beatles, and she’s listening and humming along, counting her steps in time to the rhythm before the little steps she takes with her eyes on her feet bump her-- right into Tammy. Who smiles at her, that Tammy-smile, and says we’re alike. I knew we would be. And Trish fidgets, a little shyly, when she looks up. Her hands twist round and round and round.
“Do they still-- play concerts?” She asks it, quiet and curious, before anxiously, heavily tucking her hair behind both her ears, a big gesture like she’s nervous but she’s thinking too, “so people can listen to them play on stage?”
