Chapter 1: The Last Practice Session
The taste of copper and cheap fabric softener clung to the back of Maria’s throat. She sat back on her heels, the worn carpet rough against her skin, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. A hysterical giggle bubbled up from her chest, unstoppable.
Next to her, Maryna swallowed hard, her own eyes watering. She made a theatrical gagging sound, clutching her own throat. “Oh my god. It’s like… salty yogurt.”
They looked at each other for one stunned second before the laughter hit them, loud and helpless. It spilled out, filling the cramped bedroom, bouncing off the faded posters of The Strokes and The White Stripes that watched over them with indifferent cool. Maria fell sideways onto the floor, her shoulder bumping the leg of her bed, her ribs aching.
The mechanic, Leo from the garage down the street, zipped his jeans with a satisfied pop of his wrist. He was smiling, a broad, uncomplicated thing. “You girls are all right,” he said, his voice still a little thick. He tapped his wallet in his back pocket. “Practice makes perfect, yeah?”
“Get out, Leo,” Maria managed through her laughter, waving a dismissive hand toward the door.
He left, the bedroom door clicking shut behind him, leaving a silence that was immediately filled by their subsiding snorts and gasps. The single lamp on the desk flickered, casting long, dancing shadows from the stacked vinyl records.
“Okay,” Maria said, pushing herself up. She grabbed the half-empty bottle of red wine from her nightstand and took a long, cleansing swig. She passed it to Maryna, who drank deeply, wincing as it mixed with the aftertaste. “Review. Technical notes.”
Maryna wiped her lips, her gentle face sharp with focus. “Teeth are the enemy. Definitely. A constant, lurking threat.”
“And the breathing. You have to plan the breathing like a military campaign,” Maria added, nodding. She crawled onto the bed, retrieving her notebook from under a crumpled t-shirt. She flipped it open to a page filled with bullet points and doodled stars. At the top, in block letters, it read: OPERATION DEBUTANTE. A sub-heading underneath, newly added: PRACTICAL SKILLS ACQUISITION.
Maryna lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. A poster of The Killers’ Brandon Flowers gazed down at her, smirking. “Do you think it’ll be different? With someone… famous?”
“It has to be,” Maria said, her voice quieter now. She traced a finger over a photo of The Red Riders, a buzzy indie band plastered on the wall above her desk. Her finger landed on the lead singer, Rick, all sharp jawline and brooding eyes. Then it slid to the drummer, Danny, caught mid-snarl, sweat flying from his hair. “I mean, Leo’s just a means to an end. A training module. This…” She tapped the poster. “This is the final exam. The real thing.”
“I call dibs on Rick,” Maria declared, her light eyes suddenly serious. “You take the drummer. Solidarity. We go backstage after the show at The Roxy next month, we’re prepared, we’re not wide-eyed idiots. We have a target. We execute.”
Maryna propped herself up on her elbows. She studied the poster. Rick was classic, a frontman with a poet’s sneer. But Danny… the energy coming off him was raw, physical. A grin played on her lips. “I don’t know. Rick’s got that vibe, sure. But look at Danny. That’s not just drumming. That’s a whole… intention. I want Rick.”
Maria’s head snapped around. “What? No. We agreed. I’ve been manifesting Rick for six weeks. I drew a star on my hand today, see?” She held up her palm, where a faint blue biro star was smudged.
“You didn’t specify! Manifesting isn’t a binding contract, Maria. I’m looking at him now and I’m getting a feeling. A big feeling. I think my… practical skills… would be better utilized with Rick.”
“Your skills? You gagged on Leo!”
“So did you! You sounded like a drowning cat!”
They glared at each other, the playful tension hardening into something real. The plan, their ridiculous, sacred plan, was hitting its first snag. The posters weren’t just wallpaper anymore; they were proxies, and only one of each existed.
Maria threw her hands up. “This is childish. We can’t fight over a hypothetical rockstar.”
“Then let’s not fight,” Maryna said, her expression shifting to one of calm resolve. She fished in the pocket of her jeans, pulled out a tarnished fifty-cent piece. “Heads, I get Rick. Tails, he’s yours. Drummer is the consolation prize.”
Maria watched the coin catch the flickering light. It was stupid. It was perfect. It was the only way. The whole plan was a dice roll anyway. “Fine. Flip it.”
Maryna took a deep breath, placed the coin on her thumb, and sent it spinning into the air. It seemed to hang there for a moment, a flash of silver against the concert-print walls, before clattering onto the notebook between them.
Both girls leaned forward.
Heads.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Maryna’s face. Maria stared at the coin, then at Danny the drummer’s snarling face. She felt a twist of genuine disappointment, sharp and surprising. She covered it with a shrug, reaching for the wine bottle again.
“Fine. Danny’s hotter anyway. More… visceral.” She took a drink. “But if Rick has a brother in the band, I get first refusal.”
“Deal,” Maryna said, pocketing the coin. She looked back at the poster, her eyes tracing Rick’s silhouette. Her smile softened, turned private. “Next month. The Roxy. It’s actually happening.”
Maria lay back, the notebook digging into her shoulder blade. She stared at Danny’s frozen rage. Visceral. The word felt right in her mouth. She wondered, silently, if he would taste like sweat and drumsticks, or something else entirely. The laughter was gone now, replaced by a low, humming anticipation that vibrated in her stomach. The plan was set. The target was acquired.
Now they just had to walk into the dragon's den and not get burned.