Strange Girl by Christopher Pike Read Free Book Online Page B

about yours?”
    Janet shook her head. “Point to one guy in our town that I could take seriously and I’ll go out with him tomorrow night.”
    I could think of several guys that might make a good match for Janet. But I knew if I brought them up she’d just start pointing out all their flaws.
    I worried Janet was walling herself off. I wasn’t sure why. She was no knockout but she was cute enough. Her hair and eyes were brown, like mine. However, over the summer she’d taken the scissors to her hair and cut most of it away. Now she looked vaguely butch. It was almost as if she’d been trying to create an image, or sign, that said: Stay Away .
    We reached the Roadhouse at six in the evening and immediately began to set up. A few non-servicemen were having a beer and a sandwich but the Ellsworth Air Force Base crowd wouldn’t begin to trickle in until later. Burrito Bill was happy to see us and offered us free dinner while we were in the middle of our sound check. Naturally we accepted—we were starved.
    Yet we didn’t order any Mexican food, nor did anyone who came to the joint, not anymore. Burrito Bill had earned his nickname twenty years ago when he’d been married to his first wife—he was now on his third—who had supposedly made such fantastic burritos that a Pentagon general who’d come out to inspect the base prior to recommending its closure had changed his mind when he happened to stop at the Roadhouse and sampled the first wife’s cooking. He’d been so blown away he’d ordered the base kept open just so he’d have an excuse to visit three or four times a year and eat her burritos.
    Everyone in the band assumed it was an urban legend until we spoke to half a dozen servicemen who’d actually been in the bar when the general had eaten there. The only real mystery, the soldiers told us, was why Burrito Bill had divorced the woman. Back then, they said, the Roadhouse had been the hottest joint in the state.
    Now our band was called in to headline their biggest event.
    I wondered what that said about the place. And us.
    The agreement Janet had struck with Burrito Bill stated that we were to go on at nine and play until closing. But when nine rolled around the Roadhouse was only a quarter full. We stalled by pretending to tune our instruments. None of us liked to play to empty seats. Yet, as it got closer to ten, Bill got on Janet’s case and Janet got on ours and Dale suggested I start by playing solo.
    “Are you nuts?” I snapped.
    “Chill, Fred,” Mike said. “Just you and your acoustic guitar—it’ll work. Pretend you’re Bob Dylan playing in an old coffeehouse in New York City. Later, when the herd shows, the rest of us can quietly slip onstage and turn up the volume and blow out their brains.”
    “The early birds are probably here because of you,” Janet said.
    “I don’t like it,” I grumbled, although it was a fact I often played solo at some point during a show. It was just that I liked to warm up with Mike’s thundering drums and Shelly’s classic keyboard at my back. Simply having Dale standing by my side with his bass gave me confidence.
    I continued to protest but the band, and Bill, gave me no choice. In the end I sat on a stool at the far end of the Roadhouse, the long bar on my left, the bulk of the seats and tables in front of me. I strummed a few chords on an acoustic guitar I’d bought for a hundred bucks when I was twelve. I’d practically worn a hole in the wood beneath the bottom string. The guitar was like an old friend; I’d learned all I knew about music on it.
    I wasn’t sure what to play but finally settled on an old Neil Young song, “Heart of Gold.” I’d always looked up to Neil. His songs were mostly simple, chord-wise, but his lyrics carried powerful emotions: pain, loss, desperate hope. It didn’t bother me that I hadn’t even been born when he’d written his most famous hits. Great songs were like fine wines—they aged gracefully.
    My