"The Flamenco Academy" by Sarah Bird Read Free Book Online Page B

tweaked math nerd part of
my brain loved nothing better than organizing complicated tasks,
adding columns of numbers in my head, and doing the tax without a
calculator. When I got into a perfect groove—five burgers working,
a load of tots in the fryer, and figuring tax on three Mexidogs,
one Big Red grande, and two Sprites chico—I was as high as Didi
ever got on weed, Ritalin, and Stoli.
    Our boss and the owner of Puppy, Alejandro
Trujillo, just shook his head when he found Didi slacking or
sleeping. He was a good guy, always telling me I should look out
for myself more. But Alejandro and everyone who thought Didi was
using me were not getting the whole picture. The whole picture was
that I was out of my house and I wasn’t thinking about Daddy. The
whole picture was that when I was with Didi I could breathe.
    The highlight of senior year was the night
the Strokes came to town. Through her Internet sources, Didi found
out they were coming before the tour dates were even set. That gave
her a long lead time to consult with other groupies online, like
the Kumfort Gurlz in Phoenix, who told her that Julie had a thing
for Japanese anime. With that information, she put together a
killer Japanese schoolgirl outfit complete with pigtails,
sailor-collared middy blouse, chunky Mary Janes, kneesocks, and a
pleated skirt so short she had to bikini wax.
    We already knew from chatting up the Hertz
Rent-a-Car guy that the band was staying at the Hilton on
University. My job when we got to the Hilton was to stand guard and
watch for managerial types. Didi, holding the red vinyl zippered
Domino’s Pizza delivery case that she’d stolen for just such
occasions, went up to the reception desk. Her Japanese schoolgirl
pigtails were tucked under a red, gold, green, and black Rasta cap.
Jeans and a schlubby T-shirt covered the rest.
    As always, Deeds had done her homework and
had the name of a roadie written on the Domino’s order slip. Deeds
gave the front desk clerk the guy’s name, checking the order slip
as if she couldn’t remember what it was.
    The clerk, who’d no doubt already parried
teams of hyperventilating teen girls, balked. “The Strokes put a
hold on all deliveries.”
    “Strobes?” Didi acted like she didn’t
recognize the name. “I don’t know from Strobes.” Maybe because of
the pizza, maybe because the Strokes were from New York, Didi
slipped into her best Goodfellas goombah impersonation.
“This”—she paused to check the order slip where she’d written the
roadie’s name—“Justin Patterson, he ordered a pie. I’m delivering a
pie. End of story.” She rapped the reception desk with her
knuckles. “You explain to him why he didn’t get his pie, okay,
pal?”
    As she was pivoting away, the clerk, half
realizing he was being tooled, but also half not wanting to risk
infuriating a hungry roadie, called after her,
“Five-twenty-six.”
    Didi never finagled the room number of the
famous guys, the ones she was really after, which was anyone who
got onstage. The clerks knew better than that. They might give her
the number of a roadie or the chiropractor traveling with the band.
But that small opening was always enough for Didi, who, once she
got into fame’s orbit, could always manage to home in on the
celestial body with the heaviest gravity.
    I casually joined Didi on the elevator. As
soon as the doors closed and we were hidden from the clerk’s view,
we jumped up and down squealing a few times before she handed me
the Domino’s box, Rasta cap, and the jeans and T-shirt she stripped
off. We got off at the fifth floor. Didi stopped at the mirror
above a dried flower arrangement, fluffed up her pigtails, spritzed
on some CK One, and spit her gum into the sand of the ashtray
imprinted with the hotel’s logo. We found room 526 and Didi
collected herself before knocking.
    As usual, a lank-haired roadie who looked as
if he’d just gotten up answered the door. The room behind him was
filled with roadies and