The familiar shriek of a dial-up connection shot out from the computer in the basement office of the Brown household. The machine itself was a recent purchase; only a few weeks old and already a boon. It was, at least to me, an archaic device that was pixelated, dreadfully slow, and heavy as a rock. Yet in May of 1997, I was finally able to connect to the internet. Granted, the meager 28.8 kilobit connection hogged the landline phone, but it was something.
I had snuck away from the bustle upstairs for a few brief moments while I booted up America Online and its stock listings page. A few days ago, I made one of my biggest purchases so far; Amazon had finally gone public, and I had instructed my broker to purchase a sizable position weeks ago. I was the only person alive who knew what the coming of Amazon meant for commerce, though it only made modest profits in the last couple of days.
I brought up my account information, which had the rest of my positions still holding strong. It was on an upward slope for months, and I was compulsive about checking. Every time I saw the number I felt a rush of excitement. Weeks ago, I had hit a milestone when the number crossed into seven digits for the first time, and it only ever kept rising.
I was a millionaire.
Well, at least on paper. Practically every cent I had, with the exception of a few thousand I kept on hand for spending, was tied up in my investments. No one except my broker knew this; Dad dutifully signed off on all of my transactions and never paid attention to my “little” investments. He was too busy with his own modest gains, which I had suggested, of course. Dad had made a healthy ten thousand dollar profit in his account, so times were booming in the Brown household. He just didn’t know how booming.
He was actually the reason the house was chaotic today. We had been setting up for my sweet sixteen party all afternoon, and Dad decided to go all out for his little money-maker’s big day. The house and backyard were being prepared for the arrival of dozens of students. That still didn’t stop me from sneaking away to stare at my finances. A millionaire, I thought to myself. I’m sixteen years old, and I have over a million dollars.
As I gaped at the screen, the modem screamed suddenly as I was disconnected. A second later, the phone began to ring. The perils of landline internet connections: getting booted offline if someone calls. I quickly picked up the receiver.
“Brown residence.”
“Maya, is that you? It’s Roger.”
Roger was my other secret life: being the lead guitarist since February. Since cheerleading paused in spring I now had plenty of time to practice after school. It was wild being a member of a band; it was a dream that Matthew had when he took up the guitar as an adult. Since waking up as Maya in the 90s I had continued playing in private like he had, so the band was the first time either of us had ever played with other people.
We were an alternative rock group that dabbled in grunge but weren’t quite there yet. Upon joining, I had diplomatically suggested changing the name from Muted Orange (which made no sense) to Tempest. I meant it to be a Shakespeare reference, but the guys just thought it sounded cool. Tempest was going to be performing at my party this evening, though just the three guys since I would be hosting and making the rounds. Plus, no one outside of the band knew I was a member. It was easier to keep my social circles separate.
“Hey Roger. Are you on your way? Barry and Carl are already setting up.”
Roger was out of breath. “I’ve got huge news. Huge. I’m on my way though, I’ll let everyone else know in person. Maya, we’ve got an audition at The Entry!”
Seventh St. Entry was a venue in downtown Minneapolis, which was the heart of the music scene in the Twin Cities. Our band wasn’t amazing, but even getting considered for The Entry was a big deal.
“Are you kidding me,” I gasped. “The Entry!?”
Roger laughed wildly. “It’s in June, and we’ve got an audition slot for their summer showcase. It’s competitive, but it’s something! Listen, I’m heading to your house now. Pretty good birthday news, right?”
I laughed as I hung up the phone. Oddly enough, I was more excited about the audition than I was when I was looking at my robust account. Maybe because playing the guitar was more fun than staring at numbers. I stood up, smoothing my sleek maroon party dress and black overlay before heading upstairs. I was walking on air, and the party hadn’t even started yet!
Mom and Dad had hired caterers who were hauling coolers of drinks and tables, and a few of the girls had volunteered to help decorate. Catherine and her mom in particular were hanging up balloons, and even my boyfriend Jake was being put to work to set up the snack table. I went out to the garage, where I saw Barry and Carl carrying the speakers into the back staircase. Mom was eyeballing them warily as they continued setting up the stage in the backyard.
“How well do you know those boys?” whispered Mom when they were out of earshot. “I don’t really like the looks of them.”
“They’re harmless, Mom. They agreed to do my party for free, after all.” No need to say they did because I was their bandmate and it was the cheapest present possible they could give me.
Mom pursed her lips. “Well, I’d prefer you not spend too much time with boys like that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, mother,” I lied.
It was five o’clock when guests started arriving. I had invited practically every student on the cheerleading squad, student government, and about three different sports teams. I even invited a few of my fellow members of the computer club, though if any of the popular kids asked why they were here, I’d feign ignorance but still be a good hostess. The street was filled with parked cars, and the backyard was quickly filling with socializing teenagers, coolers of pop, and the pumping guitar riffs of Tempest as the crowd began to jump to the beat.
The rest of the night was an absolute smash. Surprisingly, not too much damage was done to the house, though it was probably because Dad kept a close eye on who was wandering around inside the house. He managed to chase off at least three couples who were up to no good in various rooms. At around eight o’clock I stood on the second floor deck as the crowd below me sang Happy Birthday, as Tempest accompanied us on electric guitar.
It was hours later that the party started dying down, and as I held Jake close and softly danced with him I realized just how amazing my life was as Maya. I was rich, had legions of friends, and an amazing boyfriend.
And now I could drive!
***
It was a week after school ended that our audition was scheduled at The Entry. Since the weather warmed up, we started practicing in Barry’s garage instead of the band room a few times a week. Roger and Barry wrote the songs, since I had no clue how to write music. I could play whatever was put in front of me perfectly, though, and I was able to at least smooth out the riffs. Carl, though, mostly hit drums and ate chips.
When the Sunday of our audition arrived, I was once again thankful that I finally had access to a car again. My parents had given me a secondhand Toyota Camry for my birthday, which was a modest choice for a high school student. It would have looked suspicious if I had suddenly bought a brand-new convertible. I told my parents I was spending the day with Jake when I left that afternoon to meet at Roger’s before we drove downtown together.
I suggested to the guys that we should probably have a look for our audition, but they were all content with their dark flannel shirts and shaggy haircuts. I, however, made it a point to go all out with my outfit, something that no one would ever expect an academically-minded girl like Maya to choose. I bought a pair of tight black pants and a black t-shirt that showed my midriff and was a size too small. The only thing keeping my boobs from bursting out of it was a prayer.
I accessorized it with a chain on my left hip, and I wore thick, dark eyeliner. I was concerned that my parents or my classmates would discover my little rockstar life, so I had an idea to keep my anonymity intact. I found a black face mask that covered my lower face, and it had dark laces and small metal studs. Coupled with my eye makeup, it disguised me just enough while also giving me a sort of mysterious vibe.
Seventh St. Entry was a legendary music venue in Minneapolis. A lot of fantastic bands played in their mainroom, including Nirvana and Stone Temple Pilots, and someone even mentioned that Prince played there in the early days. We weren’t trying out for the main room, obviously, as the auditions for their summer showcase were in the smaller room next door in the middle of the day. There were several bands already lined up by the time we got there, and we weren’t the only hopeful youths trying not to look out of place.
We stood in the cramped backstage hallway waiting for our turn as the smell of beer and disinfectant permeated the air as I stood with my Strat slung over my shoulder. I was very nervous, half because of the stagehands shuffling us around like cattle, and half because I very much felt like a lost little girl. I wasn’t going to admit it to anyone, but the mask gave me an odd sense of security.
When it was our turn to go up, we were ushered on stage. Sunlight burst in through some windows, and the only people in the room were four bored-looking judges at a table scribbling notes as we set up. They barely glanced up at us as they murmured among themselves. Eventually, as we stood waiting to be acknowledged, one of the judges spoke up.
“Name of the band?”
“Tempest,” replied Roger into the microphone.
The judge nodded absently. “You’ve got fifteen. Let’s hear it.”
The first song we performed was called “Static Kiss,” which began with a riff that I had been working on for a few weeks. It had an aggressive picking pattern that I poured my intensity into. It was more than a little influenced by Weezer, and if I was being honest had it not been for the guitar sections it was sort of a mediocre song. The second song, called “Headless,” went a little harder, which was more my style since it opened heavy and relentless. It gave me a lot to do, and hit a lot like Monkey Wrench from the Foo Fighters.
The final song, entitled “Exit Strategy,” had more of a Rage Against the Machine feel to it. Roger poured his voice into it, and I was able to match as I grinded out the main theme with a few flourishes of my own. I finished the song furiously raking the strings, ending on a wash of feedback as the song ended. I hadn’t even looked up during the performances, still locked in a wide stance as I leaned into my Strat. I didn’t even realize how exhausted I was.
When I looked up, breathing heavily through my mask, I saw the judges whispering among themselves. A couple of them were gesturing towards me, while the other two were offhandedly noting something on their clipboard and taking another swig of their drinks. I glanced over to Barry, who shrugged in response, while Roger adjusted his mic stand attempting to not look awkward.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” the judge in the middle said, setting his clipboard on the table, before immediately disregarding us and addressing his fellow judges. “Why don’t we break for ten?”
The others immediately nodded, heading off in three different directions. The guys took it as the signal to start making their way off stage. The judge who stayed approached the stage. “Not a bad sound, lady and gentlemen.”
“Thanks,” replied Roger.
“Name’s Mike Steele. I can see you kids put some real work into your set. I gotta be honest though, you may be a bit too green for the summer showcase. But there’s some potential here, and you may just need a bit more time.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a card before handing it to Roger. “Might be able to offer you a few gigs at a smaller venue. Weekday shows, but it would give you an opportunity to get your feet wet. Give me a call.”
Roger looked over the card, with a mix of disappointment and relief that it wasn’t a straight-up rejection. Mike gestured off stage, thanking us once more. The guys headed off stage, as I unslung my guitar to follow them out.
“Miss, may I have a word alone?”
I turned, holding my guitar by the neck in front of me. “Um, sure.”
“That was…quite some guitar playing. Very precise. That phrasing on the first song was incredible. And that picking accuracy on the fast section in that last song was serious work. I even like this masked look of yours, very chic. How old are you, anyway?”
“Sixteen.”
Mike gasped. “You’re sixteen?! How long have you been playing?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “About four years.” Give or take a decade, of course.
He shook his head. “You play like you were born with a guitar in your hands. I can give your band a slot, but I will be honest: I want to see more of what you can do. What’s your name, girl?”
“Maya. Maya Brown.”
“Well, Miss Brown, I hope to hear from you soon,” he said to me with a wolfish grin. “I’m looking forward to hearing from you.”
I thanked him again and hoisted my guitar to head backstage. Almost out of earshot, I heard Mike mutter to himself, “Only sixteen. Unbelievable.”
On the drive back, the guys were abuzz about the audition. Sure, The Entry had been a longshot, but a chance at regular paid gigs—even if it was during the week—wasn’t nothing. Roger was already barking orders from the driver’s seat about stepping up practices and ironing out some of the songs. Barry was already arguing with him, as Carl pulled out a candy bar to munch on while he sat next to me.
I fingered my face mask in my hands. Granted, Tempest was fairly amateur and hadn’t really found a voice yet, but I was uncertain where I wanted to go with all of this. It was fun; really fun if I was completely honest. It was incredible being able to play with others, and I could only imagine what it would be like in front of an actual crowd. So much more compelling than playing alone in my room. It was also very reassuring that I actually was pretty good. Over a decade of playing alone as Matthew and five more as Maya, and it was gratifying to think I could do more.
I smiled to myself, despite crumbs flying from Carl’s mouth to my side of the backseat. Would I be able to keep this a secret, on top of all of my other secrets? It was thrilling, a lot like the thrill I got when I was performing a cheer. More so, since I really got to let it all out when I was playing. I knew I would have to find a way to make it work.