Page 46 of The Girl with No Name

“That’s hella deep. Luna—c’mon, what’s your real name? Tell me.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t tell you until I know myself.”

“When will you be ready for rebirth?”

“I’ll know when I know.”

“You really are strange.”

“I know. I’m okay with that.”

“I didn’t mean that in a bad way. Sorry if it sounded like that.”

She puffs the cigarette one more time, then puts it out in the ashtray on the picnic table. “When you were little, what was your dream?” she asks.

“My dream?”

“Or when you were a little kid, did you tell yourself, ‘I want to work in cybersecurity.’”

“Hell, I didn’t even know what cybersecuritywaswhen I was a little kid. What was yours?”

She smiles and looks up at the moon, which seems as full as it was last night. It’s almost completely round.

“I wanted to be a mom.”

“That’s it?” I blanch. “Shit, that came out rude. I mean, that’s an important job. Obviously. I think that’s great. It’s just, women have fought for rights to be able to do more than that.”

“And I want that, too. I want it all. But I just wanted to be a mom. I loved my dolls. I know that’s the most basic answer ever. But it’s the truth. Well, that and have a huge garden.”

I nod. “A mom with a huge garden. I like that.”

“Thanks. I don’t talk about it a lot. Sometimes I think that one will never happen, either.”

We continue to sit on top of the picnic table, in that random back alley, and a silence falls over us.

I’ve been trying to describe this girl’s “look” to myself, and in a moment of clarity I’m finally able articulate the paradox: She doesn’t lookreal.

Okay, I know she’sreal, but she seems like the child of some distant cousin of Earthlings. She’s strikingly gorgeous, but a little clunky and awkward as well. I could see it in the way she moved on the dance floor, the way she speaks, even the way she smoked.

So no, she’s not unreal in the sense that she looks plastic; she has a very natural look—dark, medium eyebrows; wavy, dark brown hair. Tonight she’s wearing a flannel shirt over a tank with the sleeves rolled up, short shorts, and cowgirl boots.

Almost unconsciously, I reach out and poke her forearm.

“Hey. What’s that for?”

“Oh. Nothing.”Just wanted to make sure you were real.“My dream…” I clear my throat. “…was to be a rock star.”

“Mmm…” She nods. “Tell me more.”

“I’ve always loved music, since I was little. I was drawn to it. I’d sit in my room alone for hours listening to different CDs,making mixes on my iPod to share with my friends. After I got my first guitar, I started playing and singing myself.”

“So why didn’t you do it?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I started a band with my cousin, and then, you know…”

She puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

“My dad always preached the safe path,” I continue after a moment. “Get good grades. Go to a good college. Get a stable job. So I did that instead. But I haven’t given up completely—I still write songs all the time. It’s just relegated to this corner of my soul. I keep the dream alive, though I know I’ll probably never achieve it. I mean, I’m twenty-seven. I don’t have a band. I don’t have anything. But writing keeps me sane. Or maybe makes me more insane.”

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