Page 66 of The Girl with No Name

I swivel my head, looking for Henry Cooney or Violet Benson, the people we are supposed to impersonate. I try not to think about how absolutely insane this idea is. “You do your vocal warmups,” I tell Luna, grinning. “And on that note, I’m going to hit the bathroom. Be right back.”

“Okay. I’ll be right here, in this same spot.” She smiles like she hasn’t a care in the world.

Impulsively, I give her a hug. “Luna, I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but you fucking rock. Really. You’re so cool.”

When I step back, she’s blushing.

The drugs are really kicking in now. I can’t tell if they’re going to make it easier or harder to pull off this ridiculousness. When I turn around, I feel like I’m Keanu Reeves inThe Matrix,seeing everything in slow motion. There’s a couple talking, and the woman has her arms crossed. They’re obviously fighting.

Do these drugs enhance my ability to read emotions?

I shake off my curiosity and focus on the mission at hand: make it to the bathroom.I can do this.I turn around one more time and take note of a prominent light pole I can use as a landmark to make my way back to Luna.

She sees me and waves like she’s my mom and it’s my first day of school. For more than a fleeting moment, I can’t stop staring at her. She’s an absolute bombshell. But that’s not why. It’s what’s bubbling beneath the surface of her that intrigues me.

What kind of girl uses a fake name, rolls with the punches with two best friends to go to a concert festival, doesn’t get fazed by usfakingour way into a hotel room, getting surprise-dosed with LSD, and now seems down to fake her way onto the stage?

I whirl around and walk hastily toward the backstage bathroom. There are only a few people in line, and one woman piques my curiosity. I loop around so I can approach her from the front.

She’s dressed in a long-sleeved, white, button-down blouse and black pants. She has a black pixie cut, and she’s smoking a cigarette. I do a double take. Is this the drugs, or is she dressed precisely like a certain character from a Quentin Tarantino movie? I blink for a few seconds, then open my eyes again.

Same outfit. Maybe this isn’t the drugs. I approach her. “Uh, excuse me. Are you…Uma Thurman?” I ask.

She laughs. “You got it. Mia Wallace is her name in that movie.”

I nod. “Far out. Well, nice to meet you, uh, Mia.”

“Mia. I like that name.”

“Do you have a real name?” The words tumble out of my mouth. “Uh, I’m sure you have a name. I mean…my name’s Reed.”

“Nice to meet you, Reed. You’re something else.” She cocks her head, as if examining me. “Do you always approach women dressed like movie stars?”

I’m not sure what to say, but I find myself speaking again. “Do you want to dance, Mia? A little twist?”

She laughs again, louder this time.

I’m not even operating as myself anymore.Yep. This is definitely the drugs, now. Thanks, CC.

“We’ll see…” she says.

But what she doesn’t know is that I have the Chuck Berry song from John Travolta and Uma Thurman’sPulp Fictiondance down pat. I went through a Chuck Berry phase, as well as a Quinton Tarantino phase, so when the two converged, I was all over it.

I start singing. I start twisting. I’m not as good as Travolta, but I think I do all right.

“Aw, hell. Why not?” she says after a moment and starts twisting right along with me. Her face stays impassive, just like Uma’s in the movie, but she’s highly skilled.“You’re pretty good,” she comments. “You said your name was Reed?”

“Yeah. Reed Walker. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Vi,” she says.

“Ha, Vi. Like Violet Benson.”

She grins as I take her hand. “You got it.”

My blood pressure spikes, and I stop my twist. “Wait.You’reViolet Benson?”

She nods. “Last time I checked.”

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