FicWad

It had been a tiring day. The rest of the week was going to be hectic, it was only Tuesday, but it would hopefully be a good hectic. Like I-feel-like-I'm-in-a-bubbly-warm-whirlwind hectic.

I'm sure my hair would come out in a better state if I was caught in a whirlwind. For the first time since I was fifteen, I was sent to a professional hairdresser who thought putting multicolored streaks in my blonde hair would look 'edgy.' Because lead singers are supposed to be 'edgy.' Who knew? I guess my bandmates weren't allowed to be edgy. Poor them. They have hair that is not gay friendly. Also, I now have bangs that fall into my face every damn time I move. It's annoying as hell.

"I mean, how is that even a relevant question? 'Does your mother approve of your offensive tattoos?' "

"I don’t know, Fran. Maybe she was jealous of your pinup girl shooting at a man." My hair fell into my face, and I tried to tuck it behind my ear.

"Maybe she didn't appreciate your rad hair. Of course she liked it when you mocked her, who wouldn't, ya know?"

"Shut up, Fran."

"Respect your elder."

"Respect your lead singer."

"I can't respect anyone with hair that's gayer than I am."

"Shut up, Fran."

And all was right again. That's how it went with Fran and I. She was my friend. My accomplice, my sister. We were by blood too, since we both got in a bar fight, with other people, of course, when we were sixteen. It's a much better story than when boys cut their hands and hold them together to become blood brothers. She held her bloody knuckles to my bloody lip and we smiled while standing over the guys we fought.

I was the one that needed to be brought back down to earth most of the time, though. Not because the fame (tiny fame?) had gotten to my head, but because I just got caught up in life and in my head more often than the normal person.

She was the one that needed to take care of everyone because she is our band mother. Unless you count Erik, our manager. He is our band father and is more like a disciplinarian that only cares about making you a better person. 'If you just play some shows where you don't try to use sarcasm with a bunch of kids that won't get it and find it offensive while you find it amusing, I'm just saying that it might be nice to try. Or I could book you at another rich kid's birthday party.'

My bangs fell into my face again and I made a low, growling noise, followed by Fran huffing, grabbing a bobby pin out of the ash tray and tucking my hair out of my face. See? Just like a mommy.

"Hey, Rita?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you hope kids like our new album as much as I do? 'Cause, I'm trying the whole, 'I'm proud of it, so it doesn't matter if anyone else likes it' thing and I still want people to like it."

"I want people to like it too. Like when you make a new friend that you want your old friends to meet, but you get nervous that your old friends won't like them, and they'll get mad at you for it. But, then deep down you know your old friends so well that you know they'll like that new friend. Like…"

"I get it, Rita. Nice analogy, but focus on the traffic, please. You almost side-swiped that blue jeep."

"Yeah, well, yellow jeeps are better."

"Thanks. I miss my yellow jeep."

"Me too. That X-Ray Spex tape you made that got stuck in the tape player was awesome. Hey, do you think bobby pins lying around loose in the car would pose a hazard if we crashed?"

"Probably." She took the other three pins and put them in the glove box.