“Our friend is here,” a whisper says, “But we really don’t like her. Even if she has a quilted MJ bag. She’s really toxic.”
Slowly, five heads turn to watch.
The MJ bag is a sight, and I can’t quite get past it to look at the girl. Any of them, actually.
Then a chord snaps our focus front, and a drummer crashes the symbols, then crashes to the floor.
“That’s what you get when you try to be cool,” laughs the front man.
A split second before they start, I wonder what I’m missing, then snap back to the boys with guitars, every note sounding more and more like something I’ve already never heard.
[ERIN QUINN - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]