Let's Try Something Different

  {{ A few weeks earlier }}

  Logan: I thought love was only true in fairy tales. Meant for someone else but not for me.

  Logan’s voice rang out clear and strong, a solo opening to The Monkeys’ tune. I joined in on the harmony, my alto weaving above his baritone.

  Danny & Logan: Love was out to get me.

  I’m Danny, rhythm guitar and backup vocals for a struggling cover band. I’ve known Logan since we were kids. I learned rhythm guitar just so I could py along with his amazing lead. I learned to sing harmony so I could sing along… you get it. If Logan was the sun, I was the moon.

  I scanned the bar—twenty or so customers scattered around, but only a couple even gnced our way. A woman near the back yawned, turning to her friends mid-chorus. I forced a smile, lips tight. We sounded good—tight, practiced—but something was missing. The st set of the night couldn’t end soon enough. I was bone-tired, and the empty stares weren’t helping.

  When the song faded out, I wiped my hands on my old jeans, the denim faded and fraying at the knees. We packed up in near silence. Scott coiled his bass cables with sharp, jerky movements. Kyle dismantled his drum kit methodically, eyes down. Logan slung his guitar over his shoulder, jaw set. I snapped my case shut and slipped away to the men’s room, ducking into a stall. Never used the urinals—too exposed.

  Voices echoed off the tiles as Scott and Kyle walked in.

  “Kyle, any chance they need a bass pyer too?” Scott’s tone was half-joking, half-serious.

  “Look, Scott, I haven’t even told them I’m interested,” Kyle replied, his voice low but steady.

  “But you didn’t say you’re not interested, right? It’s a big opportunity, man. And let’s be honest—Logan’s band is on the fast train to nowhere.”

  My stomach twisted. They’re thinking of leaving? I held my breath, suddenly ashamed to be eavesdropping, but too stunned to move. The door creaked as they left, and when the silence settled, I cautiously left the stall and stepped to the sink. “This band is all I really have,” I said to my reflection in the mirror. I pushed my hair back. It was long now, long enough to push behind my shoulders. The lettering on my bck Guns N’ Roses t-shirt was illegible, but I couldn’t afford to repce it. Shitty gigs, te nights, practically no money, but the band was all I had. If Kyle and Scott bailed, what was left?

  Back at the van, we crammed in with the gear—amps stacked precariously in the back, my guitar case wedged against my knees, the sharp edge digging into my shin. Logan took the wheel, pulling onto the freeway with a lurch, the hum of the engine mixing with the rhythmic thump of tires on asphalt. The air smelled of stale fast food and sweat, the windows fogged from our collective exhaustion after a ckluster gig at The Rusty Nail. Outside, the freeway lights blurred past in streaks of orange, casting fleeting shadows across our faces.

  Logan broke the silence, his voice cutting through the drone of the road. “Guys, we need to talk. This isn’t working. We gotta change things up. Any ideas?”

  The hum of the engine filled the silence, the van rattling slightly as we hit a rough patch of pavement. No one spoke. My mind raced, grasping for something—anything—to keep us together. “The Beatles,” I blurted, just to cut the tension, my breath fogging the window beside me. “Everybody loves The Beatles. We could py their stuff.”

  Scott snorted from the back, his voice sharp as he shifted against a speaker. “Danny, we’ve got covers from the ‘60s to the 2000s. All cssics. It’s not the songs—we barely made fifty bucks tonight after splitting it four ways.”

  Logan gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles whitening. “I’ve said it before, and it got shot down, but maybe we try it just once. We bring Jeannie in. She—”

  “Logan, my sister’s nothing special on keys,” Scott cut in, his tone edged with frustration, his fingers tapping restlessly on his knee. “And her voice? Good for harmonies, but not strong enough for lead. Plus, a fifth member means splitting the cash five ways. After gas and food, we’re looking at, what, ten bucks each for this gig?”

  “That’s not the point,” Logan snapped, his irritation fring as he shot a gnce at Scott in the rearview mirror. “Jeannie’s got… presence. She’s pretty. People would notice her.”

  Scott barked a ugh, the sound harsh in the cramped van. “You want my sister for eye candy? She’s got that, sure. But if that’s all you’re after, why not stick Danny in a skirt?”

  I scoffed, a quick “Yeah, right,” escaping before I could stop it, my voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. But the van went quiet. Too quiet. I gnced around—Scott smirked, Logan’s eyes flicked to me in the rearview mirror, catching the glow of a passing streetlight, and Kyle shifted in his seat, staring out the window at the dark shapes of trees whipping by. Wait, are they actually considering this? My chest tightened, a mix of disbelief and something else—something I couldn’t name.

  Kyle spoke up, his voice soft but deliberate, his breath fogging the window beside him. “Yeah, remember that Halloween thing? Couple years back, before we were even a band. Danny dressed up as Pat Benatar.” He paused, then added, “Looked pretty convincing.”

  Logan nodded slowly, a spark lighting in his eyes, his voice tinged with a growing excitement. “I remember. Danny, you were—”

  “No way,” I cut in, sharper than I meant, my voice barely audible over the hum of the van’s engine. Not again. That Halloween had been a ugh—Jeannie’s makeup, her old skirt, everyone at the party saying I could pass. I’d enjoyed the attention, the way people’s eyes lit up, their compliments making my chest buzz with a strange thrill, like I was someone new and captivating. But it had also felt… scary, like I was revealing a part of myself that I’d long ago learned to keep hidden, to pretend didn’t exist. Now, years ter, the memory stirred something I couldn’t ignore. Could I really do something like that on stage? Every night? My throat went dry just thinking about it.

  I shifted uncomfortably, the guitar case digging into my knees, the cold gss of the window pressing against my shoulder as I gnced around at my bandmates. No one ever said it out loud, but I knew I was the weakest link in the band—everyone did. Logan, Kyle, and Scott were stronger musicians, their skills honed over years I could never match. Logan’s riffs were effortless, Kyle’s drumming precise, and Scott’s basslines always locked in perfectly.

  When the band first formed, it was bad. If I couldn’t py a chord or a sequence, Logan would come up with a simplified version, and the band would work around it. I’ve worked hard at getting better, but I’m still not the guitarist the band deserves, and I know it. The one thing I had in my favor was my voice—it blended well with Logan’s, our harmonies coming naturally despite my ck of technical skill. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was holding the band back, a quiet fear I’d never dared to voice. And now… this? Dressing as a girl might be a way to finally contribute something unique, but the thought made my stomach churn with both dread and a flicker of curiosity.

  “Look,” Logan said, his tone firm now, almost pleading, as he adjusted the rearview mirror. “We’re dying out there. Bars don’t care about another cover band. We need something to stand out, or we’re done. Kyle’s got that other offer—don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it.”

  Kyle flinched but didn’t deny it, his reflection in the window showing a flicker of guilt. “I’m sticking with you guys unless we call it quits. That’s all I’ll say.”

  The weight of his words sank in, heavier than the gear pressing against us. Scott leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice quieter now. “I’m not pressuring you, Danny. But Logan’s right—we’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “Except my dignity,” I muttered, crossing my arms, the cold gss of the window pressing against my shoulder. But their faces—Logan’s desperation, Scott’s resignation, Kyle’s quiet hope—stayed with me. The van felt smaller, the air thick with unspoken ultimatums, the faint smell of gasoline seeping in from the gear.

  Logan gnced back again, his voice softer, his eyes catching mine in the dim light. “Just one gig. Try it. If it flops, we’ll figure something else out.”

  I didn’t answer. But in all the years I’d known Logan, when he looked me in the eyes like that, I couldn’t say no to him. A skirt? The idea stuck like a burr, ridiculous and terrifying and—somewhere deep down—intriguing, echoing that Halloween night when I’d felt seen in a way I never had before. I stared out the window, the freeway lights blurring into streaks of orange, and wondered how the hell I’d gotten here.