I stood in the doorway of Jeannie’s room, my sneakers scuffing against the hardwood floor, feeling like I’d stepped into a different world. Jeannie—Scott’s little sister—bounced around the room, her blonde hair tied up in a high ponytail, the vibrant color matching her energy as she tugged at the sleeve of her casual grey V-neck shirt. The walls were pstered with 1980s music posters—Madonna striking a pose, The Cure’s Robert Smith staring broodily, and a vibrant Duran Duran poster catching the light—and her vanity table was a chaotic explosion of makeup and brushes. Her closet door hung open, spilling out a rainbow of clothes, and a pile of skirts and tops was already spread across her bed, her excitement practically vibrating the air.

  “This is gonna be so much fun!” she said, cpping her hands as she held up a skirt with a sheer floral outer yer over an opaque inner one. “I’ve always wanted to do a makeover like this. Look at this—it’s so dreamy and yered, don’t you think?”

  I nodded, my throat tight, my hands fidgeting with the hem of my oversized band tee. I was still in my jeans, my sandy-brown hair loose around my shoulders, but I felt out of pce in this feminine space. A few days ago, in the van, I’d agreed to try the “girl in the band” gimmick—just once, I’d told myself. But now, standing here with Jeannie’s whirlwind of energy swirling around me, the reality of it hit hard. What was I even doing?

  Jeannie didn’t notice my hesitation, already pulling out more options. “Or this one,” she said, holding up a tiered skirt with ruffles. “It’s super trendy—lots of movement, great for the stage. Oh, and this!” She grabbed a pid, pleated tartan skirt, her eyes lighting up. “I love how cssic and punk this looks. Pid, pleats—I’m obsessed. What do you think, Danny?”

  My head spun as she piled more clothes onto the bed—yered, tiered, pleated, floral, her rapid-fire suggestions blurring together. I couldn’t help but be drawn to them, though. Jeannie had good taste, everything with a casual-cute vibe I’d love to try if I knew how. But the choices overwhelmed me—I didn’t know where to start or how to put it together. “I don’t even know where to start,” I admitted, my voice small, a pang of inadequacy twisting in my chest. I was already the weakest musician in the band—now I couldn’t even handle this?

  I gnced at the pile, my eyes catching on a couple of things. I pointed to the pleated tartan skirt, remembering how it felt when I’d worn it for Halloween, and the sheer floral yered skirt, intrigued by its delicate look. “I… I like these, I guess,” I said hesitantly, unsure if my choices made sense.

  Jeannie paused, her hands stilling as she noticed the slight panic in my eyes. “Okay, let’s slow down,” she said with a kind smile, setting down the clothes and patting the spot next to her on the bed. I sat, the mattress dipping under me, and she turned to face me. “We need to focus on what’ll look best on you. It’s about your body type.”

  She looked me over, her gaze thoughtful. “I hope it’s okay me saying, but you’re really tiny for a guy,” she said gently. “I think we’re about the same size.”

  I nodded, my cheeks warming. “I had health issues when I was little,” I said quietly. “By the time I was cured, I missed out on a lot of growth, I guess.” I didn’t go into details—I never did with people I didn’t know well. My congenital heart defect, surgeries, and time spent in the hospital—a story for another time.

  Jeannie’s expression softened, and she continued, “You’re svelte, with little in the way of curves—no hips, no chest, just a slender frame. This one,” she said, picking up the pleated tartan skirt, “it’ll give you some shape. The pleats fre out, so it’ll make your hips look wider—perfect for the stage.”

  I bit my lip, still unsure, but Jeannie’s tone was warm, reassuring. “I’m not curvy either,” she admitted with a ugh, gesturing to her own slim frame. “I’m pretty straight up and down too. That’s why I wear stuff like this—it works for me, and I think it’ll look great on you too.” Her kindness eased the knot in my chest, making me feel less alone. I was used to being completely invisible to girls as pretty as Jeannie, but Jeannie was different. She was always friendly to me—it surprised me every time. She was a high school senior, a year younger than me, but when it came to clothes, makeup, and all that, it felt like she was years older than me.

  Jeannie helped me slip into the pleated tartan skirt, pairing it with a simple bck top that tucked in to emphasize the skirt’s shape. “Shoes next,” she said, rummaging through her closet. She pulled out a pair of bck ballet fts, holding them up with a smile. “These would look so cute with the skirt.”

  I hesitated, gncing at my own sneakers. “I’d really like to wear tennis shoes,” I said, my voice tentative. “I’m on my feet for hours during a gig, and I need to feel stable while carrying the guitar and equipment around.”

  Jeannie’s eyes lit up. “I’ve got just the thing!” she said, pulling out a pair of red tennis shoes. “Look, these go perfectly with the skirt, and they’re super comfortable!” She handed them to me with some bulky socks, and I slipped them on, the socks bunching around my ankles. She stepped back, grinning. “The skirt and tennis shoes—it’s a feminine-grunge look, perfect for the Seattle rock scene.”

  I turned to the mirror, my heart pounding as I took in the outfit—the fred skirt, the tucked-in top, the red tennis shoes adding a pop of color. I felt self-conscious, a wave of worry washing over me that I looked ridiculous, like a kid pying dress-up. But Jeannie cpped her hands, her smile wide. “You look great, Daniele!” she said, using the feminine form of my name for the first time.

  Her words broke through my doubt, and I rexed, the tension in my shoulders easing. I looked again, and this time, I let myself enjoy how I looked—the shape the skirt gave me, the casual edge of the tennis shoes. A smile tugged at my lips, small at first, then growing as I took it all in. Jeannie noticed, her eyes softening. “It’s cute, huh?” she said, her voice warm.

  “Yeah,” I said, my excitement bubbling up before I could stop it. But then it hit me—as a guy, I wasn’t supposed to like being dressed like this. The thought sobered me, my smile faltering for a moment, but Jeannie was already moving on, turning to her vanity.

  “Now, let’s start on makeup,” she said, picking up a tube of mascara and motioning for me to sit at her vanity. I sat, the chair creaking under me, and she leaned in, her touch gentle as she brushed the mascara onto my shes. “Just a little for now,” she said, her voice soothing. “We’ll work up to the full stage look for the gig.”

  As she worked, my eyes wandered to the Duran Duran poster on the wall, the band’s vibrant colors catching my attention. “Oh my gosh, you like Duran Duran?” I asked, a grin spreading across my face.

  Jeannie ughed, her eyes sparkling. “Are you kidding? They’re the best.” She started singing, her voice light and pyful, “Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand…”

  I couldn’t help but join in, my alto blending with her soprano in harmony, “Just like that river twistin’ through a dusty nd. And when she shines, she really shows you all she can...” Our voices filled the room, and ughter broke out as we finished the line, the tension I’d been carrying melting away in the shared moment.

  “You know, that didn’t sound bad,” I said, still smiling, my cheeks warm from ughing.

  Jeannie nodded vigorously, her ponytail bouncing with the motion, her grin as wide as mine. I remembered Logan’s suggestion in the van that Jeannie join the band. Her light soprano voice, like a ray of sunshine, would brighten our vocals. Logan was right—once we start making money, it would be great to sing with her.

  Jeannie picked up a lip gloss, her focus returning to the makeup lesson, but the warmth of our duet lingered, a quiet promise of what we could create together. My heart raced, the name Daniele settling over me like a new skin. Fear of the unknown lingered, but there was something else too—a flicker of excitement at how I looked and sounded as Daniele. I thought back to the van, Logan’s plea, and my own desire to contribute to the band. I can do this, I whispered to myself, a tentative step toward embracing the gimmick, even if just for one gig.