On Wednesday, Steph, Mel, and Lisa were late, so I had plenty of time to second-guess why I was going out with them. I didn’t know them at all, and although I’d never gone to an open mic and had little idea what it would be like, I was somehow sure it would mean listening to terrible amateur singers, like American Idol auditions in person. If Tasha or Haley had asked me why I agreed to go, I would have lied and told them I had nothing better to do.

  While I waited for Steph and the others to arrive, I worried about my outfit, scrutinizing my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I’d put on rolled-up jean shorts and a slouchy white blouse, but I wasn’t sure if it was right for an open mic in Fairfax. I thought about wearing something else, but my wardrobe choices were limited, and then Analemma started to bark. I grabbed my purse and went down to the front door, which Joan was already opening. Analemma plunged outside and I heard Steph greeting her.

  “You never told me you sing,” Joan was saying.

  I came outside to see Steph give Joan a slightly embarrassed smile. “It just never came up, I guess.”

  “Sometime you’ll have to sing for me,” Joan said.

  Steph seemed even more embarrassed now. “Sure, yeah.” She straightened up and said to me, “Sorry we’re late.”

  “No worries,” I said. “Bye, Joan.”

  “Have a good time,” she replied.

  “Bye,” Steph said.

  Joan called Analemma back inside, and Steph and I started down the path toward the street. She was wearing faded jeans and a gray T-shirt printed with a black tattoo-like illustration of a bird that wrapped around her shoulder. She looked so much like a boy—a cute boy. I wondered what Haley and Tasha would think of her.

  “We’re going out to eat after,” Steph said. “Probably somewhere in Fairfax. That okay with you?”

  “Sure.”

  Just outside the green gate, the white Golf was parked on the side of the road, the engine still running, and I saw Lisa in the driver’s seat. The back door popped open as I approached.

  “Hello,” Mel said.

  I climbed in as Steph took the passenger seat. My feet bumped into a giant purse and an empty soda can.

  “Sorry about that; you can move it out of your way,” Lisa said, turning down the stereo. I didn’t recognize the music; it was sort of country, sung by a woman with a raspy voice.

  “That’s okay.” I nudged the bag over and pulled the door closed.

  As Lisa began to turn the car around on the narrow road, a phone chimed. “That’s mine,” Lisa said. “Can someone get my phone out of my bag?”

  “Here,” I said, picking up the bulging bag and gingerly stuffing it through the gap between the two front seats.

  “Who is it?” Mel asked. “Is Joey bailing?”

  “Actually, yeah,” Steph said.

  “I knew it,” Mel said.

  “I told her it was important to you,” Lisa said. “I’m sorry, baby.”

  “She’s bailing because there’s something happening in the Castro,” Steph said. “There’s a street party because of the decision.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet,” Lisa murmured.

  Steph turned toward her. “Do you want to go?”

  “We have your open mic, baby. I don’t want you to miss it.” Lisa put her hand on Steph’s thigh.

  I looked at Mel and asked, “What happened? What decision?”

  “The Supreme Court overturned Proposition Eight,” Mel said. “Gay marriage is legal in California now.”

  I didn’t know much about gay marriage, but I remembered when it had been legalized in Massachusetts because my dad and I had gone to a lesbian wedding in Cape Cod. They were grad-school friends of my dad’s, and it was the first wedding I’d ever attended. I was nine years old. Both brides wore long white gowns, and when they kissed at the end of the ceremony, it was like seeing one woman reflected in a mirror.

  “That’s great news,” I said now.

  Mel wrinkled her nose. “Marriage is a tool of the patriarchy and gays getting married just buys into the system.”

  I had no idea what to say to that.

  “Tell us how you really feel,” Steph joked.

  “Just because you hate marriage doesn’t mean everybody does,” Lisa said.

  “I don’t hate marriage,” Mel said. “I just think it’s not for everyone.”

  Mel’s phone chimed and she pulled it out of her shorts pocket. I realized the tattoos on her forearms weren’t flowers; they looked more like cabbages.

  “Roxy says hi,” Mel said as she typed a text message.

  “You two talking again?” Steph asked.

  “Yeah.” Mel glanced at me. “Roxy’s my ex.”

  “Oh,” I said. I had assumed Mel was gay, but it was still a surprise to get this confirmation so directly. After Mel put away her phone, I pointed to her tattoos and asked, “Are those cabbages?”

  Mel grinned and stretched her arms out to show me. “Yeah. Some cabbages, and also you see carrots here underneath? They’re not finished yet. I still have to add chiles and tomatillos, some tomatoes, too. All my favorite vegetables. Doing the red stuff will be another pass.”

  “Why vegetables?”

  “I’m training to be a chef. I work at Rosa Masala in San Rafael. Do you know it?”

  “No, but I don’t know that many places around here.”

  “It’s a Mexican-Indian fusion restaurant. Rosa, the owner, is half Mexican and half Indian. I’m a prep cook now but I plan to open my own restaurant someday.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “You have any tats?”

  “No.”

  “They’d look good on you. Flowers, maybe.” Mel ran a finger lightly up my arm and shoulder. “Some peonies right here.”

  I thought she was flirting with me, and it felt kind of nice.

  * * *

  —

  The Bolinas Café was a little more than half full when we arrived. There was a low stage on one side of the room, a counter at the back where food could be ordered, and about a dozen square tables throughout. The crowd was more mixed in age than I expected, ranging from a couple of kids who had come with their parents all the way to a few gray-haired hippies. The place smelled like coffee laced with onion bagels, and the front windows were open to the darkening evening while the ceiling fans whirred overhead.

  “I’m gonna go sign up,” Steph said as we entered, and she edged around me, the guitar case on her back bumping against my arm.

  “Let’s get that table by the window,” Mel said. Lisa and I followed, but the table only had two chairs. Lisa quickly dropped her giant purse on one of them while Mel went to take two more from another table.

  “I’m getting a coffee,” Lisa said, pulling her wallet out of her purse. “You guys want anything?”

  Mel dug a billfold from her pocket and fished out a five. “Get me a mocha?”

  Lisa glanced at me questioningly, but I shook my head. “I don’t know yet. You go ahead.” I picked up the laminated menu on the table and looked at the beverages. There were a zillion kinds of tea in addition to coffee, each with their country of origin listed.

  Mel took a seat by the window, so I sat down beside her, across from Lisa’s purse. “Have you been here before?” I asked.

  “No, but Steph has played here a couple times. She didn’t tell us, though. She said it was for practice.”

  “So is this new for her? Performing in public, I mean.”

  “No, she used to be in a band with Roxy. That’s how I met Roxy actually. But Steph’s not in the band anymore.” Mel straightened up then and waved at someone behind me. “Steph! Over here!”

  I turned to see Steph weaving her way through the tables toward us.

  “Did you get a slot?” Mel asked.

  Steph placed her guitar case on the floor, partly beneath the table. “Yeah, but I’m going next to last. Where’s Lis?”

  “She went to get coffee,” Mel said.

  “I’m gonna get a water. Do you want anything?” Steph looked at me and Mel.

  “Lisa got me,” Mel said.

  “Sure, a chai?” I said. I opened my purse to pull out some money but Steph waved it off.

  “I’ll get it. Be right back.”

  Steph went to stand in line, and I put away my wallet. I saw Mel smirking at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “Nothing,” Mel said.

  The look on her face told me she was holding something back, but before I could ask, a white woman in a shapeless linen dress and Birkenstocks stepped onstage and tapped the mic. “Good evening, Bolinas Café!” A spotlight snapped on, slightly delayed, lighting up her curly gray hair.

  A half-hearted round of applause greeted her.

  “We’re going to need more enthusiasm than that,” she scolded us. “Let’s try that again. Good evening, Bolinas Café!”

  I clapped this time, and Mel whistled.

  “That’s better! I’m Linda Goode, your open mic host, and we’ve got an amazing lineup for you tonight! First up, and making her Bolinas Café Open Mic debut, is Fairfax’s own Lexie Anderson. Lexie, come on down!”

  A woman with bright blue hair made her way through the café, holding a banjo. Lisa rejoined us and handed Mel her mocha as Lexie stepped into the spotlight.

  “Hello, Fairfax!” Lexie Anderson said, smiling. “I’ve got a couple of bluegrass songs for you tonight. The first is called ‘Edge of the River.’ ”

  She launched into a lively number on the banjo and then began to sing in a bright, sweet voice. She was good, and it surprised me. Now I wasn’t sure why I’d been certain the open mic would be terrible. Mel seemed a little surprised, too. When she caught me looking at her, she winked, which made me smile.

  As Lexie finished her second song, Steph returned with her bottle of water and my chai. “Thanks,” I said. As I took the large white mug, Lisa shot me a surreptitious look. I blew on the foamy top before I took a sip, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Steph lean back in her chair and put her arm around Lisa’s shoulders. She seemed to relax a bit.

  There were five more performances before Steph. They were all decent, and a couple were really great. One duo—a singer in a green velvet dress, accompanied by another woman playing a fiddle—were so good they got an encore. Across the table, Lisa leaned over to Steph and whispered something in her ear. Steph had been watching the duo onstage, but now she cast her eyes down and looked a little nervous. I wondered if she had stage fright.

  My mother never seemed to be afflicted by it. She relished performing live, and she always seemed to be in control of her performance; every last gesture was choreographed. Some critics called her too calculating, a little false. She told me they didn’t understand. She wasn’t false; she was larger than life. That was the point, she said, of opera.

  Applause rippled through the café, and Steph leaned down to unlatch her guitar case. Her eyelashes were dark against the pale skin of her cheek. And then Linda Goode called her name, and Steph got up, throwing the strap of her guitar over her left shoulder. The café had filled over the last hour, and it took Steph a minute to make her way through the crowd. By now night had fallen completely, and the overhead lights had been dimmed, leaving only a few pools of brightness over the back counter and on the stage. Steph stepped into the spotlight and smiled.

  “Hi, Fairfax,” she said, pretty low-key. “I’m Steph Nichols.”

  Lisa whistled, and there was a smattering of applause from the audience. I joined in while Steph strummed a couple of chords on her guitar. The movement of her hand and forearm caused the koi tattoo to wriggle as if it were alive. She began to pluck out a wistful melody, and then, without further introduction, she leaned into the microphone and started to sing.

  Her voice was soft and edged with roughness at the same time. The song she sang was about two kids who picked wild blackberries together during the height of summer, but as they grew up, their friendship changed.

  “You never said you loved me

  But I know you well enough to know

  You don’t have to say it for me to hear it

  I can hear you even so.”

  Longing bloomed inside me, a sweet ache that I was embarrassed to feel. I didn’t know Steph at all. I had never been attracted to girls before. And yet here was this girl—this very confusing human being—and here was my body responding to her. A heated flush across my skin; my pulse leaping. Her voice was like a hook in me. I felt as if everyone near me must be able to tell.

  I shrank back in my chair and forced myself to look away from the stage. I made the mistake of glancing across the table at Lisa, and of course Lisa was gazing at Steph with a single-minded focus, as if Steph were the answer to every question. There was a great intimacy in her expression, and my embarrassment at my own reaction changed to embarrassment at witnessing Lisa’s. I hastily looked down at the table and saw my mug of chai. I picked it up and took another sip, but it was cold by now, and the bittersweet dregs were gritty on my tongue.

  * * *

  —

  After the open mic ended, Lisa was exultant. “You did so good,” she gushed, pulling Steph close to kiss her. Steph seemed a little self-conscious, and I wondered if it was Lisa’s praise or the public kiss that made her face pink.

  Everyone was getting up now, either going to the counter to buy another drink or heading out to another show.

  “Let’s go eat,” Mel said, coming around to slap Steph on the shoulder. “That was great. I didn’t know you’d finished that song.”

  “Yeah, just last week. I think it works.”

  A girl came up to Steph as we headed out of the café, touching her arm. “Hey, Steph Nichols,” she called. “I loved your set.”

  We all turned to look at her. She was pretty, with honey-blond hair in a long ponytail pulled over one shoulder, wearing a pink-and-yellow-flowered sundress.

  “Thanks,” Steph said.

  “I’d love to talk to you about your songwriting,” she said, smiling, and I realized she was hitting on Steph.

  “I’d love to, but I can’t stay,” Steph said, moving away from the girl. “My girlfriend and I are heading out.”

  The girl’s gaze traveled over Mel, me, and Lisa, dismissing Mel and then hesitating between me and Lisa. “Oh.” She twined her fingers through the end of her ponytail and smiled again, equal parts carefree and calculated. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I come here a lot.”

  Steph looked uncomfortable. “Good luck with your songwriting,” she said politely, and we continued toward the door.

  As we exited the café, I heard Lisa say, “I knew it.”

  “You don’t need to worry,” Steph said.

  “I’m not worried,” Lisa said, sounding testy. “I just need a drink.”

  “Lis—”

  Lisa started to walk away, and a frustrated expression flashed across Steph’s face. She hurried to catch up with her, grabbing Lisa’s hand. I saw Lisa stiffen slightly—almost as if she wanted to pull away—but then she relented, and Mel and I followed the two of them away from the café.

  * * *

  —

  At the Fairfax Grille, we were seated at a table tucked in the back corner of the busy dining room. As I looked at the menu, I realized I’d been here before with my grandparents. There were a bunch of burgers named for places in California: the San Francisco (blue cheese and caramelized onions), the Marin (avocado and microgreens), the San Rafael (pepper jack and salsa), and the Fairfax (a black bean and brown rice veggie burger).

  “Where’s the server?” Lisa asked. “I’m going to the bar. Can you order me a medium cheddar burger when they get here?”

  “Sure,” Steph said.

  “Will you get me a beer?” Mel asked.

  “I’m not the server,” Lisa said. “Come get your own.”

  Mel grumbled but got up to follow her. She glanced at me and Steph and asked, “You two want anything from the bar?”

  Steph shook her head. “I’m driving.”

  “No thanks,” I said. I wasn’t sure if Mel knew how old I was. I wondered whether I should tell her, but that seemed so childish, like a three-year-old announcing their age.

  “Will you get me the San Francisco burger?” Mel said over her shoulder.

  “Yep,” Steph said. Then she looked at me. “So what did you think of the open mic?”

  “I liked it,” I said. “I’ve never been to one before, so I didn’t know what to expect, but it was really great. I liked your song. You wrote it, right?”

  She smiled at me, and the corners of her eyes crinkled. “Yeah, I wrote it.”

  “Was it autobiographical?” I immediately wanted to take it back—Dad was always irritated when people asked him if his books were autobiographical.

  Steph laughed shortly, as if she’d gotten that question before.

  “Sorry, I—”

  She shook her head. “It’s okay. Maybe some of it. But by the time I’ve really worked on a song, whatever’s true to my own life is mostly gone. The song isn’t about me, even if it started out that way. Besides, I think it would be hard to perform them in public if they were really about me. It would feel too confessional. But I also feel like all songs should feel a little autobiographical, except not only for the singer—for the listener, too. They should connect with it on a personal level, as if it happened to them.” She suddenly looked self-conscious. “Sorry, I get a little intense when I talk about this stuff.”

  “No, I love hearing about it,” I said.

  Steph seemed pleased. “I want to write songs that feel universal, you know? Specific, but universal. That’s why there’s no gender in the lyrics.”