“Sure,” I say, smiling. “Hey, have you ever had Mrs. Chang?”
“Geography or art?”
“Geography. There are two Mrs. Changs?”
“Yep,” Audrey says, rolling down her window. The breeze flits through the car; I scratch at a spot where a tiny hair is tickling my forehead. “No, wait, I think maybe art is Chung, not Chang,” she says.
“Anyway,” I say, “she seems tough.”
Audrey shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never had Chang or Chung.” She gives me a funny smile and I can’t help but laugh again.
Audrey cranks up the volume when a popular song comes on and we ride without talking, bobbing our heads and tapping our fingers to the music. We arrive at a pizza place and Audrey whips the Mini into a spot like she’s racing someone for it. Inside, we both get the special: a slice of pizza and salad from the buffet. After we eat we have a little extra time to spare, so we play a quick round of lunchtime trivia and beat a trio of cocky businessmen wearing pleated Dockers that went out of style before I was born.
“I can’t believe you know that Iowa is the hawk state,” Audrey says as we walk to her car, full of pizza and giddiness.
“The Hawkeye State,” I say.
“Oh, excuse me, Iowa expert!” Audrey jokes.
“You should talk! You know Eddie Vedder’s full name!”
“Edward Louis Severson the third,” we say in unison before breaking into giggles.
“Seriously, how did you know that?” I ask. “Are you a closet grunge head or something?”
“My mom has a crush on him,” Audrey says, flipping her hair off her shoulder. “She tells us about these amazing Pearl Jam shows she went to as a kid.”
“Us?” I ask. “You have brothers and sisters?”
“Just one brother,” Audrey says. “He’s a junior at Victory. You’ll meet him sometime.”
“Oh, cool,” I say, flattered by Audrey’s assumption that I’ll meet her family.
We climb into the car and the second she turns the key, we both lose it again: An acoustic version of Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” is playing on the radio. Audrey breaks into song and I can’t help but join in; of course I know the lyrics. With the windows down, startling pedestrians walking by, we scream/shout/sing at the top of our lungs the whole way back to Victory like we’re part of the Jamily.
Like we go way back.
Not until that night, after I’ve posted on the blog an analysis of Pearl Jam’s record Ten—which is super old but still rocks—do I step back and consider the day.
I accepted the metaphorical birthday party invitation with Audrey: I went all in. And ultimately, I have to admit that it was fun. But being raised undercover, I can’t help but question my own motives. Did I make a true friend today, or was Daisy West only pretending?
My text alert chimes: it’s Megan.
Megan: What’s with the post? I’m the one who lives in Grunge Capitol, USA.
Daisy: Our fans don’t know that.
Megan: All 372 of them
I smile and type:
Daisy: I assume you’ll be refuting my claims in your post.
Even when she agrees with me, Megan strives to be contrarian.
Megan: Natch