The familiar shriek of a dial-up connection shot out from the computer in the basement office of the Peterson house. The machine itself was a recent purchase; only a few weeks old and already a boon. It was, at least to me, an archaic device that was pixelated, dreadfully slow, and heavy as a rock. Yet in May of 1997, I was finally able to connect to the internet. Granted, the meager 28.8 kilobyte connection hogged the landline phone, but it was something.

  I had snuck away from the bustle upstairs for a few brief moments while I booted up America Online and its stock listings. It was a few days ago that one of my biggest purchases I had made so far in this timeline; Amazon had finally opened up to the public, and I had instructed my broker to purchase a sizable position weeks ago. I was the only person alive who knew what the coming of Amazon meant for commerce, though it only made modest profits in the last couple of days. The markets were closed on Saturdays, so I was only looking at yesterday’s gains for about the third time today. I couldn’t help it.

  I brought up my account information, which had the rest of my positions still holding strong. It was on an upward slope for months, and when I saw the number I couldn’t help but stare at the total. It had been inching up steadily all week, and I was compulsive about checking. As of this morning, I had just hit a milestone; the number read as a few hundred dollars over one million total.

  I was a millionaire.

  Well, at least on paper. Practically every cent I had, with the exception of a few thousand I kept on hand for spending, was tied up in my investments. No one except my broker knew this; Dad dutifully signed off on all of my transactions and never paid attention to my “little” investments. He was too busy with his own modest gains, which had been suggested by myself, of course. Dad had made a healthy several thousand dollar profit in his account, so times were booming in the Peterson household. He just didn’t know how booming.

  That was actually the reason the house was chaotic today. We had been setting up for my sweet sixteen party all afternoon. Dad decided to go all out for his little girl’s big day, so the house and backyard was preparing for the arrival of dozens of students. That still didn’t stop me from sneaking away to stare at my finances. A millionaire, I thought to myself. I’m sixteen years old, and I have a million dollars.

  As I gaped at the screen, suddenly the modem screamed again as I was disconnected. A second later, the phone began to ring. The perils of landline internet connections; getting booted if someone calls. I quickly picked up the receiver.

  “Peterson residence.”

  “Maya, is that you? It’s Roger.”

  Roger was the lead singer and backup guitarist for the band that I joined in February. I had been convinced to join as lead guitarist, and since cheerleading paused in spring I had plenty of time to practice after school in secret. It was wild being a member of a band; in my previous timeline, Matthew had taken up guitar as a hobby in his thirties, and since waking up as Maya in the 90s I had continued playing in private. The band was the first time I had ever played with other people.

  We were an alternative rock group that dabbled in grunge but weren’t quite there yet. Upon joining, I had diplomatically suggested changing the name from Muted Orange (which made no sense) to Tempest. Apparently I was the only one who read Shakespeare, but they loved it. Tempest was going to be performing at my party this evening, though just the three guys since I would be hosting and making the rounds. Plus, no one outside of the band knew I was secretly a guitarist for a high school band.

  “Hey Roger. Are you on your way? Barry and Carl are already setting up.”

  Roger was out of breath. “I’ve got huge news. Huge. I’m on my way though, I’ll let everyone know in person. Maya, we’ve got an audition at The Entry!”

  7th St Entry was a venue in downtown Minneapolis, which was the heart of the music scene in the Twin Cities. Soul Asylum, The Replacements, even Nirvana played there. Our band wasn’t bad, but even getting considered for The Entry was huge.

  “Are you kidding me,” I gasped. “The Entry!?”

  Roger laughed wildly. “It’s in June, and we’ve got twenty minutes for their summer showcase. It’s competitive, but it’s something! Listen, I’m heading to your house now. Pretty good birthday news, right?”

  I laughed as I hung up the phone. Oddly enough, I was more excited about those twenty minutes than I had a minute ago when I learned I was a millionaire. Maybe because the guitar was more fun than staring at numbers. I stood up, smoothing my sleek maroon party dress and black overlay before heading upstairs. I was on airs, and the party hadn’t even started yet! Mom and Dad had hired caterers who were hauling coolers of drinks and tables, and a few of the girls had volunteered to help decorate. Erin and her mom in particular were hanging up balloons, and even my boyfriend Jake was being put to work to set up the snack table. I exited out to the garage, where I saw Barry and Carl carrying the speakers into the back staircase. Mom was eyeballing them warily as they continued setting up the stage in the backyard.

  “How well do you know those boys,” whispered Mom when they were out of earshot. “I don’t really like the looks of them.”

  “They’re harmless, Mom. They agreed to do my party for nothing, after all.” No need to say they did because I was their bandmate and it was the cheapest present possible they could give me.

  Mom pursed her lips. “Well, I’d prefer you not spend too much time with boys like that.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, mother,” I lied.

  It was five o’clock when guests started arriving. I had invited practically every student on the cheerleading squad, student government, and about three different sports teams. I even invited a few of my fellow members of the computer club, though if any of the popular kids asked why they were here, I’d feign ignorance but still be a good hostess. The street was filled with parked cars, and the backyard was quickly filling with socializing teenagers, coolers of pop, and the pumping guitar riffs of Tempest as the crowd began to jump to the beat.

  “Happy birthday, Maya!” yelled my friend Sarah from the student council over the noise as I was doing the rounds.

  I quickly hugged her. “Thanks, Ms. President! Having a good time?”

  “It’s amazing, Maya! I can’t believe you got Roger Harris’s band to play. I didn’t think they did parties for us popular kids.”

  I laughed. “They owed me a favor. Besides, they’re pretty popular themselves, right?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I mean, Roger is cute and all. But let’s be honest, students like us shouldn’t be spending too much time with guys like him. We have reputations at our school.”

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  I cleared my throat. “Well, they seem to be a hit. Look at the crowd!”

  Sarah shrugged. “Sure, sure. Anyway, I’ll talk to you in a bit, Madame Treasurer!” She hugged me one last time before rejoining the crowd.

  The rest of the night was an absolute smash. Surprisingly, not too much damage was done to the house, though it was probably because Dad kept a close eye on who was wandering around inside the house. He managed to chase off at least three couples who were up to no good in various rooms. At around eight o’clock I stood on the second floor deck as the crowd below me sang Happy Birthday, as Tempest accompanied us on electric guitar.

  It was hours later that the party started dying down, and as I held Jake close and softly danced with him I realized just how amazing my life was as Maya. I was rich, had legions of friends, and an amazing boyfriend.

  And now I could drive!

  ***

  It was a week after school ended that our audition was scheduled at The Entry. Since the weather warmed up, we started practicing in Barry’s garage instead of the band room, but started meeting up a few times a week. Roger and Barry wrote the songs, since I had no clue how to write music. I was able to play and perfect whatever was put in front of me however, and I was able to at least smooth out the riffs. Carl, though, mostly hit drums and ate chips.

  When the Sunday of our audition arrived, I was once again thankful that I could finally drive again. My parents had given me a secondhand Toyota Camry for my birthday, which was a modest choice for a high school student. It would have looked suspicious if I had suddenly bought a brand new convertible. I told my parents I was spending the day with Jake when I left that afternoon to meet at Roger’s before we drove downtown together.

  I told the guys that we should probably have a look for our audition, but they were all content with their dark flannel shirts and shaggy haircuts. I, however, made it a point to go all out with my outfit, an outfit that no one would ever expect an academically-gifted girl like Maya would choose. I bought a pair of black pants and a black t-shirt that showed my midriff and was a size too small. The only thing keeping my boobs from bursting out of it was a prayer.

  I accessorized it with a chain on my left hip, and I wore thick, dark eyeliner. I was concerned that my parents or my classmates would discover my little rockstar life, so I had an idea to keep my anonymity intact. I found a black face mask that covered my lower face, and it had dark laces and small studs. Coupled with my eye makeup, it disguised me just enough while also giving me a sort of mysterious vibe.

  The Seventh Street Entry was a legendary music venue in Minneapolis. A lot of fantastic bands played in their mainroom, including Nirvana and Stone Temple Pilots, and someone even mentioned that Prince played there in the early days. We weren’t trying out for the main room, obviously, as the auditions for their summer showcase was in the smaller room next door in the middle of the day. There were several bands already lined up by the time we got there, and we weren’t the only hopeful youths trying to not look out of place.

  We stood in the cramped backstage hallway waiting for our turn as the smell of beer and disinfectant permeated the air as I stood with my Strat around my shoulders. I was very nervous, half because of the stage hands shuffling us around like cattle, and half because I very much felt like a lost little girl. Not that I was going to admit it to any one, and the mask gave me an odd sense of security.

  When it was our turn to go up, we were herded on stage. Sunlight burst in through some windows, and the only people in the room were four bored-looking judges at a table scribbling notes as we set up. They barely glanced up at us as they murmured among themselves. Eventually, as we stood waiting to be acknowledged, one of the judges spoke up.

  “Name of the band?”

  “Tempest,” replied Roger into the microphone.

  The judge nodded absently. “You’ve got fifteen. Let’s hear it.”

  The first song we performed was called Static Kiss, which began with a riff that I had been working on for a few weeks. It had an aggressive picking pattern which I poured my intensity into. It was more than a little influenced by Weezer, and if I was being honest had it not been for the guitar sections it was sort of a mediocre song. The second song, called Headless, went a little harder, which was more my style since it opened heavy and relentless. It gave me a lot to do, and hit a lot like Monkey Wrench from the Foo Fighters.

  The final song entitled Exit Strategy had more of a Rage Against the Machine to it. Roger poured his voice into it, and I was able to match as I grinded out the main theme with a few flourishes of my own. I finished the song furiously raking the strings, ending on a wash of feedback as the song ended. I hadn’t even looked up during the performances, still locked in a wide stance as I leaned into my Strat. I didn’t even realize how exhausted I was.

  When I looked up, breathing heavily through my mask, I saw the judges whispering among themselves. A couple of them were gesturing towards me, while the other two were off-handedly noting something on their clipboard and taking another swig of their drinks. I glanced over to Barry, who shrugged in response, while Roger adjusted his mike stand attempting to not look awkward.

  “Thank you, thank you very much,” the judge in the middle said, setting his clipboard on the table, before immediately disregarding us and addressing his fellow judges. “Why don’t we break for ten?”

  The others immediately nodded, heading off in three different directions. The guys took it as the signal to start making their way off stage. The judge who stayed approached the stage. “Not a bad sound, lady and gentlemen.”

  “Thanks,” replied Roger.

  “I can see you kids put some real work into it. I gotta be honest though, you may be a bit too green for the summer showcase. But there’s some potential here, and you may just need a bit more time.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a card before handing it to Roger. “Might be able to offer you a few gigs at a smaller venue. Weekday shows, but it would give you an opportunity to get your feet wet. Give me a call.”

  Roger looked over the card, with a mix of disappointment and relief that it wasn’t a straight up rejection. The judge gestured off stage, thanking us once more. The guys headed off stage, as I unslung my guitar to follow them out.

  “Miss, may I have a word alone?”

  I turned, holding my guitar by the neck in front of me. “Um, sure.”

  “That was…quite some guitar playing. Very precise. That phrasing on the first song was incredible. And that picking accuracy on the fast track on that last song was serious work. I even like this masked look of yours, very chic. How old are you, anyway?”

  “Sixteen.”

  The judge gaped. “You’re sixteen?! How long have you been playing?”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “About four years.” Give or take a decade, of course.

  The judge shook his head. “You play like you were born with a guitar in your hands. I want to see more of what you can do. I can give your band a slot, and I will be honest, I want to see more of what you can do. What’s your name, girl?”

  “Maya. Maya Peterson.”

  “Well, Miss Peterson, I hope to hear from you soon.” He slipped out another card, and handed it up to me. “I’m looking forward to hearing from you.”

  I looked over the card in my hands, before thanking him again and hoisting my guitar to head backstage. Out of the corner of my ear, I heard the judge mutter to himself, “only sixteen. Unbelievable.”

  On the drive back, the guys were abuzz about the audition. Sure, The Entry had been a longshot, but a chance at regular paid gigs – even if it was during the week – wasn’t nothing. Roger was already barking orders from the driver’s seat about stepping up practices and ironing out some of the songs. Barry was already arguing with him, as Carl pulled out a candy bar to munch on while he sat next to me.

  I fingered the business card I had been given. Granted, Tempest was fairly amateur and hadn’t really found a voice yet, but I was uncertain where I wanted to go with all of this. It was fun; really fun if I was completely honest. It was incredible being able to play in public, and I could only imagine what it would be like in front of an actual crowd. So much more compelling than playing alone in my room. It was also very reassuring that I actually was pretty good. Over a decade of playing alone as Matthew and four more as Maya, and it was gratifying to think I could do more.

  I smiled to myself, despite crumbs flying from Carl’s mouth to my side of the backseat. Would I be able to keep this a secret, on top of all of my other secrets? It was thrilling, a lot like the thrill I got when I was performing a cheer. More so, since I really got to let it all out when I was playing. I knew I would have to find a way to make it work.

  Maya Peterson: model student, secret millionaire, and now rock star? Oh, I had to make it work!