Lia pushed her way past the wall of hard, sweaty bodies, through the exit door, and into the crisp San Diego night air, the electric chant, “blue shock, exchange,” echoing inside her ears. All it took was a brief sighting of Exene performing onstage to remind Lia of her compelling power as an artist. Lia could envision her then, receiving her earnestly fabricated little book with indifference, or worse yet, scorn. What had she been thinking? Exene was ten times more complex than the stupid kids at school who’d inexplicably bought into her work. Whereas Lia was desperate for some glimmer of hope to cling to, what excuse did those kids have for their blind conviction?
Lia might never get the chance to see X play again. She couldn’t be certain if she’d ever see Ryan again either. She retreat
