I don't know where this ends, but I think I'll keep going

All Randy wanted from someone was a name, but no one seemed to know what it was or else everyone provided different answers. She wasn't the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She wasn't even in his top three. And she was no social butterfly although she wasn't outright disliked, she rarely spoke in class sharing opinions with her obvious intelligence, and she definitely was not conventionally charismatic, but Randy couldn't get her out of his mind – mainly because she seemed to have no interest in him whatsoever. While other girls fought for his attention with a fervor reserved for movie producers seeking their next starlet and starlets seeking a producer, this one seemed oblivious to Randy's presence, and Randy was not someone you ignored. Randy was a walking jackpot for the lucky girls who gambled their virtue and won his attention. If Randy wanted you, your life became a maze with all roads leading back to Randy.

What partially drove Randy's fascination with this girl was her eclectic style which morphed to match a series of moods: some days she was Goth in spiky gelled hair, white make-up with thick, black lips and heavy glittered eyeshadow wrapped in a package of tight leather jackets with lots of chains, mini-skirts, and fishnet hose. Then the next day she would sport a preciously pure 50's look evoking Doris Day and Sandra Dee with knee length dresses, good girl cashmere sweaters, bobby sox, the hair pulled up high in a ponytail tied by a simple ribbon with a face sans makeup except for the faintest blush and soft pink lipstick. Which changed again the following day to an almost asexual look with her hair hanging loose and unstyled over flowing, flowery earth toned blouses and parachute pants, Birkenstocks, scents of sage and Patchouli , beaded accessories and all things peace, love, and hippie. She was a fashion chameleon who seemed like she would be comfortable in cheer leader cliques, slumming with the misfits, or protesting with Greenpeace if she could just make up her mind.

"So what's your name?" he asked when he caught up with her one day, which was in itself unusual because she kept on briskly walking while everyone else came to a screeching halt when Randy showed the slightest interest.

"Ali."

He noticed she didn't ask his name. Well of course, she probably already knew it. Everybody did. Randy was as well-known as other mono-syllabled icons like Cher, Sting, Prince, and Madonna.

"Ali like Ally Sheedy from the Breakfast Club or like Allie Louise the country Western singer? Or maybe more mysterious like Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves?"

"Sort of like all of them. It's short for Alias."

"Your parents named you Alias?"

"No, they named me, Ali, which could have been for Alyson or Alexander because they weren't sure if I would be a boy or girl. It's a nice unisexual name since the ultrasound wasn't so forthcoming. But I prefer Alias."

"So Alias, you want to be my alter ego for the dance Friday night?" Randy flirted.

"No."

Randy had never heard that word from a girl in his life unless it was "No, please don't stop!"

"No as in not Friday because you have plans?" he asked seeking confirmation. She must have something very important to do if she was turning Randy down like organ transplant surgery or the funeral of a close relative. Anything less and anyone else would cancel their other arrangements.

"I think you have enough ego with needing an alternative one," she said and walked away. Randy was stunned. This had never happened before. For Randy getting a date was as easy as getting out of bed in the morning with most of his dates ending with him getting back into one.

"So wait! What do I have to do to get you to go out with me?"

"I won't go out with you," came the curt reply.

"Why not? I'm very lovable and interesting if you give me a chance. I can provide references!" he yelled as she retreated. What the hell turned this girl on if it wasn't brains, brawn or looks which he had in spades? Was she a lesbian? Even many of those hadn't turned him down if only to said that 'The Randy Experience' hadn't changed anything for them to convince skeptical parents that their lesbianism wasn't a phase.

"Friday night. I won't go out with you, but you can come to see me. I'm headlining at the Mercury Lounge at eight, and then playing a midnight set at Club Rat Trap downtown."

So she was a musician. Randy grinned. Maybe he'd take his guitar and hop up on stage with her. She and the crowd would be blown away by his riffs. But what kind of music could she play for both the Mercury and the Rat Trap? The Lounge was more of a venue for music by Carrie Underwood, Miranda Lambert or the golden oldies of Patsy Cline and Patti Page while the Rat Trap was pure Pat Benatar, Debbie Harry, and punked out Wendy O. Whatever kind of show it was, Randy would be ready he decided queuing up all of the above artists and several other musical genres to his iPod.