by Eric Smith
I can’t respond, but it turns out I don’t need to because then comes the chorus.
“You were all about me, me, me, me, me . . . Mitra.
There was too much of me, me, me, me in you . . . Mitra.”
“I. Will. Kill. Him.” Vivienne throws off her guitar and hands it to Charlotte before storming to the edge of the stage — a move that would, under normal circumstances, shock me since Vivienne is the most naturally chill of the three of us.
“What is she doing?” Lilly hisses, her eyes wide in fear.
Gwen runs after Vivienne and takes her arm, holding her back, and after a split second, Charlotte does, too, taking the other arm.
“Let go of me,” Vivienne says, her typically patient, low voice going up at least an octave.
“You can’t just walk out onstage in the middle of their performance!” Gwen says, exactly at the same time as Charlotte says, “I will gladly go out there and murder him with you . . . as long as that’s what Mitra wants.”
Charlotte and Vivienne both look back at me.
I am frozen, clutching my bass like it’s the only thing that’s stopping me from melting into the floor and draining away in a pool of mortification. Am I dying? I feel like I may be dying because if that thing they say about your life flashing before your eyes is true, then that is exactly what’s happening.
Or maybe not my whole life, but the last five months — the parts with Mateo in them.
Scene 1: Meeting him outside one of the local townie bars in Huntington Village. His drummer arms (because of course he’s a multi-instrumentalist) and tattoos are on full display because he’s wearing a goddamn vintage Blondie T-shirt. Honestly, it was like a freakin’ screenwriter had written him just for me.
Scene 2: He asks about our band, tells me about his band, Chump, flirts with me, gets my number.
Scenes 3–47: A montage of all of our songwriting sessions, him giving me pointers, me giving him pointers, us making out in between.
Except . . . did he ever take any of my pointers? Or did he start kissing me almost as soon as I started to talk? My imaginary film reel comes to an abrupt halt.
And then I remember that final DM.
I never knew what was worse: the word “potential” or his belief that everything would be cool because he ended the whole thing with a mothereffin’ heart emoji.
“He thinks . . .” My voice is shaking. Charlotte and Vivienne immediately come back to my side, ready to burst into action the second I burst into tears. “He thinks . . . he was my icon?!”
A fat drop leaks from the corner of my eye, and it is 100 percent not of sadness but of pure, unadulterated rage. And my friends know it.
“He’s a tool,” Vivienne says.
“Grade-A prick,” Charlotte chimes in. “Do you want me to ‘accidentally’ poke him in the eye with my drumstick? Because I will.”
Gwen looks back and forth between Mateo and me and says, “So . . . uh, I take it that’s your ex-boyfriend?”
“About to be her dead ex-boyfriend,” Vivienne mutters.
Gwen stares wide-eyed at Mateo, hears him sing one more rousing round of “Mitras,” and then looks back at me. “What a fucking bastard.”
I burst out with a loud guffaw. I have never heard prim and proper Gwen curse in my life.
“So what’s the consensus?” Vivienne asks. “We all storm out there right now?”
And suddenly I’m calm. Because I know exactly what to do. It’s almost like last-week me had prepared for this very moment.
“Nope,” I say. “We’re going to wait until they’re done. And then we’re going to perform ‘Heart Shitter’ first. Exactly as I wrote it.” I look at Vivienne and Charlotte, who each give me a firm nod.
Gwen, on the other hand, looks frightened. “But . . . Mr. Bolivar,” she whispers.
“Gwen, don’t sing. That way you can say you had no idea we were going to use the original lyrics.” Now I can save some face and our harmonies. “Is that okay?”
Gwen hesitates for only a moment, but then gives one more look over at Mateo and all his snake imagery and nods bravely. “Okay.”
“Thanks, everyone!” Mateo says onstage. “Once again, we’re Chump 2.0!”
Latest version of the same jerk, I think, finally realizing what a perfect band name he’d chosen for himself.
Charlotte hands Vivienne her guitar back and goes and picks up her drumsticks. Vivienne takes her hair tie out. We’re standing as one united front when Chump 2.0 leave the stage to enthusiastic applause. The other two guys are ahead of Mateo and stroll by us, without a clue as to who we are. Mateo gives one last wave to the audience, grinning, and not watching where he’s going until he almost runs smack into me.
“Sorry . . .” he starts, before realizing who he’s talking to. His face goes pale for a second, but he recovers quickly. Makes sense, considering he’s a god and all. “Hey,” he says.
I just smile at him, a big, fat unnerving smile. I see the color leave his cheeks again. Suddenly he’s looking less rock star and more gangly teenage boy. Because that’s what college freshmen are, I realize. “Um. Good luck out there,” he mumbles.
I wink at him, the smile never leaving my face. “You should stay and listen.”
He rushes past me, not even daring to look into Charlotte’s and Vivienne’s faces.
“You’re on,” Lilly says.
“Ready, ladies?” I ask the band.
“Like Debbie,” says Charlotte.
“Like Chrissie,” says Vivienne.
“Like Gwen,” says Gwen with a giggle.
“Like Joan,” I finish off our litany of trailblazing female lead singers.
And then we’re on the stage.
As soon as we get into our places, I go close to the microphone and say, “This is a new song.”
And then we’re off. And we sound amazing.
We get through the first verse and then the chorus hits. The audience goes crazy as soon as we spit out the first “Heart shitter!” It’s a universal feeling of triumph, hearing a curse ring out through the sound system of a high school auditorium; after all, there is usually no profanity at a school-sanctioned event. I even see the one student judge laugh and immediately sit up a little straighter, like he’s suddenly paying more attention to us.
I grin with every “Heart shitter!” we get out. By the third one, I notice the stage lights pulsing in time with them. I squint up into the lighting and sound booth and smirk conspiratorially at the three girls I see through the window.
Vivienne even gets to sing the second verse.
“There was a flutter, but I mistook it for love
It’s gutter water, everything I thought it was
I see it clearly now that you took off the gloves
You’re just a scorched-earth anthem to get rich off”
We get out one last “Heart shitter!” before our mics and amps go out. I look to the side of the stage and see a fuming Mr. Bolivar holding a plug in his hand. The audience boos loudly. Up in the lighting booth, the girls are frantically checking their equipment.
All I can do is turn to Vivienne and Charlotte and give them a huge smile. We brush hands in inconspicuous low-fives, trying to look contrite as we filter off the stage, mostly for Gwen’s sake.
But deep down, I know we all know. Whether we got to finish the song or not, that was our best performance yet. We don’t even need the rowdy applause that’s following us and the chants of “Let them play!” to realize it. Or even the next band, currently being introduced as Breakfast of Champions, who stick their own hands out for high-fives before they take the stage.
As Mr. Bolivar stalks over to us, I see a snake-adorned elbow slipping away through the backstage door.
I guess now there’s a little bit of “me, me, me, me, me . . . Mitra” in him. I hope it stays like a pebble in his shoe.
I mean, even gods wear shoes, right?
Leon brushes my hair out of my eyes before he kisses me, a
nd even then I can feel his hands slowly reaching around my back to tuck in the tail of my shirt, which is hanging out because I’d gotten dressed in a hurry.
“What’re you doing?” I say, pushing him back a little. “You know we can’t be seen together.”
“That’s what I like about you, Dane.” Leon taps his finger against his temple. “You’re always looking out for me.”
I’m looking out for myself, because if I get caught sucking face with the lead singer from Breakfast of Champions, Mr. Khatri is going to skin me alive and leave my bones in the discount-cassettes bin in the store. Besides, I’m not so much looking out for Leon as looking at him. I really do enjoy looking at him. He’s a gymnast in his spare time, which makes me feel like the laziest sixteen-year-old human on the planet seeing as all I do in my free time is sleep and eat and slay monsters — the digital kind.
“You’re definitely voting for us, right?” Leon asks.
“It depends on how good the other bands are.”
Leon grins knowingly and winks. “Got it.” He tucks my hair behind my ears and straightens my collar.
“I’m serious,” I tell him. “I have to vote for the best band. I can’t vote for Breakfast of Champions just because you look good in your underwear.” He does. Don’t ask how I know.
But Leon just winks again. “Totally understand. The best band.”
Breakfast of Champions call themselves postindustrial absurdist electronic punk pop.
Yeah, I don’t know what it is, either, but they’re loud at it.
I disentangle myself from Leon and peek down the other hallway. It’s still a couple of hours until the Battle of the Bands begins, but a few of the other bands are already showing up, and I saw Lilly Altman, who’s stage-managing the show with an iron fist, stomping around earlier, too.
“I should get going,” I say. “I’m meeting Abbie before the show.”
Leon backs away and eyes me up and down. “Do you think you’ll have time to go home and change?”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Jeans, plaid button-down. I thought I looked good when I left the house this morning.
“Nothing,” Leon says. “I guess it’s all right.”
“Anyway,” I say. “Text you later?”
“Definitely. We can celebrate me winning.” And then Leon’s gone, and I’m not sure if I’m glad or not.
My phone buzzes. It’s Abbie telling me she’s going to be late, which is typical. I usually just assume she’s going to be fifteen minutes later than she says she’ll be. It saves me from being annoyed all the time. I should get out of here anyway, though. I only dropped by because Lilly wants to go over how Mr. Bolivar is going to introduce the judges. Total waste of time.
I head out to the back of the auditorium, and the second I hit the sunshine, I’m pinned to a wall and someone is grabbing my ass and kissing my neck. It takes a second to realize it’s Sindy, one of the lead singers of the Marcia, Marcia, Marcias, a rhythm and blues pop fusion band that draws their inspiration from Amy Winehouse, Tina Turner, and Janelle Monáe, or so Sindy is always saying. I don’t hear it. Leon’s drummer, Beckett, is also the drummer for the Marcia, Marcia, Marcias, which is kind of weird. Sindy’s not worried about it, but if she finds out about us, or about me and Leon, I am so screwed.
“Whoa,” I say, scrambling out from under Sindy and looking around to make sure no one saw us. “What’re you doing?”
Sindy’s curvy, with short, punky pink hair and a tattoo that says Sure, Jan on her arm that she stole her older sister’s ID to get. Her mom kind of lost her mind when she saw it, but that only made it more punk rock.
“Sound check,” she says. “This is the time slot that overbearing stage manager Linda gave me.”
“Lilly.”
“Sure.” Sindy bumps me with her hip and runs a hand down my arm. “So, who do you think’s gonna win tonight?”
I grit my teeth. “No clue,” I say, “seeing as I haven’t seen anyone play yet.”
“You’ve seen me play.”
“Not here.”
Sindy slaps my arm. She probably thought it was playful, but there’s no way it’s not going to leave a mark. “You don’t really think any of these poseurs are gonna be better than the Marcia, Marcia, Marcias, do you?”
“I . . .”
Sindy kisses my cheek and whispers, “You don’t have to answer. I already know.” Then she smacks my ass — hard — and struts inside.
I look straight up at the cloudless sky and say, “Why the hell is this happening to me?”
I don’t give a shit about music. I can’t tell Fiona Apple from Princess Fiona, I’m still not convinced ska is an actual musical category and not a prank that got out of hand, and my favorite beetle is Jaime Reyes. And yet I’m a judge for the Raritan River Battle of the Bands who’s also kind of dating the lead singers of two of the bands in the contest, both of whom have assumed, without any encouragement from me, that I’m going to be the deciding vote that awards them the win. Even if I do vote for one of them, there’s no guarantee the other judges will.
I didn’t even want the job at Atomic Records. I went in to get an album for my older sister, Ruby. She’s the music snob, not me. For her birthday, I figured I’d do something thoughtful and buy her a copy of Prince’s Purple Rain to replace the one she’d given to her boyfriend the day he left for college. She immediately regretted the decision when he texted her the following day to tell her he couldn’t do a long-distance relationship, sorry, but thanks for the record.
Anyway, I went into the store, found the album, took it up to the counter, and there was the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. He was working this preppy punk look with bleached-blond hair and a nose ring, and he smiled at me, and basically my brain melted because all I could do was stand there and stare and drool.
“You like Prince?” he asked. His name was Liam because of course it was.
“Love him.” And then I desperately tried to remember every single thing I’d ever heard Ruby mention about Prince, and I regurgitated it back to Liam like I was being quizzed.
Liam nodded appreciatively. “You know a lot about Prince.”
“I know a lot about a lot,” I said, because talking is hard when your brain is the consistency of warm yogurt. “Music especially.”
Liam pointed at a sign on the counter. “You should apply for a job.”
And I did. Right there on the spot. My mom had been bugging me to join a club or play a sport or get a job or something so that I wasn’t sitting around the house wasting my life on video games. The next day, I interviewed with the store’s owner, Mr. Khatri, a virtual encyclopedia of music, and got the job. I spent my nights dreaming of what it would be like to work with Liam. We’d talk about music, he’d fall totally in love with me, I’d take him to prom, and we’d have some beautiful happily-ever-after. It was fate, and it was going to be amazing.
I showed up for my first day of work, and Mr. Khatri was there to train me. I asked him when Liam worked. I’d been pestering Ruby about the difference between hard rock and heavy metal, whether the Ramones were better than the Violent Femmes, and if she thought Blondie still rocked so that I could impress Liam. I was impatient for my fairy tale to begin.
“Liam doesn’t work here anymore,” Mr. Khatri said.
“Wait, what?”
“He quit to go to culinary school.” Mr. Khatri seemed to think I should have known that. “Whose job did you think you were interviewing for?” He laughed. “I’ve already got Rodney and DeeDee. How many of you kids do you think I can afford to hire?” He cackled through the rest of my training. I didn’t find it nearly as funny.
“I’ll tell you why this is happening to you,” Abbie says. I don’t really want to know, but there’s no stopping her once she gets going. Besides, I’m not going to leave. The chairs in Bean and Ballad are the best part of the quiet coffee shop. They’re like sitting on clouds. “It’s because you don’t value yourself, Dane. The
second someone shows even the slightest bit of interest in you, you become the person you think they want you to be.”
“That’s so not true.”
“When you dated Luke Schweitzer in seventh grade, you were all about building model cars even though you’d never built a model car in your entire life before that point.”
I sip my hot chocolate, which I really only ordered for the whipped cream. Bean and Ballad is kind of a hole-in-the-wall, but the baristas don’t give me dirty looks for camping out and playing video games on the days my mom forces me to “leave the house and get some sun on my pasty face.” There also isn’t anyone around to overhear my conversation with Abbie, thankfully. “I enjoyed building those cars with Luke.”
“Did you enjoy learning how to cha-cha with Lauren Whittaker? Or the countless hours you spent picking up garbage on the side of the road with what’s-his-name? The one who was obsessed with saving the planet one plastic straw at a time.”
“Sanjay,” I say.
“Right.” Abbie pauses for a moment. “He was really cute. What happened to him?”
“His parents moved to Texas or something.”
Abbie grimaces. “Yikes. But at least there’s a lot of trash there.” Abbie is my best friend. She is the smartest person I know, able to talk with the same authority about royal family gossip and quantum physics. She is also beautiful and athletic, and I’m pretty sure there’s nothing she can’t do. It’s intimidating and often annoying. Not quite as annoying as how she’s almost always right, but pretty close.
“Did you have a point?” I ask. “Or were you just going to insult me all afternoon?”
Abbie’s double-fisting drinks. A medium cup of something caffeinated in one hand and a massive bottle of water in the other. She takes hydration seriously, though don’t mention it unless you’re prepared for her TED Talk about it. She’s got slides on her phone.
“My point,” she says, “is that maybe you shouldn’t be dating anyone at all.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re supposed to be helping me decide between Leon and Sindy. ‘Neither’ isn’t a valid response.”
