by Eric Smith
“Of course you did.” I got up and headed inside, hoping Abbie was done, but she still had one pie wedge to go to win. The sports category, which was always my downfall. I had thought I’d left Leon outside, but when I turned around, he and his infected lip were right there.
“You think I should take it out?” he asked.
“Only if you want to keep the lip.”
Leon’s eyes darted left and right. “Can you . . . ?”
“Can I what?”
“Help?”
“You pierced it yourself,” I said, “but you can’t take it out?”
Leon whined, “It hurts!” low enough so that no one but me could hear him.
“Fine. I need to use the bathroom anyway.”
We wound up in a boy’s bedroom that had an adjoining bathroom. There were pictures of the boy all over, but I still had no clue whose house I was in. I spied his video game setup, and was trying to work out a way to ditch Leon so I could play, but he dragged me into the bathroom.
“Sit.” I pointed to the toilet while I washed my hands in scalding water with antibacterial soap, as much for my protection as his.
“I’m in a band,” Leon said, unprompted. “Breakfast of Champions.”
When I turned back around, Leon had stripped off his shirt and was sitting in just his shorts on the toilet. I’d only seen muscles like that in superhero movies. “Jesus Christ,” I said.
Most people would’ve been a little embarrassed or awkward, but Leon, and I swear this is true, flexed. His chest rippled. “I’m also a gymnast,” he said.
Look, it’s a good thing I was about to pull a scabby, pus-covered ring from Leon’s infected lip because my disgust at that was all that kept me from turning into a walking hard-on.
“Why is your shirt even off to begin with?”
Leon shrugged. “In case this gets messy.”
I don’t know what he was expecting to come out of his lip, but I wanted to get the whole thing over with. For someone with muscles like Leon’s, he sure did whimper a lot when I was taking the ring out and cleaning it up with some warm soapy water. I searched the cabinets but couldn’t find any ointment, so I told him what to buy and then pushed him out of the bathroom so I could pee.
When I’d finished using the restroom and washing my hands multiple times, I opened the door and Leon threw a bunch of clothes at me. “Strip and put these on.”
I held out the clothes — some jeans ripped at the knees and a couple of black T-shirts. “Why?”
“Because you look like you’re trying to spread the good word of our Lord and Savior, and I can’t be seen hanging out with you looking like that.” Leon shrugged sympathetically. “I have a reputation.”
Seriously, I had no intention of changing clothes — I liked what I was wearing, for starters — but before I knew what was happening, Leon had me standing in my boxers trying on different clothes from a stranger’s closet. After making me change like ten times, he spent another ten minutes styling my hair. With someone else’s brush. In my mind, I kept saying, Hey, maybe this isn’t cool with whoever this room belongs to, but those words never quite made it out of my mouth.
When Leon was done, we stood side by side in front of the mirror, and I realized he’d dressed me up like him.
“You are so fucking cute,” he said. “How come I’ve never seen you around before?”
“No clue. I go to school, and I work at Atomic Records.”
Leon’s eyes lit up, and I knew he’d made the connection. “So then you have heard of my band before.” He wagged his finger at me. “Look at you trying to pretend you hadn’t.”
“I really —”
Leon pushed me against the wall and went in to kiss me, but I ducked out of his arms and said, “Infected lip. Kissing bad.”
Judging by the look on his face, Leon had never been rejected before, and he looked so sad about it. So I added, “It would probably really hurt,” which seemed to make him feel better.
Instead, he reached into my pocket, grabbed my phone, made me unlock it, put in his number, and then texted himself so he would have mine.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go back downstairs.” Which we did. Where he introduced me as his boyfriend. The stoners I’d been sitting with didn’t even recognize me.
My phone vibrates, and I dig it out of my pocket. It’s a text, but I don’t recognize the number. I open the message, and it just says, Matcha smoothie bowl with coconut milk, spinach, kiwi, mango, and bee pollen, and two squares of vegan dark chocolate with kale and chia seeds.
“What the hell?” I mumble. I glance around, and Claudia leans forward, looks at me, raises her eyebrows, and motions at me to hurry up. Did she seriously text me her dinner order? How the hell did she get my number?
This is ridiculous. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I’m not qualified to be a judge. If I’m being honest, all of the bands that have played so far sounded the same to me. They deserve to be judged by someone who actually appreciates the hard work they’ve put into their music, not by someone whose favorite song is the original Tetris theme. Besides, even if Sindy and Leon have no chance of winning, they’re each still going to expect me to vote for them, and the thought of having to choose makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t want to choose between them. I’m not sure I want to choose either of them.
As Mr. Bolivar announces the next band, I Want Your P.S., my chest tightens. I need some air. I have to get out of here. I turn to Melissa Nuvel and whisper, “Yeah, um, diarrhea.” I point at my stomach and then sneak out from behind the table and run.
Once outside, I shut my eyes, inhale deeply, then scream in frustration at the top of my lungs. When I look around, there are a couple of guys watching me, looking a little sketchy. Whatever. I don’t care. I also don’t know what to do. Maybe I should tell Vice Principal Pulley that I have a family emergency and need to leave. That would spare me from having to choose between Sindy and Leon. It would also piss off Mr. Khatri, but he’d get over it. It’s probably time for me to put in my notice anyway. There are tons of people who’d jump at the chance to work in a music store. One of them should have the job. I never wanted it in the first place. Just considering quitting feels like a weight lifting off of me.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Leon’s voice cuts through the quiet in my mind. I open my eyes and find he’s not alone.
“You’re not leaving yet, are you?” Sindy is standing with Leon. Both of them are staring at me expectantly.
“Uh . . .”
Leon moves toward me, his hand already raised like he’s going to fix my hair, and I back away.
Wait. Leon and Sindy are hanging out together, which means they’ve probably talked. But then why aren’t they pissed off at me? Why aren’t they yelling? “Do you know about each other?”
Leon and Sindy share a smile. “Only since just a few minutes ago,” Sindy says. “We ran into each other and I let it slip that my boyfriend was a judge —”
“And I thought she meant Mr. Pulley at first,” Leon says with a laugh that makes it impossible for me to tell whether he’s joking.
“Ew, never,” Sindy says. “Anyway, we worked out you were dating both of us, which you and I are going to talk about later.” I have a sinking feeling Sindy’s idea of talking is not going to involve any actual talking.
“I’m not into sharing,” Leon says. “But I assumed you’d be ending it with Sindy when you voted for me. Which you can’t do if you leave.”
Sindy rolls her eyes. “And I told Leon there’s no way in hell you’d ever vote for the watered-down punk-lite crap he plays over the Marcia, Marcia, Marcias. Also, I’m way hotter than he is.”
“In your dreams,” Leon says.
They literally start arguing over which of them is prettier, and I can’t even. Their voices are like bees buzzing in my brain. Neither of them even cares about me. They only want my vote. Maybe that’s the only thing they ever wanted from me. The realization should make me feel like
my heart got shit on — or out; I’m still not sure — but instead I smile because I know what to do.
“I’m not leaving,” I say. “I’m also not voting for either of your bands. Your music sucks.”
For maybe the first time since I met them, Sindy and Leon are speechless, and I take off before that changes. I sneak back inside, hoping to get to my seat between sets, but Mr. Bolivar is already saying, “Welcome, Safe & Sound,” so I hang out near the wall to avoid distracting them.
Safe & Sound is a girl with a guitar and a guy with a keyboard. They start to sing, harmonizing in a way that gives me goose bumps. It’s beautiful and so warm and real. The way she sings about being in love with two people hurts to listen to, yet I can’t stop.
I want to be angry at Sindy and Leon for using me, but I don’t think I cared about them any more than they cared about me. Being with each of them was easy in a way because they made the decisions I was too scared to make for myself. I want love like in this song. I want to find someone who makes having my heart shit on (or out) feel worth it. I’m just not sure I ever will. What I am sure of is that I have to stop being who others want me to be. I have to be myself whether others like me or not.
When Safe & Sound is done, I really do have to run to the restroom, so I race out and go. On my way back, I hear familiar music playing. I need to return to the auditorium so I can hear the rest of the bands, though I think I know who I’m going to vote for, but I take a moment to hunt down the source of the song. I find a guy sitting on a bench with a Switch cradled between his knees. Chestnut hair with a long nose and black glasses. I’ve seen him before, but I can’t place where.
He looks up. Catches me spying on him. “You’re staring,” he says. “Again.”
That’s where I know him. “You were watching the show earlier.”
“I was watching Pulley watch the show,” he says. “Far more entertaining.”
He’s not wrong about that. “I’m Dane. Are you playing Breath of the Wild?”
He nods. “Alex. Waiting for my brother. Mateo from Chump 2.0.”
“What’s the deal with him and all the songs about the singer from the Grants?”
“Mateo’s . . . got issues.” Alex pauses. “You like Breath of the Wild?”
“It’s only my second favorite game ever.”
He eyes me appraisingly. “What’s your first favorite game?”
“Link’s Awakening, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Alex says. He slides a Joy-Con off the side and holds it out to me. “I’ve got Luigi’s Mansion. Wanna be my Gooigi?”
I reach eagerly for the controller but stop before taking it. “I’m judging,” I say. “It’d be a super dick move to bail.”
Alex nods and slips the controller back into place. “It’s cool.”
“I really do want to play. It’s just —”
“You’re judging,” he says. “I get it.” He motions toward the doors. “You should get in there.” He turns his attention to the screen.
“How about after the show?” I ask. “I know this great coffee shop.”
Alex glances up again cautiously. “Seriously?”
I nod.
“Then, yeah! Definitely.” He’s beaming, which makes me grin like a fool.
I could never get Sindy or Leon to play games with me. Sindy thinks they’re a waste of time, and Leon refuses to play anything he isn’t immediately good at because he can’t bear to lose.
“I’ll meet you out here when this is over, okay?”
Alex flashes me a bright, toothy smile. “It’s a date.”
“One thing, though,” I say. “I get to be Luigi. You can be my player two.”
I’m late.
I am always late, but somehow Rod still seems surprised (and a little pissed) when I come barreling into the empty auditorium.
I sprint down the center aisle, all frazzled and full of apologies, indigo locs trailing behind me, guitar case banging into my jegging-clad legs. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I whisper, because Rod is singing, and his voice (much like his face) is heaven.
Rodney Lockhart is tall and dark-skinned like his dad, charming and loud like his mom. He has his thick black hair woven into ten even cornrows, but everything else about him is all out of sorts. His knee is a little ashy where it peeks through his dark, ripped jeans. His T-shirt is wrinkled, and the drawstring in his black hoodie is pulled long on one side and unraveling. His shoelaces are untied.
“Uh-oh,” I mutter, because I’ve known Rod since we both brought homemade donuts to our church’s bake sale when we were eleven (what are the chances?), and he always dresses exactly the way he feels.
“You good?” I ask once I reach the front row.
His nimble brown fingers don’t stop moving across the surface of his keyboard. He keeps holding the note he’s singing while giving me a death stare, and the sound makes my bones ache in a good way, almost as much as the stare makes me nervous.
“I’m fine,” he lies, finishing the song and walking over to sit at the edge of the stage. “But you’re late again and you know we only have the auditorium for an hour. We’re seniors, Raven. This is our last Battle of the Bands. If we have any chance of winning this, you have to be all in. Are you?”
I nod, trying not to think about a few months ago when I called him crying and told him I was dropping out of our two-person band. It was the second time I’d quit.
“Did you finish the song?” he says next.
He’s talking about the song he found me working on without him. He walked in on me singing the first verse of an original he’d never heard, and because our band, Safe & Sound, had only just gotten back together, I thought he’d freak out. But he didn’t. He said the song had potential and told me to finish it and promised we could perform it at Battle of the Bands.
I’m not happy with what I’ve written so far, but I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone to show him.
Rod reads and reads and doesn’t say a word.
“Ugh. I know, I know. It’s bad right?”
“No, Raven,” Rod says. He’s smiling with half his mouth now. “This is really, really good. How does it go again?”
I hum the melody, and seconds later he’s singing all the words that I wrote, and it never gets old hearing him transform typed letters on a phone into the loveliest sounds. I fit my voice around his, hoping that the sound of us together will fix what still feels broken about this song, when he looks at me. His dark eyes are full of something I can’t name, and it makes my heart beat a little harder. And this is exactly why I quit the band in the first place. But then Rod’s lovable but intense parental units told him they didn’t want him playing “in his little band” with anyone but me, a “good girl from a church-going family,” and just like that, I got sucked right back in despite what being alone with him does to my heart.
Rod stops singing. “Damn, girl. I don’t know how you don’t see how good you are.”
I swallow hard and look away from him, because I can’t hold his gaze when he looks at me like that. It reminds me too much of when we’re singing the last note of a song we both love, of how long we’ve been friends, and of the first time I realized I wanted to be more. I’m about to change the subject, to ask his opinion about how to fix the hook, when someone pushes open the door of the auditorium. The squeak echoes like a record scratch.
“Rave! Rod! I thought you two might be in here!”
Kima Ito flips her long black curls like she doesn’t know the scent of her hair is deadly, like she doesn’t know that it smells like clove and sunshine. I can’t smell that hair (or anything sweet or spiced for most of fall and winter) without remembering . . . things.
“Hey, Kima,” I say, surprised. “I thought you had to work on the paper all afternoon.”
“I do. I am,” she starts, “but did you see that Safe & Sound got featured on the IndieTrash homepage today?”
“Seriously?” Rod asks. He’s all excited, and I start to feel th
at way, too, until I look at Kima’s face.
“Wait, why do you look pissed? This is a good thing, isn’t it?” I ask.
IndieTrash is a local music blog, like Rolling Stone meets SoundCloud but specifically for New Brunswick, New Jersey. Everyone who’s anyone in music around here uploads their songs with the hope that they might be featured, reviewed, or that, if they get enough listens, their band’s events will be picked up and listed in the website’s epic gigs and concerts calendar.
Kima pulls up the site and hands her phone over to show us. Rod reads the post aloud.
“‘Safe & Sound are giving us major Leon Bridges meets the Civil Wars vibes. It’s flavor we never knew we wanted in indie music.’”
I see his eyes move over the words a second time before Rod says, “‘Flavor’?”
“I know. Low-key racist, right?” Kima asks.
“Damn,” I say. “‘Leon Bridges meets the Civil Wars’ is the only way I want us to be described for the rest of forever, but then they went and ruined it.”
Kima shakes her head, then crosses her arms. “Right? I might have sent a strongly worded email.”
“Aww, Keem,” I say. I want to wrap my arm around her hip and pull her into a hug, but I worry it would overwhelm me. I do the opposite, taking a step closer to the stage instead.
Kima wants to be a music writer. The secret goal she told me she doesn’t allow herself to think too hard about is becoming the editor in chief of Pitchfork. Or even more secret: starting something new that’s just as good, if not better. IndieTrash is the best place around here to start if you want to end up on staff at a big-time music publication. Kima’s been working her butt off all year to get an internship there after graduation. For her to risk all that just because of one problematic post? Against my better judgment, I reach out and squeeze her soft hand.
I feel what I’m always trying not to feel when the three of us are together: a little crushy, a lot blushy. Having feelings for your best friend is always complicated, but especially so when you’re in a band together and you’re only days away from performing in a competition that could change everything. (Rod wants to record, wants to tour, wants to be famous, and winning the Battle could be the first step toward making our band into something real.) When you also kinda love your other best friend, and when those best friends happen to be dating each other? All bets are off.
