by Eric Smith
She turned back to the table.
“You’re competing tonight?” he asked. His gray eyes were soft and kind.
“Ye-yeah,” she said, and then shook her head. If she could barely announce that, how was she going to get onstage and sing?
“You’re going to do great,” Pete said. “You were the best part about our band anyway.”
Marissa shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She pretended to be really interested in the large stack of T-shirts in front of her.
“Thanks, Pete.”
“Seriously,” he said. “I can’t wait to hear your new song. Gordon says it’s great.”
Marissa shifted some more, and Amina smiled. She didn’t mean to be mean, but it felt good to for once not be the only one who was deeply uncomfortable.
“We’ll see,” Amina said. “Good luck to you guys, too.”
Pete shrugged. “Thanks. Not sure how it’ll go.”
“You have all your other songs.”
“Yeah. But they’re your songs.”
“You can keep them,” Amina said. “I’ve moved on to new songs.”
Pete gave her a warm smile as she walked away.
Soon enough, it was Amina’s turn to wait in the wings. She stood backstage and exchanged smiles with Lilly and with Mina, who’d had her own solo set earlier. But despite Lilly’s and Mina’s encouraging smiles, Amina’s stomach still felt like it was filled with cement.
When she first heard her name announced, she felt like someone had grabbed her by the throat. She wasn’t sure she could bring herself to physically move onto the stage, let alone sing anything once she got up there.
But then she felt Lilly’s hand on her back, gently nudging her out onto the stage. The lights were brighter than Amina would’ve expected, the crowd cloaked in darkness. The tech people had set up the keyboard just like she’d asked. She searched around to thank them, but they were nowhere in sight.
It was only her and the big wide stage.
She stepped up to the keyboard. She heard an awkward murmuring from the crowd. They were restless. She was losing their attention.
Amina bent down and grabbed the microphone.
“Hello,” she said. “I’ve never performed this song in public before, but I’d like to play it for you now. I’m Amina, and this song is called ‘Peanut Butter Sandwiches.’”
And with that, she started to play. The darkness from the crowd faded away, and all that mattered was her song. She was playing her song. Her own song. And it belonged to her.
Sure, she’d been good at being Gordon’s girlfriend. Really good at it, actually.
But the truth was, she was even better at this.
The beat drops. Loud heavy-metal-like music blasts through speakers seen and unseen. Some band called the Grants is running through a song that I’m guessing is called “Heart Shitter,” and not gonna lie, it’s sounding pretty damn dope.
Some girl in a black shirt stops us and asks if we’re here to listen to the bands or if we’re playing. And I’m kind of laughing on the inside since Trey and Charity are both carrying instrument cases, and we just saw this chick at sound check a little bit ago.
“Ho, what does it look like?” Charity sasses back, snapping her neck to the side.
Trey puts his arms around Charity. “We’re playing. Sorry about her. It’s her time of the month.”
“Excuse me?” Charity whips her head around. “That’s rude as hell. Nigga, don’t ever say that about a woman.”
Now I’ve got to apologize to this girl for the both of them. She has us sign in and then points us to the backstage area where we can listen to some of the bands until it’s our time to shine, bright like the disco ball suspended from the ceiling.
“I’ll be right back, bro,” Trey says to me. “I’m gonna go get us something to drink. I know a girl here who brought us some tequila in flasks. We gotta get loose.”
Charity puts a finger in the air. “Hol’ up. I’m comin’ with you. Be back, boo.” She gives me a quick peck on the lips.
Before I can turn over my shoulder to nod at them, they disappear into the crowd.
The music stops and people are shouting as the band gets escorted offstage for some reason. They don’t even get to finish their song.
I’m looking around, trying to see if I can make out anyone I know — either from school or from one of the apps I used that one time when I searched for a gay hookup when Charity and I were taking a break.
Somehow, in a huddle of people grinding, I make out Orlando. Our ex-friend and the ex-drummer of our band, Reckless Love, before he left us for his new band, You Want My Junk or something ridiculous like that. He doesn’t see me, but I see him, and I fight for my breath.
Orlando. I can see the diamonds in his ear, the gold pendant around his neck ribbed with various gems. I can see he’s growing out his hair. The Orlando I once knew hated having hair longer than a fade.
Orlando and I were childhood friends. We grew up in the same ’hood just a few houses apart. His auntie Ms. Opal raised him, and she’d always smoke with Ma after dinner on our front porch. We celebrated our birthdays together since we’re just days apart in January. Orlando and I were so close when we were little that we used to run around naked in each other’s houses, and it wasn’t weird at all. He was the first boy I ever kissed and the first boy I ever hooked up with. Orlando’s the first boy I ever came out to. The only one who actually knows anything about me.
It was last year, when we were juniors, and to be fair, it was after Big Blue’s party and we were both drunk on some delicious Jell-O shots, but it happened and neither of us complained.
We promised not to tell anyone, though. He was dating Angela Reddington, the head cheerleader, and I was with Charity. Every now and then I feel kind of trash that I’ve kept this secret from both Charity and Trey, but what I’m nervous about is what their reaction would be if I told them that I’m pretty sure I like guys — that I’m gay, or at least bisexual. Something.
But ever since Orlando left our band a few months ago, we don’t even talk anymore. He moved away to a nicer neighborhood because Ms. Opal retired, hangs out with a different crowd of people at school. Orlando and I were something, but maybe something went wrong along the way. He was the closest thing to a diary I’ve ever had. Apparently, neither the secrets we’ve kept for and with each other nor the memories we have together are enough to keep our friendship or our something alive. He’s even unfollowed me, Charity, and Trey on social media and took the link to Reckless Love’s Spotify playlist out of his Instagram bio.
Sometimes, it feels easy that we don’t talk. I don’t have to face the side of me that likes guys because I’m with Charity. Other times, I miss him and what we were and what we had.
A new band called Breakfast of Champions gets up on the stage. It’s not Orlando’s yet, but his is on next, according to Mr. Bolivar, who’s doing the emceeing. The anticipation isn’t just annoying me; it’s rhythmically shredding me from the inside out. I wanna know what his band sounds like. I’ve heard them on Insta, TikTok, and Snapchat stories, but you can only get so much from those. I wanna know what he’s gonna play.
My heart thuds, no, pounds harder than the bass in the song this band is playing. Charity and Trey pop up behind me out of nowhere, each with a flask in their hands. Trey’s offering me a sip of his as he sings along to the lead singer.
I shake my head no, thank you, but Trey pushes the flask so close to my mouth I can smell the alcohol. “Don’t be a little bitch, Q,” he shouts at me over the music. “Just drink it.”
I roll my eyes and take the flask from him. I don’t wanna be a loser, and this isn’t even my first time drinking tequila; I just don’t particularly like the taste. I take a swig, probably, no, definitely making a face like I just downed a bottle of bleach or something.
It causes Charity, my beautiful girlfriend, to laugh her ass off.
“I — I — I just saw Orlando,” I tell them, kind of str
uggling to get the words out because something about seeing him still takes my breath away. Trey spits out a little tequila.
“He’s here?” Charity says. “Where his ass at? I wanna fuck him up.”
I point out where I saw him, but it’s kind of hard for them to see where I’m pointing since it’s a little dark and there are a shit ton of people here. “Over there,” I murmur. “He didn’t see me, though.”
“I see his punk ass,” Trey mumbles under his breath. “If he come over here, I swear I’mma sucker punch him right in the jaw, bro. That’s on my Grandma Gene’s grave.”
“Nah,” I say. “I’m not trying to get kicked out of here before we take home the first place prize.”
I take another sip from the flask, almost forgetting what it tasted like. “Honestly, the more I drink this shit, the better it tastes.”
“It tastes even better because it’s cheap as hell,” Charity adds.
“It tastes even better with a hit of some of this,” says Trey, revealing a dime bag of weed, pushing it waaaay too close to my face.
Charity slaps his hand down. “Don’t be showing that shit in here like that.”
Trey smacks his full, bright red lips that look like he’s been sucking on cherries since birth. “Fine.” He puts the bag away in his pocket.
“Q! Q — it’s me! How are you?” I don’t see who’s calling my name at first, but I feel a tap on my back. I spin around. It’s a kid I used to have Mrs. Rasmussen’s geography class with. I think his name’s Griffin. I don’t remember much about him, but what I do remember is that he’d always wear the same dark leather jacket he’s in now and how he’d always crack jokes about Mrs. Rasmussen’s hair that always looked like she just woke up and showed up to class. And I remember him being out of the closet. Like really, flamboyantly out of the closet.
We didn’t talk much when we were in sophomore geography, but by the way he’s tapped me and yelled my name, it feels like he thinks we’re a lot cooler than we are.
I don’t want to be rude, though. “’Sup?” I give him a slight wave, noticing his red curls, which look a lot redder when flashes of light shoot through his hair.
Trey leans in to whisper in my ear, but he doesn’t do a good enough job because even Charity hears him. “You know this kid’s a homo, right?”
I want to punch him in the damn face. “Shut up!” I shout and push him away from my ear.
“Griffin, right?” I ask the red-haired guy, somewhat unassured because he totally looks more like a Jake.
“Yep. My friends call me Fin. You can call me Fin,” he tells me, extending his hand. I meet his hand in the middle, and he shakes mine, and then Trey’s and Charity’s as well. “You playing tonight?”
“We are,” I say. “You?”
“No, I’m just here to watch. My friend Aimee is here somewhere, and she’s probably getting drunk and making out with some chick at the moment, but we both love coming to this every year. We look forward to it for months. It’s so much fun.”
“Nice,” I say. I don’t know why I’m being so short with him, but even I notice it. So, to compensate, I debate oversharing and telling him about how we want to win tonight because we want to take down our old friend, but I hold my tongue back.
He looks away, then back at me. “So . . . what’s your band called?”
“Reckless Love,” Charity answers for me. “I came up with the name.” Technically we all came up with the name, but I’m gonna let her have this one.
“Hmm. Reckless Love,” Fin repeats back, like he’s pondering our name, getting lost in the mystery of it, like it’s some deep, philosophical thing from Socrates. “I think I’ve listened to one of your EPs or something. You guys ever post on IndieTrash?”
“I post on there sometimes,” I say. “Like, every now and then. But not too much.”
He runs a quick hand through his red curls. Then he points at us kind of aggressively and his eyes get big, wide, and excited. “Oh! Oh! Do you have a song called ‘Be with You’?”
The four of us take turns exchanging gazes. “Yeah. We do,” I acknowledge. “I wrote it when I asked out Charity.” But what no one else knows is that I really wrote it for Orlando. Or for the person I thought Orlando was. Anyway, I’m super damn impressed he knows that song.
“Omigosh! I looooove that song,” he says, and starts singing the chorus. I’ve not heard or even thought about that song in a while, but hearing him sing it — damn, he can really sing it — I feel all the memories rush back at once. “You’re so talented, Quinton.”
“Thank . . . you?” I say, caught off guard that he called me Q earlier but then used my full name just now. Suddenly, I’m transported back to being a sophomore again, in my studio, which was just my closet, making music with Orlando. Back to a time when we were just chilling in my room. I’m lying across my bed with a notepad, writing lyrics, and Orlando’s sitting at my desk with headphones around his neck, producing on some music software. It’s been hours and we finally figure out the chorus to our new song. “Quinton,” he says to me, looking at me with those light brown eyes that freeze me in place. “What would I do without you?”
It takes a while, but eventually I blink away that memory.
“Well, I can’t wait to hear Reckless Love and I’m excited to see what you’re all about.”
I smile at Fin and tell him thanks. “See you around.”
He smiles back. “Of course. I’ll be looking forward to it.”
He starts walking backward away from us until he turns around and meets up with some bigger girl who’s definitely making out with a chick holding a can of Dr Pepper.
“Who would’ve thunk it?” Trey blurts out. “A homo from Raritan River High School is our biggest fan.”
“Stop calling him that,” I say to Trey, punching him in the arm kind of hard. The words fall out of my mouth like a forceful glob. I don’t know if Fin would even care, but I do know there’s something deep within me that hates that word. Homo.
Trey winces. “Damn, man, you didn’t have to hit me that hard.”
“Well, watch your damn mouth,” Charity says in my place, craning her neck. Something about her saying this feels like . . . comfort?
“I know youuuuu ain’t talking, Charity. Bro, remember that joke you said —”
“What? Boy, shut up talking to me.” She puts her hand up in his face. “That was a joke I was reading from Twitter. And I told you that it was problematic. Remember when YOU said —”
Trey and Charity start going back and forth between the two of them about who’s more problematic, like that even matters right now. But all I can think about, all that’s popcorning around in my head, banging up against every inch of my brain, are the memories of when Orlando and I would be in my mini-studio, making beats and writing lyrics and creating these beautiful things that would come alive through Reckless Love. Beautiful things we’d post on places like SoundCloud and Tumblr and share with the world. Beautiful things we brought into the world together. And now they’re out there somewhere, abandoned. And now I’m thinking about just how messed up that is.
The audience erupts in applause for the band onstage who just finished their performance. I’ve tuned out a lot of it, but I’m sure it’s worthy of applause, so I join in on the clapping. The band takes a bow and waves at the crowd before getting their guitars and basses and drumsticks and going backstage through a thick black curtain. Mr. Bolivar, who’s been announcing all the bands, comes out again.
“Let’s give it up again for Breakfast of Champions.” People start clapping and cheering again. “Weren’t they just . . . amazing? I’m sweating from how much I was dancing to that last tune. I’m so excited that tonight is just beginning. Without further ado, please welcome our next band of the night, I Want Your P.S.!”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. “This is it. This is Orlando’s new band. Shit,” I say.
“Are you nervous or some shit?” Trey asks me, again getting waaaay too close.
“No, why?” I shake my head at him before returning my gaze right as Orlando comes out and takes his place at the drum set.
“For one, you’re balling up your fists, and you haven’t stopped jiggling your leg since they said the name I Want Your P.S.”
He’s right. I take a deep breath and undo my fists. I try to tell myself to be calm about this, but it just feels kind of nerve-racking — the uncertainty of it all.
The crowd goes completely nuts for them, chanting their name as each band member takes their place. “P.S.! P.S.! P.S.! P.S.! P.S.!” People scream in unison, especially the group of white girls huddled up next to us who keep shrieking, not even screaming, shrieking in a cacophony. I know what P.S. means when you’re writing a letter, but I wonder what it means for them.
“Doesn’t it sound like people are shouting, ‘Penis! Penis! Penis!’?” Trey asks me, kind of chuckling.
I shush him, even though I kind of want to laugh with him.
Their lead singer is some really muscular Asian guy with spiky hair and a sleeve of tattoos. He clears his throat into the mic, and I can tell that he’s chewing gum, like he’s the textbook definition of a punk kid. “All right, all right, friends,” he hums into the mic, an acoustic guitar strapped across his chest. “My name’s Goga Zheng, that’s Catherine James on bass, Hector Perez on electric guitar, and my boyfriend, Orlando Alexander, on drums. And we are —”
“I Want Your P.S.!” every member of the band recites in unison.
My jaw nearly breaks as it falls open. One glance at Charity and Trey and I can see that they feel exactly as I do right now.
“Boyfriend? Orlando’s gay?” Trey goes. “Yooooo!”
Apparently he’s out now. I don’t know how I should feel about that. I just swallow down hot spit.
Orlando clicks his sticks to count down and then they start to play. From the first notes, something feels familiar about this song. It’s smooth and mellow, like the sound of rustling leaves in the fall, but I can’t quite point out what exactly is familiar about it.
Then the lead singer starts singing the lyrics in a low voice that’s slow and sweet, like molasses.
