Battle of the Bands

by Eric Smith

  Outside it smells fresher, the world is wider, it has just started raining, fat plops landing right on the crown of my head and dripping down my nose, and a girl is running past me, clutching a camera. I know her — we have physics together. I could say, Hi, Raven, and follow her in pursuit of normalcy, but she’s already sprinted inside and I think I’d better stay out. I can breathe for a few minutes until I’m cool to drive . . . home, I guess? I’ll go sit on that bench over there that nobody ever sits on except kids whose parents are late picking them up.

  Stranded people. People who have lost their ride.

  I start to laugh. I lean my head into my hands and keep sinking until my hair is dangling between my legs, and I’m laughing and laughing but no sound is coming out.

  “So I’m guessing you broke up.”

  I jolt upright. It’s April. Her voice sounded smug, but her face is sympathetic. I don’t know why, but I’m disappointed. In that split second before seeing her, I’d hoped for more. A happier reaction. Which is asinine — she just wants to know where her band’s front man is. They were fourth in the lineup. The clock, it is a-ticking.

  “Um. No?” It has occurred to me that she’s waiting for an answer. “I don’t think so. I mean, I think that will . . . result from this. But the words were not spoken, so — not officially broken up. Yet.”

  I am babbling.

  “So what is the ‘this’?” April steps closer, thumbs stuck in the waistband of her shorts.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “We were talking — he was talking — and then something kind of —”

  “Snapped?” She nods, unsurprised. “Was he talking about Safe & Sound?”

  My mouth falls open. “How did you —”

  “He’s always talking about Safe & Sound. They are his unwitting archnemeses. Once I thought about telling them, but . . .” She shrugs, smiling. “So that’s what did it after all this time.”

  I blush sunburn hot, feeling nuclear-radiation levels of embarrassment. All this time. Two freaking years. Longer than that, really. I fell in love with Aaron on the sixth grade sleepaway weekend, when he brought his guitar and performed “Wish You Were Here” on the steps of his cabin. All the girls, including Lydia, were sighing over him, and a couple of the boys, too. Nobody but me seemed to notice that he mixed up a couple of the lyrics, but it endeared him to me even more, that lapse in perfection. I was the one who got him.

  It took me a few years of languishing in obscurity to really get him. Snag him, snare him, catch his attention and keep it. In the end, all it took was wearing a T-shirt my aunt gave me for Christmas, a picture of somebody named Edie Sedgwick — one of Andy Warhol’s muses, apparently — against a stripy background. My aunt worked in fashion and her gifts were usually completely OTT, but I liked this one and Aaron liked it, too.

  He got up from the seat behind me when French class ended and leaned in to murmur, “Ton chemise est chouette.”

  Ta chemise, my mind corrected, while my body disintegrated into dandelion fluff.

  That’s when the flirting started. And then the invitation to their first show. And then hanging out afterward until everybody else had left, and finally kissing Aaron Crenshaw, which was not exactly like I’d expected it to be, but that was fine, we’d figure out our way around each other, I thought. And then I was the envy of the school, the perpetual plus-one, the support, the weekend muse during fevered writing sessions. The unpaid therapist, the lunch and dinner buyer — he was the brokest rich person anybody knew. It was a funny little quirk; all of his personality traits were charming until, abruptly, they weren’t.

  Had I been drifting away sooner than this morning, though? Were there moments in the past few months when I tuned out while he talked? I would go through my homework for the next day, write mental haikus, daydream about sitting on a long pier, far away, completely alone, and he wouldn’t even notice that I wasn’t listening. I was a warm body, a human sounding board.

  Was that what made me linger at Jay’s party that night last month? Aaron wanted to leave early — somebody had pissed him off — but when we got to his house, he realized he’d left his acoustic Fender back at Jay’s, so I had to go back and get it. The party was still going. I asked the linebacker playing “Brown Eyed Girl” on the guitar to hand it over, slunk back past the kitchen, and saw April sitting on the counter.

  She wasn’t drinking but still seemed like the most relaxed person at this party, as if I were finally spotting her in her natural habitat. Her lips were parted in concentration as she scrolled through her phone, editing the party’s playlist.

  She glanced up and saw me and brightened, sun sparkling on a river. “You’re not leaving. Stay!”

  I stayed. And she stayed. Oh man, did we both stay.

  Now, here, she squats down in front of me, her hands pressed to the bench on either side of my legs, her mouth inches from mine. I could just lean over like she did that night and . . .

  She glances back at the school with a grimace. We both flinch, hearing the dum-dum-dum of a bass line kicking into gear. “That’ll be Shifter Focus.”

  My heart starts popping like corn.

  “Listen, April,” I say quickly, to make up for the fact that I should have said it a good half an hour ago. “I’m really sorry, but I left him. At my house. I have no idea how he’s going to get here, if he’s going to get here, and I know you’re fourth on the roster —”

  “Twelfth.”

  “Twelfth?” I blink. “Jesus, how many acts are there? Anyway, maybe that’s good, you’ve got time to go find him, or . . . ?”

  “You know the stage manager, right?”

  “Lilly? I know of her.”

  April scratches her cheek. “Yeah, well, she runs a tight ship. I’d guess act ten is already up.”

  How is that possible? Time has lost all meaning. “I’ve screwed this up for you guys. I am so, so sorry —”

  April presses her index finger to my lips, once, way too briefly, extends her hand again, and hoists me to my feet. I’m so caught up in the feeling of her arm sliding around me, her wrist bangles tickling my waist, that I don’t immediately process the fact that she’s herding me back toward the school.

  “What are we . . . ?”

  “I have an idea. Just . . . trust me.”

  Wallace and Jay are waiting just inside, leaning on the walls to either side of the stage door.

  “Aaron?” Jay asks.

  April shakes her head.

  “Sorry!” I blurt. “I’m so —”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Jay snorts. “Just . . . we get it.”

  I stare at him, his over-it slump, then take in Wallace’s dazed smirk, April staring at her feet like she’s trying not to laugh.

  The entire school rotates around me. “Does no one like Aaron?”

  The remaining members of Big Talk let out a noncommittal whining noise. Out past them, I hear cheering from the audience, stagehands ushering one band offstage and the next band on.

  “Big Talk?” someone calls from deeper backstage. “Anybody see Big Talk?”

  None of us answer. We all stand in place, locked in indecision.

  Then, of all people, it’s Wallace who straightens up and claps his hands like he’s taking charge. “Okay. Time’s up. You’ll have to sing it.”

  I glance at April, hoping she’ll be up for stepping up, only to find her eyes locked on mine with the exact same expression. Wallace is pointing at . . . me?

  “What? Why? No!” I laugh. “Are you . . . what? I am not in the band.”

  “You’re not not in the band,” Wallace says sagely.

  “Why don’t you do it?” I nod at Jay.

  April snorts. “Have you heard him sing?”

  “If you like the sound of cats in heat having a fight, I’m your guy!” Jay beams. “I can riff and fill in Aaron’s guitar part, so don’t worry about that . . . Oh, snaaaaaap. I can finally do Aaron’s guitar solo. He never lets me play his guitar solo!”


  I reach quickly for April. “You sing it, then.”

  She glides out of range. “I can sing backup, just . . . not lead vocals. Not while I play bass. Two different rhythms and my brain is all: Malfunction.”

  “Wallace?” I plead.

  He scratches his chin. “I don’t know the words.”

  “To which song?”

  “Any of them.”

  “What songs are you even playing?”

  “We had two ready, but now I’m thinking . . . one will be fine. ‘That Moment.’” April stares at me, unblinking. Accusatory. “Our only good song. Your song.”

  My cheeks flush. “What?”

  “Big Talk,” the stage manager calls, then mutters behind her, “Um, can you not touch the curtains, please and thank you?”

  April scratches her hair. “Okay, we don’t have time for this. Jess? Please come sing the song you wrote.”

  “I wrote?” I let out a weak laugh. “Aaron writes —”

  “Aaron writes all our songs, yes, except for that song, which we know you wrote because it’s actually good.” April blinks. “And because the style is an awful lot like the poem you wrote for the lit mag last spring.”

  She read my poem.

  “Plus the chord progressions. Some of them were Aaron chords, but some of them were . . .” Jay waggles his hand, thinking.

  “Better,” April fills in.

  I sputter in lieu of reply.

  Did I write “That Moment”? I honestly don’t know. I’d started sitting with Aaron while he composed on the weekends, and I guess I got a little frustrated when he was pacing and stuck and being a Struggling Artiste — in fact I could not take it for one second longer — so yeah, maybe I suggested a line or two and some chords to go with them, but . . .

  “Big Talk?! Last chance!”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Yes?” Jay jumps twice. Wallace straightens, drumsticks ready. April bites her lip.

  “Fuck it. Yes!” Oh God, what have I just done?

  April springs to action, leading us all to the thick velvet curtains, behind which the band before us is clearing out.

  “I’m not the world’s best singer,” I mutter to her, heart thudding. “I’m not even my family’s best singer, and I am an only child.”

  “You’re fine!”

  “I’ve watched Aaron perform enough, though. I can copy him.”

  “Or just . . . not?” She links arms with me and pulls us both past the curtains, onto the stage, Wallace and Jay trailing behind. “Be you. I like you! I . . . really like you.”

  The lights are blinding, but I manage to find the mic stand. There are people out there, a great murmuring sea of them. There is a judges’ table. We are very much in this for the participation prize.

  I glance back at April. She swings her bass over her shoulder and shoots me a wink. That’s probably as close to a cue as I’m going to get.

  I lean into the mic. “We’re Big Talk, I guess?”

  And Wallace immediately jumps into the beat beat beat lead-in, and that’s all I’ve got, no time left to panic — I sing!

  Not well, but I did warn her. My pitch is more approximate than precise, and I can’t figure out how close to get to the mic, but you know what? This is a good song! My voice is carrying, and I’m straight-up bouncing on this rhythm or whatever the cool kids say, and I know it by heart because I’m pretty sure April’s right. Which of these lines did Aaron write? Did he come up with a single bar of this?

  This is my song and I’m owning it, and I have to assume the crowd is into it, and April’s on fire, and Wallace is solid, and I drop out now while Jay does his guitar solo, and off in the wings . . . holy shit.

  Off in the wings and then out of the wings and onto the stage bursts Aaron. No guitar. His hair is sticking up, his tight pants are ripped at one seam, and there are sweat circles ringing his armpits. Did he run here? He’s running toward me now, his face white and gaunt and dripping with fury, some avenging spirit, and I think for a second he’s going have a lovers’ — ex-lovers’? — spat with me right here, live onstage, but he’s looking straight past me at the microphone stand. And now he’s charging.

  Oh hell no. Two more bars and my vocals come back in. My vocals.

  I grab the mic with both hands and plant my feet for impact.

  “Do you know that day and that way that you pay for the crimes in the times when you waited, you waited for more than you had — and now it’s all here . . .”

  April’s come in on her backup harmony, but Aaron’s joined in now, too, his sweaty hands trying to pry each of my fingers off the mic, his mouth so close and so humid my hand is starting to slip. He bumps me with his hip like he can pinball me offstage.

  “It’s all here . . .”

  He’s staring right into my eyes as he tries to outsing me, his pupils tiny little furious specks. But I know the truth. He can’t see anything beyond this performance and himself — not right now, not ever. The world doesn’t exist outside the circle of Aaron.

  He can’t even see that he’s standing inches away from the edge of the stage.

  “And it’s clear,” we sing together.

  I step forward, tipping the mic stand. He steps with me, chasing it, one inch, two — and shump.

  He falls off the stage.

  “Have you ever felt that moment, that moment . . . !”

  I spin to face the band. Wallace, Jay, April, all concentrating, grinning, elated, living this moment, this moment, this moment, the four of us totally in sync.

  I can’t see past the lights, can’t hear past our music, but I imagine that Aaron has managed not to smash into the remaining judges, that he’s being helped up and fighting off assistance, that his attitude has rankled the wrong people, that he’s being hurriedly escorted off the premises as we hit the last few bars of this kick-ass song.

  “Well, I know that you’ve felt it now.”

  The audience whoops and stands to cheer, probably more for the spectacle than for our actual performance, but I don’t care. I turn, exultant. We did this!

  April shoves her bass away and runs to me. I throw my arms around her, lift her half an inch off the ground and spin, and before we make it full circle, my mouth finds hers.

  It’s just like it was at Jay’s party.

  This kiss isn’t a letdown with room for us to get to know each other; it’s electric and ripe and Technicolor perfect. It is fully formed.

  She holds my hand as we wave to the audience and walk offstage, which is helpful because it keeps me from floating away.

  Have you ever felt that moment that moment that moment that moment —

  Well, I know that I’ve felt it now.

  Three chords.

  That’s all it takes for my heart to practically seize up in my chest. There are certain songs that, almost immediately, you can recognize from the opening few notes. Like some of those classic jams by Bruce Springsteen, John Mellencamp, or Arthur Crow that my dad rocks out to in the living room, the saxophone lick in “Born to Run” and the opening chords of “Jack & Diane” sending him into a disaster of a dance party. Something pure and joyful and embarrassing. Or the classic pop-punk my older sister loves, the Ataris or New Found Glory or the Starting Line whisper-singing the beginning of “Best of Me.”

  I catch my breath as the audience notices what she’s playing. As I notice what she’s playing. Well over a hundred students from my new high school go from a bunch of quiet, softly muttering classmates to an excited, surprised mob as this girl starts to play “Written in the Stars” by the Field Notes.

  It’s normally a fairly slow-paced pop-punk song, with sharp chords and epic choruses, the sound of three singers bursting into harmonies, but this . . . this is something different altogether. It’s just her and an acoustic guitar, the song stripped down, totally raw and reinvented, and when she sings, the audience gasps. The recognizable notes in the strumming of her guitar, in her unique transformation of the song . . . I thought
that was enough. But it’s in her voice. My God. It’s a gentle, soft thing, and the lyrics flutter from her lips, sounding delicate and otherworldly, the words rustling through the school theater like butterflies.

  It’s an indie-folk-rock cover of one of the most popular singles on the radio right now, instantly familiar to everyone who hears it, from the first three iconic chords to the way she’s twisting the song with her voice, making it sound like something brand-new yet totally recognizable.

  And I should know better than everyone.

  ’Cause I wrote it.

  I grab hold of a thick black curtain, hoping that the velvet fabric might wipe away some of the sweat from my palms, steadying myself with that hand and gripping the neck of my guitar with the other. From here, on the side of the stage, I watch her. I’ve seen her before, in the hallways, looking cool and hip in this effortless way, but I don’t think we’ve ever spoken a single word to each other. The school’s stage is dark, and she sits on a stool in the middle of it, a single spotlight shining down on her, and even the cheap school-theater lighting can’t wash out her olive skin and her bright green eyes. When she has them open, that is. When she doesn’t have them shut as she sings high notes in a raspy gasp that makes my heart flutter even as my stomach is sinking.

  Does . . . does she know?

  She can’t.

  I’ve kept a low profile all year. I couldn’t keep going to my old school, the private school where everyone knew me, knew what happened. The only real friends I’ve made here are Lilly, who is off running this whole event behind the scenes; Hailey, who is up running the lights with her pals; and Ken, the one person who has been desperately trying to get me back into music. Ever since I was booted out of the Field Notes after we got signed, not fitting the “image” the label wanted, he’s seemingly made it his mission. The old crew, they’re all wildly handsome and spend more time in the gym than they do working on the music, while I couldn’t care less about how I look. And there’s the fact that I didn’t want to change any of my songs. The studio that recorded our first EP was overproducing them, making them into something they weren’t.