“Sure thing.”
He turns to walk away, but not before he gives me a salute. I give him one back, then walk around the corner to where my car is parked.
I just laid down another B side groove.
It really, really, really isn’t manly, so I look to see if anyone’s watching. But there’s no one, so I do it. I skip the final fifty yards to my car.
I’m in a club now. The guys-who-work-in-a-record-store club. And the words “record store” are really important. But the best word is “guys.”
On Sunday morning, the garden creature party is staring me in the face from the front page of the Maxfield Courier. It says “submitted photo” underneath it, which means the Ugly Children didn’t call some Courier photographer to document it. The caption says, Garden creatures of all kinds have a party at Food Pride on Friday evening.
“Garden creatures of all kinds” means gnomes, giraffes, angels, one lawn jockey, a few Madonnas, a couple Buddhas, and some squirrels. All of them are positioned in front of the doors of the store. Some are talking to each other, some are set so they look like they’re pushing carts, and others look like they’re dragging grocery bags out of the store.
My dad, who’s sitting at the table and having breakfast, laughs out loud. “Look at this. There are some strange kids out there, to think that up.”
“Yeah, guess so.” I can’t say any more or I’ll lose it. The sweat is pouring off me. Finally he leaves, so I sneak the paper off the table.
When I get it upstairs, I cut out the photo of the garden party and stash it in a desk drawer along with the rest of the paper. I’ll smuggle the remains over to John’s, so nobody says, “Hey, why is there a hole in this paper?” when they’re putting it out for the recycle people. I’m not ready to confess. This show belongs to me, John, and the UCB.
I drive to Food Pride, but everything’s gone, so at least they listened to my request to put stuff back. One scruffy squirrel got left on top of a pile of softener salt, and he looks lonely up there, so I take him home and put him with my mom’s gnome back by the fountain. They can plan the next garden party.
Justin Bieber is the New Elvis
Only Shorter and A Lot More Annoying
Tuesday at five p.m., and it’s finally graduation. I’ve never been so bored in my life. With 350 kids in your class, it takes forever, even though they run us through like cattle.
The guy in front of me is Paul Willard. When we lined up to march in, he sort of smiled. I sort of smiled back. We said a couple things. That was enough.
Then I hear Mr. Taylor, the principal, say it: “Elizabeth Mary Williams.” I smile, walk up the stairs, grab the diploma, shake hands, walk down the stairs on the other side, repeat the smile/shake hands at the bottom of the stairs, and go sit down, praying that Mara isn’t here to see me attached to that name.
If I have my way, Mr. Taylor’s announcement was the last public pronunciation of the words “Elizabeth Mary Williams.”
Finally we can go home for some cake. I didn’t get my way about no party, so some of my parents’ friends come by and drop off gifts. Hopefully it’s not stupid stuff—what I want is cash and gift cards. I smile and act polite for as long as I can, but then I go upstairs and change.
“Where are you going?” Mom’s sitting at the table, eating more cake with Dad. Everybody’s gone.
“Graduation party. Gonna pick up Paige.”
She pats the chair. “Come sit down.” She looks at my dad, and he nods.
“Uh … no thanks.” I’m not really in the mood for family togetherness.
“We have a gift for you, and you can’t have it unless you sit.”
I sit. What if it’s something good?
My dad clears his throat and glances at me. “We didn’t know … what was appropriate … ”
“Joe, this isn’t the time for a speech.” My mom touches his hand.
He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out an envelope, which he hands to me while looking at my mom. “Take a trip. You and Paige. Or buy a box of vintage albums, we don’t care.”
I take the envelope and open it to find twenty-dollar bills. A lot of them. “Not to be rude, but should I count it?” I thumb through the money. “There’s five hundred dollars in here.”
Mom smiles, but not at me. “Or something to take with you to college. Orientation must be coming up soon.” She wants me to throw her a bone.
“I’ll let you know, I promise.” I can’t stand her face, sort of desperate and sad and happy all at the same time while she stares at the table. “Again, not to be rude, but can I go now? Paige is waiting for me.”
My dad swallows his cake. “Don’t drink, and be home before I go to work tomorrow morning.”
“No problem.” I head up the stairs and shove my envelope of money into a dresser drawer. Then I book out the door before we have to have more conversations while they don’t look at me.
Bank, here I come. It’s savings account time.
I pick up Paige, and she directs us to this enormous party on someone’s farm. There are bunches of cars parked in the driveway, which must be a mile long, and more cars on the main road. We each grab a beer from the keg, and I make a mental note to remember what Paige is wearing so I can find her later. She’ll have to be scraped off the ground, I’m sure, and poured back in the car. I wonder where Bobby X is.
Paige wanders around like she’s the hostess, flirting with any guy she can and moving through all the different circles of people she knows, like she’s in demand. I follow her around, but people don’t see me because they can’t take their eyes off of her.
“Liz?”
I turn around, and it’s Heather Graves.
Pull the voice low. “Hey, uh, Heather.” If I had a dick, and I don’t mean a Mango, it would be hard right now. She’s a goddess: long flowing hair, lots of cleavage, and tight shorts. The imaginary words on her forehead are DO ME. My heart rate goes up to a zillion.
“Are you having fun?” She smiles at me like she really wants me to answer that question.
“It’s better than sitting around with my folks.”
“Are you with someone?” It almost sounds like that question has a suggestion behind it. Then again, I may be hearing things.
“I’m following Paige around.” I gesture to where Paige is standing in a circle of six guys, tossing her hair like someone’s filming her.
“She does like her followers, doesn’t she?”
I throw the snark ball back to her. “We’ve been friends since kindergarten.”
“Oh.” Heather clears her throat. “What are you doing in the fall? I’m going to the U of M, for business. Are you going to school?”
“Not in the fall. But I can’t imagine myself working at McSwingy’s forever.”
“You work at McSwingy’s?” Her face brightens. “I love that place!”
Then I realize what I’ve done: I work there as Gabe, not Liz.
I can run away now, or I can keep going.
I let my feet decide, and they don’t move—from fear or from a desire to keep talking to a goddess, I don’t know. So I take a deep breath. “I just started.”
“I can spend hours in there. Do you guys have the latest Justin Timberlake?”
“Mr. Dick in a Box? Sure, we’ve got it.” At least I hope we have it.
Her smile is bright in the semi-darkness. “When do you work next? I’ll come down and get it.”
“Uh … ” Think, Gabe. “I’m not sure. I’ll be there a lot now that school’s done.” I remind myself to smile back. She’s sucking all the thoughts out of my head.
“Well, I’m sure I’ll see you.” Heather gives me a potentially flirty look. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to know each other at school. Can I have your number?”
The planet must be exploding tomorrow, because only at the end of time could I imagine Heather Graves asking for my number. But I give it to her and she puts it in her phone.
“Thanks.” She smiles while she looks me up and down. “And you sure the hell are cute.”
“I’m not who you think … ”
“Whoever you are, you’re plenty.” Her grin is more than slightly suggestive.
All I can do is blink. “I … uh … ”
She leans in close. “You’re adorable.” Her lips are so close to mine … so very, very close and luscious. I’m cheating on Paige’s lips. Maybe even all of her.
Then she backs away. “See you at McSwingy’s.” She doesn’t seem surprised that I’m completely incapable of making a sound. She turns around and walks away.
It’s time to go. My heart can’t take another conversation like that.
But if I’m really going to leave, I have to find Paige, and that’s hard. I search through each little clump of people, but I hear no bubbly voice attached to a head tossing its hair. Finally I find her sitting on the edge of a hay bale, working the drama queen angle. She’s got on purple flip-flops with cute black ribbons—decorated especially for tonight, she said—so while she talks she bounces her foot to show off her shoes.
A guy in her crowd says, “Hey, have you heard that radio show? Beautiful Children and Ugly Music or something like that?”
Paige turns to him. “It’s Beautiful Music for Ugly Children, and—”
I grab her arm. “I’m out of here.”
“What?” Paige pulls her arm back and glares.
“Get a ride home with someone else.” I move out of her circle. Before I get too far, I hear one guy say, “Is she in our class?” Then someone else says, “Yeah, you know, that lesbo chick.” If I went and found Heather, she could show them who the real lesbo chick is. Or maybe she’s bi.
Finding the car is almost impossible in the dark. I’m unlocking the door and I hear Paige.
“Gabe! Shit, I mean Liz! Liz!” She’s racing down the driveway, somehow managing not to run out of her flip-flops. “You can’t leave!”
“I told you I was going.”
“But I’m having fun!”
“I can’t … the show … you outed me back there … I can’t. I need to go.” I open my car door, which is hard because my hands are shaking and I’m mad at myself for being such a chicken. “Get in.”
She stomps her foot. “I did not! They don’t know it’s your show. But they should. You need to lighten up!” I can practically see the pink and purple ribbons trailing after her in the dark, just like that stubborn kindergarten girl.
“Really? Have you ever had two identities?”
“No, but name it and claim it, just like you told the UCB.”
“Yeah, but … ”
“You’re Gabe now. Liz was high school. Get your ass back to the party.” She stomps up the driveway with no backward glance.
I start the car and fiddle with the radio, willing my hands to stop trembling. The only stations I can find are country, classic rock, Christian sermons, and polka. Only in Minnesota is there polka on the radio. I listen to twenty minutes of it. It’s not horrible.
I hate it when she’s right.
I go back up the driveway, get another beer so I have something to hold, then sit down on a hay bale to figure out a show about radio songs, just in case the Vibe email arrives. Then I ponder when the Mango’s going to get here. Nobody talks to me, but I don’t talk to anyone either.
I see Heather Graves again, hanging on to Paul Willard, and she waves, which he doesn’t see. You never suspect it of the pretty girls, which makes it even more hilarious when they prove you wrong.
Paige floats by again in the middle of a crowd. While I watch her, I think about how confident she is. I want some of that.
What would Elvis do in this situation?
I’d walk right up, smile big, and join in the party.
He’s never said that before.
I mentally step out of myself and stand about ten feet in front of my hay bale. There’s a basic-looking but slightly feminine guy sitting there. He’s kind of cute, and he looks like he wants to have a good time, but he also looks like he’s afraid someone will spit on him. Or worse. He’s actually kind of pathetic—eager, but sad and scared at the same time.
Dammit.
So I take Elvis’s advice. I join Paige in her latest circle, finishing my beer while I listen and occasionally talk to people. By three a.m., ten people have asked if I graduated tonight and if I’m really in this class. I’ve also heard five other people talk about my show, and I’ve caught Heather staring at me at least three times, though Paul caught her the second time. The last time she blew me an air kiss, which is permanently burned in my retinas.
This week is a show for graduation: freedom songs. My freedom. Graduation was one more track on my B side.
“Good early, early morning, folks, and welcome to Beautiful Music for Ugly Children here on community radio 90.3, KZUK. I’m Gabe, of course, and let’s start our midnight hour with John Cougar Mellencamp’s ‘I Need A Lover (Who Won’t Drive Me Crazy).’ Sounds like freedom to me.”
John’s in the corner, hooting it up. “Everybody needs a lover like that.”
“Dude, I’d just like a lover.”
“Have you picked a task for the Ugly Children Brigade?”
I dig through the CDs, finding the next piece I want. “Not yet. Got any ideas?”
“Let me think while I smoke.” He goes outside, taking my ELVIS LIVES Zippo with him, while I find the next song.
“So, Ugly Children, how’s your night? How’s your life? What’s freedom to you? Being able to say the F-bomb any time you want? Or looking like a London punk with safety pins in your ears and a six-inch pink Mohawk? Or is it the freedom to think as you’d like, or be what you’d like? For some of you, maybe a fast car is freedom. Graduation is freedom, too—happy graduation to all those Maxwell East and Maxwell West seniors. Here’s a fantastic example of American freedom, from Jimi Hendrix.”
Then the sketchy CD player wonks out. Maybe it doesn’t like me, or maybe it’s just a piece of shit, but I jab and jab my finger at the PLAY button until it finally starts. Then it’s “The Star-Spangled Banner,” fat and loud in the night air. Only in our crazy country would someone think to play the national anthem on the electric guitar.
I’m ready when Hendrix is over, with the Boss in the place where Mellencamp used to be. “All right, late-night listeners, this show is a celebration of liberation, so let’s hear the ultimate freedom song from Bruce Springsteen, right here on KZUK, community radio 90.3. You can’t mistake this song for any other, I promise you, so let’s go.” Then “Born to Run” blasts onto the airwaves, and anything seems possible.
When it’s done, I take the plunge again. “Music is freedom, too, and that’s what I like about it: it makes people think in new ways. ‘Born to Run’ might make you hop in your car or on your motorcycle and get the hell out of town for a while. And if you can’t do it, you at least think about it. Or maybe you book a vacation to the Grand Canyon. But if you can’t do that, maybe you go outside and run around the block and knock over your neighbor, since she’s out jogging with a friend, and you and the friend hit it off and get married a week later. All those new possibilities because of ‘Born to Run.’ How about a little more freedom, courtesy of motorcycles and old movies? Here’s Steppenwolf’s ‘Born to Be Wild,’ made famous by the film Easy Rider. Get going, friends. The open road’s waiting for you.”
John gives me a thumbs-up. “I showed you that movie.”
Then the phone rings. I jump a foot, but grab it fast. “KZUK, the Z that sucks.”
“Can we get coffee now? It’s after graduation.”
“Mara?�
� I should have expected her call, but I’m still surprised. My hands get clammy.
“I feel like I’m meeting a celebrity or something.” She sounds like she’s twelve.
“Trust me, I’m not that special.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
I’m so glad she can’t see me blush.
She keeps going. “How about this next Wednesday?”
I tick through my life, but I don’t have to work, and when do I ever have any social stuff planned? “Okay by me.”
“Did you see the paper last week? That was my picture of the garden party!”
“Sure did. I even cut it out.” I feel like a dork admitting it. But right now I’m letting myself love the fact that a girl thinks I’m cool.
“I did too.” I hear the smile in her voice. “What’s the plan for the UCB tonight?”
“I’ll let you know in a minute.” Tonight I want them to decorate a stranger’s car—not in a bad way, just a festive way. Balloons or streamers or flowers, something like that.
“I’m sure it’s awesome, whatever it is.” The smile in her voice is still there.
My mind is swept up in imagining Mara and me, talking and laughing and looking like some fluffy coffee commercial. Then I realize there’s no music, just silence.
“Oh shit!” Mercifully, when I hit the button, Devo’s “Freedom of Choice” slides onto the air.
Laughter from her end.
“Mara?”
More giggles. “The ‘oh shit’ went out on the air, too.”
“WHAT?” I might puke.
“Just an added bonus for the Ugly Children Brigade.”
I try to get myself together, but it’s not working. Best choice: get off the phone. “Wednesday, seven, Coffee Hag, see you then.”
“’Bye.” She’s still chuckling when she hangs up.
Who knows if the FCC has mobile trucks just waiting to bust people who use profanity on the air? I can’t imagine they do, but you never know. I slow my breathing down.
John’s back, and he’s almost falling down. “Oh my heavens, OH my heavens … thank god they have speakers in the hall. That was priceless.” He keeps laughing as I get Akon’s “Freedom” on its way.
Beautiful Music for Ugly Children Page 8
