Beautiful Music for Ugly Children

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  Scratch that. This secret is huge. Giant. Elvis got a guitar from Tupelo Hardware when he was eleven, which has to mean the guitar in John’s hand is one of the most revered pieces of American music history. Legend says Elvis wanted a rifle instead, but he took what his mom gave him.

  “How the hell did you get it?”

  “Won it off a guy in Vegas in a backroom poker game.”

  “How much is it worth?” I’m trying not to shit bricks. “The beginning of rock and roll is in your closet, dude!”

  He smiles at me, though the sadness about his family is still in his face. “Someday it’s yours.”

  “No way.” I could never be trusted with something that amazing.

  “Let’s not worry about it now.” He puts the guitar way, way in the back of the closet.

  “Right, or I’ll start worrying about robbers breaking in and killing you just for that guitar.”

  John comes back to the table. “Let’s get to work, huh?”

  “You didn’t have to show that stuff to me.”

  “You told me your secret. I should tell you some of mine.” He busies himself in the crates on the floor under the computer. “How about that Elvis show? And who shut off Costello?”

  I switch him back on, though I’m still thinking about the guitar. “Lipstick Vogue” explodes into the room. “He didn’t seem appropriate to the conversation.”

  “We should’ve had old country drinking songs on,” John says. Now he’s a little more like the John I know, not the one caught in the past. “Tonight, let’s go chronological with Elvis, but let’s do it all: gospel, Vegas, singles, everything.”

  “You got it.” And for the next two hours we put together fifty minutes of Elvis’s best. Somewhere in there I swear I hear a thank you in my head, but I’m not sure. Maybe Elvis is glad to get some airtime.

  We’re at the station and John’s settled in the corner of the booth with a Pepsi and a cigarette, not lit, just one he’s playing with. Paige is in the other corner trying not to touch stuff, but she’d mess with everything if I’d let her.

  “Welcome, welcome, friends, to Beautiful Music for Ugly Children, and a special welcome to the UCB. I’m Gabe, of course, and tonight is an Elvis night. Why Elvis? He’s only the man who blended bluegrass, country, and rhythm and blues all together, and he brought the world a whole new style. Not to mention a whole new set of jokes about his sad old fat self long after he changed the musical world. Poor man. To start us off, here’s the one that got him going, first played in Memphis in 1954 by this town’s own John Burrows.”

  John’s waving, telling me to stop, but I keep going.

  “Didn’t know we had a musical celebrity in our midst, did you? John was the first man to play Elvis on the air. Quite an honor. Ask him to see his Elvis autograph sometime, or Elvis’s first guitar.” John’s eyes are wide and horrified, so I backtrack. “Really, folks, he doesn’t have any of that. He only wishes. Here’s ‘That’s All Right,’ big and bold on KZUK, 90.3 community radio.”

  Paige’s eyes are so wide her eyebrows are in her hair. “John has Elvis’s first guitar?”

  John jumps up and comes for my throat with both hands. “You gotta learn to shut up!” I don’t think he’s joking.

  “You told me to tell stories, so I told a story.”

  “Not like that!” He’s on his way out the door for a cigarette and he flips me the bird over his shoulder.

  “Sorry!” And I am. That was dumb. But if he was really mad he’d have picked up his music and walked home.

  Paige is still amazed. “He could sell that for a zillion dollars.”

  The rest of the show is solid, and I’m pleased. I even let Paige talk, but all she says is “Uh … hi.” My request to the Ugly Children Brigade—all 27 of them—is to construct an Elvis statue somewhere. It was all I could think of. Maybe they’ll make an Elvis mop.

  When the show is over and Marijane is digging, digging, digging, we pack up our crap and head out to the parking lot—where we’re met by Jason and Scream.

  I want to run but I hold my ground.

  John looks at them, then at me. “Are these guys for real?”

  Jason looks me over. “So what’s under there? You got a pussy under there, Gabe?”

  “We’re just heading to the car, all right?” I try to walk past them, but Scream grabs my arm and pulls me toward Jason, who stinks like beer. He’s not so steady on his feet when he reaches out for me, and I pull back, but Scream’s grip is relentless.

  Paige is screeching. “Get your hands off him, asshole!”

  Jason grabs my head and pushes it to his crotch. “Want some of this? Come on, Liz, you like dick, don’t you? Or do you have one?” He grinds, trying to push my face into his fly. I try to bite him, but he yanks my head up, then pushes it down again. When I try to turn my head away from his crotch, Scream forces it back. Back to the bulge that’s there.

  I can barely hear John, but he’s hollering. “Get the hell out of here!”

  Jason keeps talking. “Not so much fun to pretend when someone calls you on it, huh? Where’s that dick, Liz?” He’s breathing hard.

  Then Scream yanks my pants down and my shirt up, and Jason laughs. “Oooh, look at this! Boxers! There has to be a dick under there somewhere.” Scream grabs my crotch, squeezing the Mango. “Holy fuck, what’s that?” He squeezes again.

  John’s voice: “Walk away, dipshit, before you hurt someone or I bust your head in.”

  Jason’s voice, ugly and hard. “You’re a girl, not a fucking guy. Get it in your head, and keep to your fucking self. Stay away.”

  Stay away from what? Then there’s a punch to my ear and everything’s underwater. When my arm is released, I crumble to the pavement.

  “Fuck you, stupid assholes!” Paige’s voice.

  “You think we won’t fuck you up, too?” Scream’s voice. I sit up a little and watch as she walks toward them.

  “You’re stupid cowards who can’t own it.” She’s winding up now. “Or can you? Masks off, right now. You’re gonna get your asses kicked by an old man and a girl!”

  “Watch your back, bitch. We’re seriously going to fuck with you AND It.” Jason’s going to hurt her, right here and now.

  John again: “Paige, be quiet. You’re not helping.”

  “Right here, chickenshits.” Paige is glaring like she can knock them down with her eyes. “Or can’t you handle it? Figure it out. I’ll wait.”

  All she’s doing is making it worse, and I’m gonna freak if she doesn’t quit yelling. I get to my knees, then my feet.

  “COWAAAAAAAAAAAAAARDS! CHICKEN SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITS!”

  John grabs her. “Shut up!”

  “No. They think they can stop him from being Gabe, and they can’t. COWAAAAAARDS!”

  John drags her by the arm to his car, where I’ve managed to stumble. “We’re going to the police station. This is enough.”

  I hear footsteps running away, and a car starting.

  Paige is next to me, face beet red. “God, Gabe, are you okay?” She gives me a hug like she hasn’t seen me for years.

  “Holy shit, that hurts.”

  “Sorry, oh god, sorry.” She backs away, eyes wet.

  John checks me over. “We have to go to the cops.”

  “No … please.” I can’t talk very well.

  He’s touching my arms, my hair, checking for blood with gentle hands. “You have no choice. They assaulted you.”

  “Not … going … to matter.”

  “Fine.” John steps back from me. “You’re banned from my house as well as my collection and I’m going to cancel your show. Russ will listen to me.”

  “You wouldn’t … you can’t.” I can’t believe he said that.

  “Try me.”
<
br />   When I look at his face, really look, I see all the sadness from the afternoon combined with an incredible anger.

  “John’s right. We need the cops.” Paige’s arm is tight around my shoulders. Both of them are glaring at me, though Paige is still sniffling.

  “Fine.”

  Paige helps me into John’s car and he drives us to the police station. We make a report about Jason and Scream and what just happened. I even show them the Facebook page.

  The officer who talks to us is polite but distant. Another officer stands in the corner of the room and scowls the entire time. He asks one question: “So you’re … a dude … but you’re still sort of a girl?” After I nod, his lip curls into a permanent sneer and stays that way for the rest of the time we’re there. The polite officer promises to check into it.

  I turn to John and Paige once we’re in the car. “Satisfied?” I can talk better now, though my head is killing me.

  “Yes. Let’s go home.” John starts the car.

  “The cops will never find them. They’ll never try.”

  “You don’t know that.” He sounds more convinced than I feel.

  We drop Paige off and head back home after she’s hugged me a million times and told me how sorry she is. John hauls his Elvis stuff out and turns to go, but then turns back. “You’re the only family I’ve got. You and your folks and Pete. I have to take care of you, all right?”

  I can’t refuse him. “Okay.”

  “Besides that, you’d never jeopardize your music fix. Am I right?” Finally I see John’s regular grin, despite the sad, sad look in his eyes.

  “Night, John.”

  “Night, Gabe.”

  At noon, when my mom comes to knock, I tell her I’m sick. Then I lie on my bed and think about whether or not I want to be Gabe. One part of my brain is screeching NO NO NO NO NO, over and over again. Finally, Elvis clears his throat in my head.

  The NO NO NO voice is still screeching. But I let Elvis respond.

  You only get one life, he says. The answer is yes.

  I take a nap to get Elvis to shut up.

  After I make myself eat some supper, I mix my Vibe show a little bit, rearranging a couple things we chose in our all-night session. It’s not bad, but it’s not perfect yet. I even chat a little, just to practice, but I feel stupid.

  My arm is killing me where Scream had it, and my scalp too.

  Then my phone beeps:

  Srsly. Just the way u r. Hook up?

  No.

  Way.

  I don’t think I ever got the concept of butterflies in the stomach until this very second. Now it’s the same as at the graduation party—if I had a dick, it would be hard right now. So hard I would have to make it un-hard, and it would take less than thirty seconds.

  The best moment of my life is less than twenty-four hours after the worst one.

  I can’t answer her right now.

  I go downstairs and watch TV with Pete, but I can’t sit still. I eat some leftovers. I walk around the block. My imaginary dick is still hard.

  I can’t think about this.

  Around nine, I check Facebook, even though I almost don’t want to. But I need to see if the Ugly Children Brigade has Elvis sculpture photos. There are 31 members now, which is up a few people, and someone posted two pictures at five this morning. The first one is a ten-foot tower of scrap wood and folding chairs with four velvet Elvis paintings draped on it, one on each side of the tower. Where the hell did they get velvet Elvis paintings in the middle of the night, let alone four of them? Someone else in this town must be Elvis’s biggest fan.

  The second one is more like the seed art my mom always dragged me to see at the state fair. It’s flat on the ground, like in a dirt parking lot or something, and it’s ten feet long and at least five feet wide. Elvis’s hair looks like it’s made of shredded rubber tires. His face is made of something that might be spread-out creamed corn. I can’t quite tell what his eyes and nose are made of, but his mouth is made of flower petals, and it’s a big smile. It’s insanely strange, but totally cool.

  On the ground underneath the Elvis face is a sign on a huge posterboard:

  HATERS HAVE BEEN BLOCKED.

  COME HANG WITH US AT THE B SIDE WALL!

  1:30 A.M., JULY 9. WE WANT TO MEET YOU!

  With a big smiley face.

  That’s about three weeks from today. The UCB wants to meet me in three weeks. That glow stick is back in my chest.

  Three weeks is a long freaking time. Why not next week? Then again, who cares? These people made a graffiti wall for me. I’ll do whatever they tell me.

  But before the post of the pictures, before the haters were blocked, there’s a post from Jason from two a.m.:

  We’re coming for IT.

  Know it.

  Believe it.

  Feel it.

  Kill IT.

  Smash IT.

  Stomp IT.

  Grind IT.

  We’re coming for IT.

  Someday.

  Someday soon.

  Scream commented on Jason’s post: Fucking A.

  My imaginary balls have crawled back into my body. Then it’s hard to breathe, like really hard, and I have to lie down on my floor because the room is spinning around.

  When I finally get up, I take a screen shot of each threat and print them all out so I can stick them in my scrapbook. Isn’t that what a scrapbook is for—to record memories? This shit is certainly a memory.

  And if I need to sue their asses, I have evidence.

  Then, all of a sudden, I’m completely exhausted. When I’m done brushing my teeth, I listen out the window to see what John’s playing tonight. More Elvis.

  Then I collapse into bed. My brain, of course, does not.

  Maybe it’s a trap. Maybe the UCB will toss me around in front of the B side wall and invite Jason and his buddy Scream to finish me off.

  Or—maybe—they really want to meet me.

  I weigh the questions, but no answer appears. And Elvis has nothing more to say. When it gets hard to breathe again, I chant in my head: It’s all right. It’s all right. I have John. I have Paige. I have my show. It’s all right.

  And Heather Graves wants me. The way I am.

  My imaginary dick is hard again.

  Lady Gaga is the new Elvis

  because She’s Got a Crazy Wardrobe, Too

  Monday. Paige says she’s dying to go to Valleyfair, so I give in. And it’s cheap on Mondays. Not that I really want to be thrown around by G forces or eat crappy food, but it’s okay. I need to do something without scary guys in masks or sexy texts. Heather’s not exactly blowing up my phone, but she’s persistent, so I’m leaving my phone in the car.

  Me. A guy with a Mango. Two girls on the radar. This is not my life.

  As soon as we get there, Paige immediately wants to do the Power Tower, which is this humongous needle-looking thing where you sit in these open seats—with harnesses, of course, but still—and you get dragged up to the top. Then you fall. Forever.

  Paige screams all the way down, but I don’t make a sound.

  “Oh my god, that was fun. Let’s do it again!” She’s out of breath and glowy from the adrenaline. Adorable.

  I let myself look at her mouth for a few seconds before I answer her. “Not on your life.”

  “Come on, dude. Please?” She bats her eyes at me, just for effect.

  “No way. Roller coasters, yes. That thing, never again.”

  She pouts for about five seconds, but then she pulls me off to the High Roller, which is an old wooden roller coaster that rattles and shakes, and that’s scary enough. I don’t throw up, but my stomach isn’t ready for lunch after that.

  We walk around and look at all the people. There are kids and parents, peo
ple on dates, and old couples walking very slowly. One kid is having a temper tantrum by the popcorn cart, complete with kicking his legs and screaming at the top of his lungs. His parents are standing next to him looking annoyed, and his big sister is standing over him, saying, “Josh, look, if you get off the ground, we can go to the Ferris Wheel. Come on, huh? This is boring.” The parents catch us laughing, and they glare.

  B96, a huge Top 40 station from the Cities, is doing live remote spots to promote the station and provide “the everyday sounds of your life” to Valleyfair-goers. Paige doesn’t want to, but I make her stand there and watch the DJ for half an hour. I try to memorize how he interacts with people, how he makes eye contact and jokes with the huge crowd around him. He’s totally relaxed and cool. He’s probably been doing it for years. I ask Paige for a piece of paper and a pen, which she fishes out of her purse with a you are so strange look, and I take some notes. If it was just me and the Vibe managers, I’d be fantastic, but the crowd will be the scary thing. Not to mention the fact that Jason and Scream could be hiding somewhere.

  While we’re walking to find some food, I start imagining our next trip to Valleyfair. This fall we’ll be in the Cities for good, her for school, me for work, so we can take time off, right? Just a little break. Maybe once in the fall and once in the spring. A long day of rides and goofing off. Then, when we’re tired, we’ll go home to the same apartment, make supper, and fall into bed. Together.

  “Hey. Wake up.” She yanks on my hand and I snap back.

  “Just thinking.”

  It’s so strange: Paige has been holding my hand for the entire day. Like we’re a couple.

  By two p.m., we’re hot and sweaty. It must be 95 degrees in the shade.

  Paige gives me a look. “Are you sure we can’t go on the water rides?” She even wore her swimsuit, though I refused.

  “Trans guys and water don’t mix.”

  “No more Power Tower either?” She sticks out her lower lip to emphasize the pouty tone.

  “Nope.”

  “How about bumper cars? Or will that hurt your delicate little head?”

  “I’m gonna smash the crap out of you for saying that.” So we get in line, then give each other whiplash for three minutes, then get in line to do it again. Josh the tantrum thrower and his big sister are in line too.