Beautiful Music for Ugly Children

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  Then Paige looks at her phone. “We should go. I have to work tonight.” She holds my hand all the way to the parking lot, then while we’re driving. Not full hand-holding this time, but her pinky is hooked onto mine.

  “What’s up with the hand-holding?”

  “What? Nothing.” She pulls her hand away and looks out the window. “You don’t like it?”

  “No, I love it, it’s just … you’ve never done that before.”

  “It seemed like the thing to do.” She looks at me and shrugs. “That’s all.”

  I hook my pinky back over hers. I don’t have to think about Jason or Scream or Heather or the Vibe or anything. I just have to hold her pinky.

  I check my phone after I drop her off. Twelve texts from Heather. I read them, but I don’t answer.

  Wednesday afternoon. I call Paige. “You want to club tonight? Or maybe Thursday?” I’m trying to think of more stuff to do to take my mind off everything, and I don’t want to practice too much or it’ll get stale. Plus I want to hold her hand some more.

  Silence on the other end for a few seconds. “Maybe.”

  “You’ve got big plans? A replacement for Bobby X?”

  Silence on the other end again.

  “Paige, what’s wrong?” Paige always talks. When she doesn’t, something’s up.

  “Just … I’ll call you later, okay?” And she hangs up.

  I have no idea. Sometimes she gets in a mood.

  Six o’clock. I call Paige. “Why haven’t you called me?”

  Silence.

  “Paige?”

  “I’ll call you in a few days, okay? It’s … I need to be alone right now.” And she clicks off.

  She’s never said that before in the history of our relationship.

  Thursday. I call her house, because she’s not answering her cell, and her mom tells me she’s at the mall with Allison and Marta. I try her cell again, and it goes to voicemail.

  Friday night. John almost didn’t let me come by myself, but I showed him my can of mace and my new pocket knife, and he relented. I need to be alone, because tonight is a Prince show. I know some people hate him but his music is timeless, old-school and new all at the same time. He’s also a Minnesota son, so I think he deserves a show. But Prince is all about sex, so my imaginary dick is twitching again. I don’t need John around while my mind’s in the gutter.

  Paige always admires Prince’s fashion sense, starting with the thigh-high leather stiletto boots and no visible pants of any kind in his “Controversy” video. When he does wear clothes, he’s quite dashing, especially in his tailored suits. But a few years ago he wore pink pants to the Academy Awards. Please.

  My mind is too unfocused to be doing this. All I see is Paige stretched out on my bed. She still hasn’t called me back. Sometimes that vision is replaced by Heather at the graduation party. But Paige comes in and shoos her away.

  “Welcome, welcome, to Beautiful Music for Ugly Children on 90.3 community radio, KZUK, and welcome, dear Ugly Children Brigade. Thank you for the Elvises last week. How did you manage to find that many shredded tires—or that many Velvet Elvis paintings? I want to know who those belong to. For those of you who are new, I’m Gabe, and today is a Prince show. First piece of trivia: Prince is the name on his birth certificate. And here’s ‘I Feel for You,’ made popular by Chaka Khan’s remake, but written by the Small Sexy One.”

  This is even worse than the seduction show. I try to keep my brain in useful territory, and I put more songs on and take them off, all the while chatting about Prince trivia. Then I see Paige, clubbing in the Cities, looking sweaty and adorable.

  My phone beeps with another text:

  Want 2 hook up? Answer me. : )

  Sproing. Imaginary dick in action. I respond:

  On the air. U r not listening?

  Then I almost miss my cue. “So, Beautiful Children, we can’t deny Prince is amazingly erotic, his looks and his music, and no, saying Prince is erotic doesn’t make me want to have sex with a man. He’s a pretty small dude—not very noticeable when he’s being a regular guy. But when he’s onstage and the energy gets going, I know people in the audience look around and say, ‘hey, you’re cute, wanna bone?’ to whoever’s standing next to them. I’ve never actually seen it happen, but I bet it does.” Then I decide to throw caution out the studio window. “Okay, I’m tempting the FCC with this one, but here’s ‘Sexy MF,’ going out to the texter.”

  Hopefully she’s listening now. The song has enough “motherfuckers” in it to get the station fined seven times over, but I can’t imagine the FCC is listening.

  I wish those texts were from Paige.

  The song growls onto the air, and I start thinking about body parts mashing together in the dark. I can’t contemplate having sex, imaginary dick or not. A guy with breasts can’t have sex. Can he? Maybe sex is fine between two people who love each other. Maybe love’s enough. No matter what body parts you have, or don’t have, or wish you had.

  There’s nobody stupid enough on this planet to think those last two statements could be true, and I’ve got to be the only person in Maxfield who graduated from high school as a virgin.

  I almost miss my cue again. “Did you know that Prince actually performed on American Bandstand, that late great musical TV show? Here’s ‘Soft and Wet,’ definitely not one of the songs he did for Dick Clark. By the way, Ugly Children, what do you think you could decorate with condoms? I wouldn’t get the lubricated kind, if I were you.”

  Lots more music, then a little more talk. “When you think about it, maybe Prince is sexy because he’s in the middle—those big brown eyes and long lashes, plus he used to have that long wavy hair. But he’s got plenty of muscles and testosterone. Let’s call him a birl. Or a girman. People still like him, whoever and whatever he is. He even did the Super Bowl halftime show, and if that’s not the ultimate American endorsement of somebody’s music, I’m clueless.”

  I check the CD again. “To close the show with a bang, no pun intended, let’s do ‘Musicology’ and ‘Black Sweat,’ some of the very modern old-school funk grooves from his more recent discs. Can’t wait for the pics, Ugly Children. I’ll see you next week. This is Gabe, and you’ve been listening to Beautiful Music for Ugly Children right here on KZUK, community radio 90.3.”

  I should become a priest. That would solve the whole sex issue. Too bad I’m not Catholic. Paige is, so maybe she’d know someone I could ask. But what would they do when they found tampons in my room?

  The ache in my crotch has transferred itself to my head.

  After I get home, I try to call Paige.

  “ … Hello?” She’s asleep.

  “Why haven’t you called me back?”

  “ … Liz?” Then she gasps. “I mean Gabe! Gabe!” Then there’s silence.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” And the line goes dead.

  I try to be mad at her, but I’m just sad.

  T-Pain is the new Elvis because

  He’s On a Boat, Motherbeepers,

  and Elvis Probably Wanted a Boat, Too

  Thursday afternoon, eight days since the first “I’ll call you back” never happened. I’ve tried everything from messages at her house, texts, stalking Video Rewind, and bombing the wall of her Facebook page, but she’s never anywhere, and never able to talk if she accidentally answers her phone.

  I’m dying inside.

  Chris has been patient with me because I’ve been worrying about Jason/Scream/Paige, not always in that order, and practicing my Vibe show, but he says I’ve got to get it together or he’s firing me, no joke. As I’m getting in my car to go to McSwingy’s, John comes out of his house and waves at me.

  “Just a few days and you’ll be king of the airwaves! Yo
u gotta do your Vibe set for me tonight, okay? All the way through, music and words.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No lukewarm ‘yeahs’ allowed—this is big!”

  I blurt it all out in a big rush. “Paige is mad at me.”

  “Why?”

  “She won’t tell me.” The tears are threatening but I shove them back.

  “Her loss.” He shrugs.

  “It’s my loss.”

  He pats my shoulder. “Girls come and go, you know.”

  “Not this one.” My voice is barely above a whisper.

  “You may love her to her core, but you can’t let her get in your way. You’re on your way to a whole new life. New job, new friends, new city. New history.” He gives me a look that would stop a train, then heads back towards his house again.

  John’s right. Even about Paige. And I hate that fact.

  Elvis in my head: It will be all right, Gabe.

  Me: Shut up, fool. You don’t know a single goddamn thing.

  When I get to McSwingy’s, Chris is standing in the back of the store, digging through the vinyl racks like he’s a prairie dog.

  I get ANGELA pinned on and wander over. “Somebody buried treasure in here?”

  Chris holds up Let it Bleed. He’s MR. SNUFFLEUPAGUS today. “When I was in college, I sailed a copy of this at a pretty girl, from our balcony onto hers, and I knocked her beer all over her lap.” He hugs the album to his chest. “You must never throw a Stones album as a Frisbee.”

  I grab a copy of The Marvelous Sonny and Cher. “This, on the other hand, could be used as a Frisbee, a dinner plate, or a dog poop scoop.”

  Chris takes Sonny and Cher from me and flings the album across the room, where it slices into a display of Bob Dylan CDs with a large crash. “Whoops.” But Chris is grinning. “Shall we thin the vinyl inventory today, Gabe? Maybe after you get Bob off the floor? Sorry about that.”

  I gather up the Dylan CDs and stack them into a nice neat display while Chris starts digging through for choice flinging material. “Look at this! Neon Eighties Hits. Best of the Carpenters. Tone Loc Goes Mellow. The New York Philharmonic plays Sixties Hippie Tunes. K-Tel Disco Hits of the Seventies.”

  “Let’s rescue that last one.” I grab it from his hands to examine the album cover. “No disco should be discarded.”

  “Your Prince show was good, by the way.” Chris keeps digging. “It takes balls to play ‘Sexy MF’ on the radio, even in the midnight hour.”

  I bop Chris on the head with K-Tel Disco Hits of the Seventies. “You listen? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m even a member of the UCB.”

  “You are?”

  “I was number 33.” Which means the number’s gone up again.

  We dig some more and find Mr. Rogers’ Christmas Album, Sergio Mendes Plays You to Sleep, and Henry Mancini Does Detroit, plus about two dozen others not worth saving.

  Then Paige comes in and the whole world stops.

  “Uh … hi. Paige.” It’s like I’m looking at a mermaid, I’m so surprised.

  “Hi.” She’s so tense her shoulders are up by her ears. “Can we talk?”

  “Chris, I’m going outside with Paige for a sec, okay?”

  He dismisses me with a wave, though he gives Paige a flirty smile. “Just don’t be long.”

  Paige and I head outside, the bell above the door jingling as we go. Once we’re out, she walks down the sidewalk about ten feet, then turns around to look at me. “Why does your nametag say Angela?”

  “Because it does, and I’m not going to chase you, so if you want to talk, you have to come back here.”

  She takes one step closer to me. “I know I’ve been a complete bitch.”

  I realize I’m standing there with my arms crossed, looking like a bastard myself, so I uncross them. “I agree.” I want to say, Where the hell have you been, I’ve been out of my mind, don’t ever ever do that again! But I restrain myself.

  “It was just … ” Suddenly she’s flung herself into my arms and she’s bawling her head off. We stand like that for a minute, and I comfort her as best I can. The sobs are shaking her whole body. Then she realizes she’s buried herself in my chest, so she backs up a couple feet and swipes at her face. “I … um … that was … sorry. What time do you get off?”

  I can’t think for a second. “Nine.”

  “I’ll meet you at the Hag, okay? We can talk then.” Now she sounds a little more like Paige. “I’ll explain, I promise.” She’s wiping under her eyes, making sure she’s gotten all the runny mascara out from under them.

  “I guess.” I don’t know what else to say.

  “See you then.” She gives me a little wave and heads toward the Hag. I can see it from where we’re standing.

  What the hell just happened?

  I go back inside and start sorting through the promo posters. Chris is done with the vinyl, and he gives me a curious look but doesn’t say anything. For some reason, I exchange ANGELA for BETTY.

  The bell above the door jingles, but I don’t look up. A girl comes up to me and tosses her hair. “Do you have the new Decemberists CD?”

  “Right over here.” I guide her to its spot.

  Chris picks up the stack of worthless vinyl. “I’m going to clutter up a few more square feet of floor space.” He heads off with his records into the mess that is the back room.

  I continue my dig through the box of promo stuff. I pull out a poster from Gwen Stefani and study it. Paige really does remind me of her. Then I find a gift straight from the music gods: Oh No It’s Devo, an actual album cover, square and perfect. I have no idea how it got into this box, but I don’t care. It’s not even creased. I set it aside for contemplation, because it needs a place of honor.

  “I was hoping you’d be here.” A voice from behind me.

  Good Jesus, please, not now.

  Heather puts a Drake CD on the counter. “How are you?”

  “Just fine.” Get organized, brain. Smile. Act happy to see her. “That’ll be $10.95.”

  She’s got her hair tucked up in one of those messy buns, a few pieces swirling around her face and showing off her big brown eyes. Her huge purse is purple, and it matches her tank top. Not quite as amazing as at the graduation party, but close.

  She flips through her purse, hands me a twenty, and I give her nine bucks and a nickel, then put her CD in a bag. Her lips tilt into a smile. “Thanks for the dedication the other night. Pretty hot.”

  “Um … sure. You’re welcome.”

  Then she glances at my nametag. “You’ve given up on Gabe? Betty’s okay too.”

  Now her friend’s at the counter, and she hands me a Decemberists CD. We exchange money. The friend looks at Heather, then at me, then frowns. “I’ll see you outside.” Ding ding ding goes the door.

  Heather’s still studying me, looking coy and cute—and steady. She knows what she wants. “So, are you interested?”

  I can barely answer. “Um, yeah, but … ” A million images run through my mind: Heather’s breasts hair amazing mouth on a couch in a car making out I’m touching oh I’m touching she’s touching no fear no fear no fear … “I sort of … can’t. Right now.” At some point, I’ll have to give up on Paige. But not yet.

  “Oh … well … okay.” I don’t think she’s used to being told no. She tosses her hair and turns to leave. “If you change your mind, text me.” She smiles over her shoulder, like a TV commercial, but she doesn’t really go towards the door.

  “Thanks for shopping at McSwingy’s.” I smile one more time, because it’s my job to smile.

  Heather frowns, since I didn’t do what she wanted, and the door jingles as she huffs out. Once she’s gone, I collapse onto the stool behind the counter. The chatter in my brain is
intense—it’s Heather and Paige, and they’re pacing and flailing their arms and yelling at me. Then Mara joins in and the noise gets really loud.

  I just turned down the hottest girl ever. What is wrong with me?

  The next few hours go by about as fast as the first eighteen years of my life, but finally I make it to the Hag. Even though it’s almost dark, Paige is sitting outside. The rest of the patio is deserted. I hustle inside, grab some coffee, and hustle back out.

  Paige is nervous, picking at the edge of the table and moving her frappuccino glass around. “We really need to talk.”

  “Duh.” I sit down. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Have you got your show ready for the Vibe?”

  “Changing the subject doesn’t work. You dropped out of my life and I want to know why.” I’m pissed, which doesn’t compliment her agitation. We face each other, arms crossed.

  She can’t return my stare for long. “I … ”

  “Get to the goddamn point!” My brain is buzzing. “What happened?”

  “They found me.”

  “Who?”

  “Jason and Scream. They came to Video Rewind.” I can see the tears on her face again. “Such big chickens, with their masks.”

  “What did they do?” My ugliness has now spilled onto Paige.

  “Yelled and pushed me. Frank called the cops and kicked them out.” Frank is her manager.

  “Did they hurt you?”

  “They pushed me into a display case.” She shows me the bruises on her left arm.

  “What did they say?”

  “Stupid stuff. What they said on the UCB page, just with me included. ‘We’re gonna kill you too, bitch,’ blah blah blah.”

  What do you say when your best friend is attacked because of you? Not even by you, because of you?