Beautiful Music for Ugly Children

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  “You dumbass, it means you’re a woman. What are you DOING?”

  “Do you like being a woman?”

  “I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!” Paige’s voice tells me how high her panic level is.

  I turn to look behind me. I can see she wants to come near me again, but she doesn’t know how I’ll take it. I turn back and look under my feet. Still lots of fast cars. “My body is lying, and it’s so fucking gross.” I keep staring down. “I’m not a woman.” It wouldn’t hurt, once I hit. I don’t think.

  She takes a deep, deep breath, and she doesn’t yell. “Okay. You’re not a woman. Can you come over here so we can talk about it?”

  I turn around to look at Paige again. “Not at the moment.”

  “How long will you be on the ledge?”

  “Until I decide whether I want to live or die.”

  “What if I help you fix it?”

  “Fix what?”

  “It’s the twenty-first century. People can fix anything. There’s got to be a way. But nobody can help you if you jump.” She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head at me.

  She has a point.

  I turn back around and look down at the cars again, then I wiggle my leg a tiny bit, pushing my boot out over the ledge below me. Gravity works. It would be easy.

  “You’d help me?”

  “Yes.” She sounds more like herself.

  “We’re thirteen.”

  “We won’t be thirteen forever.”

  Another good point.

  I pull one leg back to the bridge side so I’m straddling the guardrail. “How can you help me?”

  I hear Paige exhale and sob at the same time. “I don’t know! I’ll figure it out. Just come over here by me.”

  I pull the other leg over, stand up, and walk to Paige. She collapses into me, hugging me with all her might.

  “Liz, oh god, holy shit … ” She can’t say any more.

  I don’t shed a tear. I just hold her.

  Finally she looks at me. “Please don’t do that again, or I will kick your ass.”

  “You’re just a skinny girl. What can you do?”

  “I can take you.” She probably can.

  We walk back to my house, very slowly, because I ache all over. The snow is falling fast, and the tracks we made on the way to the bridge are gone.

  “Liz … ?” Paige hesitates. “What do you mean, you’re not a woman?”

  “I don’t know how to explain it.”

  She puts her hand on my arm. “What if I can’t find a way to fix it?”

  I move faster. “Then it can’t be fixed.”

  “We can Google it.”

  “Not tonight.”

  We walk a little more.

  “I really will help you.”

  I glare at her. “You can start by shutting up.”

  “I wasn’t going to tell anyone.”

  We get home, and no one’s even noticed we were gone. Mom and Dad are watching a movie and throwing popcorn at each other, and Pete is in bed. We take off our winter gear and go upstairs. When we finally shut off the light, Paige tosses and turns in her sleep, and I shiver all night long, like I’m still on the bridge.

  I never brought it up after that night, and neither did Paige. We just tried to pretend it didn’t happen.

  John joins me at seven o’clock with a box of Popsicles. We eat two Popsicles apiece and have a music argument about the Sex Pistols—who was better, Johnny Rotten or Sid Vicious? We decide Vicious was cooler, but Rotten had more talent.

  No sign of Jason and Scream by nine p.m., so we go inside after the cops drive away.

  I hope they don’t kill me. Things are just getting good.

  Tuesday afternoon. Paige wants to go shopping. When I get in her car, she looks out the window, not at me. “Did you bring money?”

  “No. Why?”

  “We’re dressing you up too. Where’s your ATM card?”

  “Lost in my room.”

  Paige sighs. “I’ll spot you. You’ll want to look good for the Vibe, plus the UCB when you meet them.” She still hasn’t glanced my way.

  “Okay, but I refuse to go to Hollister, just so you know. And why aren’t you looking at me?”

  She turns to me so I’ll lay off, but her eyes focus on my hair, not on my face. Then she turns back to watch the road. “No reason.”

  Her voice is cool as a cucumber, but her fingers are tapping the steering wheel. Paige has never been good at hiding her anxiety.

  “Are you going to stop being my friend again? If that’s true, shopping is out.”

  “I’m driving here. Stop talking.” Tap tap tap on the steering wheel.

  “Whatever you say.”

  Paige wants accessories today—scarves, bracelets, earrings—so we head to the mall, where you can still see pink Xs and Os on the sign. We start at Target, of course. I browse in the men’s section and decide on a T-shirt with a Ramones logo on it. It’s not too tight, and that’s key, because it means my binder won’t show. But can I really meet the UCB wearing a T-shirt everyone will know is from Target? Don’t I need to look cooler than that?

  I meet Paige up front and we pay for our stuff—she loans me ten for the shirt. Then we walk for what seems like miles to the other end of the mall so we can hit Victoria’s Secret. I sit on a bench outside, facing away from the window displays. Too much information. Then we’re all over the place, including American Eagle, Hot Topic, and Claire’s. My skin almost crawls from all the estrogen in Claire’s, but Paige is in her element, and of course there are a zillion accessories that capture her attention.

  She’s still not looking at me. She looked at my new shirt, the shoes I tried on in Payless—very manly loafers—and a wallet I showed her in Hot Topic. But she hasn’t met my eyes once.

  Finally we’re in the food court to grab a soda. She’s still buying, since I have no money.

  “Mountain Dew or Pepsi?” No eye contact.

  “Pepsi. And if you don’t look me in the face, I’m going to throw it at you.”

  This gets her attention. “Don’t you dare. I just bought this scarf.” She stalks by me. “Let’s go home.”

  Once we’re in her car, I grab the keys just as she’s going for the ignition. “What the hell is your issue?”

  “Nothing.” Paige is rummaging in her purse, looking for a spare set of keys. Finally she stops and looks at me. “We kissed.”

  “I know that.” I try not to look too pleased.

  “You are my BFF, not my boy FF.”

  “Couldn’t they be one and the same?” When the words are out, I wish I could suck them back into my mouth, because the imaginary word on her forehead is NO, followed by a hundred exclamations points. “Okay, never mind, just kidding.”

  “You’d better be.” More silence. She stares at an older lady crossing in front of the car. “It’s just not … part of who we are.”

  She has no idea how sad that statement is, but I make sure not to show it. “Okay. Fine. Now will you quit being so bitchy?”

  “Yes. Can I have my keys back?” She holds out her hand, still looking at me, which is a good sign.

  “Here.”

  “Let’s go to the Cities. I really want you to have something nice for the UCB. Let them think you have a turntable, all that. You do have a Mango.”

  I have to be at work at four, and it’s already eleven. “It’s gotta be quick.”

  “I’ll speed.” She puts the car in gear. “I know a great boutique in Uptown. Not too trendy, not too spendy.” Her perky self is back, and that’s good. The tense Paige is just too awful.

  We spend an hour in Rampage, and she makes me try on shirt after shirt. Finally we find a nice button-up one in
a very cool purple color—“dusky plum,” she says, like I would have any idea—and a very cool pair of jeans. It costs a heap, but McSwingy’s has helped the savings account. And it’s worth it to look good for the big stuff. Paige is generous enough to share her credit card with me, but she makes me swear I’ll pay her tomorrow.

  She drops me at McSwingy’s. “Have a good shift.”

  I’d better make sure, once and for all. “No boyfriend/girlfriend?”

  “End of story.” But she doesn’t look me in the eye. So it’s not really the end. Good. It’s her turn to be confused.

  “Call my mom and tell her to pick me up at nine, will you? I forgot my phone, too.”

  Paige rolls her eyes. “Loser.” Then she drives away, taking my dreams with her.

  Paige must have called, because someone’s parked and waiting for me after work. But it’s not my mom—it’s my dad. “How was your shift?”

  “Decent.” He’s putting himself out there, so I’ll reciprocate. “I sold three Eric Clapton vinyl reprints.”

  He’s surprised. “There’s Clapton vinyl?”

  “Just reissued.”

  “Put me down for one. I’ll have to find my turntable.”

  “We have a turntable?” I had no idea.

  “Somewhere in the attic.” He chuckles. “Surprised you haven’t found it by now.”

  Then it hits me. “I forgot a Father’s Day gift, didn’t I? That’s pretty crappy. The album’s on me.”

  He doesn’t look at me. “It’s okay.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He lets it go. “When I was in college, they used to have classic rock laser light shows on Friday nights at the campus planetarium. At the Clapton one there was a stoned guy in the back who yelled ‘Sunshine of Your Love’! in between the songs until they played it, then he started yelling for ‘Freebird.’ Some other dude yelled ‘That’s not Clapton!’ and he yelled back ‘So what?’ ” He chuckles.

  “Did they play ‘Freebird’?”

  “I don’t remember. Hey, want to stop and get a Blizzard?” We’re driving by the Dairy Queen, so my dad slows down and actually engages my eyes with his.

  “Sure.” I think he was expecting me to say no.

  We order and take our Blizzards outside to sit with the crowd at the picnic tables. Dad sees some people he works with and wanders over to talk to them. I’m perfectly content to sit and observe. Some guy bought his girlfriend an ice cream cone, but before he gives it to her he tries to stuff it in her bikini top. Then it drips on her breast and he licks it off.

  Please.

  Then I hear my dad yell, “Hey!” When I look up, he’s motioning to me, so I walk over, praying things won’t be horrible.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Let me introduce you to the Millers. They’re our biggest clients. Bob, Evelyn, this is my … ” He breathes as deeply as he can. “This is Gabe.”

  I almost can’t stick out my hand to shake Bob’s, but I do, and I manage a smile at the same time. “Nice to meet you, Bob.”

  Bob looks me up and down but doesn’t miss a beat. “Your dad tells us you’ve just graduated. Any college plans?” Bob’s very slick and smooth, the kind of guy I couldn’t be if I tried a million times. Just like I couldn’t be the boob-licking dude.

  “Still working on it.”

  Evelyn chimes in. “Maybe you should go into accounting like your dad.” She gives my dad a big grin, sort of a he’s a chip off the old block, isn’t he? kind of grin.

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “Good luck!” Evelyn turns back to her own Blizzard as I realize mine’s now a cup of soup. Bob and my dad shake hands one more time and my dad guides me back to our car by my elbow, just like he did when I was a little girl. It’s not a very father/son gesture.

  The drive home is silent. I eat my ice cream soup and try not to notice the fact that my dad is sniffling. When he parks the car, he turns to me, eyes red and full. “I’m trying, all right?”

  “It was great, Dad. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He gets out of the car, slamming the door and hurrying inside.

  “And thanks for the ice cream.” I barely hear “Any time” in return because he’s already upstairs.

  Pete is watching TV, of course. His latest fix is Survivorman, which is a pretty cool show because it’s easy to remember how good you have it after you’ve watched the guy in the Amazon or Antarctica for a week. It makes me grateful for hot water and toilet paper.

  I plop down next to him on the couch. “Can we switch it to VH1?”

  Pete throws me the remote. “I’ve already seen this one.”

  I change it to VH1 Classic and we watch a Michael Jackson video retrospective. It’s close to the anniversary of when he died, so of course everyone wants to talk about how wonderful he was. He’s still not Elvis.

  Pete is inspired, so he gets up and starts working on his moonwalk, and I start trying to do the circle slide, and we end up laughing so hard my mom comes down to find out what’s going on.

  “Would you two please be quiet?” She’s not upset, but she’s not necessarily amused, either.

  “Sorry,” Pete says.

  “Sorry, Mom.” I whisper it, so she knows we’ll tone it down.

  “Stop having so much fun, all right?” She smiles her mom smile at us, the one that says we’re forgiven.

  “See you in the morning.” I hug her, a little too hard because I almost knock her over.

  She’s so surprised she laughs. “Good night, kids.” She leaves, and Pete and I settle in with another episode of Survivorman.

  If anybody tries to hurt my family, I’ll strangle them with my bare hands.

  The Ugly Children Brigade is the New Elvis because They’re Cooler Than Cool

  Friday night. The Vibe show is locked in, nailed down, tight as it can get. Tonight we hang out at the B side wall. It’s seventy-two hours until Summer Mondays in the Cities. I haven’t been able to eat since this morning.

  I have on my dusky plum shirt but with some cargo shorts and Tevas. Paige matched me before we came down to the station, and now she’s standing next to me, watching all the meters on the board. I see her hand sneak out towards a volume slider.

  “Don’t touch a single thing.”

  She jumps back. “I’m not.”

  “But you were thinking about it.”

  The awkwardness between us seems to be gone, which is fine, because I’d rather be a BFF than a perpetual stress ball. There will be other girls. Just no one like her. It’s crossed my mind to text Heather, but I haven’t. Not yet.

  John’s sitting in the corner, fiddling with a cigarette and flipping my Zippo open and closed. “It was so much nicer when we could smoke on the air.”

  “Yeah, but it’s much healthier not to smoke at all. And would you quit fiddling with that thing?”

  He chuckles. “Don’t be surly. The Vibe show is perfect. You’ve rehearsed and fiddled with it forever. And you could do a Beautiful Music show in your sleep, so everything’s just right. You’re perfect on both counts.” He glances at the clock. “And you’re on in three seconds.”

  “Welcome, welcome, to Beautiful Music for Ugly Children right here on community radio, 90.3, KZUK. I’m Gabe, your host, and tonight is a tribute show—to radio. You heard me right—radio, in all its craziness. Where would I be without radio? Nowhere. To start us off, let’s hear one of the masters himself, Elvis Costello, along with the Attractions, with ‘Radio, Radio.’ ” The song unleashes itself on the airwaves with unmistakable enthusiasm.

  John’s beaming. “Nothing like unbridled youth to wake people up. So what’s up tonight after Elvis C?”

  “LL Cool J, Flo Rida, Queen, R.E.M., Chuck Brodsky, George Jones, Joni Mitchell, Regina Spektor, Donna Summe
r, Rancid, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, ZZ Top, and Wall of Voodoo. In that order.”

  He nods. “And the ones for your Vibe show?”

  Like I don’t know. He’s just testing me. “Elvis Costello, Rancid, Flo Rida, ZZ Top, and Wall of Voodoo.”

  “And your secret song?” We’ve thought about a million different ones, and I finally came up with my final choice last night. It’ll bring the house down.

  “You won’t know until I play it,” I tell him. John and Paige are coming with me.

  “Perfect.” He gestures to the door. “I’m going outside.”

  Paige takes over John’s chair. “Did you really bring Donna Summer?” She hates disco.

  “ ‘On the Radio’ was an obvious choice.”

  Elvis Costello slides into LL Cool J, then he’s over and I’m back on. “Who would have guessed, Ugly Children, that more than a hundred years ago, someone would invent something as marvelous as a radio? It’s hard not to love an object that brings you the wonderfulness of music, even music like Flo Rida’s. I have no idea if airplay matters to a musician’s career today, but it might. You never know. Let’s roll a little funky with his song ‘Radio,’ on 90.3, KZUK.”

  It sounds like a Top 40 station in here. Gross.

  John comes back into the studio after Queen. He gives me the thumbs-up as I talk, then motions Paige to get back out of the chair he’d been sitting in. She does, but she gives him a look, which he doesn’t see.

  “Tonight, Ugly Children, what would you like to do? How about another go at B side graffiti? Name it, claim it, write it all over, and let’s let R.E.M. accompany you. Their A sides are as cool as their B sides. Here’s ‘Radio Free Europe,’ some old-school alt rock on KZUK, 90.3 community radio.”

  Paige groans. “You just think you’re as cool as a B side.”

  “I’m cooler than your B side, that’s for sure.” I tug her hair, which is quite lovely tonight, but I don’t mention it. “How about if we put your B side and my B side together and make some beautiful music?” My smile tips Paige into anger, and she storms out of the studio.