Being Friends with Boys

by Terra Elan McVoy

  “Can you do ‘Disappear’ like that?” Eli says to me, paying no attention to Oliver.

  My eyes dart to Abe. He shrugs, like It’s fine with me. Oliver’s looking at him too, but Abe just clunks around on his drums.

  “I’m not sure I—”

  “We should go forward with the new stuff, don’t you think?” Oliver says over me.

  This is all feeling very, very weird. And not good. In absolutely no way am I going to sing for Sad Jackal. Oliver doesn’t need to be so flustered and stiff. I am no kind of threat to him at all.

  But Eli is unfazed. “You’ve been sitting here,” he says, pointing at Oliver and Abe, and then me, with the head of his bass, “on this amazing nut of a girl this whole time, and you haven’t even cracked her open, seen what she can really do? Think about what it could mean, being big enough to switch it up from time to time. Having two singers in this group.”

  Oliver’s holding my gaze and not letting go. He’s mad. But he’s also hearing what Eli’s trying to say.

  “Do you want to?” he asks me, eyes unwavering. Stern.

  “No. Absolutely not. I’m no singer.” I move closer to the safety of the couch.

  “Oh, you’re not, are you?” says Eli. “That’s not what it sounded like to me.”

  This is making me blush with outrage and embarrassment, especially because, if I’m honest, it feels good to have someone as talented as Eli say something like that to me, even if he is being kind of mean about it. It’s hard to keep staring him down, keep my chin up high.

  “Why don’t you just let us hear it?” Fabian asks, nicer. “Just so we can, you know, get a different perspective. I thought it was very helpful, actually, your singing. If nothing else, it might improve our warmth.”

  I check over at Oliver again. He is glaring at poor Abe, who is still fiddling, saying nothing. Maybe Oliver’s wondering if the wrong person left the band. Maybe he thinks Trip would back him up and would also back me up in my desire not to sing.

  Picturing the two of them agreeing I shouldn’t be anywhere near the mic does something funny inside me, though. There’s this kind of click in my throat, and I feel my spine straighten. It’s not that I can’t sing, I just—

  “Just think about how it increases our demographic, man,” Eli says to Oliver. “You get a hot chick up there and—”

  Oliver makes a pointedly scoffing noise, and it’s like I’ve been slapped. I didn’t think my embarrassment and anger could get worse, but there you go.

  “It would open up some more options, man,” Abe says quietly.

  Oliver’s looking back at me again. But this time without so much venom. Again he says, “Do you want to?”

  “Not ‘Disappear,’” I hear myself saying. “That one is Oliver’s. He just does it too well. But maybe ‘Every Kind of Kindness.’”

  “We could do some covers, too,” Eli says, squinting around his thought. “And I like the idea of Oliver playing something besides guitar. Recorder or something. My mom’s got one of those old Autoharp things. You know, the ones we’d play in, like, elementary school? That could be cool.”

  Oliver is clearly embarrassed and furious. He is not going to play some elementary school instrument. And he’s not going to let some crazy-haired bassist take over his band, either. If I’m going to be singing, Oliver has to make it look like it’s his idea too. I can see all this in his face. And I hate knowing this about him right now.

  “I never thought you wanted to before,” he says to me. “I mean, you were always so weird about it with your sister and everything, so. But if you’re game now, if you want to be more a part of it, we can give it a try.”

  It’s unfair how he’s making it seem like this whole time I’ve been holding back, even though it’s also not surprising. I’m not going to fight with him, but I’m not going to give in, either. I still hear that nasty sound he made when Eli called me hot.

  “What about ‘Too Close to See’?” I say to Eli and Eli only, making it clear to Oliver that I don’t care about his opinion right now.

  “Sure,” Fabian agrees. “Saturday we should probably lay down the tunes for the new songs, decide who will sing them. At least a rough idea.”

  Again Oliver’s jaw tightens, but he nods.

  “I’ll work with you on the tunes if you want,” I offer to Oliver, trying to move us toward some kind of truce, just so we can go forward with practice. Once we both get our heads out of our asses this afternoon, collaborating might even be great. For now I guess he still needs to be mad, though, because he keeps his face stone.

  “Let’s go back to this cage song,” Eli decides. “Get it really good. We can focus on the other stuff as it comes. Oliver, now that you’re not in front of the mic, don’t be afraid to trust me, and experiment a little.”

  It’s not so bad, seeing Oliver being taken down a notch for once.

  We do the song over. And over. And then over and over again. Each time, it progresses and solidifies. By the end, I’ve forgotten to be embarrassed about singing. Forgotten, even, about me and Oliver being at odds.

  While the guys pack up their stuff, I carry cups and plates back upstairs, mainly to avoid hovering around. I load the dishwasher for Mrs. Drake and wipe the counters (even though they don’t need it) until the guys start coming up the stairs.

  “So we decided,” Oliver says to me, amiable once again, “we should meet earlier on Saturday, to get more time in with the new songs. Can you be here at noon?”

  “Can you be up at noon?”

  Abe hoots at this. I expect Oliver to get pissed again, but he makes a cuckoo face at me and says, “Sh-yuuh.”

  “I think Fabian needs a hand,” Eli says. Talking to me.

  Obediently I go downstairs, though the request is a little odd.

  “Hi,” he says. His equipment is all packed up.

  “Hi,” I say back. I am downstairs with Fabian. By myself. And he wanted to talk to me. Alone. My heart races, flips, stutters.

  “You’re really excellent, you know. Eli and I both think so.”

  I can barely move. Plus my face is probably scarlet.

  “So you don’t have to, you know, hold back or anything. Around us.”

  I wonder what they said to Oliver and Abe while I was upstairs. Or each other.

  “Oliver and I have been friends since fifth grade.” As though that’s some kind of explanation for—whatever.

  Fabian’s just looking at me, waiting.

  “And—” I feel at a loss. I don’t know what we’re really talking about. “This band is incredibly important to him. He doesn’t . . . get . . . excited about things, I guess. Not this way. Maybe you can’t tell, but he is astonishingly serious about all this.”

  “No, that’s clear.”

  “So I just don’t want to—”

  “You’re not going to ruin anything by being more involved in the band, Charlotte. You’re going to make it better.”

  Walking home, I let the whole afternoon spin in my head: the looseness of the music around and in me, standing up there, leading the song. The incubating dimness of Oliver’s rec room. Fabian telling me that I’m excellent. When I get back to the house, I still need to tell someone about it. I need to call Trip.

  I’m surprised when he actually answers.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Same thing you should be doing,” he answers. “Homework.”

  “How do you know I’m not doing homework, smarty?”

  “Didn’t you guys have practice?”

  “Well, true.”

  “So how was it?”

  “What, my homework?” I’m grinning.

  “You’re not doing homework, dummy. How’s practice coming?”

  I blurt it out: “They want me to sing. I mean, I’m singing. I’m going to sing a couple of the songs.”

  There is a bunch of quiet on the other side of the phone.

  Then, “Huh.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”r />
  “I just mean ‘huh.’”

  “Huh, what?”

  “I just . . .” More quiet. “I’m proud of you, I guess. I didn’t know you’d ever want to do something like that.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so either. And believe me, Oliver did not want me to.”

  “I bet he didn’t.”

  “Which was part of what made me want to do it, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “But when I got up there, it felt really good, and now we’ve got to plan out the other three songs, and Eli wants me to do some more, and Oliver might play the xylophone or something.”

  “The xylophone?”

  “Or Autoharp. Or whatever. So, but, I mean, isn’t it great?”

  “I said it was great.”

  “No you didn’t. You said you were proud.” I’m so glad to be telling someone who will actually understand what a big deal this is for me, that I’m on the verge of giggly.

  “Well, I do think it’s great.”

  “Okay, good. Hey—your Jujitsu start yet?”

  “Aikido. And no. But I’m going to watch the tournament on Saturday. Meet the instructors. Dad’s coming.”

  “Well, good.” I don’t know what more to say to this. I want him to joke about it, or say something more about my singing. Mainly I want him to play a song for us.

  “Hey, listen,” he says. “I’ve kind of got to go.”

  “Oh. Okay, then.” I try not to sound surprised. Or hurt.

  “But good work with the band. I hope I’ll get to see you.”

  “Well, you will, silly. The dance is in just a few weeks.”

  “Indeed.” Nothing else.

  When we hang up, I’m a balloon with all the air squashed out. There are plenty of other things I could and should be doing, but I don’t want to do any of them. I end up downstairs on the family computer, watching music videos and feeling nowhere near as cool as anyone on the screen.

  Chapter Seven

  In the morning, Trip hands over the notebook as usual, though he’s barely written in it. Certainly nothing about my singing. He just tells me who will be at Chris’s party tonight (no one I know) and ends with Yeah sometime you should hang out, I mean, if you have time. And that’s it.

  Third period and I still haven’t responded, mostly because I don’t know what to say. Chris Monroe’s? I still don’t know what Trip sees in him. So instead of faking interest, I write notes back and forth to Benji about where we should study this afternoon. He wants to go to the bleachers by the soccer field again, probably so he can smoke, but I think we’re more productive in the library, like last week. He teases that if I need his brain, I should go for the studying-out-of-doors thing, because it’s proven science that fresh air and oxygen increase brain function. Not if the fresh air you’re inhaling is tainted with herb, I write back. Nature hater, he replies. We decide to just meet at his car and make up our minds after school.

  I’m on my way to psych at the end of the day when Oliver rushes up to me like he’s on fire and I’m holding a bucket of water.

  “What is it?”

  “I need you for the songs.” He’s practically panting.

  “What, now?”

  He ignores me. “I tried last night but I just can’t get it and I have to have something for tomorrow.”

  I’m trying not to laugh at how dramatic he’s being, so I hold the door open for him instead. I follow him into class, to our desks. Maybe it’s still a little bit of payback for the way he acted about me getting behind the mic yesterday, but something in me wants to make him sort of beg. Or, at least, make him feel bad for what a tool he was.

  I make my face a challenge. “You really okay with me singing?”

  He flushes. “It just threw me off, man. I thought you were mortified to get up in front of people. I mean, whenever you have to speak in class . . . like I said, I was just surprised.”

  I can see in his eyes that he is sincere and, in his own way, apologetic. He wants to make things okay between us. He is, after all, my friend.

  “So you can come over? Straight after school?”

  “I have a study thing. 20th Cen.,” I tell him.

  “Campbell’s such a douche.”

  “I know. But not everybody can handle your superexcel course load,” I tease.

  “Shut up, man. But seriously, you can’t just get the notes from someone?”

  I could, I guess, go meet Benji at his car, get his notes, and borrow them for the weekend. It’s not like we’re working on a test; this was mainly for my benefit. But it seems a little uncool, canceling at the last minute. I feel like I would owe him something.

  “It’s that bad?” I ask Oliver. He hasn’t ever had trouble with the music before. Though before, he also always had Trip.

  Ms. Neff comes in, bringing class to start, but not before Oliver leans over the edge of his desk, whispers, “You have no idea.”

  After class we walk together out to the parking lot with the stream of everyone else. I see Lish hanging out by some volleyball girl’s SUV.

  Whatever.

  I work my way between cars to Benji’s old brown Volvo. He’s in that army jacket and his aviator sunglasses, leaning against the door, watching me.

  “Hey, Coastal,” he says.

  “You know I really don’t get where that comes from.” I try to sound irritated, mainly because I’m perplexed by how sort of thrilling it is, Benji having a nickname for me. Even a nonsense one.

  He smiles with one side of his mouth. “You’ll get it eventually” is all he says.

  “Listen—”

  “What, you got better plans?” He gestures over toward Oliver, who’s watching both of us, this expectant little look on his face.

  “It’s not like that,” I clip. “I just—we just need to work on something for this weekend. It can’t wait.”

  Benji lifts his hand in casual dismissal. “I feel you.”

  “So I know it’s uncool for me to cancel, but I was wondering if I could—”

  He opens the passenger door of his car. When he turns back to me he’s handing over his notes.

  “Really?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t much need them.”

  I reach out. “Do you—want to see mine? I mean, I can—”

  “It’s cool.”

  He’s still looking at me in that detached, amused way. It makes me stumble over myself. “Well, it’s really great of you and—”

  “Calm down, Coastal. It’s all good. I’ll just see you Monday. No big.”

  His binder is heavy in my hand. I still feel guilty, even though it doesn’t seem like Benji really cares.

  “Good luck with your project. Better hurry along, by the looks.”

  He gestures again toward Oliver, who’s talking to a few other guys but still glancing obsessively over at us.

  “Well, thanks. I mean it.”

  “You’re good,” he says, reaching out to squeeze me, once, on the arm. Under his hand, I’m aware how squishy I am.

  “Thanks again.” I hurry off then, mainly because I don’t want Benji to see how flustered that whole exchange has made me.

  “Everything okay?” Oliver wants to know when I get to his car.

  “Let’s just go,” I tell him, getting in and slamming the door, hard.

  When we get to the house, I realize we didn’t give Whitney a ride home from school today, that she wasn’t even at Oliver’s car this afternoon.

  “What up with Whitney?” I try to be casual.

  Oliver shrugs and opens the fridge to find us something to eat. “I told her we had to practice.” He’s so blasé about it.

  “And she was okay with that?”

  “Sure,” he says, in a way that makes me think Whitney doesn’t know, exactly, who “we” is today. But whatever.

  We heat up some Hot Pockets in the microwave, pour big glasses of Coke, and take them downstairs, where Oliver’s two guitars are set up on their stands. I’m surprised
to see the acoustic one out.

  “You really were experimenting last night, huh?”

  He bites off about a quarter of his Hot Pocket and talks around it. “Just trying a few things out.”

  While we eat, he takes out my lyric sheets and spreads them between us on the couch. We look at the words, talk about what sort of tone we think each song should have. It’s strange to be talking to Oliver like this, but also wonderful. He and Trip were always the frontmen, and I was just the girl who ran around covering the details. Now I’m in Trip’s seat. I’m here making Sad Jackal what it is. It’s kind of awesome. But at the same time, I know I need to prove myself. So I try to remember what Trip’s taught me about music, to think like he might, and picture the songs as sound pieces and not just thoughts in my head.

  “‘You’re Ugly, Too’ can be your angry-sounding one, if you want,” I say.

  Oliver’s face is not sure I will be much help, after all. “I don’t want angry.”

  “Oh. Well, I just thought that you were going for—”

  “That was just playing around. Most of it was Eli’s idea.”

  “Got it.” I’m not going to push it further. “At any rate, this one should be faster. Frustrated. But ‘Foreign Tongue’ has got to sound dark and European.”

  “No matter what Eli says, I am not playing the accordion.”

  We both laugh at this.

  “You don’t have to. But you know what I mean.” I let my bangs drop toward my face, pretend I’m inhaling deeply from a cigarette, and make my eyes sultry. “Moody.”

  “Moody I can do.”

  This is a joke, kind of. When Oliver’s mom first heard them play, she pursed her Mary Kay’ed lips together, smiled, and said, “Why, it’s so moody, honey.”

  “It’s called Sad Jackal, Ma,” Oliver had said.

  And true to the name—which Oliver and Abe and Trip just came up with; I’m still not sure what it’s supposed to mean—the band’s sound is mostly that: moody. It occurs to me that maybe this is part of why Oliver wanted new members, to at least bring in another emotion or two.

  He goes for his electric. “Let me show you what I was thinking for that.”