Being Friends with Boys

by Terra Elan McVoy

  Sixth-period psych, and Oliver’s clearly not in a forgiving mood either, because he’s not looking at me again. I examine him across the row. He is wearing—ha-ha—another sweater-vest today. Those stupid skinny jeans, those wing tips. If I didn’t know him so well, maybe I’d see him the way Benji does. You are a goob, I try in my head. It almost sticks.

  But the end of class is a little harder. I have to give myself a reason to not get up to leave when he does, so that we’re not walking out at the same time and I don’t have to see him not looking at me. Ms. Neff’s handed back our timed writing, so I make myself have questions about mine. Even without looking, I hear Oliver walk out. He’s heading to practice. Maybe this afternoon they’ll test some new songs he wrote. Even though I don’t want to be scurrying after him, I don’t like not being a part of his project—our project—anymore.

  By the time Darby, Gretchen, and I get home, I’m bummed enough about losing Sad Jackal that Darby easily talks me into helping her with Spanish flash cards. I lie on her bed, holding up card after card, correcting her or saying “yes” or “try again” for almost two hours. I’m trying not to look at the clock. I’m trying not to listen for my phone in the next room, in case Fabian calls to find out why I wasn’t at rehearsal or to say they missed me. Or, better, that he, Abe, and Eli all rebelled when Oliver told them the news, and they’re demanding I come back.

  But my phone, like so often, is silent.

  Miraculously, Friday does have its own special kind of levity. On the drive to school, I find myself looking forward to lunch, to gossiping with Lish and the other girls, just laughing about nothing and finalizing plans for tonight. We’re all going to the movies, then spending the night at D’Shelle’s house, since her mom doesn’t care what anyone does, and supplies, from time to time, a bottle of pink champagne for sleepover parties. Also, Fabian texted very first thing this morning, saying: Damn about the band. Saturday night still?

  Buoyed by hearing from him, by the beautiful, crisp November sunshine and another good encounter with Benji in third period, I’m a lot happier walking out to the parking lot at lunch. I remember me and Lish skipping arm in arm down the halls last year, for no real reason, cackling and not caring what anyone thought.

  I see her up ahead, leaning against D’Shelle’s car, arms crossed, and I’m about to say, “We should’ve skipped out here,” when I realize she’s frowning.

  “What’s up?” I’m breathless.

  “So annoying,” she huffs, shaking her head. The other girls are gathered together a few cars down, huddled around the open driver’s side of someone’s truck. One of them looks back in our direction. Not, I notice, for very long.

  “Well, report cards.” She holds up an exasperated hand.

  “Those were last week.”

  “I know.” She tosses her head. “Which is why it’s even more annoying that now D’Shelle’s mom is all, ‘You’re not going to improve these grades if you’re staying up all night every weekend with your friends.’” She makes her voice tight and grating, like I guess D’Shelle’s mom must sound.

  “But that’s easy to fix; we’ll promise to sleep.”

  “I know, right? But they had some other fight or something this week, and whatever, and so . . . we can’t tonight.”

  “We could do it at Bronwyn’s. Or yours. I’d say mine, but Darby’s so annoying—”

  Brief displeasure clenches her face, and her hand flicks in the air again. “It’s too late for that. Everybody’s parents checking with everyone else’s. You know how it is.”

  It’d take five minutes, I want to say. But then I catch, in the corner of my eye, Bronwyn looking over at us, a wisp of her long brown hair catching across her lip. Something in her face—I don’t know what it is, exactly—makes me understand this isn’t about report cards. Déjà vu creeps up my spine. I’ve had this conversation, or something like it, with Lish before, back when she couldn’t give me a ride to school. I don’t know what I did to be uncool then, but I understand what I did this time. Lish must’ve heard from Eli about my not being in Sad Jackal.

  But instead of being crushed and sad the way I was on Wednesday when Oliver pushed my note onto the floor, this whole Lish thing simply makes me mad. I squint at her, realizing what a stupid poseur she is. She has no idea about me anymore. She may have been my best friend for a couple of years, but she didn’t truly understand me, and I didn’t really understand her. Now I do, but she’s still in the dark. Besides, I’ve dealt with her ditching me before. She has no idea how over her I can be.

  It stings knowing all the other girls think I’m uncool too, knowing I’ll be at home on a Friday night and eating lunch by myself from now on, but I don’t want Lish on my coattails anymore. I don’t know why I didn’t see her this way before, but it doesn’t matter. I will rise above her, and them, and all of this high school bullshit, and they’ll realize what a mistake they made.

  But I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me. “I see.”

  I turn around without saying anything else, not even when she calls after me, surprised.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Saturday, Taryn and Sylvia change our practice time five times, and finally Gretchen has to drive me, but I don’t care about the details. I just want to be over there, singing with them, having fun, forgetting.

  In the car, Gretchen goes, “I heard.”

  “Heard about what?”

  “Heard about you and Oliver.”

  I groan. “Jesus. We are not going out. I thought that died already.”

  “No.” Her mouth goes down in a line. “About how you had a big fight. How you’re not in the band anymore.”

  Huh.

  “We didn’t have a fight.” I find myself echoing Trip. “It was just creative differences.”

  “Uh-huh,” Gretchen grunts.

  Whatever. I don’t care what she thinks. What anyone thinks. I’m growing in new directions.

  “Can we come?” Gretchen asks. “Whenever you play?”

  “I guess so.” I’m eager to get out now, to enter the basement of fun and escape.

  “Good. Give me a call if you need a ride home. I’m not going out until later.”

  “Okay. And, you know, thanks.”

  She smiles at me, almost pitying. I get out and head to the house.

  Taryn wraps me in a huge hug the second she opens the door. There’s music blaring from the living room, and at least five other people are in there. Taryn introduces me to everyone, her arm wrapped tight around my shoulders.

  “Hi, everybody.” I wave to them.

  “Charlotte is our secret weapon,” Taryn says proudly. “We’re going to win Earhorn next week, thanks to her.”

  “Um, what?” I say.

  “We told you about that, right?”

  I shake my head. We’re performing next week?

  “Oh.” Taryn sneaks an Oops look at her friends. “Well, we do this amateur-night thing at this place sometimes and the winners get money and everything and I think maybe Jack Johnson got his start there. Or is it John Mayer? Or . . . well, I don’t remember. I think John Mayer was Eddie’s Attic, where of course we’d love to play too one day. But still, if you win you get paid and then every six months or so they have a show with all the winners and . . .” The last bit just comes out in a winded sigh: “We just think you would make us win.”

  Sylvia comes around the corner from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. I’m still a little shocked that our first performance is coming up so soon and that they hadn’t told me anything about it before, but the concept sounds fun and cool. I say so to both of them.

  “Hooray hooray,” Taryn cheers, leading me past everyone and down into the basement, where there are about a dozen candles lit around the room.

  “We wanted, you know, some special ambiance,” she explains, though I’m not really sure what for.

  Her other friends tromp down the stairs behind us. I’m glad that
there are other people here. It’ll help me get ready for next week, singing in front of strangers.

  “We found a couple new songs,” Taryn says, shoving some pages into my hands.

  I look down at the lyric sheets. I’m not sure it’s a great idea for us to take on new material right before performing, but maybe she just wants to expand our options. Maybe she’s thinking beyond next Saturday too.

  “Well!” Taryn says. “Lots to work on. What should we start with?”

  She’s looking at me, not Sylvia. So is everyone else. I guess I really am their lucky charm.

  “Well—” I think of Eli, and how important he thought it was to drill every song. “How about we warm up with the Heart song, since that’s the one I know best.”

  Taryn looks at Sylvia. “But I really want to try a couple of these new ones.”

  Yeah, but we need to practice, I want to say, but it’s clear Taryn doesn’t think so. I figure starting with a new song or two won’t kill me.

  And so we start. The first one Taryn chooses is really too high for me, but it kind of doesn’t matter, I guess, since we’re just testing it out. After that, we run through song after song—some old, some new. But we never go through anything more than once. Taryn’s nodding and encouraging me the whole time, and her friends on the couch are rolling their heads and tapping along, so I try to stop worrying, and just throw the notes out.

  By the time we finish, it’s after seven. I’m breathless and happy and even Sylvia is bouncy, since the last song got everyone dancing around the basement. Taryn suggests we decide on Tuesday what we’ll perform at Earhorn, and then work on getting everything perfect. Since Sylvia agrees with everything Taryn says, I don’t let myself be bothered about it either. The whole afternoon feels like a much-needed karaoke party.

  “We should go to Earhorn!” Taryn holds her hands over her head in victory.

  “What, now?” Sylvia.

  “No, not now, silly. We should get some grub first. Go, I don’t know, to the Righteous or something, and then head over there. Check out the competition. Do some research.” She rubs her hands together like she’s developing an evil plot.

  “I have to check with my dad,” I say. Stupid high school girl. But nobody seems to care.

  So I call Dad, ask him if it’s okay if I go out to dinner with the girls in the band, maybe hang out awhile after.

  “Home by eleven thirty,” he insists. “And I want to meet these girls.”

  “You will, Dad. We’re playing next Saturday. You can come.”

  “All right, then.” His tone perks up, though he’s trying to mask it.

  “All right.”

  When I tell everyone it’s okay, they clap and cheer and argue about who’s riding in which car with me. This is way better than Lish and her stupid slumber party, or Oliver and his moods.

  The Righteous Room turns out to be a long, skinny bar full of tables crowded with hipsters and their cigarettes, plus a few regular construction-looking guys in baseball caps. Everyone talks around me about what they’re going to eat, handing menus back and forth. While we wait I text Fabian, tell him I’m out with Taryn and Sylvia and that I can’t do next Saturday night because we’ll be playing (!!!). A menu finally gets passed to me, and I order the first thing that looks like it might be good.

  We eat. We talk. They drink. Across from me, Taryn and a girl in a yellow hat are embroiled in some conversation about education for women in some country I haven’t heard of. Sylvia sees me watching them, raises her beer in a sympathetic toast.

  But I like it, being with them. I like being in this gaggle of women who have more to discuss than who is wearing what, who’s dating whom, and who might be doing what with someone else. Sociology, indie bands, socialized medicine—whatever. It’s energizing to be submerged in something so different.

  We finish eating. I give Taryn the twelve dollars I have in my wallet and hope it’s enough. Cards are handed across the table to her. Nobody else seems to know what they owe.

  Into the cars again—I offer to drive, but Sylvia and Freckle Face say they only had one beer and are okay—and then down through a bunch of streets I’ve never been on before and into the parking lot of what must be Earhorn. Looking at the plain warehouse front, you wouldn’t know this was anywhere to be if you didn’t know it was where to be. Lish, you would die to see this goes through my head as we walk up. And you, too, Oliver. Both of you would fall down and die from the overwhelming coolness.

  Inside is amazing, and I wish, for a second, that I’d somehow known about this place back when Trip and I were friends, because he would totally flip over the whole Victorian vibe inside. The front room is dedicated to gallery space—all kinds of art on three walls, with flickering candles and a fireplace filling up the other one. A round velvet couch is in the middle. On and around it are a few girls in scarves, some boys in dark jeans, all of them holding plastic glasses I can only assume are filled with wine.

  We all squeeze down a thin hallway to another room, this one even darker. At the very back is a triangular space that’s clearly the stage. Along the right side is a bar, with a guy coated in tattoos doling out drinks. Taryn stops, shakes hands with a girl all vintaged out in a black dress, black platform heels, and a thin black hat with a veil. Trip would love her too.

  “Come on,” Sylvia says, grabbing my elbow and leading me over to the bar. “Let’s get you some ginger ale or something.”

  I accept Sylvia’s offer, and we perch against the bar, watching everyone. There are people smoking. People drinking. People done up in outfits, and people who couldn’t seem to care less.

  As I look around the room, Sylvia doesn’t say anything to me, and neither does anyone else, but it’s cooler not to talk—not to have to fill the space with our noise. I stand there, sipping my ginger ale, and order another when I finish.

  After what feels like a long while, a pudgy guy in jeans and a suit jacket gets up onstage. I watch Taryn move toward him, but there are already four other people who also want to talk to him.

  “There we go,” Sylvia says, lifting her beer in his direction. “The ringleader of the circus, so to speak.”

  Taryn hovers on the edges, and then finally dives in, practically elbowing another girl off the stage. The guy looks at her at first with tolerance while she talks, and then interest. Finally he shakes her hand. She heads off the stage grinning, and I lose them in the crowd as the guy steps to the mic, welcomes everyone. There are loud cheers from the audience.

  “Let’s get right to it,” he says. “Remember this is a judged competition, with our judges being anonymous. But trust me, they’re all here, so be careful who you snub.”

  Chuckles from the audience, which has grown. Taryn and her friends finally appear beside us.

  “Don’t you want to go closer?” Taryn says.

  “We’re good here,” Sylvia answers.

  Taryn looks at her a second, and then, I guess, agrees. The emcee calls the first performer up to the stage. Her hair is dyed black and she’s carrying a giant case, maybe for a cello. I lean against the bar, trying to read the looks on Taryn’s and Sylvia’s faces. I don’t know what all of this is normally like, but for me, I can tell, it’s going to be an education.

  Two hours later we’re back in the car. I’m up front, giving Sylvia directions to my house. Everyone is high-fiving each other and laughing.

  “We are going to trounce them next week!” Taryn shouts from the backseat.

  “So we’re all signed up?” Sylvia wants to know.

  “For the third time, yes. God. Everything’s taken care of.”

  “And you will dominate,” Veronica says.

  Though I’m still thinking that that guy with the harmonica was extremely talented, and some of the other performers were also terrific, I too feel pretty good about our chances next week. Most of the groups tonight were snobby performers, hardly able to engage the audience. Our style is way more peppy and interesting. We’ll definitely m
ake an impact. Especially if we practice hard.

  “You feel good?” Taryn asks, getting out to hug me when they drop me off.

  “I feel good.” I nod, still trying to absorb everything I saw tonight.

  “You know you’re going to rock, right?”

  “We’re going to rock.”

  “So Tuesday we’ll just perfect a few things,” she says, flitting her hand.

  “We’ll make it perfect all week.”

  She touches my face. “You are perfect. I’m glad you came out with us.”

  “Me too. And thanks for the ride.”

  “See you Tuesday?”

  “Tuesday, Tuesday,” I sing, stepping back.

  Sylvia toots the horn as she pulls away, and I dance, waving at them in the yard. The whole way back into the house, I feel the happiest I’ve been all week.

  After such an amazing Saturday night, after getting a glimpse of what life will be like in another short year when maybe I’m in college too, or at least not in high school anymore, nothing else really matters. School becomes a monotonous blur. I don’t see Trip. I don’t see Abe or Eli. I don’t see Lish and I don’t care. I pretend I don’t see Oliver ignoring me in psych. I eat my lunch hunched over a book. Benji meets me before class every day, and I trade a few texts with Fabian. Tuesday night Taryn and Sylvia and I practice again, agree on the set list, and jump up and down together. It is way more fun than any Sad Jackal rehearsal—even the ones this summer with Trip. I call Jilly so that we can both squeal about the fact that she’ll be home for Thanksgiving break next week. I sing, alone in my room, since Taryn and Sylvia are too busy for other practices. I duck my head down. I make it through.

  And then it’s Saturday again. By the time I wake up at eleven o’clock, Taryn’s left me five texts. Most of them are full of exclamation points. One of them asks if I want to come over early, maybe go to the Righteous again for dinner before the show. I find Gretchen in her and Darby’s room, ask if it’s okay if I take the car.