Confusion Is Nothing New

by Paul Acampora

  Sure enough, she continues. “I always find it interesting that hardly anybody ever criticizes my rock and roll brother for the decisions he’s made about his own family life.”

  I should probably remain silent, but I can’t help myself. “Did Mr. Leary leave his wife and kid so he could go and play Cyndi Lauper songs in hotel bars?”

  “Actually,” Sister tells me, “if you replace the hotel bars with concert arenas and plop the real Cyndi Lauper onstage, then yes. That’s exactly what Billy did. And everybody loves him.”

  “Oh.”

  “So maybe you need to cut your mother some slack.”

  “You just said I wouldn’t like her.”

  “When your mother was a girl, she was selfish, self-centered, and self-absorbed. You are your father’s daughter, Ellie. You don’t put up with that nonsense, which is why I am shopping for a new glockenspiel. That said, I expect your mother matured over the years. For the most part, we all do. But I also expect Korky remained difficult to like for her whole life. Just for different reasons.”

  “What reasons?” I ask.

  “People don’t generally appreciate women who decide that they want things for themselves.”

  That’s not what I expected Sister Stephanie to say. “What about my father?” I ask.

  In the hallway, the morning bell announces the start of the school day. When the ringing stops, Sister stands and heads for the door. “If you’re going to forgive your dead mother, you might as well forgive your dad too. He’s a good guy. And he’s still here.”

  I catch up with Sister Stephanie in the doorway. “Who says I’m going to forgive anybody?”

  Sister sighs. “Ellie, we all want to be in a story where everybody is nice and nobody hurts and everybody lives happily ever after.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I ask.

  “Nothing is wrong with that. And I can almost guarantee that you’re going to get your happy story over and over and over again. I can also guarantee that you’re going to get a whole lot more. Both things will be true.”

  I follow Sister into the hallway, where zombies have been transformed into caffeinated kids rushing to class so they won’t be late. “Is this where you tell me not to worry because God will never give me more than I can handle?”

  Sister laughs as she joins the crowd of students moving away from me. “Wouldn’t it be great if that were true?”

  I don’t want to tell Dad about the CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD! concert, which means I have to lie. I’ve never really lied to my father. Not about big things anyway. As it works out, lying is disturbingly easy. “Anya Flowers asked me to sleep over on Friday night,” I tell him after school on Thursday.

  “Sure,” says Dad, who is in the middle of chopping vegetables at the kitchen counter. “Which one is Anya again?”

  Daniel looks up from the homework he’s doing at our table. Our Lady of Guadalupe is holding his books open. I expect that both the Blessed Virgin Mary and Daniel know I’m lying right now, so I shoot them a quick just-shut-up look before either one has a chance to speak.

  “She’s the Polish cookie girl,” I remind my dad.

  “Her dad is a history professor at Trinity College,” adds Daniel.

  I forgot that Daniel understands zero parts of just-shut-up.

  “Is her father Benjamin Flowers?” Dad grabs one more celery stalk and quickly chops it to bits. “I do a whole medieval bread baking thing with his class every year.”

  “That’s him,” Daniel confirms.

  Dad slides the chopped veggies from the cutting board into a deep frying pan, where they start to sizzle in hot oil. He grabs a plastic bottle and adds a dash of red-hot Sriracha sauce to the pan. “I’ll bake some bread tomorrow. You can bring a couple loaves to share with Benjamin and his family.”

  “I don’t know if I’m going to go,” I say.

  “Why not?” Dad and Daniel ask at the same time.

  Usually, Daniel and I can communicate almost without speaking. Today, however, we do not seem to be working on the same wavelength. If we were in sync, Daniel would understand that I forgot about my father’s connection to Dr. Flowers. He’d also see that the relationship between Dr. Flowers and my father is a massive weak spot in this stupid lie.

  “Just because,” I say.

  “Our friends are going to a concert at Trinity College tomorrow night,” says Daniel.

  Did I mention we are not on the same wavelength?

  “Oh?” says Dad, sorting through his spice rack. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for, so he steps into the walk-in closet we use as a pantry.

  I lean toward Daniel and whisper, “What are you doing?”

  “Unlike you, I’m trying to tell the truth. But not the whole truth,” he adds.

  “You’re going to get me in trouble!”

  “Listen,” Daniel says. “You don’t have to lie to your father. If it doesn’t involve food, he hardly pays attention anyway.”

  “That’s not true,” I say.

  “Just don’t tell him the name of the band, and he’ll let you go to the show.”

  “If he finds out that I want to see CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD!—”

  “He won’t find out,” Daniel promises.

  Dad returns to the kitchen with a container of ground ginger. “I guess you see enough of Trinity College already, Ellie. Is that why you don’t want to go?”

  “We’re not going to see the college,” Daniel says before I can reply. “We’re just going to hear some music and hang out with our friends. Ellie should come.”

  “If you want, I can give you a ride to campus and pick you up after the concert.” Dad gives the vegetables a quick stir. “Then you don’t have to go to Anya’s.”

  “No!” Daniel and I say at the same time.

  Apparently, we’re back on the same page.

  “If we go,” I say cautiously, “we could take the shuttle.”

  Trinity College runs a free shuttle around town for anybody with a college ID. Of course, everybody in Rockhill knows that the shuttle drivers never check IDs.

  “And then you’ll come home after the concert?” Dad adds rice and spice to the frying pan. “Or are you going to sleep at Anya’s?”

  “I’d rather come home,” I tell him.

  Dad cracks a couple of eggs and tosses them into the veggie fried rice. “So are you going to the concert or not?”

  “I am.”

  Daniel gives me a big grin.

  “Okay,” says Dad. “Try to be home by eleven. Also, tell Seamus I say hello.”

  Neither Daniel nor I say anything for a long moment. Finally, I can’t take it any longer. “You don’t mind that I’m going?”

  “I mind,” says Dad. “I mind a lot. But based on these last couple weeks, that’s not going to stop you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just—”

  “Ellie,” says Dad, “you don’t need to apologize. You just need to come home safe. You need to know that I always love you, and you need to know that I am liable to behave badly when I worry that somebody might hurt you. Also, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t like change.”

  “I know all those things,” I say. “I also know that you are the best dad in the world.”

  “And the best-looking,” says Daniel.

  “What?” says Dad.

  I cross the room and give my father a hug. “Don’t listen to him.”

  On Friday, it’s Sinbad’s chance to lead our music class. He starts by passing out chords and words to an old lullaby that most of us already know. It’s the one that starts with Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. From there, it turns into a long list of things that go wrong with all the gifts until the baby’s got broken glass, and a stubborn goat, and weird dog, and a bunch of junk that makes no sense at all. It could be my theme song.

  Sinbad instructs everybody to take out their instruments, except he puts me on the piano at the front of the room. Bef
ore we play a note, he counts out a rhythm that is definitely not a lullaby. In four-four time, it goes, ONE and a TWO and a THREE FOUR FIVE, and a ONE and a TWO and a THREE FOUR FIVE. “It’s a little like salsa and a little like reggae,” Sinbad explains. “But faster, with a more solid beat.”

  “Dare we call it a Bo Diddley beat?” asks Mr. Leary, who steps into the closet and returns with two cherry-red electric guitars shaped like lightning bolts.

  “Whoa,” says the class.

  Mr. Leary grins. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  He and Sinbad swing the instruments over their shoulders and plug them into small amplifiers parked on the floor. “I made arrangements for each section,” Sinbad tells us, “but don’t worry if you get lost. It’s really just two chords. E and A. Does anybody want to be the singer?”

  “ME!” shouts Charlotte. “PICK ME!” She rushes to the front of the room. “I’VE BEEN PRACTICING MY WHOLE LIFE FOR THIS!”

  Sinbad glances at Charlotte’s brother. “She really has,” Josh tells us. “She sings at home all the time.”

  “How about we let Charlotte sing?” Mr. Leary suggests to Sinbad.

  Sinbad nods. “I think that’s a good idea.” He turns to the class. “Here we go.”

  With that, he and Mr. Leary hit the E chord. The rhythm pattern becomes obvious immediately, so the drum line jumps right in. The tune is simple, so our horns and wind sections are right there too. I’m mostly using the piano as a big syncopated metronome to keep everybody in time.

  Charlotte, who’s standing in the center of the room, offers everybody a grin, opens her mouth, and roars, “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word!”

  Where did that voice come from? I wonder.

  “Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird don’t sing …”

  Charlotte takes a big breath, and Sinbad’s guitar fills the space with a sound like CHUCKA-chucka-chucka-chucka. CHUCKA-chucka-chucka-chucka. The horn section lays down a big A chord, and our drum line, already loud and fast, picks up the pace and the volume too. Charlotte moves to the next line. “Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring. And if that diamond ring turns brass …”

  Sinbad continues. CHUCKA-chucka-chucka-chucka. Mr. Leary steps forward and slides his left hand down the neck of the guitar so that we hear the sound of train whistles crying and echoing over faraway fields. All in the key of E, then A, then E again. Charlotte jumps back in. “And if that looking glass is broke, Mama’s gonna buy you a billy goat …”

  CHUCKA-chucka-chucka-chucka. CHUCKA-chucka-chucka-chucka. This time there’s a rising horn section, and now Mr. Leary’s guitar sounds almost like he’s banging it against a set of church bells. The whole thing is amazing.

  All together, we bring the song through the part with the horse and the cart and the bull and the dog and finally the baby has nothing. Charlotte wraps it all up with the final line. “Hush little baby, don’t you cry. Daddy loves you and so do I.”

  Sinbad lowers his guitar and turns to Mr. Leary. “What do you think?”

  I glance at our teacher, who can’t wipe a huge smile off his face. “You’ve got promise,” he tells Sinbad.

  After class, Daniel, Charlotte, and Josh begin using the excitement created by our impromptu music room performance to convince as many people as possible to join us at Trinity College to see the CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD! show. By the end of the day, it seems like half the school has decided to be there. Most of them, including Charlotte, Anya, Sinbad, Hannah, and Josh, promise to meet Daniel and me on campus after supper. Still, I’m a little surprised when he and I step aboard the Trinity shuttle bus right after school and find that it’s totally empty.

  “Where is everybody?” I ask.

  “You’re it,” says the driver, a large woman with a cowboy hat, sunglasses, and graying hair. Daniel and I are both surprised when she asks, “Are you Trinity students?”

  Thinking quickly, Daniel sort of ducks the question. “We’re going to the concert tonight.”

  “Really?” says the woman. “Me too.”

  “You are?” I say.

  She nods. “I love Cyndi Lauper.”

  “The real Cyndi Lauper isn’t actually going to be there,” I point out.

  The driver considers me for a moment. “Honey,” she finally says, “you’re missing the point.”

  “That seems to be happening to me a lot lately,” I admit.

  That gets a smile. A few minutes later, our driver delivers us to the campus gate. “Enjoy the show!” she says.

  Daniel and I give her a wave and then head for the cafeteria, where we purchase a couple of pizza slices that taste like notebook paper dipped in canola oil. I can see why the college has accepted Dad’s pizza-on-wheels proposal. If they don’t do something soon, this kind of pizza could have an effect on enrollment.

  In a quiet corner, Daniel and I spread out our textbooks, notes, pencils, and papers, and proceed to knock out most of the homework that’s supposed to get done over the weekend. I hear there was a time in the distant past when teachers did not assign weekend homework. The students who learned from those instructors went on to crack the atom, build spaceships, invent the personal computer, win two world wars, and map the human genome. Apparently, that’s not good enough anymore.

  After a few hours, we pack up our schoolwork and head through the college kitchen to leave our backpacks in Dad’s office, which is located near the cafeteria’s walk-in coolers. Daniel plops into a chair and examines the line of toy food trucks Dad’s arranged like a little parade across his desk. “How soon before your father makes this mobile pizza dream come true?” says Daniel.

  “Sooner than you think,” I say. “But first it’s time for CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD!”

  Daniel gets to his feet. “Are you ready?”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I have no idea.”

  Daniel takes my hand. “Let’s find out.”

  Together, we make our way to the cafeteria’s employee exit. The back door puts us a short walk away from the gymnasium where CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD! is supposed to play. It’s dark and cold now, so we hurry along with several dozen college kids moving in the same general direction. I know they are only a few years older than me, but it seems like the lives they lead must be so much more interesting and exciting than mine. On the other hand, I’m the one with the rock star for a teacher, a master chef for a dad, and a deceased mom who used to wear neon and zebra stripes to work. I don’t know how much more interesting and exciting I could take.

  Inside the gym, less than a hundred students have spread across the wooden bleachers. A few more mill around a raised platform parked beneath one of the basketball hoops. I guess that’s the stage. Looking around, my St. Francis of Assisi classmates seem to account for more than a quarter of the audience, which leads me to believe that eighties tribute bands might not be the kind of cultural activity most Trinity College students are looking for.

  Without warning, the big room drops into sudden darkness. Just as quickly, a portable rack of stage lights illuminates the platform. A moment later, four men and three women jog onstage like all-star athletes ready to take on the world. I recognize most of the band from the website, though honestly, the photographs did not do their outfits justice. I lean toward Daniel. “What were people thinking back then?”

  “They were thinking scarves, bracelets, and neon,” says Daniel. “Lots and lots of neon.” He points at the porkpie lids on the three men who make up the CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD! brass section. “But I do like those hats.”

  “You’d look good in a porkpie,” I assure him.

  A tiny girl in a loud, pink tutu and an oversize Betty Boop T-shirt steps up to the microphone. “HELLO, TRINITY COLLEGE!”

  “That’s original,” says a voice in my ear. I turn and find Charlotte standing beside me. In a fluffy red skirt, black fishnet stockings, and a white ruffled pirate blouse, she’s dressed as outrageously as the band. Not only that, she�
�s teased her hair into a massive, black lion’s mane. Sinbad, wearing a pastel suit, skinny tie, and big white sneakers, stands beside her.

  “You really dressed for the occasion,” I say.

  Before either one of them can reply, the Betty Boop girl, along with two women standing beside her, swing matching pink electric guitars from behind their backs. They bring their instruments around like gunslingers, and in perfect sync with the rest of the band, they launch into a massive power chord that roars through the gymnasium.

  “Okay,” Charlotte shouts over the guitar harmony. “That was very cool.”

  The rest of the crowd feels pretty much the same way. The bleachers empty and the whole room is dancing. Not surprisingly, it seems that Sinbad knows all the words to every song. As a matter of fact, so do I. The women onstage take turns singing familiar tunes.

  “I think I’ve memorized their set list!” I holler at Anya and Josh, who are here now too.

  “What?” says Josh.

  The music is really too loud for conversation, so I just laugh. “Never mind!”

  As the show continues, I try to get a good look at the drummer, who’s mostly hidden at the back of the platform. When the next song begins, however, the rest of the band steps aside and turns to face the drum kit. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” the lead singer hollers. “GIVE IT UP FOR HOMETOWN BOY MISTER SEAMUS BRADY!”

  Seamus nods without smiling, raises a couple of fat sticks, then attacks his drum kit with a quick, steady beat that echoes around the gymnasium like a jackhammer. Betty Boop steps back into the spotlight and shouts over the drumbeat. “THIS ONE IS FOR OUR FRIEND KORKY! I CAN’T SING IT AS WELL AS SHE DID, BUT THIS WAS ONE OF HER FAVORITES. SO HERE GOES!” Horns, keyboards, and bass join the beat along with a twangy guitar hook. The singer wails into the microphone.

  “I was minding my business like a good girl should

  Just a little too careful for my own good

  It was just like living life in the dark

  Till something jumped up and it grabbed my heart.”

  I hear nothing else for a long moment because, honestly, these first few lines just about break me in two. The song could be about me. I was minding my own business. I was living in the dark. And then suddenly, something appeared out of nowhere and grabbed my heart.