by Lauren Saft
“Please don’t make me sing,” I said, almost in tears. “I’m fine on the piano in the back. Please, just don’t make me sing. Ned should sing.”
“Is that really what you want?” Fernando asked. I felt guilty for thinking how right he looked in a sombrero.
“Fuck that,” said Ned.
“What band has a chick and doesn’t put her in the front?” said Pete.
“You’re Gwen Stefani,” Ned said. “You’re Stevie Nicks, Grace Slick, Lauryn Hill, the chick from Garbage.”
“Can’t I be D’arcy Wretzky?” I pleaded. “Let it be. Please.”
Fernando looked at me, and the tears welled again. He put his hand on my trembling face, turned, and said, “Dude, look at her. Give her a fucking break, man.”
I looked at Ned and Pete, tears still mounting, heart still racing. I now not only feared I was going to be mocked and ridiculed by my friends and the audience, but also that I was about to gravely disappoint my bandmates, the only people who might even possibly still sort of respect me.
“Really, Holbrook?” Ned asked. “You’re really that scared?”
“I’m not scared!” I shouted, tears now fully falling down my cheeks. “I’m just not good enough.”
The twins threw their sombreros on the ground and rolled their eyes.
“Please don’t cry,” Fernando said, wiping a rogue tear from my cheek. “It’s cool. Ned will lead tonight.”
I was so embarrassed. I couldn’t believe I cried in front of them; god, I was pathetic. No wonder no one ever wanted to date me.
Ned hugged me and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. Please don’t cry. I’ll sing tonight; you just do backup, okay? Just please, please do not cry.”
I sniffled, nodded, and let him hug my limp body, totally humiliated that I had actually just let this happen. I never cried, let alone in front of boys. I was mortified but also entirely relieved that the pressure of singing, alone, in front of everyone, was off.
I reapplied my makeup and surrendered to the steady ratio of the rise of my heart rate to the building volume level of the crowd outside. Fernando twirled his drumsticks in his fingers, and the twins tuned their guitars. I needed a prop to fiddle with.
I checked my phone.
From Drew: Good luck tonight. I’ll be in the front row screaming your name. Can I get some backstage passes?
From Veronica: Gluck!!! Can’t w8 2 b ur #1 groupie!!!!!!!
From Mollie: I may be late, but don’t worry. I will be there, and I will be screaming for my favorite thrash metal pianist!
From Mom: Sorry I can’t be there tonight, break a leg! Love you. So proud. XOXO.
I wasn’t sure whether knowing I had all this love and support made me feel better or worse. Maybe I shouldn’t have invited everyone to my first show. Maybe I should have given myself a trial run before I made a complete ass of myself in a motherfucking Chiquita Banana costume.
I thought I could faintly hear Veronica’s high-pitched giggle from the office; it was then and only then that the inhuman timbre of her voice had ever soothed me.
“You can do it!” Fernando shook my shoulders.
“We can do it!” I replied, grabbing his wrists.
I listened to the muffled sound of Mr. Todman trying to quiet everyone down outside. I heard Drew’s hoot and signature whistle.
“Please welcome,” Mr. Todman said before clearing his throat, “the Cunning Runts!”
The crowd, the large crowd, filled with faces I’d never seen, screamed and clapped and glowed under the hot lights. The faces I did know melted into a mush of wide-eyed, face-painted animals, witches, sexy policewomen, sexy nurses, and sexy Village People. Veronica, Drew, Mollie, Sam, and four of Sam’s friends who I knew, but who never talked to me, all stood right in front. Screaming, clapping, pointing, waving. I waved back as I made my way across the stage to the keyboard, hoping no one could see up my ridiculous dress.
Mollie was a murdered, blood-covered cheerleader and Sam and the rest of his friends were all vampire football players. Finally, she got to put on that cheerleading uniform: one of her dreams come true. I couldn’t tell what Veronica was. A sexy teacher maybe? Britney Spears? Drew was Jay Gatsby; there was no way Veronica knew that there was any significance to that beyond a Leonardo DiCaprio movie. I wondered if she’d pretended to.
Ned took the mic. “We’re the Cunning Runts,” he said. Whooping, hollering, whistling. My friends went crazy. I could hear all their voices, Drew’s whistle, even Sam’s barking. I almost cried again.
“Please welcome our new keyboardist and lead vocalist, Alexandra Holbrook.” And he picked up my keyboard and moved it from stage left to center stage.
Holy fuck.
“Wish her luck, everyone! It’s her first show!”
Everyone screamed and clapped.
Ned adjusted the mic. I couldn’t just not sing. Could I? He’d probably step in if I just didn’t sing.…
“You’ll be fine,” he whispered in my ear. “You’re the singer. You’ll see.”
I looked at Fernando, who smiled and winked at me. I looked at Ned, who was strapping on his guitar and nodding, looking confident that he hadn’t just pushed me into an impromptu crowd surf.
Ned played a few notes, and I swallowed, not sure if sound would come out when I opened my mouth. White lights shone bright in my eyes and hot on my face. I was sure I was sweating. The crowd dimmed. They just stood there, staring at us, waiting for us to do something stupid. Waiting to laugh.
It was almost time for the lyrics. My fingers hit the keys, and I tried to remember the words. I knew the notes, but could I sing the actual words? Drew looked directly at me, smiled, and gave me a thumbs-up—the cheesiness of the gesture made me smile.
Then he turned to talk to Veronica, and I wondered what he said to her. If they were talking about me, if they had inside jokes or stories or things that I wasn’t a part of, if I was still most of what they had in common. Mollie stood there with her arms crossed, biting her thumbnail, looking nervous. Like she was nervous for me. Like she knew how devastated I would be if I screwed up, and that there was a good chance that I might.
Drew put his arms around Veronica and kissed her. Just like that, right there in the crowd, right there in front of me, in front of everyone! Right before I was supposed to start playing. He stood there behind her, kissing her, holding her, looking at me. Giving me a fucking thumbs-up.
Fuck it.
I closed my eyes, leaned into the mic, opened my mouth, and sound actually came out. Everyone cheered. Drew whistled. I couldn’t even hear myself. I just sang, like I was in the shower or my car. I closed my eyes, banged the keys, and belted out the words. People danced. We—our sound, our instruments, Ned’s and Fernando’s words—actually got people to move.
I stopped thinking and feeling, just sang and played and smiled and took in the lights, the crowd, my friends, Fernando’s dark hair shaking behind his flailing arms, the twins’ onstage sureness that never came out in real life. The music hugged me, made me feel safe inside it, and protected us from anything the crowd could possibly do to us. It was all right. I sang some songs; Ned sang others. We sang together. I didn’t miss one note on the keyboard, and I hadn’t even lost the rose in my hair when it was all over.
We took our bows and bounced back to the sweltering office behind the stage. Sweating, laughing, panting, I felt like myself again.
“I can’t believe you did that to me!” I screamed, and punched Ned in the shoulder.
“Aren’t you glad I did?”
“Yes!” I said, unable to control my volume, my jumping, my adrenaline.
Fernando put his hands on my hips, steadying me, planting my feet firmly on the ground. “You were awesome. I knew you could do it!”
I smiled back at him, overwhelmed, unsure of how to feel, what to say, how not to scream or throw up. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” I said.
We hugged, moist polyester cost
ume to moist polyester costume, heat radiating from our bodies. And just like that, right there in that stinky office, he took my sweaty face in his hands and kissed me.
MOLLIE FINN
It was my best friend onstage, but I felt like I was looking at a total stranger. All that makeup, the dress, closing her eyes and getting all emo into the mic like she was fucking Rihanna or something. I had no idea who this person was. Who this person thought she was.
And how could that bitch not have told me that she was the lead singer? I thought she just played the piano. She was a singer now? I had no idea why she was being so weird about this band stuff, and it was stressing me out.
The music wasn’t bad. It wasn’t mind-blowingly amazing, but it’s not like they were off-key or anything. There’s just something so cheesy about watching a bunch of teenagers taking themselves seriously playing Rolling Stones songs. They played mostly songs I didn’t know, but I don’t know if it’s because they actually wrote them themselves or if I’m just a moron, because oh my god, I only listen to music that’s on the radio—perish the fucking thought.
“Dude,” Sam said over the applause as the lights went up. “Alex is a rock star.”
He smiled and clapped. So did his friends.
“They were pretty good. I love their name. The mariachi thing is hilarious,” said Austin. “Are they going to dress like that all the time, or just tonight, because it’s Halloween?”
“That’d be fucking awesome if they did it all the time. If it was, like, their thing,” said Sam, cracking up, again, at his own dumb joke. How different life would be if Sam were actually half as funny as he thought he was…
“Your friend the singer is kind of hot,” said Austin. “Why don’t you bring her around more often?”
“You’ve met her, like, seven times. You’re probably confused by the fake mole and the twelve pounds of eyeliner.”
“How freakin’ good was she?” squealed Veronica. She and Drew were holding hands. So what, they were, like, dating now? Did Alex know about this? And more than that, if she did, how could she have not bitched to me more about it? More shit she doesn’t tell me anymore. I’d be livid, injuring people, screaming to anyone who’d listen about what a backstabbing whore my friend was. They were officially making out in public and openly acknowledging their togetherness? It was totally fucked up and not right.
“Did you guys know she was gonna sing?” I asked.
“No!” V screamed again over the rowdy crowd. “I had no idea she was so good! Did you?” The question was to Drew.
“Not like that,” he replied, still holding her fucking hand.
It was hot as balls in that dump of a suburban divorcée cougar pen. I wondered where they came up with this place. Was this the kind of place that “bands” played at all the time? Were all the tattooed, pink-haired, latex-wearing misfits in the crowd the type of people who often did things like check out bands in their free time? I wondered if that was what Alex was going to start doing now that she was such a hipster rocker-chick.
“I’m gonna try to get backstage,” said Drew.
“I’ll come with you,” I said.
“I’m, like, overheating,” said Veronica, fanning her glittering cleavage. She was wearing a loincloth and pasties—I could see how that must have been really oppressive for her. “Can we get some air and smoke a cig first?”
“I’ll come with you,” said Sam.
What was she trying to pull? Since when did Sam go anywhere with her?
“You’re seriously too hot to come congratulate your best friend after her first show?”
She looked over toward Sam, who was already making his way toward the door.
“I’m, like, seriously about to pass out,” she said, pouting.
“Seriously? You’re wearing, like, no clothes. What the hell are you dressed as anyway?” I asked, like I thought she’d say Oh my god, you’re right, I’m not that hot. I’m naked! Silly me, I’ll come with you.
“I’m a Catholic school girl, get it?” And she twirled the cross at her neck around her finger.
“Because ya know”—the blood in my neck started to seethe—“that’s what I, an actual Catholic girl who goes to school, look like every day.”
“Well, what are you? A cheerleader? Because that’s what cheerleaders actually look like every day?”
I looked down at my soiled outfit.
“I’m a zombie cheerleader, whore. I was gonna come dressed as you, but I couldn’t fit seven dicks in my mouth.”
Drew and Sam snickered, and Veronica said ha, ha, stuck out her tongue, fanned herself again, and said she’d be backstage with us in five minutes.
I didn’t want her and Sam out there alone, but I figured Austin would follow and that she’d throw herself on him before she’d heave herself at Sam.
“Drew, let’s go be good friends.”
I followed Drew as he weaved through the crowd. I never realized how tall he was. It was easy to follow his little pinhead through the mass. I couldn’t remember the last time Drew and I had been somewhere alone together. In middle school, maybe. He, Alex, and I used to hang out all the time. Somewhere along the line, the two of them stopped inviting me to things. Or maybe Alex and I stopped inviting him. Or maybe I started hanging out with Sam and stopped inviting both of them. We’d made out once in, like, eighth grade, maybe seventh, but it was during Truth or Dare, so it didn’t count.
When we got to the creepy office door, Alex and the band were all huddled up, smiling, hugging. It was crazy to me that Alex had become so close with these people who I didn’t even know. Since I was five years old, I don’t think I’d ever hugged anyone Alex didn’t know.
When she saw me, she pushed away the band guys, came over, and hugged me. Her costume was soaked with sweat, and her makeup was beginning to cake and congeal—but I’ve never seen her look so happy.
“You came!” she said, her voice cracked, as if she was maybe holding back tears. She smelled like melting plastic, like the pens Veronica always burned in chem lab.
“Of course we came!” I replied. She broke from me and hugged Drew.
“You were unbelievable,” he said, patting her slick shoulders.
“Really?” She still seemed out of breath. “Tell me the truth. I feel like I was totally off-key during that last one.”
“You were so into it, though!” I said.
“I know,” she said, wiping her brow. “I, like, forgot people were watching.”
“For a minute there, I thought you were going to keel over and fall off the stage!”
She laughed.
“Did Veronica leave?” she asked both of us.
“She was overheating. She wanted to get some air before braving the sweltering backstage.”
She nodded sarcastically.
The cute Latino guy left the other ones and came over to us. He put his arm around Alex.
“So,” he said. “You guys like the show?”
“You guys were so good!” I replied.
“Alex did great for her first time, no?”
Drew straightened his hat and put his hands in his pockets. “She killed it. Who knew she could sing like that?”
“We did,” said Fernando, then he kissed her on the cheek. Both Drew and I flinched.
I watched Alex talk to the guys in the band, and I felt like she belonged with them. Like they were now this little unit, and she and I were not. Alex and I had never not been on the same team before, never not come at something from the same side. I didn’t like what was happening here. It was hot in the office. My heart sped up, and I was starting to sweat and lose my breath.
“Well,” I said, interjecting myself into the band conversation, “maybe next time you guys can sing some songs that people actually know!”
They all snickered at one another, and they didn’t really laugh at my joke. And with their lack of laughter, the wall grew thicker. The more I talked, the harder I tried, I knew the wall would just get thick
er and thicker, and it would become more and more obvious how different I was from them and how much closer Alex clearly felt to them than me. I had to get out of there.
And where the hell were Sam and Veronica? Were they a team now, too? Who was left on my team? What was happening to me? My cheerleader outfit was starting to stick to my skin, and I was finding it harder and harder to swallow.
“Drew,” I said. “Let’s go find Sam and Veronica.” He nodded and followed me outside.
ALEXANDRA HOLBROOK
The next Friday, we sat at our usual table in the lunchroom, and I watched Mollie destroy yet another innocent turkey sandwich. Mollie’s ingenious, personal brand of eating disorder was to destroy her food rather than consume it. I watched her pick slices of turkey out of her sandwich, then gnaw on some and discard others. She ripped the crust off her bread and poked at the insides with her nubby, pink pod-fingers. When she was done with a meal, most of her food was still there, it just appeared to have been attacked by wild, yet oddly anorexic, bears.
“Do you guys want to go bowling tonight?” I asked.
“Who goes bowling?” Mollie scowled. “Bowling is for fat eight-year-olds.”
“Drew suggested it. Mix it up a bit.”
“Pass,” said Mollie.
The loud cafeteria static clanged and clashed around the table in the back corner of the lunchroom. Harwin’s cafeteria didn’t look like your typical high school cafeteria, but rather like something out of a gothic novel. It was a rickety old room in the oldest part of the school. The once white walls had soured and peeled around stained-glass windows over creaky hardwood floors, and Victorian arches framed creepy portraits of thin-lipped schoolmarms being choked by their collars. Wobbly wooden chairs circled paint-chipped round tables filled with squealing, complaining girls, in the process of explaining why frozen yogurt was totally a well-balanced lunch.
