by Maurene Goo
They were set up in David’s parents’ garage, squeezed among tools, boxes of junk, and a disgusting sofa that I swear has been there since the ’80s.
In the center of it all was Carrie. “YOU’RE GOING TOO FAST!” Carrie yelled with mike in hand.
“You’re just too slow,” David snapped. “Because you assume the song revolves around your voice.” He was wearing his “band practice uniform”: Ray Bans, jeans, a Clash T-shirt, and bare feet.
Carrie blew a strand of hair out of her face and said haughtily, “Well, yeah. I’m the SINGER.”
“You’re the singer in a BAND. Not a MUSICAL!” David hollered before slamming his guitar into its case.
Things weren’t going so well with the Raw Meat Demons. It was only an hour in to practice and, honestly? It was pretty bad. They were bad even when they weren’t fighting.
The thing is, RMD is usually really good. Their songs are fun and catchy and everyone likes to sing along to them. If anything, they always have a good time. But things were tense because the Battle of the Bands competition was coming up and this was their opportunity to be epic.
“Good luck beating Midnight Dawn playing your guitar like some mopey donkey on Prozac,” Carrie spat as she brattily knocked the mike stand onto the floor with her camouflage-print Vans.
Oh yeah. And they wanted to beat Midnight Dawn — the current kings of high school band-dom at BHS. Actually, I wanted to see RMD beat Midnight Dawn, too. Midnight Dawn was made up of these total snobs whose parents bought them the best equipment money could buy — and the best vocal and music teachers, too. There were also rumors that they were getting signed to a record label. (I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that the lead singer’s dad owned several record labels up in LA.)
So yeah, they were the band to beat. If Disney made a movie of this Battle of the Bands, Midnight Dawn would be that black-uniformed hockey team everyone hated.
“A mopey donkey? What the hell is that?” David was angry, but I could tell he was trying not to laugh.
Karen butted in timidly. “Also, Carrie? You can’t start singing that early because we have that monologue from Doctor Zhivago in the beginning.” She immediately disappeared back into her hair.
Oh, Lord. They’re trying to be all literary and cool now. The same kind of crap that Midnight Dawn always pulls. Doctor Zhivago? Who the heck?
“KAREN LORENA CLEMENTS AND DAVID FU-HAN CHEN. This intro makes our song like, almost twelve minutes long now!” Carrie exclaimed.
“Twelve minutes?!” I screeched, almost falling off my stool.
“Yes, twelve minutes. It’s going to be EPIC, remember?” David said testily.
“Uh, yeah, I heard you the first twenty times,” I responded, matching his tone.
Carrie started packing up her things. “I’m over this. We’re never going to get this right.” Oliver and Karen were putting their stuff away, too.
“So … is that it? Your practice is over because you guys fight too much?” I demanded.
I was almost physically injured by the power of their combined laser-beam glares.
“I think this band is over. We suck,” muttered David.
Oliver shook his head and said good-naturedly, “Man, that’s not cool.” Then he glanced at his watch. “Damn. All right, I’m out. See you dudes at school.” Karen left right after him. Which left me and the two divas.
“Okay, you guys need a break. Burritos?” I suggested hopefully.
A few minutes later we were on our bikes headed out to the Burrito Shack. I hoped the bike ride would cool off Carrie and David. It seemed to work. When we hopped off our bikes we were pretty sweaty and out of breath.
“So are you guys going to be civil now?”
Carrie pursed her lips but reluctantly nodded her head. “Fine. Whatever.”
“What she said,” David grunted.
As we ate, I decided to speak up. “So, why can’t you guys just perform one of your old songs? People love those songs. I mean, the last house party you played ended at 3:00 A.M. because people couldn’t stop dancing and acting like idiots to your music.” It was true. Not that I was really allowed to go to parties. But I had heard all about it.
“We want to transcend that whole party-band image, Holly,” David replied in an irritating know-it-all voice.
“Yeah, we think we can make a song that is totally like, Arcade Fire times one hundred,” Carrie said between mouthfuls of beans and cheese.
“Who cares about those Canadian hipsters?” I sputtered. Their jaws dropped — Arcade Fire was their favorite band. “You guys should be true to the spirit of RMD!”
David set his burrito down. “We’re going to write an epic song if it kills us.”
I honestly wasn’t sure if they’d come out alive.
* * *
“Hey, guess who’s here?”
I had just walked into my house and been greeted by my sister and the delicious aroma of Korean food.
“Justin Bieber himself?” I screeched.
Ann just looked at me. “No, not Justin Bieber. God, not even funny.”
I rolled my eyes. “Get a sense of humor, Ann.”
“YOU get a sense of humor. Anyway, Sara’s here!” Before the words were even out of her mouth, she ran off toward the kitchen in excitement.
“Sara?! All the way from Chicago?” I ran off to follow her. Sara was our older cousin — The Doctor. Aka the family’s pride and joy. I would hate her if she wasn’t already my favorite cousin.
“Hey, Holls!” Sara greeted me from the kitchen sink, where my mother had already put her to work washing bean sprouts. She was petite, her shiny hair in a perfect top-knot bun. She was wearing one of my mom’s hilarious aprons (hot pink with a giant panda bear face on it) over her crisp navy-and-white striped dress. I almost sighed with pleasure at how put together she was.
“Hi! I didn’t know you were in town!” I exclaimed.
“Oh yeah, it was a last-minute trip because my best friend just had her first baby. Do you remember Melissa Dickinson? She used to babysit you and Ann sometimes.”
“Melissa had a baby? Ew, you guys are OLD!” I remembered Melissa as a teenager who wore a lot of sky-blue nail polish and talked to her boyfriend on the phone way too much.
“Yeah, we are old. You just watch, though. One day you and Carrie are going to be talking about real estate and babies.”
I shuddered. “Never!” Ann laughed gleefully.
My mom shook her head from the kitchen table, where she was chopping vegetables. “That’s what you think, Holly! Actually, I hope to God you even have babies. Who knows with this one.”
I made a face at Sara. “Come on, let’s go talk in my room. Where my mother can’t annoy us,” I declared loudly.
“Yes, yes,” my mom said. “I’m always annoying! Never you.”
I fled to my room with Sara in tow. Collapsing on my bed, I groaned, “My mom killlllls me!”
“Yeah, I remember that phase. Believe it or not, years from now you’re going to feel sorry for how you treated her,” Sara teased.
“Are you joking? God, I hope I never get as old and brainwashed as you!”
Laughing, she walked gracefully over to my bookshelves. “Still reading like a maniac, I see?”
“Yup,” I said proudly. “My one joy in life.”
“Oh, please. What else have you been up to? I’m sure high school is full of mind-blowing excitement!”
“Right. If you only saw what I went through this morning.”
“Why, what did you do?”
“My friend Liz dragged me to her ballet class, can you believe it?”
Sara smiled. “Actually, that’s not so weird. You used to love watching my ballet recitals. Do you remember that?”
I was taken aback. “No, I don’t remember at all!”
“You did. You used to come to the recitals with my parents because you loved them so much. I even got you ballerina books when you started reading.”
“Anyway, I think it’s awesome that you went to a ballet class. I wish I had stuck with it, actually. I loved dancing,” Sara said wistfully.
“Oh yeah, now you’re just a doctor,” I said sarcastically.
She laughed. “Whatever. Let me just say this, lady. You’re lucky because you can do whatever you want. You realize that your parents are pretty cool, right?”
I must not have heard her correctly. “Are you joking? Cool? My parents?!”
“Stop with the italics, J. D. Salinger. Yeah, your parents. I was going to be a doctor since the day I was born — I didn’t have a choice. Your mom was bragging to me earlier, you know — about your newspaper column. She’s very proud that you’re a writer. My parents would have killed me if I pursued something more liberal artsy. Like, say, journalism.”
I didn’t even know how to respond to this. “Dude, I mean, you’re a doctor because you’re like, a genius. All of us younger cousins are completely screwed because of you. You realize this, right? And there’s no way my mom was bragging. She never brags about me. Or Ann.”
“It’s because she’s Korean. Bragging about your children is a big no-no. You know how they get around it though, right? All, ‘Oh, I am so worried about Holly. She loves to write too much. You know she has a newspaper column, right? I cannot believe that everybody wants to read her writing, but I guess they do!’” Her impersonation of my mom was so spot-on that I had to crack up.
“Anyway, I’m excited to see where your writing leads you — it’s a real talent! Can I get copies of your previous columns? And don’t forget to mail me new ones!”
I looked at her skeptically. “Talent, really? Also, you want to read my column?” I thought of all the asinine things I’d written about this year. How I took so much pleasure in complaining about Pilgrims and school dances.
“Of course!” she replied brightly.
“It’s not exactly the most mature example of journalism…. After all, I’m not the gifted one in the family, Sara.”
Sara sat up and looked serious. “You’re totally deluded if you think I’m naturally a doctor. I had to work like crazy. And do you want to know something? I don’t love it. I’ve just become good at it. So imagine if I put all that effort into something that I actually cared about.”
My jaw dropped. “You don’t care about being a doctor and like, SAVING LIVES?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, I’m going to be a podiatrist. I’m not all Grey’s Anatomy–style saving lives every day.”
I shook my head. “But the point is, you’re good at it. I don’t know if I’m good at writing, I just like it. And clearly, I don’t excel at any other activities except being an okay student and not failing out of school.”
Sara laughed. “Okay, whatever you say, Holls. Don’t you enjoy writing your column?”
“Well, yeah. It’s basically a place where I can barf my opinions every month and feel all smug about it,” I said with a shrug.
“Well, clearly there is a demand for that, uh, barf. And it’s awesome that you enjoy doing something that may one day become your future.”
My future? I couldn’t, and didn’t want to, think that far ahead. I just wanted to survive the year.
I jumped up and grabbed Sara’s arm. “Okay, enough of this pep talk! Drive me to the new Ryan Gosling movie!”
Ann burst in at that moment and shouted, “Me too!”
“All right, you weirdos. Let’s go!”
We happily followed the older, functional sister we never had.
The auditorium was filled to the brim for Battle of the Bands. It was the one time during the school year when everyone seemed to contain at least a shred of school spirit, including myself. Liz and I were sitting near the front, and we were both pretty nervous.
“So, from what you saw, do you think they can pull off this ‘epic’ song?” Liz asked.
My stomach churned. “Well … if they’ve practiced a little more since then …” I trailed off lamely. Liz grimaced.
The curtains rose and the MC for the evening, Mikemaster Malcolm Ariza, said some unfunny spiel, and then introduced the first act: five girls dressed up as hookers from Hot Topic, lip-synching to The Pussycat Dolls. I glanced at the dad-like person sitting next to me and shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Damn these girls for putting us in this awkward position!
We had to sit through some pretty bad yet hilarious acts before the Raw Meat Demons came onstage. Two suburban boys rapped to the Beastie Boys’ “Girls.” (One of them ended the performance by ripping off his track pants and tossing them into the audience.) Another good one was the Schilling siblings, all seven of them with their wheat-blond hair and handmade clothes, lined up singing an acoustic version of some hit song by the Osmonds. The boredom was palpable.
And finally: “All right, everyone, here to perform their spanking new song, ‘Apathetic Inferno in D Minor,’ are THE RAW MEAT DEMONS!”
The audience roared in response, coming back to life after that last performance. I glanced around at everyone nervously because I knew they were in for a big surprise.
The lights dimmed and projected images of bare tree branches and birds flitting across a screen. Then came the obscure monologue from Doctor Zhivago. A few people in the audience murmured in confusion and I started to sweat.
One by one, each of the Raw Meat Demons came out onstage. They were all wearing black — Carrie in a mini-dress with tights and boots, David in a button-up shirt and jeans, Karen in a weird turtleneck/leggings combo, and Oliver in a T-shirt and slacks.
“What’s with the black?” Liz whispered while getting her cell phone out of her blazer pocket, ready to record.
I shook my head. “More pretentious?”
Once they were all situated, Karen started with a few mournful, pretty notes on her bass, and Oliver soon followed with a mellow beat. So far, so good.
Then David and Carrie came in and that’s when things started to go awry. First, Carrie started off with the lyrics:
A swivel of vowels
Come at the unsuspecting
Through it all
Bear, walk toward me
I held my breath as people started to snicker. Then things veered off into the bizarre — the song seemed to change and I cringed, knowing that one of their goals was to create a song like “A Day in the Life” or “Bohemian Rhapsody” — a song that changed completely halfway through. Somewhere John Lennon and Freddie Mercury must have been rolling in their graves.
Liz leaned over and whispered, “Good God!”
It got worse. I could tell that the band was starting to lose confidence, and little mistakes were being made here and there. Carrie flubbed a lyric and then Oliver dropped one of his drumsticks during a crazy drum solo.
The audience started to get ugly — some kids were yelling insults and booing. I whipped my head around furiously, ready to rip some throats out, when I heard Oliver yell out, “One two, a one two three!” as he slammed his drumsticks together over his head. He never looked more like Animal than at that moment.
He started playing “Killer Whale Love,” the Raw Meat Demons’ biggest hit to date. It’s the song that everyone at BHS knew and loved. And it was stupid, silly, and short.
David and Carrie exchanged panicked looks, and then looked at me and Liz. We both raised our arms and whooped, “KILLER WHALE LOOOVE!”
And that’s all it took. They went into the song full force, kicking aside some of the weird instruments and props they had lying around (like an accordion, for God’s sake), and Carrie swung her hair, bouncing up and down while singing:
She was a girl
He was a boy
But they were whales
Woo ooh
Whales!
Everyone started clapping and singing along. We were in a frenzy — kids who were moshing in the aisles had to be escorted out by sweating middle-aged teachers.
&nbs
p; The band finished to a standing ovation and looked ecstatic. Liz and I stood up, cheering louder than everyone else. I spotted Carrie’s mom in the crowd, throwing a bouquet of sunflowers at Carrie, and David’s parents beaming and clapping enthusiastically. Although David’s dad never quite approved of his music obsession, he looked pretty proud of him right then.
“I am SO glad they changed songs!” Liz exclaimed as we sat down.
“Me too. I mean, talk about epic. That was totally epic!”
But the Raw Meat Demons had one major competitor left: Midnight Dawn. And they were up.
The stage turned pitch black, and it was silent for almost a full minute. Then laser beams of neon pink and green shot across the stage, creating a hypnotic pattern. Fog filled the stage and the lights cut through it like lightsabers.
The audience oohed and aahed. “Oh, big whoop,” I said loudly. Liz snickered and the man next to me glared at us. Oops, must be a Midnight Dawn dad.
The lights on stage suddenly shone intensely, blinding everyone, and when we recovered our sight we could see seven guys wearing hipster preppy outfits — shrunken pastel jeans, Ray Bans, popped collars, socks with Vans, and some sported tortoise-shell glasses.
Liz made a face. “Yuck. Trying so hard. Someone must have told them that prep is in.”
“I know, get outta here. The last show they were all leathered out. Who are they kidding? It’s like a J.Crew catalog exploded onstage.” The man next to me cleared his throat loudly. Liz and I looked at each other and tried to suppress our giggles.
Midnight Dawn continued to perform an echoey, ethereal number called “Looseleaf Memoir.” I had to admit it was pretty, but it definitely lacked energy. The lead singer crooned in a falsetto with his eyes closed so lovingly that I expected him to start making out with himself onstage.
Also? The song lasted for eight minutes. Prettiness be damned, people started to get antsy.
The show wrapped up with one more act — a girl singing alone with a piano, which would have been nice except she forgot the lyrics to the Lady Gaga song she was attempting to cover, and the piece ended in tears. After she was rushed offstage, Liz and I nervously awaited the results of the competition.
