My Year of Epic Rock

by Andrea Pyros

  “Guys, that sucked!”

  “We just started, Madison, calm down,” said Shane, looking annoyed. “You can’t expect to be tight in one afternoon.”

  “It’s probably because we don’t have a bassist,” Tiernan said, wrestling to take his guitar off over his bulky sweater. His hair was wilder than usual, and his face was sweaty.

  “Maybe you need to turn it up a notch, dude,” Shane said to him.

  “Why didn’t I think of that? Yeah, that will solve all our problems.” Tiernan sounded huffy.

  “Calm down!” shouted Madison.

  “YOU CALM DOWN!” Shane shouted back.

  Uh-oh.

  This wasn’t good. I slunk lower behind the drums. Drummers are lucky that way. I hoped speakers or instruments weren’t about to start flying around like how they do on those crazy Top 100 Band Meltdowns shows Dad makes me watch with him.

  “Everyone be quiet,” Heidi said. “Let’s all relax.” She twisted her lip and blew out a large gust of air. “Why don’t we listen to some music first, before we play? To help inspire us.”

  “I don’t think anything is going to help,” Tiernan said unhappily.

  Heidi patted him on the shoulder and gave him a smile. He didn’t even cheer up then. Talk about clueless! Heidi looked a little embarrassed and yanked her hand away, and then pulled the sleeves of her red hoodie over her hands like mittens.

  I felt bad for her. It’s not like she was always walking around hugging and grabbing everyone all day long like it was no big deal.

  “I’ll listen to something,” I said, trying to seem enthusiastic. “I could use a break from that, ahem, MAJOR, SUPER INTENSE drumming workout.” I flexed my shoulders and pretended to rub my bicep, hoping to break the tension. Drummers are supposed to be the funny members of the band anyway. Like that Muppet drummer, Animal.

  “Okay,” Shane said. “Here.” He hopped away from the keyboard and pulled open a giant shiny gold curtain that covered the whole back wall. I hadn’t even realized there was anything behind it, but there were rows and rows and rows of records. “This is my dad’s collection. Whatever you want, he’s got.”

  “Whoa,” I said. “My dad would so be freaking out right now.”

  We clustered around the shelves of records, alphabetized by band, each one covered with a plastic sleeve. Shane ran up the basement stairs two at a time, yelling, “Dad, do any rock bands have flute players?” as he got to the top.

  Mr. McCormick appeared at the foot of the stairs—I could only see him from the knees down. “You mean do any bands have a flutist?”

  “Dad, yes, flutist.”

  “Jethro Tull. I have some of their stuff down there. Go check out ‘Thick as a Brick.’”

  “Jethro who?” Madison whispered to me. She didn’t seem mad anymore.

  “Is that under J or T?” I said to no one in particular. “Wait. Is Jethro a person?”

  Shane raced back down, jumping down the last four steps all at once. He started flipping through the records, looking for one. “Here we go,” he said, lifting up a turntable and putting the record on. I actually know what a turntable is, because my father still has one, but I don’t know how to use it.

  By now, Tiernan was sitting back down on the floor, and Heidi went over to sit next to him.

  “I’m starving,” Tiernan said. “Shane, do you have anything to eat?”

  “You came to the wrong house, dude,” Shane said. “I can eat, like, three things. One of which is lettuce. We’ve got nothing. Wait, that can’t be right. Let me go check, there must be something here.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Tiernan said.

  “Me too,” Heidi got up.

  “Let’s all go,” I said.

  Shane led us into a huge kitchen with white tiled floors, and a giant refrigerator, and a big metallic oven that I know is super expensive because anytime we go to the mall, Mom parks by the entrance to the appliance section of the department store so she has an excuse to walk through it and drool over the stove.

  “Shane, this is a cool house,” I said.

  “Thanks. The kitchen is kind of a joke, though, considering how little cooking we do. My dad gets takeout a lot, and I pretty much live on those gross protein drinks, so it’s not like we use it all that much.”

  Shane opened up the refrigerator door. “Grapes?” he said, pulling out a bowl with a bunch of green and red grapes.

  “Sure,” Madison said, grabbing one.

  “Shouldn’t we rinse those first?” I said, then realized that I sounded like my mom. Sheesh, talk about pathetic. It didn’t seem like anyone heard me, so I took an unwashed grape and tossed it into my mouth like I was all cool and laid-back.

  Look at me, world! I laugh at your stupid food sanitation rules! Mwah ha ha!

  Tiernan grabbed a bag of blue tortilla chips out of a cabinet. “Okay if we eat these, Shane?” he asked, sitting down on a stool at the big black and white marble island right in the middle of the kitchen—which had a second sink in it, because um, one sink isn’t enough? Mom also dreams of having an island someday. A kitchen island, not a tropical beach island, that is.

  “Can I look at that label, Tiernan?” I asked, reaching for the bag.

  “Oh, yeah, Shane, you may not have heard, but a few of us are allergic to nuts,” Tiernan said, cracking up.

  “And eggs,” I reminded him.

  “I can eat these chips,” said Shane, reaching into the bag too. “Trust me. There’s nothing in these but corn and MSG. Bottoms up, Nina.”

  I almost never eat at anyone else’s house, except when I used to go to Brianna’s, since her mom kept snacks on hand that were okay for me to eat. I pretend I’m not hungry, but I’m actually too embarrassed to ask anyone what’s in the food they offer me. When I was younger and had playdates, my mom told all the other parents they could always serve me fresh fruit, so I have probably eaten my weight in watermelon, strawberries, and clementines over the years. Boring. The whole time I was secretly and silently drooling over their boxes of cookies and granola bars and that magic-looking chocolate concoction, Nutella.

  But I didn’t feel shy asking to see the label at Shane’s house. It was, like, a huge relief. I took a handful of chips and took a big bite out of one. Maybe it was being able to eat without worrying, or actually not be ashamed to read a label, but they seemed like the best-tasting, crunchiest chips ever.

  And just like that, without my even making a decision one way or the other, The EpiPens became a band, with me as a member.

  • • •

  We started hanging out after school a lot, except Fridays, when Heidi had ice skating lessons, and Wednesdays, when Madison was at advanced sewing class and also when Tiernan’s mom made him go to a therapist—Tiernan called her “Dr. Obvious”—to talk about his parents’ divorce.

  Dad was right: being in a band was fun. It was like a built-in activity so you don’t even have time to get bored with each other. The only bad part was coming up with a song all five of us could agree on performing at the talent show. That was an epic, many-days-long feud.

  I told everyone I didn’t care, which was true, and Heidi said she’d be up for anything too, but Shane, Tiernan, and Madison couldn’t agree and wouldn’t let it go. It was insanity.

  I’d get all these texts from each of them with links and videos and everyone insisting their suggestions were the best. There was tons of arguing (“If we don’t do this song, we’re fools and deserve to be mocked and have rotten tomatoes thrown at us on stage!”) and trash talking (“Anyone who can stand to listen to that song for more than ten seconds has craptastic taste.”).

  Finally, during one heated afternoon, Shane called in his dad.

  “We need your help,” he explained, following Mr. McCormick down the stairs to where we were all waiting.

  “Yeah,” Mad
ison said. “We need a cool song that won’t be too hard for us to learn.”

  “One that at least seven other people have heard of, Dad,” Shane added.

  “But not so overdone that everyone’s already sick of it!” I jumped in.

  “Fine, but if I choose a song for you, you have to swear on a stack of Ramones records that you’ll trust me on this, even if you haven’t heard of it before.”

  “Fine,” Tiernan said.

  Mr. McCormick walked toward his stacks of albums, rubbing absentmindedly at his beard.

  He pulled one out and put it on the turntable, moving the needle and then pressing play. I caught a glimpse of a corny-looking guy on the cover.

  Uh-oh. We’d promised to play this one, no matter what.

  “It’s called ‘Cruel to be Kind,’” Mr. McCormick said.

  Then he walked back up the stairs, shouting, “You’ll thank me for this someday,” over his shoulder.

  But Shane’s dad was right; it was such the perfect song. We listened to “Cruel to be Kind” three times in a row, all nodding along.

  “We’re all in agreement on this?” Shane asked.

  Everyone nodded again.

  “Cool, cool. I’ll send everyone the sheet music later.”

  For the next week, I couldn’t get the song, especially the awesome “Baby, you gotta be cruel to be kind” chorus out of my head. I sang it nonstop around the house and whenever I was stuck taking Pepper for her morning walk—where I had to pick up her poop with a plastic bag and pray that the high school kids wouldn’t drive by me mid-scoop.

  Shane’s dad had also told us if we needed to do a second song, we should pick one from his new band, The Flax Seeds, which he said were about to “blow up.”

  Somehow I didn’t think the audience would be begging for more.

  Chapter 13

  Today’s the field trip! I thought to myself the second I opened my eyes. I didn’t even need the alarm to wake up.

  Our class was going to visit a small dairy farm two towns over. The farm kept winning awards for “freshest tasting milk” while trying to build their business against mega-farms that have tons of cows and way more money.

  It’s kind of embarrassing to admit, but I spent a lot of time getting dressed and doing my hair that morning, which makes me sound totally pathetic and not the sort of person who cares about the right things, like cows. But field trips are exciting. It’s like a party but during the school day. A dairy farm might not have been my top choice for a group outing, but it still sounded cool. One year for our class trip, we went to a Broadway show in the city, and another time, to a museum about an hour away to draw still lifes. I was really proud of the fruit picture I made, but I guess my parents didn’t think it was so great because they took it down off the refrigerator after only having it up for about three days. The photo of Jackson getting his yellow belt in karate stayed up for almost a year. Go figure.

  I’d decided to wear my favorite black skinny jeans and my new gray sweater with a black peace sign on it. I’d actually been saving that sweater for the occasion, not wearing it even once since I found out about our trip, so it would seem special. And sneakers since Mrs. Cook said we’d be doing a lot of walking and would have to “watch where we stepped.” I even shampooed twice and used a deep conditioner sample I’d gotten from a magazine, then blew dry my hair, which unfortunately made me all sweaty and hot before I’d even left the house.

  “Where’s your coat?” Mom asked as I was walking out the door with Jackson to school. “What if it’s cold at the farm?”

  “Nah, I don’t need it,” I said. “It’s super nice out today.”

  “Don’t you want to bring one just in case? I can run up and get it.”

  “Mom, the farm isn’t any colder than our street. I’ll be fine.”

  She gave me her “I’m not saying anything else but if you come home frozen I’ll say ‘I told you so’ a million times” look.

  “I made you cookies to bring along.” She handed me a brown paper bag, neatly folded closed. Amazingly, she hadn’t written my name on it. It took about three years of reminding her before she stopped putting my name with a heart around it in big, blocky letters on all my stuff.

  I peered inside suspiciously.

  “Good Day, Sunshine Cookies. And Pumpkin Snickerdoodles,” she said.

  “Whoa, Mom, there are a lot here.” How totally dorky does it sound to say “Snickerdoodle” out loud?

  “You can share them. I made extra.”

  “I’ll take one!” Jackson grabbed for my bag and accidentally smacked me in the arm with his elbow.

  I yanked away from him, and gave him a shove. “LET GO!”

  Brothers are so annoying!

  “Jackson, I sent you some with your lunch too,” Mom said to him.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said, putting the cookies in my backpack.

  “You have your EpiPen, right?” she asked me.

  “MOM!!!”

  I knew it! She can never stop herself from reminding me.

  “Honey, I’m just double checking.” She gave me a look again, like she was the mad one. Why was she mad? I was the one who was being treated like an idiot.

  “You don’t have to ask if I packed it. I don’t forget. I never forget.”

  Mom sighed. I sighed. Then I gave her a hug. Even if secretly I wanted something store-bought and artificially neon pink sometimes, it was nice of her to make me cookies. And her desserts were guaranteed to be yummy.

  She kissed Jackson on the cheek and headed back in to the kitchen. “Have a fun time! Call anytime if you need me.”

  Need her for what? Milking a cow on the fly? Sometimes Mom acts like she’s the expert on everything, but I know for sure she’s clueless about farm animals.

  In Mrs. Cook’s classroom, everyone was freaking out and giggling and being all excited. No one was sitting down or putting away their homework or anything. I couldn’t help but get excited too.

  Field trip!

  Josh was at his seat and Shelley and Brianna were sitting on the table on either side of him. I saw Josh out of the corner of my eye. He was looking all sneaky about something.

  “Are you sure you can come with us today, Nina?” Josh said, when I walked past. “I mean, what if you touch the cows and get sick?”

  “‘Eek, help me, a cow! I’m dying!!’” He yelled in a fake squeaky voice.

  That stung, I admit it, but what felt the worst was Brianna didn’t say anything to defend me. She giggled instead.

  Had she been the one to get him to make that joke? Don’t cry. Don’t cry, I told myself, giving my hand a pinch. I just stood there until Tiernan, who must have overheard them, jumped in.

  “She’s not allergic to dairy, genius. It’s eggs. Since when do cows lay eggs? Or are you really that stupid?”

  “I don’t know what she can’t eat,” Josh said, shrugging. “Whatever. It’s all freaky to—”

  Tiernan didn’t even let Josh finish talking. “You’re such an idiot, Josh. I hope you’re ready to repeat seventh grade.”

  Tiernan turned his back on them and started talking to me. I couldn’t quite understand what he was saying because my face was hot and the noise in my ears was so loud—like the rushing of water—but I pretended to nod along and even managed to say “Uh-huh” a few times, swallowing hard over the lump in my throat, then blinking fast and hoping no tears would come out.

  “Line up, everyone.” Mrs. Cook clapped her hands together quickly. Everyone in the room picked up their bags and walked over, moving around to stand near the person they wanted to walk downstairs with.

  “I’ll catch up with you,” I said to Tiernan, backing up over to the corner of the room. “I forgot one thing.”

  Actually, I wanted to grab a tissue from the box Mrs. Cook keeps in the corner near her o
ther supplies. I hoped that no one would see that my eyes were kind of wet and wonder why.

  “Line up! Now!” Mrs. Cook repeated, even though everyone was already doing it.

  She walked by us. “Tiernan, you’re in the front. Hold this.” She handed Tiernan a clipboard and pencil.

  “Everyone get behind Tiernan to walk downstairs and wait in the lobby. QUIET!” Mrs. Cook yelled as everyone started getting loud. The room got silent and people began filing out. I kept my back to everyone until I heard the door shut.

  I bent over to toss my wadded up tissue in the trash, and I heard a voice behind me say, “Where are you?” It was Mrs. Cook, who was noisily opening and shutting some drawers in her desk, her silver bracelet jangling loudly.

  “Um, what?” I asked.

  “Oh, Nina, excuse me. I wasn’t talking to you. I can’t find my apple. And I’m starving. If I don’t eat every two hours or so, I start to feel woozy.”

  I looked at her, confused. That seemed like a lot of food breaks for a grown-up.

  “I’m pregnant,” she said, seeing my expression. She pointed at her stomach, which now that she mentioned it, did look like there was a tiny lump thing underneath her flower-print blouse. I had no idea. Whoops.

  “I am always hungry these days, and when I don’t eat, watch out.”

  I wasn’t quite sure if she was joking but I took her warning seriously.

  “I have all these snacks in my bag.” I felt a little shy offering my food to her, but she seemed pretty focused on finding that apple. And Mom did send a lot. Also I did not want to see Mrs. Cook lose it right before our trip.

  Mrs. Cook perked up and stopped searching through her desk. “What sort of snacks?”

  I handed her the brown bag. “Snickerdoodles. Pumpkin, I mean. No, I mean Pumpkin Snickerdoodles. And Good Day, Sunshine Cookies. My mom calls them that because they have a lot of stuff that’s healthy for breakfast but in a cookie, so it’s really not a cookie so much as a breakfast. I mean…”

  By then Mrs. Cook was eating a Good Day, Sunshine cookie.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The door to the classroom banged open, and I jumped. It was Ethan. Mrs. Cook just kept eating.