Drew, p.11
Drew, page 11
I guess the sad fact is that nobody really knows me—because Audrey can’t ever, not really, and plus the thought of having to give her up at the end of the year is looming large, and now I’m realizing Chase doesn’t really know me either, what with this technological gulf between us. And to top it all off, he’s calling me Dude. All of this makes me feel like crying, which would be the absolute worst thing I could do in front of him, so I start rubbing my eyes really hard like they itch, then spit out, “Have a good break,” and act like I need to go.
“Okay. Bye,” he says.
“Bye,” I say back, embarking upon our customary good-bye battle of wills: who will be the last to disconnect.
“Bye now,” he says, as though it is the final word.
“B’bye,” I reply.
“Goodbye . . . Bye now . . . Bye!” He sounds like he’s sending somebody off on a cruise.
“Toodles,” I say halfheartedly.
“Ciao, adios.”
“Bye-bye,” I say finally, and click the red Hang Up button.
I lose.
I look at the screen. There’s his silly face, frozen on a crooked smile with a flamboyant pageant wave, and I decide I don’t care if Mom walks in; I am leaving the screenshot up of the last confirmed instant I knew for sure Chase was thinking about me. He might as well be a zillion miles away, but at least for now I can fool myself into thinking he’s sitting on the bed right here in between me and Snoop.
CHANGE 1–DAY 90
We just got back from Florida. I know Nana’s a Changer like Dad and all, so it’s not supposed to be a big surprise to her that I used to be her grandson and now I showed up as her granddaughter. But. It was kind of a surprise to her.
Maybe it’s because she’s old and she forgets more, but she kept calling me Ethan by accident, and there were all these weird moments at the big Thanksgiving dinner when her buddies from the Pickwick Place retirement community were totally confused by their friend calling her granddaughter by a boy’s name.
It was kind of confusing for me too. I mean, not that I don’t miss the guy and wasn’t quite fond of him, but the fact is, Ethan’s not really an option in my life anymore, so I’m trying my hardest to forget he existed. Like I’ve pretty much ditched Andy, who has sent three e-mails so far that I haven’t responded to. In his last one he was getting ticked at me for not writing, but I haven’t known what to say. The CB says that it’s best if these friendships naturally atrophy, that most Static teenagers go their separate ways in high school anyway. But Andy’s not entirely cooperating with that whole setup.
He wrote something like, Dude, WTF? Alien abduction much? Smell you later. Which I know doesn’t sound like he’s devastated or anything, but I can tell he has hurt feelings, even though he’d never admit it. It just seems like I’ve aged about twenty years, and he’s still spending his lunch breaks trying to get a peek up unsuspecting girls’ skirts.
Anyway, so, Florida.
I had to wear a bathing suit. I thought my cheerleading uniform was a perv magnet. Training wheels! A bathing suit is a complete creep beacon. It’s the bat signal of creepers. All these old dudes, as in older-than-my-dad old, staring at me, like I don’t have eyes and I can’t see them gawking. Like I’m a doll or something. I ended up keeping my T-shirt on, even though Nana kept telling me I should “show off that fabulous figure” in one breath, while referring to me as “Ethan” in the next. (As the CB says, In the many, we are . . . confused.)
Everywhere other girls my age were slathering themselves with baby oil and “laying out.” All that skin cancer–awareness public service stuff? Not really registering with the teen girl demo. Babes want to be bronze. And they want to do little more than sit on their oversized towels and text. Maybe take a picture of their group, fake surprise–smiling and sucking in their already perfectly normal stomachs. I brought a Frisbee and a football to the beach like I always used to, but the only people doing any activity at all were older guys or toddlers in soggy diapers. I didn’t want to fry like an egg in the sun. And I didn’t want to hang with the dudes tackling each other as close as possible to the girls’ towels. Basically, I belonged nowhere. Big shocker.
Another (not) surprise? Walking by yourself up and down the shore with no one to talk to, or point out sharks’ teeth to, or kick cold water on . . . pretty much puts the cherry on top of the cake of suck. And the double-cherry on top of the cake of suck? Doing that with your dad because he feels sorry for you.
I did have one encouraging moment with Nana, though, when she told me she barely recalled her V’s, and that once you choose your Mono, all this painful awfulness fades like old newspaper. “Time heals all wounds,” she croaked out in her husky smoker’s voice. “And for everything else, there’s alcohol.”
She was kidding. I think.
CHANGE 1–DAY 91
“Dudes—sorry. Um, dudes and dudette,” Gen starts saying as we’re setting up for practice. “I got word from the venue, and we’re only allowed to perform two of my songs at the gig.”
“It’s the Veterans of Foreign Wars community room,” Chase says, “not a venue.” He makes air quotes when he says “venue.”
“Whatever. A sweet sixteen at the VFW today . . . headlining the House of Blues tomorrow. Anyhow, they’ve asked that we limit original material to two numbers. One’s going to be ‘Siri,’ of course, and the other, well, I’m trying to decide between ‘My Personal Petting Zoo’ and ‘Soft Serv.’ Drew, this is going to be a lot for you to learn, but the rest of the lineup is pretty simple four-four pop stuff, so you’ll be fine.”
“Such as?” Chase asks, smiling wide, like he knows this is going to be good. Ray-Ray’s expression is inscrutable; he’s just sitting there behind sunglasses with his arms crossed, waiting for something to happen.
“Well, ‘Baby,’ of course,” Gen says, then starts digging around in his pockets. He fishes out a crushed-up piece of notebook paper, reads from it quickly and quietly like ticking off items on a to-do list. “‘Miss Independent’ by Ne-Yo. ‘Sweet Sixteen,’ Hilary Duff. Britney’s ‘I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman’ . . .”
Chase shoots a look at me, and we burst out laughing.
“What?” Gen asks, thinking we’re mocking him.
“Nothing!” Chase and I sing—literally in chorus.
Gen shrugs, continues, “Kanye’s ‘Good Life,’ 50 Cent’s ‘In da Club.’ Uh, ‘We Are Never Ever Ever Getting Back Together’—”
“I think it’s just one Ever,” Chase interrupts.
“Okaaay,” Gen says, taking a pen from behind his ear and crossing out one of the Evers. He’s taking his job totally seriously. “Anyway, I ripped CDs for y’all to take home, but I figure we can knock out a few of these today.”
“How much are we getting paid for this again?” Chase asks. Which garners a mild snort from Ray-Ray, who punctuates the sentiment with an electric pop while plugging in his amp.
“Five hundred bucks, smart-ass. Plus gas. That’s one twenty-five apiece.”
“I guess this recession’s way worse than I thought,” Chase says to me.
“Yeah,” I chime in, “this poor girl’s dad obviously doesn’t love her enough to pay for the real Kelly Clarkson to perform.”
“You two should really think about giving up music and taking this little comedy routine on the road,” Gen says, sliding a CD into a busted-up boom box.
He presses play, and suddenly the garage is filled with the mad beats and dulcet tones of Fiddy murmuring, “Go shawty, it’s your birthday, we gonna party like it’s your birthday, we gon’ sip Bacardi like it’s your birthday . . .” and I start banging along, and Chase comes in too, just riffing over the track, and we are really feeling it and suddenly all about those one (and a quarter) Benjamins.
* * *
Practice went late, this time with my dad coming in at the end and catching the last song, eyeing Chase pretty much exclusively. Poor guy, I could tell he felt the extra weight on him, because he flubbed a couple licks. Dad was stressing me out too, but I didn’t really mind, because time disappeared and I never wanted practice to end—it was so fun to play with Chase and the other two Bickersons. Okay, mostly Chase, who kept looking over and, like, mind-melding with me and my drumming the whole night. A couple times it felt like everything else around us actually dropped off, and it was just the two of us jamming together in some dark, out-of-the-way blues bar in New Orleans or something ridiculous like that. Only less Louis Armstrong and more Britney, bitches.
And now I’m sitting here in bed, cannot fall asleep no matter how hard I try, because—and I know this is crazy and I never thought I’d hear myself actually saying it, but I miss school, and I pretty much couldn’t wait to get back the whole time I was away. A few days of Florida sunshine definitely lightened me up, gave me a different perspective on Audrey and Chase, and even Chloe and Tracy—and it made me feel, if not warm exactly, then somehow connected to something. Like I had a reason to come home.
At least people seem to think they know who I am here. Maybe I’m starting to, as well.
CHANGE 1–DAY 100
When Mr. Crowell stopped me after school and asked whether I had a couple minutes, I was certain I was in trouble for something. I don’t know why that’s my first thought, but it almost always is.
“Is this okay?” he asks, pointing to a corner bench in the quad. “Or, too cold for you?”
I say “No worries,” sit on the icy concrete bench. He does the same.
“I mean, not that anyone around here knows what actual cold feels like. Speaking of, it seems like you’re settling into Genesis and Central High rather well,” he says, apropos of nothing. Is this what he wanted to talk about?
“Sure,” I reply. “Tennessee’s okay.”
“You know, I don’t know if it’s ever come up in class, but I’m from New York too—well, upstate. Buffalo,” he says, then adds weakly, “Go Bills.”
I make a face. “No way. Giants or death.” I realize this is the first time somebody has talked to me about sports since I turned into Drew. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you know the Bills suck, right?”
At that he starts untying his left brown-and-tan saddle shoe, grinning while I watch, wondering what the hell he’s doing. There’s a hole in the heel of his red sock, which he also peels off, revealing . . . the blue-painted nail of his big toe. He wiggles all of his toes.
“You see this?” he asks, brown floppy curls falling over his forehead in an absentminded professorial way.
I stifle a laugh. What the hell?
“When I was in high school, we lost four Super Bowls in a row,” he starts. “And after that fourth and final heartbreak, I vowed to my friends that I’d paint my big toenails blue until the Bills pulled off a championship.”
“Is the other one painted too?”
He nods.
“It’s sad that you’re going to be lying on your deathbed with blue toenails.”
He fakes a wounded look, but then concedes, “You’re probably right,” and starts pulling his sock back on. A couple students walk by us carrying their loaded-down backpacks, headed for home.
“So . . .” I say.
“Oh, right.” He finishes retying his shoe and turns to me. “You’re probably wondering why I asked you here.”
“Kind of.”
“I know you already saw your A in class today, but I wanted to take some extra time to tell you how great your Of Mice and Men essay was. I’ve been teaching that book to freshmen for years, and I have to say, I’ve never seen an essay with so much insight into, well, humans.”
“Thanks?” I respond, like it’s a question. Not that I’ve been a dolt all my life, but Ethan was never the type of scholar who collected A’s with heaping side servings of extracurricular praise.
“I don’t believe in A-pluses,” Mr. Crowell continues. “But that paragraph about power and vulnerability almost changed my mind.”
“Wow. Thanks,” I say again, this time managing to punctuate with a period.
“Good to know you connected with the book so profoundly . . .”
A weak agreement sound falls out of my mouth.
“Our whole country is full of mutts,” he adds, referring to the line from the book that I talked about in my essay’s conclusion. “And your paragraph about isolation was uniquely poignant.”
I’m wondering where he’s going with this. Wait, does he think I think I’m like Lennie?
“It, uh,” he struggles on, “it, uh, makes me want to tell you, or offer myself—no, that’s not the right word, but okay, offer myself as a refuge for you, you know, whenever, if ever, you need help with anything that might come up.”
“I’m in a band!” I suddenly share, more enthusiastically than I’d intended. See? I’m cool! I have friends! I’m not as sad as Crooks and Candy and Lennie—or, god forbid, Curley’s sad sack of a desperate wife. I can just sort of sympathize with them, is all.
He looks surprised, but takes the hint. “Oh? What do you play?”
“Drums. I’ve been playing since I was six,” I report, happy to change the subject. “I actually dropped it for a while, but I just started playing again, and a friend of mine from . . . another school is in a band that lost its drummer, so I auditioned a few weeks ago, and I made it.”
“What’s your name?”
“The Bickersons.”
“I like it,” he says. “What kind of music?”
“It’s not really an official genre.”
“I know my way around a record store. Wait, you know what records are, right? They’re like these flat, round black plastic things that have music on them—”
“Funny,” I say. “Well, Gen calls it—he’s the lead singer, I guess it’s his band. Anyway, he calls it Neo-Emo-Ska.”
“Ah, so sort of Fishbone meets Dashboard Confessional meets, what—American Idol?”
“Exactly.”
“I have no musical talent,” Mr. Crowell offers. “But if I had a band, it’d be called Boba Fetish. Get it?”
I shake my head.
“No? Star Wars?”
“Oh yeah! The helmet-head guy who brings back Han Solo when he’s on serious punishment.”
“The one and only,” he laughs.
“Well, I should probably get home,” I say then. I guess kind of abruptly. But this is veering into things you don’t expect to talk about with your English teacher territory, and I don’t really know what else to add.
“Of course,” he replies, standing. “Well, thanks for the little chat. Again, really good job. Keep it up.”
* * *
I showed Mom my essay when I got home. She was busy with some patient charts, but when I set my paper with the A scribbled on it on top, she took off her reading glasses, sat back, and beamed.
“I am so proud of you,” she said, flipping through the essay. “I loved Steinbeck. Can I hold onto this? I know Dad will want to read it too.”
“Sure.”
It feels good to be decent at something. I know it shouldn’t be the motivation behind doing stuff, but I can’t lie and say I’m not enjoying this tangible shred of proof that I’m getting at least one thing right.
CHANGE 1–DAY 104
You know who always gets the booty end of the stick? Kids with December birthdays. Well, ones after about the tenth—because everything always gets collapsed into the holidays, and you end up getting a combined gift for the whole month. I’m lucky my birthday isn’t in December. In fact, wait a minute. When is my actual birthday now? Is it going to be the first day of school every year? And then after I pick my V, I can go back to having my normal birthday in June? I don’t remember The Changers Bible saying anything about any of this.
Anyway, tonight’s our first gig, and I don’t know what to wear. It’s stressing me out, and I’m staring back and forth between two very divergent outfits splayed out on my bed. Shredded punkish rocker girl who could not care less about her looks—It’s all about the music, man . . . Or dark, unripped stretch jeans and a cute silky blouse, like, I sort of do care, but not in any tragic, self-conscious way.
I know it’s just some stupid thing at the VFW, but Audrey is coming to watch my first show, and (annoyingly) Tracy said she’s going to show up too. And I don’t want to eff it up, because Chase really stuck his neck out to get me an audition with the band, and no matter how good practices have been going, you never really know until performing live in front of an actual audience.
So I’m Chronicling now to get it out of the way because I know it’s going to be a late night. What else can I say? Um, I’m currently in the red tent, as Audrey sometimes calls it. So this is my, what, third, fourth period? Not getting easier.
What else? I ate a slice of pizza earlier. Plain cheese, if you must know. Replaced my Velcro duct-tape wallet with a sort of non-gendered but definitely not masculine wallet that I bought at ReRunz from Chase’s Touchstone, who manages the place on weekends. Walked Snoopy to a dog run, where some lady was squatting down and petting him and swooning about how cute and sweet he is, but then when she asked me what kind of dog he was and I said pit bull, she completely jumped out of her shoes and was all wigged out thinking he was going to suddenly SNAP and lock onto her face with his jaws. Forget the fact that her purebred Pomeranian was essentially drawing blood from any creature—canine or human—who came within two feet of it.
Is that enough Chronicling? How long has it been? Gen’s going to be here any minute to load my kit into his van, and then we have to drive all the way across town and set up before the party starts at seven. So, this is just going to have to be it for today, Chronicling Authority. I’ll report back tomorrow about our first show. Wish me luck. Wait, I’m essentially wishing myself luck.
