by Eric Smith
“Are you just free-associating right now?”
“Are you changing the subject because it wasn’t a good blackmail story?”
The emcee’s voice cut into their conversation. “All right, Battle of the Bands crew! Get ready because up next is Chump Two Point Ohhhhh!” Karan looked at the stage and watched Jonah fiddle with his bass, plucking a few notes just before the band launched into their first song.
CHUMP 2.0, THE GRANTS
Saru bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Karan still hadn’t answered her, instead watching the latest band kick off their set and busying his hands straightening the small piles of merchandise still covering his table. A few more people came up and bought some of the buttons and snap bracelets he had for sale.
“Fine, if you won’t tell me, I’m going to make assumptions.” She tapped her chin in mock concentration. “I’m guessing you told your mom you were seeing a PG-13 movie, but really you were seeing a rated-R movie.”
“Okay, while that would absolutely be punishment-worthy in my household, my friends don’t know that, so keep it on the DL? What else you got?”
“Maybe you lost the remote and your dad doesn’t know who did it, but it was you all along and your buddy threatened to tell him.”
Karan placed a hand over his heart and looked shocked.
“My dad would never get mad at me; he is the opposite of a scary uncle.”
Saru narrowed her eyes. Hmm.
“You got a B on a test and changed it to an A.”
“Haha. I am a straight-C student, thank-you-very-much.” He sat up straight in his seat and adjusted a tie he wasn’t wearing. “Grades are a failing instrument of a dying infrastructure.” Karan dusted some invisible lint off his shoulder. “It’s my way of sticking it to the status quo.”
She couldn’t help herself and let out a loud bark of a laugh. Karan looked startled for a second before cracking a grin of his own.
“Honestly, it’s not that interesting. We cut school and went to the beach last week, but I’m pretty sure it was all a ploy so that he could blackmail me into doing this the whole time.”
“Next time you should at least hold out on cutting class to do something really good.”
Karan’s smile took on a mischievous glint.
“Like a book party?”
“Like a book party.”
BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS
“Oh! This is my sister’s band.”
A new band had gotten onstage and was tuning their instruments. In the back right-hand corner Karan could see another Indian girl who looked a little bit like Saru . . . if Saru had short, spiky bleach-blond hair and bright red lipstick. Then the girl onstage furrowed her brow in obvious annoyance and yelled something at the drummer, and Karan really saw the resemblance.
“Do you like their music?”
Saru grimaced and paused, clearly trying to find a diplomatic way to say No, but I love my sister.
“Gita’s a great bassist, and she says they have a real shot at winning. Apparently, their lead singer is dating a judge?” She caught herself at the implication in those words. “Not that that’s the reason they’ll win, but it might give them an edge.”
“My friend’s band is not good, so that’s fine.”
“Oh man, I’m so sorry.” She seemed to realize something. “Since they’re already done, shouldn’t they come by to let you leave? Can’t they sell their own stuff?”
The thought actually hadn’t occurred to Karan, and he felt both a little silly and just a touch relieved. He wasn’t going to examine that relief just yet, though.
“What the hell, you’re right.” He pulled his phone out and texted Jonah to find out why the hell he hadn’t come to let him go home. It wasn’t like he was going to bail; he was having a good time, but Jonah deserved an all-caps text with several red-faced, expletive-censoring emojis.
“I’m gonna — uh, watch while you deal with . . .” Saru waved toward his phone, and he rolled his eyes but thanked her all the same. As she turned back to the stage, Karan hesitated just a second, looking at her profile in the low light of the auditorium.
BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS, CONTINUED
Saru heard Karan begin to furiously type into his phone a moment after training her eyes on the stage. She wasn’t lying; Gita was a really good bassist. Her sister had started plucking at her bass, and the crowd was getting hyped.
The band’s sound might not have been up her alley, but she couldn’t deny that they had some serious stage presence. The drummer was actually drumming with flair, she could see the glint of the keyboardist’s manicure pounding the keys from here, and in the spotlight the singer’s cheekbones looked like they could cut glass. Not to mention Gita, who was folded over her bass, kicking her way across the stage to the beat of the song. It was mesmerizing. Saru was so entranced, she didn’t even realize how quickly the first song went by, and then they were calling out the title of their second — and last — song. It was a fast, frenetic piece, and Saru recognized the bass line from listening to her sister practice in her room.
The last note rang through and there were no other words for it: she watched the crowd actually go wild. Warmth spread through her chest. She loved seeing her sister succeed, even if it did mean missing out on Prince Deverindara’s adventures for one more day.
Then the singer shouted out, “Thanks, we’re Breakfast of Champions — thanks for supporting the music! We’ve got T-shirts and a bunch of stuff for sale right back there sold by our bassist’s kick-ass little sister! HEY, SAH-ROO!”
A hundred heads swiveled back to stare at her.
Oh God.
I WANT YOUR P.S.
Karan, admittedly, had stopped paying attention when Jonah had texted back that he and the band were, quote, busy, unquote, and so, quote, wouldn’t be able to chill at the merch table, unquote, and were, not a quote, being huge dicks about all of it. He should just leave. It would serve his friend right. Except right as Karan was barely considering it, he heard the band onstage call out Saru’s name. His first thought was How do people keep mispronouncing names that are just two syllables? His second was noticing that the girl herself had absolutely frozen next to him.
“Saru?”
He could see the muscles in her jaw working like her teeth were milling down into flat little lines while she ground them together. She spoke, and the words sounded like they were fighting their way out of her mouth.
“Karan, are all those people moving this way?”
He looked at the crowd. It was indeed shuffling its way toward them in a grotesque mimicry of an indie zombie movie cast entirely with scene kids in band tees. All thoughts of Jonah and leaving forgotten, Karan tried to reassure Saru.
“Look, it’s okay, we can do this. I’ll help. It’s gonna be fine.”
All of a sudden the crowd turned into one giant blob of arms stretched out toward the shirts and pins, random bills of cash tied into reaching fingers. It was hands down the most chaotic thing he’d ever had the misfortune to experience in his entire life.
SAFE & SOUND, SHIFTER FOCUS
Two bands later, he and Saru collapsed back into their chairs. She had three T-shirts, two buttons, and a handful of stickers left. Everything else was gone. Well, no, her book, too. The giant book was there.
His table was, of course, still full.
“That was terrifying. Band kids are terrifying.” Saru had taken off her glasses and was rubbing at her eyes. And maybe he noticed how long her lashes were.
“Those weren’t band kids. Band kids are like — you know, hats?” He gestured like he was wearing a huge band hat. “And the gloves?”
“The pope?”
“What?”
“The hat, like the pope?”
“No, the hat like in band.”
Saru put her glasses back on and shot him a quizzical look.
“None of these bands have worn hats.”
He was about to respond with a word his mother d
efinitely would have grounded him for using when he saw her lip twitch, just the slightest bit.
“You’re screwing with me.”
She let out her full-blown smile.
“I’m screwing with you. Which isn’t very kind, but was pretty fun. I feel a little sorry, though, since you just helped me not become a walk-on part for The Walking Dead.”
“I was just thinking they were like zombies!!!”
AMINA ABOUD
“So, what ended up happening with your friend?” Saru’s eyes shot toward Karan’s cell phone, still sitting on the table. He hadn’t said anything or made a move to leave yet. She was waiting for Gita to return from backstage. Though if she was being honest with herself, there was a reason she hadn’t sent an irritable text asking her sister where she was yet.
Karan groaned and rubbed the back of his head. It was the third or fourth time he’d done it that evening, and she was starting to realize it happened when he was uncomfortable.
“He’s being a dick. Has to”— Karan brought his hands up and somehow used his fingers to make the most sarcastic air quotes she’d ever seen —“‘network.’”
“Well . . . at least you have company?” She glanced away as she said it, no need to find out if he’d be able to tell she was blushing. When she looked back at him, he was giving her a strange look.
“That’s true, I —” Before Karan could finish whatever he was going to say, a loud voice cut through the speaker.
RECKLESS LOVE
“Hey, everyone, we’re Reckless Love!”
Karan and Saru stared at each other before screaming out in unison:
“Reckless Love!”
And he didn’t know why, but they stood up and cheered, and from behind their tables, they danced along with the crowd.
BIG TALK, MEGAN TALLEY
“I have never done that before!” Saru was sweating, and she didn’t care because so was Karan.
“Me neither. And I know what you’re thinking — we’re Indian, we automatically have rhythm! Not true, Saru. Not true. So I hope you won’t judge my dancing.” She appreciated the way he said her name, with that r rolling just slightly up against the roof of his mouth.
“I can’t promise there’s no judgment, but I can promise I won’t like you any less because of it.”
Oh no, had she just said that out loud? Karan looked just a little shocked, or maybe grossed out? No, not grossed out. Maybe he was going to smile? What was his face doing?! Did he —
“Hey, Saru!” Gita’s arms wound around her shoulders from behind. “Thank you, favorite sister in the world!”
Saru deliberately looked away from Karan and back toward her sister.
“I know! You were great, didi! Killed it. We sold almost everything.”
Gita eyed the table in appreciation.
“You really are the best, wow. I think if you left now, you might still be able to make it to the bookstore. I may have called in a favor with my buddy Molly who told me she’s working that release thing you wanted to go to.”
“WHAT?!” Everything else was out the door. Saru hugged Gita tight and rushed to shove her things into her bag. She reached for her book but found it already in someone else’s hands. Karan was holding it out to her, wincing a little at what was probably still a really sticky back cover.
“So, you’re gonna go to that book party?”
MEGAN TALLEY, CONTINUED
Saru had said she liked him, and maybe she meant as a friend, but also maybe she meant more than that? She was cute as hell! And funny! And now she looked horrified, and he was definitely going to say something to her, but her sister came over.
It all happened very quickly, and before he knew it, Karan had lifted the book up and immediately realized it was covered in something he already regretted touching. But it was totally worth it when she grazed his fingers to take it from him.
“You wanna come?”
He spared a small glance at his friend’s merch table.
“I can watch it. I’m here for the night anyway.” Saru’s sister wasn’t looking at him, and was instead shooting a series of very obvious looks at Saru, which she was studiously ignoring. He smiled.
“That’d be awesome. Let’s go to a book party.”
Saru smiled back. “Let’s go, Deverindara.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Josh shows up to band practice on Thursday wearing tortoiseshell glasses, a dark green hoodie with a hole in the sleeve that he’s had since seventh grade, and his I have a brilliant idea face.
“I have a brilliant idea,” he announces, then pauses to make sure he has our full and undivided attention. “Yacht rock.”
I blink. “Yacht rock?”
“Yeah.” Josh plays a kicky little lick on his guitar, a late-’70s wahh-wahh kind of sound that somehow evokes sherbet Miami sunsets and mustachioed guys in wide-collared button-down shirts with tufts of visible chest hair poking out. “The Doobie Brothers, Hall and Oates, Christopher Cross!” He turns to Franco, clearly delighted with himself. “You used to play the saxophone, right?”
Franco peers back at him, expression dubious under his thick black eyebrows. “I mean, in fourth grade band, sure.”
“Like riding a bike, man.” Josh is already fussing with the arrangement of “In My Life,” one of the songs we’ve been rehearsing for the Battle, his curly brown hair falling down over his eyes. Franco and I exchange knowing looks. In the fourteen months since Josh started this band, it’s been a ska outfit, a Dave Brubeck–style jazz quartet, and briefly a hip-hop ensemble until Franco and I convinced him that was culturally appropriative and also reminded him that none of us knew how to freestyle. Josh took the critique in stride; two days later he showed up to rehearsal with a washboard he’d ordered from Amazon Prime and tried to sell us all on hipster bluegrass. The constant shape-shifting should be annoying, and sometimes it is, but honestly that’s kind of the whole beauty of Josh: when he’s excited about something, it’s basically impossible not to be excited, too.
“Yacht rock could be cool,” I say now, shivering a little as I experiment with a couple of practice chords. The sun is going down, the late-afternoon air spring-chilly, and my legs are bare between the hem of my sundress and my beat-up Keds. We used to practice in the finished apartment above Franco’s parents’ garage, but then his grandma had a stroke over Christmas break and moved in there along with her mean cat and an entire army of bobbleheads made to look like Republican politicians, so now we have to rehearse outside in the backyard, snaking an industrial extension cord from an outlet in the basement out across the concrete to power Josh’s amp. The whole operation takes half an hour to set up and always reminds me of the afternoons we’d spend constructing intricate Lego towers in Josh’s room when we were in elementary school, Josh adjusting the details this way and that with his chubby little-kid fingers so that by the time we were ready to actually play with them, my mom had arrived to pick me up. “Classic Beatles by way of Toto’s ‘Africa’? I’m kind of into it, actually.”
“Of course you are,” Franco mutters, ignoring the death stare I immediately shoot his way. “You know who does play the saxophone?” he continues, poking thoughtfully at a blemish on his chin; he’s been on Accutane since spring break, but honestly it doesn’t seem to be doing a ton for him. “Gi —”
“Don’t say it,” I snap, reaching out and nudging his hand away. Gigi quit the band three weeks ago with no warning whatsoever. Also, she quit being my best friend. “And don’t pick your face.”
Franco shrugs and turns back to his drum set. I reach for my water bottle, trying to swallow down the bad taste in my mouth.
We spend the next hour swapping out Lennon and McCartney for Seals and Crofts, turning up the synth on my keyboard, and cheerfully defiling the work of the greatest songwriting team of all time with a mellow smooth-jazz groove. “You really think it’s a good idea?” Josh asks as we’re breaking down the equipment, Fr
anco looping the extension cord around his arm and bringing it back into the house, where his mom uses it to power her off-brand Peloton machine. “The yacht rock thing?”
“I think it’s kind of brilliant,” I promise, which is true, no matter what Franco suspects about my motives. I’ve had a thing for Josh pretty much forever: all through middle school, even though he was slow to start wearing deodorant; freshman year, when he experimented with a man bun and a multitude of leather chokers; the summer after tenth grade, when he dated not one but three different girls named Nicole, all of whom he met at the snack bar at our town pool. Gigi and I had a running joke about how there must be an endless supply of them in the freezer behind the counter, right in between the Chipwiches and SpongeBob ice cream novelties. “We might actually have a chance of winning this year.”
Josh smiles, the corners of his hazel eyes crinkling up with the relief of having been reassured. Then he frowns. “Would be better with a saxophone,” he says worriedly. Franco chokes back a laugh.
Ms. Saeed catches my eye just as the bell rings for the end of English the following morning. “Elisa,” she calls, “can you stay for a minute?”
I head up to her desk as everyone else shuffles out into the hallway, the thump of textbooks slamming shut and the mousy squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Ms. Saeed has been tutoring me after school twice a week since the beginning of the year, helping me pick out the themes in Beloved and The Things They Carried and proofreading my five-paragraph essays, never once blinking when I get caught up short by unfamiliar words.
“So, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she says now, gesturing down at what looks like the Earth itself shoved up underneath her sweater, “but I’m pregnant.”
I laugh. “You know, I kind of figured something like that was going on, yeah.”