Battle of the Bands

by Eric Smith

  The thing is, they do sort of seem like my people. Like the musicians at the clubs Dee was always taking me to see. I mean, it feels familiar. Sort of. Even if I don’t really know anyone.

  Maybe Ms. Cherry was right. Maybe I could do this somehow. Especially since DeeDee is doing her own thing now.

  A girl with a clipboard rushes past me, looking stressed.

  Something tells me that’s Lilly.

  I follow her and reluctantly pull off my headphones as I approach. The haunting music of the Commoners slips away and the real world crashes in.

  “Don’t touch the curtains!” the girl hollers at the top of her lungs. Two guys onstage laugh as they hang on to and swing from the black velvet curtains onstage.

  “Lilly?” I ask. She whips around, irritation on her face that she covers up with a quick smile.

  “How may I help you?” I can’t tell if she’s being genuine or sarcastic.

  “I’m . . . uh . . . Vincent. Ms. Cherry said . . .”

  “Ohhhhh!” she yells. “Yes! Okay, great, yes, yes, yes! She told me you were coming!” Now her smile is kinder and she’s taking me by the shoulder. “As you can see, it’s complete chaos at the moment and nobody is really doing what they should be doing. Just what they should not be doing.” She glances toward the stage again as someone’s equipment gets tangled up in the curtains and they pull and tug at it, trying to free their amp. Lilly looks like she’s going to burst. Instead she closes her eyes and lets out a long breath before turning back to me and continuing.

  “So, listen, I could use help with just trying to keep things in order.”

  “Okay, but I don’t really know . . .”

  “Don’t worry about not knowing what order means. Just . . . ugh, help me keep them from hurting themselves. Or each other. Or me hurting them.” She lets out a laugh.

  “Right,” I tell her. “Okay, I mean, I’ll try.”

  She smiles. “Good! Yes, great!” She looks back at the stage. “SERIOUSLY! What is so hard about not touching the curtains!” She rushes to the stage to give hell to whoever is back there.

  I stand there wondering what to do. If I bail, will that Lilly girl even notice? The F in Ms. Cherry’s class flashes in my mind, reminding me I need the extra credit.

  I creep up to the nearest group and ask them if they need any help. They look at me like I confuse them. I think how much easier things would be if Dee still went here. If she hadn’t already graduated.

  “Don’t touch,” some guy in super tight pants says as I reach to help with his guitar. He looks like he can barely move.

  I move away and feel like some kind of weird lurker as I skulk up to other bands and ask them if they need any help. Nope. No, thanks. Nope. Don’t touch the instruments. Suddenly some guy with a snake tattoo who is looking around like he owns the place gestures for me to come over to him.

  “Hey, need any help?” I ask, relieved that someone finally notices I exist.

  “Yeah, sure. Go get me a cheeseburger. I’m starving.” He shoves five dollars in my hand and waves me away like a fly. I don’t know what to say, so I just shove the money back at him, slip my headphones back on, and walk away before he can say anything else.

  I wonder for the millionth time why it’s so hard for me to interact normally with people. What is it about me that makes it so hard for people to treat me like everyone else? Or makes people say shit like that to me? Or makes it hard for me to know how to respond?

  I want to get out of here, but I’m afraid Lilly will rat me out to Ms. Cherry. So I sit in one of the auditorium chairs and watch clips of an old movie I used to watch with DeeDee called Dumb and Dumber on my phone.

  I haven’t watched the whole movie in forever. When DeeDee still lived at home, we used to watch it all the time, cracking up and eating Hot Pockets while Mom worked.

  Dee doesn’t get mad at me a lot, but when she does, I can’t stand it. I haven’t texted since I stopped by her place a couple of days ago — a motel room that advertises hourly and weekly rates. She wasn’t happy to see me. I can still see her face, irritated, tired, as she said, “Just go home, Vin.”

  Her shithead boyfriend, Duke, came outside and peered at us over the motel railing, like he was staring me down. Like he knew that I had this bad feeling about Dee being there, a bad feeling about him.

  Duke had isolated her from everyone little by little. I felt like something bad was going to happen to her, now that he had her alone.

  A fresh feeling of dread washes over me, and I text Dee.

  Sorry for dropping by the other day like that. Come over? I’ll make your fav hot pockets and we can watch Dumb and Dumber.

  I look for the GIF we’d always send each other — the one of the two main characters in blue and orange tuxedos dancing — and hit send.

  I stare at my phone, hoping but knowing a reply won’t come.

  I look around the theater and notice fewer people around. No sign of that girl Lilly, either. So I slink out.

  I drown out my thoughts with music as I pedal to the motel. She’ll be mad. But I have to check on her. I feel nauseated as I lean my bike against the motel wall and hurry up the stairs before I can change my mind. Maybe she’ll be here alone.

  I knock on the door.

  “What the fuck?” Duke swings the door open and stands there shirtless, barefoot, in jeans.

  From the doorway, I notice Dee on the bed, staring at the television. She looks over at me, her eyes half closed, trying to focus on me.

  “Dee . . .” I call to her.

  “Dude, what are you doing here?” Duke says, blocking the doorway.

  “I just want to talk to her,” I say, trying to get past him to her, but he doesn’t move an inch.

  “We told you to stay away.”

  “It’s okay . . . leave him alone.” DeeDee’s words are slurred, and she struggles to stand up. Duke pushes me outside.

  “Let me just talk to her a minute,” I say to him.

  “Damn, man. Don’t you understand?” he says. “She needs some space.”

  “Hey,” Dee calls from inside. I look up, and she’s made her way to the doorway, but Duke is pushing me up against the balcony banister. It digs into my back as he pushes me harder and harder against it, and for a minute, I think he’s about to toss me over it.

  “Leave him alone,” Dee says, stumbling out and reaching for Duke’s arm. He shoves her off and she falls to the ground.

  I shove him back with all my weight. But before I can get to her, I feel myself being pulled back. “Did you just push me, you little shit?”

  “Come on, stop,” my sister mumbles, trying to get up. But a hard thwack lands on the side of my head and I stumble to the ground, my ear ringing like I’ve just been hit with a baseball bat or something. I feel the spot, then look at my hand, expecting blood, but there’s none.

  “No!” Dee yells. She starts crying and Duke goes to her.

  “It’s okay. I’ll take care of this. Come on, get inside,” he whispers to her. I try to get up, but I feel dizzy. Duke helps her up and walks her slowly back inside. “You’re just drunk, baby,” I hear him tell her. “Don’t worry, okay, I’ll be nice to your baby brother.”

  A moment later, Duke comes back, stares down at me on the ground like I’m pathetic, like he feels sorry for me.

  “Listen, man. I didn’t want to do that, but you’re making this hard. She needs to get away from you and your mom for a while. She told me how your mom is always working. How she’s had to do everything since your dad left, including taking care of you. Dude, you leeched on to her. Let go for a while.”

  His voice is soft, but his words hit me as hard as the punch. Leech? Had I been a leech to Dee? My eyes sting with tears as he puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “Oh my God, dude. Don’t fucking cry. Come on, get up. Man up.” He holds out a hand and pulls me up roughly. “Be cool, Vin. And stop worrying. I’m gonna take care of her. But you coming around here, that’s no good for
her. So if you do . . .” He shrugs like he won’t be able to keep from punching me out again if I do.

  I stand there trying to let it all register. Trying to understand. But none of it makes sense.

  “Go home,” he whispers, and heads back to the room, closes the door.

  I stand there for I don’t know how long, until the only thing I can think to do is go home.

  I get on my bike and slowly pedal away. Then faster and faster. Headlights flash, making my head throb, as I turn down street after street. The wind dries the stupid stinging I feel in my eyes. I turn up the music.

  Robert Patrick Riley’s voice fills my ears again as I ride through the night, singing about sadness and loneliness, making it sound like something beautiful and noble. Maybe it is.

  But mostly I’ve learned that loneliness is really fucking lonely.

  I think of what a shitty brother I’ve been. A leech. Worrying only about my feelings, about me. Me, me, me. All this time Dee has been lonely in her own way. Lonely enough to run to someone like Duke.

  And think someone like him is better than having no one at all.

  All week, I try not to worry about her. But I do. Every minute. At night, no matter how much I try to drown out my thoughts with music, I can’t. And the only thing that makes me tired enough to not think is riding all the way out there and lurking in the darkness and keeping watch for a little while. I sit in the parking lot, waiting, listening. Sometimes I want to run up those stairs and bang on the door and demand Dee come back home to our cramped apartment. To our exhausted mom and to me, her needful little brother.

  But I don’t.

  All week I go in and out of my classes, wondering how you save people who push you away.

  All week I go to Battle of the Band rehearsals and watch other people who aren’t me laughing, living their lives. I watch lead singers announce their bands, all cool and effortlessly — We are the Marcia, Marcia, Marcias. We are Breakfast of Champions. We are Reckless Love. We are Safe & Sound — before ripping into their songs. I overhear conversations between the girls checking mics and cords, going on about some guy named Brenner they want to bone, and somehow, they all seem connected. They’re all pieces of a giant puzzle that fit together. Except the piece that is me.

  All week I text Dee pictures of the bands. Of the poster. But she doesn’t reply.

  All week I walk around the school halls surrounded by so many people but with only Robert Patrick Riley’s voice in my head.

  And now, tonight, people pour into the theater lobby, waiting for the doors to open for the Battle of the Bands.

  Most of them have their tickets, but some get in line. I have my headphones on, even though there’s no music so I can hear how many tickets people need. The noise canceling is on, but it doesn’t really cancel noise. I can still hear the faint voices of people.

  Suddenly the doors open and people begin trickling into the theater.

  Little by little, the crowd noise goes with them.

  Little by little, the lobby empties.

  And I’m alone.

  I have to stay here at least fifteen minutes into the show for any latecomers, so I sit there, in that glass booth, watching old videos of the Commoners. I think of the concert and wonder when they’ll be on tour again. I think of how I’ll get a job, buy tickets. Next time, I’ll be the one who saves up, who does the saving.

  I look through the pics of us last summer. Selfies with us all lit up in red and blue from stage lights. Laughing.

  I send her that picture. And then the next one. And then the one after that. And then all of them, one after another after another. I text her more Dumb and Dumber GIFs. I text her pics of Atomic Records, where I stopped by looking for her a few days ago and Mr. Khatri told me she quit. I text her the funny, disastrous interview with Robert Patrick Riley where the interviewer obviously wasn’t familiar with the music of the Commoners. A photo of me in this ticket booth, sitting out here as the show plays on inside.

  I want to remind her she’s not alone in the world. That even though we might feel lonely, it doesn’t mean we are actually alone.

  I’ll check on her again tonight, I think to myself. I’ll knock on that door and take another punch, or however many Duke wants to issue out, whatever it takes. I look around, needing to leave now but realizing I have no idea what to do with the money from ticket sales.

  And that’s when I see her coming into the lobby.

  Dee looks at me sadly but smiles. “Hey, calm down,” she says. “You look like you just saw fucking Santa.”

  I rush out of the booth and go to her, hug her. “You’re here . . .”

  She almost seems like herself. She almost looks like herself with her usual over-the-top makeup. But her left eye looks darker, the makeup the wrong shade of purple. I stare at it and she looks away, shifts her weight.

  “Yeah, I mean, you know. I got your pics. All of them.” She glances back at me. Her eyes are filling with tears. I try not to fall apart right then and there. “So, any of these guys the next Robert Patrick Riley?” She laughs. “Yeah, right. The guy’s a fucking poet, you know . . .”

  “What happened, Dee?”

  “Their third album went platinum, but it’s their second album that really takes risks. That has more artistic merit.”

  “Dee . . .”

  “I was thinking, I’m gonna do it, Vin. I’m really gonna do it — you know, write like you told me I should, for Rolling Stone or some shit like that. I can do it.”

  “I know you can,” I say softly. But now the tears are spilling over.

  I don’t make her say it. I don’t make her tell me. And even though anger rages through me, makes me want to run out of that building and find him, beat the shit out of him even if it means he might kill me, my love for my sister is stronger than my hate for him.

  “I’m so stupid,” she whispers, crying harder. “So fucking stupid. I can’t believe I didn’t see it, Vin. Except, I did, you know, I just . . . pretended I didn’t because . . . I wanted someone to love me — God, that sounds so pathetic . . .”

  It breaks me, seeing my sister, my hero, come apart like this.

  “You’re not stupid,” I tell her.

  Her voice breaks. “Even when he . . . punched you, I told myself you just tripped. I told myself I was drunk and just imagined it. I pretended it was you, that he didn’t mean it. But . . . you must think I’m the worst . . . you must . . . I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. You’re okay. He’s one of these people, Dee. Gets in your head, makes you believe things that aren’t true,” I tell her, remembering how he talked to me after hitting me that night, like he was a friend issuing out some warped tough love or something.

  “Don’t tell Mom, okay?” she whispers. “It’s over. I’m just . . . I feel like I should’ve known better.”

  The lobby door opens, and Dee wipes her face quickly as some guy runs in. “I’m late!” he yells. But then just stands there and stares at us with bulging eyes, his face frantic and sweaty.

  “Are you . . . okay?” Dee asks.

  “I’m late for an important date!” he yells, and suddenly starts laughing like he’s just said the funniest thing. But then his laughter immediately turns to crying as he runs to the theater door, swings it open, and stumbles in. Music spills out into the lobby, loud and intense.

  The heaviness of a few moments ago is broken, and Dee shakes her head, smiles softly. “I guess we’re all a little fucked up.”

  “Guess so . . .” I say.

  “What do you say, should we check out this shit?” She gestures to the theater, and I nod.

  There are only a couple of bands left to play, but we head into the auditorium and sit down anyway. The latest band, Once Bright, is being called to the stage when I suddenly remember I left all the money unattended, the cash box wide open in the unlocked ticket booth.

  “Holy shit, I forgot something I have to do,” I whisper to DeeDee. “I’ll be right back.”
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br />   I rush to the ticket booth and breathe a sigh of relief when I see the cash box is still there, then another as I count the money and it all seems to be there, too.

  Lilly rushes to the booth suddenly and I think she’s going to ask me where the hell I was, but she just stands there looking at me funny.

  “Uh . . . do you want a ticket?” I ask even though I know she doesn’t need one.

  “What? No. This is my — never mind. Listen —” She starts talking fast, the way she does. Talking about how no one sees her. How she’s invisible and voiceless. How there are all these people around her that should be listening to her but don’t.

  I stare at her, not sure exactly why she’s telling me all this. And then, suddenly, I realize it’s because she thinks I’ll understand. Because loner me who wears headphones all the time to avoid interacting with or talking to people, who people ask to get a cheeseburger for them, of course would understand.

  The thing is, she’s right. I do.

  “I want to do something,” she says. “Something beautiful and wild.”

  I stare at Lilly, who in this moment seems lonely. Like me. Like Dee.

  I feel something like destiny in my heart. Something like hope. Like even though life can be full of so much darkness, in that darkness there’s music and light.

  Without even knowing what it is I’m agreeing to, I nod. “Let’s do it,” I tell Lilly.

  Because sometimes, even a small light matters.

  You. Don’t. Touch. The. Curtains. I silently seethe, watching yet another floppy-haired boy walk past me, clutching his guitar as if it’s both a delicate baby and something he wants to smash. Musicians are like that, it seems — full of contradictions.

  It’s not like I’m against floppy-haired boys, or musicians in general — let’s be honest, there are some really cute ones in the orchestra (like the ukulele player who, okay, we were all in love with during The Addams Family) — just those who come into the theater acting like they own the place, when, in fact, they’re barely renting it for their five minutes of Battle of the Bands fame.