by Greg Taylor
There was the VFW, for instance, which sometimes hosted theme dances. True, no one my age would be caught dead in the place, but so what? I would go there right after school and tell them that what they absolutely had to have for the holidays was a Back to the ’60s dance.
If that didn’t work, I’d ask Dad to throw a Christmas party for all of his friends (I think he had some). The Caverns could entertain the guests, of course.
Then there was … well, I wasn’t sure what else there was, but I’d think of something.
It ain’t over till it’s over, I thought. Then I practically skipped down the hall with renewed hope and energy.
(Are all teenagers like this? Ricocheting from despair to euphoria within one turn of the minute hand? If so, no wonder we’re always so exhausted!)
* * *
Math, the class I was late for, was the one I had with Julian. I was bursting to tell him about all of my gig ideas but figured it might be best to just surprise him. Besides, when we made eye contact a couple of times, I got the impression he didn’t really want to talk to me. Maybe because of my emo display in the morning. That kind of thing can make a guy uncomfortable. So we sidestepped each other after class, and I managed to avoid a confrontation with Lorna and Danny by not going to lunch.
As I stood at my locker at the end of the school day—with all the crazy energy swirling around me, that special energy that can only come from a rambunctious group of schoolkids just before a long vacation—I had convinced myself the Caverns (and hence, Julian and me) still had a chance. And I couldn’t wait to get to the VFW and make magic happen!
“Regina?”
I froze. That unmistakable voice could come from only one person.
Lorna.
I pretended not to hear her. That way, maybe she’d just go away. Eventually. But she wasn’t going away. I knew that. I just didn’t want to believe it.
Lorna leaned against the locker next to mine. She’s a cool-looking girl and a classic cynic. We hadn’t known each other all that well before she tried out for the band. Still, like most kids in my school, I had certainly known of Lorna. That’s because she’d always had a pretty wild rep. The whole punk, dressed-in-black thing? Lorna had blasted through that before she’d even hit her teenage years. Even though that wasn’t her deal anymore, she still had a prickly personality and looked at the world through black-tinted glasses to a certain extent. She looked at me now, poker-faced.
“You’ve been a tough girl to find,” she said.
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“And me,” Danny piped in from behind.
I turned to face Danny. Normally, he’s all smiles and high fives. He’s like a human pinball. Talks a mile a minute and plays the drums like a madman. Think ADD ten-year-old in a fifteen-year-old body, and you’ve got the idea. Underneath all that hyper-energy, though, Danny’s a really sweet guy and Lorna’s opposite, personality-wise.
“Listen, guys, I’ve got some great ideas for gigs. I just need a little time.…”
“That’s what you said last month,” Lorna said. “Two months ago, you said that.”
“All we ever do is practice,” Danny added. It sounded rehearsed, what they were saying. And it really bugged me that Lorna was obviously the one who had been in charge of the rehearsal. Danny seemed like her puppet or something. Still, I had to be nice to Lorna. I needed her in the band. If she went, I had no doubt Danny would follow right behind her.
“Speaking of practicing, you guys are coming over tonight, right? It’ll be fun. We’ll kick off the holiday with some new tunes, and…”
“We’re not coming over, Regina.” Lorna didn’t have a problem getting right to it. Danny looked at the linoleum floor. He wasn’t big on confrontation.
“Why not?” I asked, as innocently as I could.
“C’mon, Regina. Julian must have told you.”
“He said you might be joining Circuit Club. Might being the operative word here. I thought that meant I had a little time to get some gigs and—”
Interrupting my plea for patience, Lorna said in a bored, monotone voice, “You know what? I’m getting tired of the whole sixties thing, anyway.”
Tired of ’60s music! That was blasphemous, of course. But I checked my anger and tried to channel it. “So you’d rather play with some techno … rap … heavy-metal band? Is that it?”
“At least they play for people once in a while. And get paid for it.”
I was aware that a small group had gathered across the hallway and were staring at us. Someone whispered, “Catfight!”
“We’ll talk about this tonight,” I said in desperation.
“Didn’t you hear anything we said?”
“I did, but I suggest you think it over a bit.”
“We’ve been thinking about this for months. We’re tired of thinking about it. We’re tired of practicing all the time and never playing for anyone. It’s a drag.” Lorna looked at Danny for some backup. Danny glanced at me, helplessly, then went back to studying the pattern on the floor.
Before I knew what I was doing, I slammed my locker and walked off down the hallway.
“You can’t just walk away like this, Regina,” Lorna said in an angry, louder voice, drawing even more attention from the crowd.
I didn’t respond. Tears were suddenly blinding my vision. The exit doors swam in a blur at the far end of the hall. If I could just get through those doors, I’d be OK. That’s what I convinced myself.
“OK, we quit,” Lorna yelled. “Is that what you needed to hear to make it official?”
It was. That single word was like a knife in my heart.
That’s when I tripped. Maybe it was the fatal word, quit. Maybe it was the blinding tears. Maybe both. But the rubber toe of my sneaker caught on the hallway floor at that precise moment, and I tumbled forward and hit the deck.
Picture that. With everyone watching … splat! Right on my face. Totally humiliated, I leaped to my feet and ran off down the hallway. I could hear some people laugh as I pushed through the doors and escaped outside.
I found a private spot on the other side of the football field before I gave in to a total breakdown. For the second time in the course of that misbegotten day, I lost it. But this one was a gusher compared to the one in homeroom.
I know what you’re thinking. What a nutty gal. Or a case of overreacting hormones, at the very least. But the pain I felt was real, believe me. It was like I’d been hit in the gut and all the air had escaped from inside me. And as I sat behind the football field on the wet grass, I knew it was time to accept the inevitable.
The band was over. It really was. Just like that, my tribe had been reduced to a grand total of …
One.
3
I didn’t take the bus home or hitch a ride with Dad. What was the hurry? The band wasn’t practicing later like we’d planned. I didn’t need to rush off to the VFW to try to get a holiday gig. So I walked home.
It’s a long walk, along a two laner that goes past a few farms and some new ’burban sprawls. That was good, because it gave me plenty of time to consider where I was going to run away to.
I had considered …
(A) New York (great for disappearing into a crowd)
(B) Peru (I had seen this intense film about these two guys who almost died trying to get down from a mountain. Right now, that sounded incredibly romantic to me for some reason.)
(C) California (That’s where my mom lived.)
(D) England (Of course! Why didn’t I think of that first?)
… by the time I turned onto my street.
The final half block to 489 Lynn Drive was the hardest part of my trek home. My legs suddenly felt like they had fifty-pound weights on them. It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other. It wasn’t because I was tired.
I just …
(three houses away)
… didn’t …
(two houses away)
… want …
(one house away)
… to see …
(going up the steps to the front door)
… or talk …
(opening the front door)
… to anyone.
My dad especially. I knew he’d zone in on how bad I was feeling. He had an uncanny ability to do that. And I didn’t want to have one of those heart-to-hearts I mentioned, because they were always awkward.
That’s because that was Mom’s domain. Before she left. Not that she was all that good at it. But it did fall into her territory. And whenever Dad tried to tread on what used to be Mom Territory, I know it made him think of her, which made him feel bad. And it made me think of her, too, which made me feel bad.
So the very purpose of the heart-to-heart—which was to make me feel better—was always negated by the bad feelings that were conjured up by remembering those days. When Mom still lived with us. And cared about us.
It sounds complicated, I know. That’s because it is. Which is why I figured I’d duck right past Dad and head to my bedroom. Where I’d pack for my trip to England.
But when I came into the house and headed quickly for the stairs, “Let It Be” was playing on the stereo. Looking back on it, it does seem kinda like fate that Dad was playing a Beatles song at that specific point in time. Paul’s lyrics, those wonderful lyrics, stopped me right in my tracks. They seemed to wash over me, instantly soothing my hyperactive, anxious state. As though in a trance, I sat on the sofa, heavy winter jacket still on, the packed snow from the treads of my boots melting into the rug, and listened until I heard, “There will be an answer, / Let it be.”
By then Dad had appeared and was standing by the Christmas tree, which we’d bought, set up, and decorated just a few days before. He had a loopy sort of smile on his face, the kind he always got when he’d just heard some really great music.
“One of the best songs ever, isn’t it, kiddo?”
I didn’t respond. That’s because I wasn’t in the living room anymore.
Explanation …
Dad often asks me, “Regina, where are you now?” That’s when he catches me off in my own world. Daydreaming, some people would call it. Regina’s World is what my dad calls it. A mysterious place, more often than not. A place with mental signposts on the perimeter that read RESTRICTED and NO ENTRY. A place where I spend maybe a little too much time, to be honest. And that freaked Dad out. ’Cause he thought that was my way of avoiding the real world.
Which maybe it was.
Anyway, that’s where I was. In Regina’s World. With the Beatles. And this is when I made my wish. That tossed-off wish I told you about.
“I wish I were as famous as the Beatles.”
It’s sad and kind of embarrassing to admit I said that. But it’s also understandable why I uttered those fateful words. That kind of fame would take care of all my problems, right?
Boy problems: Check.
Self-confidence problems: Check.
Tribe-of-one problems: Check.
I hardly noticed it at the time, probably because I was so zoned out on how bad I was feeling, but a weird thing happened right after I made my wish. It felt like there was a little hiccup in time, is the best way I can put it. Like, if I was watching myself and Dad on a video playback, I’d see our image suddenly jump back a few seconds and play the same scene over again. A weird sensation, it was, but I shook it off and headed for the stairs.
“Where are you going, Regina?” Dad looked concerned. I couldn’t blame him. The words he just heard me say clearly did not come from someone who was on top of the world.
“Where do you think, Dad? What’s on the second floor besides your bedroom and the bathroom?” I knew that was nasty and sarcastic even as I said it. And I hated myself for it.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“Nothing.”
“Does it have something to do with that message on the mirror this morning?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Sometimes it’s good to talk. To get things out.”
“Right, and then you’ll tell me to just hang in there. Because wonderful is just around the corner. And then you’ll say how awkward the teen years are. And how it takes time to become the person you’re going to be. But I don’t want to hear that. I want things to be wonderful right now, you know? Sometimes I get tired of waiting for wonderful!”
My room was almost dark when I came in and closed the door. It was only four o’clock, but the light outside was already beginning to fade. That’s when I remembered. It was December 21. The shortest day of the year. Somehow that seemed perfect, considering everything that had happened today.
Without turning on any lights, I got into bed and curled myself up into a ball. I lay motionless under the covers, surrounded by the comforting cocoon of my room.
I have been an ardent collector of Beatles paraphernalia ever since Dad gave me the Meet the Beatles! album.
Posters. Dolls. Books. Lunch boxes. A nine-by-three-inch black-and-yellow ticket with the Fab Four’s smiling faces on it that my dad got when he went to see A Hard Day’s Night in 1965 at the Echo Drive-In.
And, of course, there was my original Meet the Beatles! album cover, framed and hanging over my bed, with John, Paul, George, and Ringo’s eternally cool, unsmiling, half-in-shadow faces staring moodily at the camera.
Don’t get me wrong. I listen to all kinds of music. But let’s face it, the Beatles are special. They’re in a class of their own.
So that’s what surrounded me as I desperately sought the oblivion of sleep. Dozens of Beatles visages. They watched over me until I eventually nodded off. Without having any dinner. Without changing my clothes. Or brushing my teeth. Or doing any of the other things you would normally do on a typical winter evening in Twin Oaks. Because when you felt as miserable as I did, mundane things like eating didn’t seem so important.
However, as I drifted off to the sound track of my stomach making all kinds of strange noises, little did I know that things were about to change for me, and fast. Yes, ladies and gents, it would be a completely different ball game when the sun came up in the morning, leaving the shortest day of the year in its wake.
Because, as it turned out, I wouldn’t have to wait long, after all.
For wonderful, that is.
4
“C’mon, Regina. They’re going to be here before you know it.”
Dad stood next to my bed, shaking my shoulder. Being in a rather catatonic state, I stared blankly back at him. Let’s face it, when you’ve slept for more than twelve hours, it’s harder than usual to wake up. It’s like there’s an extra layer of stuff around your brain and you have to push through it to become a somewhat-functioning human being again.
“Who’s gonna be here?” I mumbled.
“Very funny. This was your idea, remember?”
Dad opened the curtains. I think I screamed, it was so bright. I dove under the covers to shield myself from the glare.
“I’ll be more than happy to tell them you’re not feeling well. We can just play the concert and leave it at that.”
What on earth was Dad talking about?
“Let me know what you want to do,” he said as he walked out of the room.
I slowly inched up from under the covers, allowing my eyes to adjust to the light. I felt like I was being reborn or something. When I finally got out of bed, my eyes were still squinty. All that light! So I went to the window and closed the curtains.
Better, I thought, then padded sleepily across the room. I made it to the hallway—on my way to the bathroom—before I stopped. Something had caught my eye on the shelf in my bedroom, but it had taken a few seconds to register.
I slowly retraced my steps back to the shelf. Yep, that’s what I thought I had seen. But I still couldn’t believe it. I blinked a few times, thinking that might make everything come into clearer focus.
It didn’t. A mistake had not been made.
I was still looking at what I thought I was looking at. OK, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. What I was looking at was …
A Regina Bloomsbury doll.
Ever see one of those Beatle dolls from the ’60s? Four inches high. Made of rubber. Oversize heads. John, Paul, George, and Ringo, all wearing black Beatle suits. You can buy them on eBay. Well, the Regina doll looked just like those old Beatle dolls. Except that my rubber likeness wore a black turtleneck and black miniskirt, and the rubber guitar hanging around my neck read REGINA.
I stared dumbly at the Regina doll, still feeling kind of fuzzy in the head, and thought, OK, this is strange. Just as odd was the fact that my John, Paul, George, and Ringo Beatle dolls were not on the shelf where they had been the night before.
My eyes now wandered to the red plastic lunch box next to the Regina doll. The previous night, it had been a metal Beatles lunch box. Now it was …
A Caverns lunch box.
I looked closer. It was. It was a plastic Caverns lunch box.
That’s when my heart started to do double time. Something was seriously wrong, I knew. I mean, here I was, staring at a picture of me, Julian, Lorna, and Danny on the side of that lunch box. We were all smiles and positioned just like the picture of the Beatles on that Hard Day’s Night ticket I told you about.
Which was no longer hanging on my wall. In its place was a framed platinum record announcing—get this—that Meet the Caverns! had sold more than a million copies!
I literally staggered back a few steps when I saw that platinum album. The Meet the Caverns! cover looked exactly like the Meet the Beatles! album cover, except of course it was my face—along with Julian’s, Lorna’s, and Danny’s—in half shadow instead of the Beatles’.
By this point I was light-headed. I really thought I would faint. I sat on the edge of my bed and stared around my room. This is a joke, I thought. Dad took all my Beatles stuff and replaced it with the fake Caverns stuff.
I rejected that idea as soon as I thought of it. Nobody could have pulled off a stunt like that overnight. Besides, why would anyone want to do such a thing?