Frail Days

by Prendergast, Gabrielle;

  “Fantalicious? That’s the sleazy girl group, right?”

  “They did a show at the mall today.”

  Mom makes a face as she stirs. “Yuck. That must have been awful for you.” She hands me the spoon to lick.

  “It’s hard to tell with all the effects they put on their voices,” I say, “but they can’t actually sing, can they? I mean, without all the Auto-Tune and effects?”

  Mom pours the batter into the brownie tin and slides it into the oven. The kitchen starts to fill with warm, cocoa-scented air. “They had one good singer, but I heard she left.”

  “Tamara Donnelly? How do you know she’s a good singer?”

  “She sang at a wedding Dad and I went to. Sang ‘Because You Loved Me’ better than Celine.”

  “That wouldn’t be hard,” I say.

  Mom laughs. She hates cheesy music as much as I do. Though she doesn’t play her punk vinyl much anymore, she rocks out to classics like Queen and the Who in the car—or AC/DC, if she’s feeling rebellious. Once she picked me up at school with “You Shook Me All Night Long” cranking out her Volvo windows. It was totally epic.

  When the brownies are done, I take three of them and a big glass of milk back to my room. Brownies and milk. I’m so hard-core. Live fast. Eat chocolate. That’s my philosophy. I slip on some headphones and line up some Nirvana on my laptop. Then my brownies and I do some heavy googling. I need to know more about Tamara Donnelly.

  I find her Facebook page easily enough. We even have a couple of friends in common. But unless I friend her, most of her profile is hidden. She’s one of those cautious teens, I guess. That’s cool. I am too. I don’t want everyone all up in my business all the time.

  Next, I find an article about Fantalicious’s appearance on the morning show. It’s a dumb article that says nothing. Like most Internet “news,” I guess. There are a lot of comments, though, most of them pretty supportive. “What nice kids,” “So refreshing to see such commitment so young” and whatnot. But some of the comments are critical of their cheeky outfits: short elf dresses with polka-dot tights. A couple of church types call them “lascivious.” I have to look that up. Slutty, it means. I pretty much agree. No one comments on the fact that the music was crap. That about sums it up. The music doesn’t matter with an act like that.

  Next, I find a YouTube video of Tamara singing with a church choir. Jeez, split personality much? Skanky elf versus choir girl? I’m not one for hymns, but by the end of the video, I’m impressed. Tamara killed her solo. She really can sing. No question.

  But Fantalicious? And church music? How would she feel about rocking out with a crazy Chinese drummer and two junior-sized rock gods? Could I show her the error of her ways?

  Google doesn’t give me the answer to that. But it does give me Tamara’s choir-rehearsal schedule.

  Three

  The number 12 bus smells funny. It just does. Mom says it smelled funny before I was even born, when she rode it out to the school for work. Now it smells like a combination of Chinese food and bleach. Sometimes it’s more like banana peels and chalk dust. I know it’s not always the same bus. I’ve seen the bus depot, and there are at least a dozen buses that shuttle people around this magnificent smallopolis we call our hometown. Surely each bus rotates through the number 12 route. It can’t always be the same one. But it always smells.

  I’ve ridden the other bus routes. Neither the number 5 nor the number 8 smell. Only the number 12 smells. It’s freaky.

  Maybe it’s something about the route it takes. It actually does go through what qualifies as Chinatown (two Chinese takeouts and an acupuncturist) and past the industrial laundry that does all the hospital washing. So that explains the Chinese food and bleach. The bananas and chalk are a mystery though. I guess some mysteries are just meant to go unsolved.

  “What are you spacing out about?” Miles says, nudging me. We’re riding the number 12 to the other side of town. On a kind of quest. Like the Fellowship of the Ring. Only with fewer fellows.

  “Bananas,” I answer.

  “Cryptic,” Jacob says. As usual, he’s strumming his acoustic guitar. The bus is half empty and we’re sitting right at the back, spread out on the long bench. Miles has a guitar with him too. A tiny little half-size classical. I don’t know why the boys brought their guitars along on this trip. We’re going to listen to music, not play it. I guess they just can’t live without them.

  At the next stop, about ten teenage girls get on board, slouching into the seats just in front of us. Jacob begins playing a guitar riff. Loud. Really twanging it. I recognize it, of course. It’s U2, “Sunday Bloody Sunday.” He plays it a couple of times, then stops, looking at me expectantly.

  Okay. The song actually starts with drums. One of the few songs that does. I pull some drumsticks out of my backpack. Yeah, so, I never leave home without them. So what? I start playing the distinctive drum pattern using the metal handle on the back of the seat and the soft seat cushion as high-hat cymbal and snare. Jacob smiles and begins the guitar riff again as some of the girls turn and look back at us. Miles starts plucking out fat bass chords. Soon we have a good little jam going.

  U2 is pretty corny, but this is a good song to do acoustically on the back of a bus, I’ll give them that. And lots of kids know it, even dorky kids. Sure enough, soon a couple of the girls are singing along, half in tune and half laughing. By the time we get to the chorus, the whole back of the bus is shouting, “SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAAAAAAY!” and “HOW LONG? HOW LONG MUST WE SING THIS SONG?”

  Jacob, Miles and I are trying not to laugh. These girls are all done up to go and hang out at the mall or something, and here they are, belting out this 1980s protest song about Northern Ireland. But they seem to be enjoying it. And some of them even know all the words. By the time we get to the mall and the song ends, they’re all squealing and telling us how great we are. Jacob is flirting like crazy, though all the girls are at least two years older than him.

  When the girls finally pile out, the bus driver turns and looks back at us. “Do you know ‘I Will Follow’?” he says.

  I guess there are some cool people in this town. All you have to do to find them is ride the number 12 bus.

  If you can stand the smell.

  * * *

  We get out at the second-to-last stop and walk two blocks down a row of large houses to a modern-looking church at the end. The sign outside the church reads Free Coffee and Everlasting Life.

  “It should say ‘free coffee OR everlasting life,’” Miles says as we head for the front door. “Then we’d find out who the real believers are.”

  Jacob snorts with laughter. I shush them both as I push the heavy wooden door open.

  Inside, the church is infused with a weird rainbow light, because the setting sun is beaming in through the stained-glass windows. The pews are empty. There’s no service on right now, just choir practice. I see Tamara look over at us as we slip into a pew, as quietly as possible. The choir is in the middle of singing something about eagles’ wings. Tamara isn’t singing a solo or anything, but I can still pick her voice out from those of the other girls and women. It’s strong and clear, but also, in this song anyway, other-worldly. Like she’s singing from a mythical land.

  But it’s church music. The type of music I want to do is about more than just hitting the notes. It’s about believing in it. I wonder whether Tamara could believe in anything but the stuff she’s used to.

  As the eagle song finishes, I hear the door open behind us. A cute but geeky guy comes in and waves to Tamara. She waves back. Boyfriend? Figures. They match each other.

  The choir director says something I can’t hear, but it makes the whole choir chatter with enthusiasm. After riffling through their music for a moment, they start a new song.

  I don’t recognize it at first. It sounds African. Then half the choir starts making this kind of heartbeat whoomph sound, like a rhythm. And Tamara starts to sing solo.

  As soon as the first words ar
e out of her mouth, I recognize the song. It’s “Biko,” by Peter Gabriel. I’ve got no idea why they are singing a song about apartheid in South Africa in a church on the other side of the world. But it’s straight-up off the hook. Her voice is so spectacular, and the acoustics are so good, I feel like I might have found God.

  When the choir comes in on the chorus, “Oh Biko, Biko, because Biko,” for real I almost pee my pants. And you can tell, I can tell, Miles can tell, Jacob can tell, the cute guy behind us can tell—heck, the statue of Jesus can tell—that Tamara believes in every word and every note she’s singing.

  There is no question in my mind that she’s my singer. I must have this girl in my band. Now I just have to convince her.

  When the song ends and my heart rate slowly returns to normal, Tamara comes back to talk to us.

  “Looking to join the choir?” she asks. “We always need new singers.”

  “We can’t sing,” we all say at once.

  Tamara grins. “Are you guys triplets or something?”

  Good, I think. A sense of humor helps.

  “Hey, Tam,” the cute boy behind us says. “We should go. I’m illegally parked.”

  “Okay. Wait for me?”

  He leaves, chatting with the choir director and holding the door for some of the older singers. Tamara, the boys and I exchange names.

  “So,” Tamara says. “You’re not here to join choir. What are you here for?”

  “We have a band,” I say before I lose my nerve. “We need a singer.”

  I’m not sure what kind of reaction I expected. Laughter maybe. Or eagerness. Or something. Instead, Tamara just frowns.

  “We heard you sing at the baseball game,” Jacob says. “You’re really good.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” She crosses her arms over her shapeless gray cardigan. “Look, I have to go. Why don’t you email me or something?” She fishes a pen and a slip of paper from her purse and scribbles her details, handing the paper to me.

  “I love to sing. I guess you figured that out, but…” She looks at the boy still holding the door open. He gestures for her to hurry. “I’m in a weird place right now. But, you know, email me. I’ll think about it.”

  The choir director hustles us all out the door and locks it behind us. Tamara and the boy get into a perfectly boring car and drive off. Miles, Jacob and I stand on the church steps like orphans.

  “A weird place?” I say. “What does that mean?”

  Four

  Dear Tamara

  PLEEEEEEEEEASE be our singer. Please please please please please please please please please infinity please googolplex pleeeeeeezzzzeeee.

  Stella

  Too much maybe? I delete the email and try again.

  Dear Tamara,

  With regards to the proposal we discussed this Saturday last, please be advised that…

  What the funk? Who am I, Jane Austen?

  Yo, Tam girl

  Wassup? When u gonna jam wit me and my boyz?

  I laugh so hard, Mom knocks on my door to see if I’m dying.

  “Fine! I’m fine!” When I catch my breath, I try one last time.

  Hi Tamara

  I’m going to Vinyl Village tomorrow morning, elevenish. Wanna come? We can talk.

  Best

  Stella

  An hour later, after I’ve checked my emails so many times I’m getting repetitive strain injury in my mouse finger, I get this reply.

  Stella

  VV sounds fun. CU at 11.

  T

  I hate people who write “see you” as “CU” but at this point, I can’t let it be a deal breaker.

  It’s easy enough to find Tamara in Vinyl Village the next day, because she’s the only person in there wearing beige. I mean, beige. Seriously? But Mom always says not to judge an album by the liner notes, or something, so whatever. Since Tamara can sing like the love child of Annie Lennox and David Bowie, she can wear all the beige she wants. Heck, I’ll wear beige if she wants me to.

  “Hi, Stella,” she says when I join her by the country albums. “I haven’t been here in ages. Do you buy a lot of vinyl?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “My parents have a pretty big vinyl collection. But they like to add to it. So I’ve been coming here with them since I was a baby.”

  “Hey, Stella! ’Sup?” the guy behind the counter says, on cue. For a second I worry that Tamara might think I’m showing off, but then two twelve-year-old girls pull out phones and start taking pictures of her and giggling, whispering, “Fantalicious” to each other. Tamara turns away and heads down the jazz aisle.

  “I bet that gets irritating,” I say, thinking how awesome it might be to be recognized like that. To have giggling fans taking pictures. That would mean they like your music, right?

  “Yeah, it was okay when I was still with the group,” Tamara says. “But now it’s just humiliating. I mean, they’re probably making fun of me.”

  I don’t know what to say for a moment. Apart from the fact that I don’t really know what she’s talking about, Tamara seems sad suddenly. I feel like I should say something supportive, which will probably cause a short circuit in my brain because I’m useless at stuff like that.

  But then Tamara pulls out a record and gasps. “Oh my god. I’ve been looking for this for ages!”

  I look at the album. It’s a live recording of Billie Holiday. Tamara literally hugs it to her chest.

  “Billie Holiday?” I say. “You like her?” I don’t listen to much jazz, but Mom and Dad put it on some nights when they’re mellowing out on the deck with wine and their weird friends. Billie Holiday is one of my favorites because she’s just so depressing. It’s awesome music for angsty chocolate binges.

  “I love her!” Tamara says. “Of course I love her. Any female singer who doesn’t worship and admire her is a faker as far as I’m concerned. Doesn’t matter what style you’re singing, Billie can teach you something. You don’t even need to be a singer. Anyone with a soul can learn from Billie Holiday.”

  I can’t help grinning. That’s the type of thing I would say about drummers and Stewart Copeland or Travis Barker. “Who else do you like?” I ask.

  We spend nearly an hour talking about Aretha Franklin and Janis Joplin. Tamara schools me about Patsy Cline and Mahalia Jackson. And I hook her up with Chrissie Hynde and P.J. Harvey. We have a brief argument about Adele versus Amy Winehouse, which is only resolved when she points out that Adele is in fact still alive and thus wins by default. After giggling for about ten minutes about how dumb that logic is, we nearly have to flip a coin about a really-good-condition German ep of “Push It” by Salt-N-Pepa. I let her have it—I can’t be seen with hip-hop, even though it is a cool song.

  “So why’d you quit Fantalicious anyway?” I ask as she pays for her albums. Her happy mood seems to evaporate. She tucks her wallet away and swishes the shopping bag off the counter. I practically have to run to catch up with her.

  Outside the store, Tamara stops and stares up at the sky. She looks miserable.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I say.

  “I didn’t quit,” Tamara says. “They pretty much kicked me out.”

  “What?! They must be insane!”

  “Thanks,” Tamara says. We start walking toward the bus stop. “They kept having meetings without me. Then one day our manager turned up with these new costumes and…”

  I wait. It feels like the right thing to do. Maybe I’m not so hopeless at interpersonal relations after all. We walk half a block before Tamara speaks again.

  “None of them fit me,” she says, blushing. “And Petra, that’s our manager, said they didn’t come in bigger sizes. So…”

  I feel sick. And a little guilty. When we saw Tamara singing at the baseball game, I thought to myself that she was chubby. And she is a bit chubby, but not in a bad way. And anyway, that’s no reason for her not to be in a singing group. It’s no reason to be excluded from anything. “That’s discrimination,” I say. “They can’t fire you for not
fitting into some cheesy cheerleader bunny suit.”

  Tamara laughs then. “Thanks,” she says. “So whatever. I guess I did quit rather than face that humiliation again. It sucks, because I wanted to sing at the festival this summer and they’re probably going to headline. But Petra kept telling me about diets and exercises I could do, and I tried some, but…I’m just not a skinny little tart.”

  “Like me?” I say.

  “You’re not a tart, Stella. You have class.”

  Class? That’s a first. But I like it. “Our band will be the classiest group in town,” I say. “Sing for us, Tamara, please. We’re not sizeist, ageist, racist, sexist or homophobic. We’ll even let you choose your own clothes. And we’re going to try out for the festival. Maybe they’ll choose us to headline.” She still looks uncertain. So I try my pleading face. It works on Dad when I need extra iTunes money. Sometimes it even works on Mom. I don’t think Tamara is so easily moved. So I try something softer. “Just come and jam with us, Tamara. What have you got to lose?”

  “Nothing, I guess,” she says. “Nothing but pride—and after a year with Fantalicious, I’m used to throwing that away.”

  * * *

  “What about ‘Viva la Vida’?” Miles says. He even plunks out the opening chords on our keyboard.

  “Seriously, Miles? I’ll kill you,” I say.

  Tamara snorts into her Slurpee. “It’s not a great singer’s song anyway. How about something old? I think I could probably fake my way through ‘Stairway to Heaven.’”

  “As much as I would love that,” Jacob says, “I’m not sure anyone should ever fake that song.”

  I exchange a look with the boys. Tamara seems different now we’re talking about her singing. Confident. Almost arrogant. It’s a little irritating. I mean, I know she’s a good singer and all, but she doesn’t have to be so cocky. Faking “Stairway to Heaven”! Really?

  “Shouldn’t we be thinking of a girl singer?” I say. This whole process is beginning to frustrate me. Tamara has been in the studio for twenty minutes and we haven’t played a note.