As I open the second door, from the vestibule into the church, I see a pair of sneakered feet poking out from behind the pews. They look familiar. Just then Tamara opens her eyes and sees me. She stops singing abruptly.
“Stella! What are you doing here?”
Beside her, emerging from behind the high pews, Jacob stands up.
I look at them both for a moment. Really, it’s no big deal. Tamara wanted some singing practice and she asked Jacob to accompany her. It makes sense.
Except she wasn’t singing any song that we do. Or any song that she would do in choir. And they both look guilty.
“What’s going on?” I say.
“Nothing,” Jacob says.
“We’re just jamming,” Tamara adds. Then there’s an awkward silence. And awkward silences in churches are the worst because you feel like the whole holy family is judging you. I swear I see the statue of Mary roll her eyes.
“Okay, look,” Jacob says. “We’re just practicing a different sound. We figure if the punk band doesn’t get into the festival, maybe a country-pop duo will.”
I just stare at him, resisting the urge to punch him in the nose. “I don’t understand,” I finally say. “Are you guys quitting the band?” To my horror, I start to feel like I’m going to cry. I mean, Jacob is like a little brother to me, and Tamara—she’s practically the best girlfriend I’ve ever had. And the band is my whole life!
“We’re not quitting,” Tamara says. “We’re just covering the bases. Chad is right about our sound. It’s too edgy for this gig.”
“So you don’t even want to try?”
“Of course we still want to try. This is just a backup plan.”
Backup plans. The best way to suck the excitement out of almost anything. Backup plans are like diving off the high board with a parachute. I don’t know why, but this bugs me. It’s like I want it to be an “if we go down, we all go down together” kind of deal. Because how are we supposed to still be a band if Miles and I are shut out of the festival but Jacob and Tamara are in? That won’t be good for band morale.
I cross my arms. I know I’m doing the sulky face that Dad says will never win me any beauty contests, but I don’t care.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Tamara says.
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jacob says.
I glare at him because I think he should understand. “She’s already been famous. She’s already done tons of big gigs. She Facebooks Chad Banner like it’s nothing. And she only wants to get into the festival for revenge. It’s different for me.”
Now it’s Tamara’s turn to cross her arms. “Yeah? How is it different?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m not a phony!”
You know when you look behind you and “too far” is already about a mile away? That’s me. I expect Tamara to clock me one. Lord knows I deserve it. But instead, she speaks calmly and slowly as she packs her music sheets into a folder.
“You know, Stell, I wish you had been kicked out of Fantalicious. Then you’d know what phony is. Oh, except you wouldn’t have been kicked out because, well, look at you.”
Then she grabs her cardigan and her purse and stomps out. Jacob and I wait in silence as the heavy door swings closed behind her.
“You totally would have been kicked out of Fantalicious,” Jacob says, snapping his guitar case closed. “You can’t even sing.”
I think of about a dozen nasty comebacks, but not until he’s already followed Tamara out.
And I never even got to play them my song.
Nine
“Chad Banner’s office, Mark speaking.”
Click.
Really? Did I just hang up on Chad Banner’s sexy-sounding assistant? What is the matter with me? I take a deep breath and dial again, counting backward from fifty million as I listen to the ringtones.
“Chad Banner’s office, Mark speaking.”
“Uh, hi, uh, is Chad…Mister Banner there?”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Stella Wang—I mean Wing. Stella Wing.”
“One moment, please.”
The hold music is “Riders on the Storm.” That’s awesome. I get so into listening to it that I nearly fall over when someone finally picks up.
“Hey, Stella Wing,” Chad Banner’s easy voice says. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing. I mean, not much. I mean…I had a few questions about the Parkland Festival auditions. Is it okay that I called?”
“Sure it’s okay, kid. What do you want to know?”
Of course I don’t know where to start or what exactly I want to know. So I just jump in feet first, no life jacket or anything.
“Do you think we should change our sound to get into the festival?”
“What?! No! Of course not. Your sound is awesome. It’s really raw and real.”
“But the festival selectors won’t like it. Apart from you, I mean.”
Then he curses, a bad one too, and apologizes profusely before clarifying. “Forget the festival selectors. It’s just a dumb small-town corn festival anyway.”
“Yeah, but it’s the only gig in town. That we’re likely to get. I mean, we won’t be playing the ChepCo Arena anytime soon.” The ChepCo Arena is a giant hockey rink that the local fertilizer depot sponsors. And fertilizer is about right for it too. It smells bad, and most of the bands that play there are utter cr—
“That’s the point, kid,” Chad says, interrupting my chain of thought. “It doesn’t need to happen anytime soon. You’re still so young. Why not just wait awhile? Let things evolve.”
I resist the urge to growl. I hate it when older people talk like this. Maybe I DO have my whole life ahead of me, but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like something amazing needs to happen NOW or I’m going to implode.
I change the subject. Slightly.
“What if we entered two acts? Like, one was the punk band, but then we did another act—say, an acoustic country-folk thing?”
Chad chuckles. “You’d think that would be sensible. Cover-the-spread kind of thing. But, unfortunately, every act in town seems to think that’s sensible too. So we’d end up with one singer trying to audition eight times with eight different outfits. Finally, two years ago, the organizers changed the rules. One entry, one song, per performer. You can’t even have a bass player in two different bands, which goes against everything natural in the universe if you ask me, but there it is.”
Well. That sucks. I would explain why to Chad, but he interrupts me. “Listen, Stella, I’m on air in five minutes, so I have to go. But I’ll see you at the tryouts, right?”
“I guess so,” I say.
“You play as wild and edgy as you want, kid. Don’t disappoint me.” Then he hangs up.
So this is my life now. A month ago, if you had told me I’d one day be worried about disappointing Chad Banner, I would have said you were crazy.
* * *
Hours later I still haven’t decided how to broach this subject with Tamara and Jacob. Text. Email. Phone call. Maybe I could try to find them. This town is not that big. It probably wouldn’t take long. But they might not be together. Then the conversation would have to be had twice. Or I’d have to rely on one of them to fully inform the other of the festival regulations. That would give them all kinds of opportunity to talk behind my back about what a pain in the butt I am.
Yep. There’s no doubt about it. I’m over-thinking this.
I go ahead and send a text to Tamara, Jacob and Miles.
Band meeting. Studio. Now.
It’s a little megalomaniac, I know. And I fully expect at least one of them to text back that they’re busy or possibly that I should shove my band meeting up my nose, but ten minutes later we are all at the studio, eyeing each other warily, like apprehensive cats.
“I spoke to Chad Banner today,” I say, not bothering with a preamble.
“And?” Miles says.
P
oor Miles. I forgot to update him on what’s going on. I backpedal a bit. “Okay, so these two”—I point accusingly at Jacob and Tamara—“were preparing another set for the audition. Acoustic country folk or some crap.”
Miles looks at Jacob as if he has just killed his favorite puppy. “What?”
“It was her idea,” Jacob says.
I expect Tamara to get mad at him, but for some reason she just hoots with laughter.
“You big liar,” she says with a snort. “You called me.”
Jacob starts to babble defensively, and if I wasn’t so mad at everyone, I would just sit back and enjoy it. “I only called you to…uh…I wanted to see…uh… if you wanted to practice…uh…something.”
Honestly. I think his puberty hormones have addled his brain. Tamara gives him a sympathetic look. “Okay, fair enough. It was my idea to practice some new songs. But you suggested we audition with them.”
“Only because you said you didn’t think the band would get into the festival!”
Miles and I look at each other as if to ask “Do you think we should intervene?” I shrug. Miles puts his hands up. “Stop. Stop!” he yells. Tamara and Jacob fall silent. “We still haven’t heard what Stella talked to Chad Banner about,” he says.
I quickly explain about only being able to audition with one act. Tamara and Jacob exchange doubtful looks when I finish.
“Well, that’s easy,” Miles says. “We audition with the band. Real rock music for real people. That’s our mission, right?”
“I told you it’s not that simple,” Jacob says. “We won’t get in. We won’t get to play. It will all be for nothing.”
“But at least we’ll make a point.”
“A point for whom?” Tamara asks. “Three corporate judges who haven’t got a clue, and Chad Banner, who’s clearly already got the point.”
“Maybe the judges will be won over,” Miles says.
“Maybe I’ll fly to the moon,” Jacob says.
“Okay. OKAY! ENOUGH!” I can’t stand it when people fight. I take a deep breath and try to exhale all the bad chi that’s floating around the studio. “Let’s take a vote, at least.”
“It’s going to be tied, Stella,” Jacob says. “There are four of us.”
“Yeah, I can count, Jake. Thanks. Let’s start with a vote and see where we’re at. Okay?” I take another breath. All I want to do is sit behind my drums and beat on them for a few hours, but this has got to be resolved. “All those in favor of going in hard and edgy. The band sound. The band songs.” I raise my hand, and Miles quickly does too.
“Okay. Two votes for rock ’n’ roll. All those in favor of a softer sound. Maybe some folky crap.”
Jacob raises his hand tentatively. We all turn to Tamara. Her vote will either tie us or commit us once and for all to play the edgy sound at the audition. What she does next will affect everything.
She bursts into tears.
Jacob jumps up and puts his arm around her shoulder. “Hey. Hey, it’s just a vote. It’s no big deal. Really.”
“I don’t want it to be up to me!” Tamara says, sobbing.
I hate tears. Other people’s even more than my own. But I think I must be growing up or something, because I’m getting less useless at human interaction every day. I duck behind my drum kit and grab the stool, moving it behind Tamara’s butt. Jacob gently sits her down.
“I’m sorry!” she wails. Then she sobs some more.
Miles opens his backpack and digs out a chocolate bar. But when he holds it out to Tamara, she just cries even harder.
“That will just make it worse!”
“It’s chocolate,” Miles says insistently. “Chocolate makes everything better.”
“Chocolate makes you fat!” Tamara shouts. Then she lets her head fall into her hands. “I’ve gotten so fat. I’ll never be a rock star or any kind of star!”
“You’re not even a little bit fat,” Jacob tries.
“What would you know?” Tamara lifts her head up so quickly that Jacob has to jump out of the way to avoid copping it in the chin. “You weigh about twelve pounds! And you eat everything.”
Miles pulls a crumpled tissue from his pocket and holds it out, a little uncertainly, his earlier failure with the chocolate obviously still fresh in his mind. But Tamara takes it and blows her nose at an incredible volume. No wonder the girl can sing. She’s got nasal cavities like canyons.
“It’s because I started taking the birth control pill,” Tamara says, sniffling.
Poor Miles and Jacob look horrified at this confession. Miles puts his hands over his ears and starts going “La la la la…”
“Not for that,” Tamara says. “As if anyone would want me anyway. It was because my periods were so heavy and—”
“Girl talk!” Jacob says. “We’re out of here.” He grabs Miles, who is still singing to himself, and pulls him out the door. It slams behind them.
Tamara shakes her head ruefully. “Well, that was humiliating.”
“It’s fine. Boys don’t understand that hormonal stuff. I mean, OUR hormonal stuff. They have their own problems, obviously—I mean, so I hear. No one is interested in me either.”
Tamara snorts. “Nate is interested in you.”
“Jacob is interested in you.”
“No he’s not. Is he? He’s, like, four inches shorter than me.”
“So, he’ll grow. Probably. Do you like him too?”
“Do you like Nate?”
We look at each other and burst out laughing. It just seems so unlikely that we would suddenly be talking about boys like two normal girls. I mean, we’re FAR from normal. Obviously.
“We still haven’t decided what kind of music to play,” I say as we settle down.
Tamara spins on my drum stool. “I know. To be honest, I prefer the harder stuff. It suits my mood right now.” She shrugs, and I get the feeling that she’s on the cusp of telling me what’s really going on. “I just don’t have the look that goes with the sound.”
About fifty thousand protestations pour out of my brain, but, sadly, none of them make it to my mouth. So I just stand there, struck dumb. Finally, the ability to speak returns.
“Are you for real?” I say. It comes out a bit snippier than I mean it to. “I mean, that’s what’s making you unsure?”
“Why are you so surprised? We’ve talked about this before.”
“I know, but…” The truth is, we have talked about it, but maybe I wasn’t listening because I thought Tamara’s thing was the same “I’m so fat” “No, I am” “No, I AM!” crap that the girls at school go on about incessantly. I just tune it out. I must have partially tuned out Tamara too, but this is obviously a big thing for her. So much that it’s affecting her enjoyment of performing. “You’re so awesome though, Tamara. I just don’t know how you can be so under-confident.”
Tamara sighs. “No? Well, skinny people never get it.”
That stings a little, but I let her have it. She’s probably right. It’s always hard to imagine something you’ve never experienced. One day Miles and I might have to talk to Tamara about being black or Chinese in such a white town. But now’s probably not the time.
“I don’t care about the look,” I say. “I just dress how I feel comfortable.”
She looks like she doesn’t believe me. Then she waves her hands down her pink cardigan and gray corduroy skirt. “This is how I feel comfortable. Can I perform dressed like this?”
“Why not? You did at the café the other day. You were epic.”
“I’ll look like an idiot. People will laugh at me.”
“No one is going to be laughing after you start to sing.”
Tamara smiles a bit then. If there’s one thing she’s confident about, it’s the power of her voice. She reminds me of that dorky woman from England who sang on tv and got a hundred million YouTube hits. And while Tamara is thinking about what a kick-butt singer she is, I have to convince her that she can pull off the rocker-chick thing—but her way.
“Look,” I say, pulling out my cell phone and doing a quick Internet search. “Here, look at k.d. lang. When she started making albums, female country singers all wore spangly dresses and push-up bras, and she had this crazy cowgirl look going on. Now she wears nothing but suits.” I click on my phone a few times. “Or here—Annie Lennox. Performed at the Grammys dressed as ELVIS. With SIDEBURNS! And Björk. Look, she wore a goose to the Oscars!”
“I’m not wearing a goose.”
We’re shaking with laughter now.
“Look at Aretha! And Queen Latifah! They’re terrific. And fat. You could fit two of you into Aretha’s dress. But she’s literally the queen of soul. And Janis Joplin! Check her out. When girl singers all had beehive hairdos and fake eyelashes, she didn’t wear makeup or anything. She was so real she was unreal.”
Tamara takes my phone and scrolls through a few pictures thoughtfully. “I’m sorry about before,” she says finally. “I mean, about the crying and stuff. I’m just having one of those frail days.”
“We all have frail days,” I say, giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “From time to time.”
Ten
“Stella, I have two words for you,” Miles says, piling clothes into my arms. “Zebra leggings.”
“Oooh,” I say, digging through the pile. I have a real weakness for animal prints. And leggings.
On the other side of the sale rack, Tamara sighs. She holds up a narrow leather skirt. “In what universe is this extra large?” Jacob patiently takes the skirt from her and hangs it back up. Then he gently steers her away.
We’re in the Blue Mantle, the most awesome thrift store in a hundred miles. I had to beg my mom to drive us here because it’s in a whole other town, but she finally agreed when I suggested she spend two hours at their weird little arts-and-crafts bazaar. Mom’s weakness is crocheted dishcloths and pottery coffee cups. She can’t get enough of them.
It was Miles’s idea for us all to go shopping for audition clothes together. He even convinced his dad to sponsor us with fifty dollars each. All we have to do is put stickers for his laser-tattoo-removal service on all our cases. It’s brilliant marketing, actually, when you think about all the tattooed wannabes who will be at the auditions. And fifty dollars goes a long way in the Blue Mantle because the women who volunteer here are about a hundred and fifty years old and don’t know how much people normally pay for such rad clothes. The zebra leggings say Made in the United Kingdom, for God’s sake! And they’re five bucks! I have to have them.
Frail Days Page 5