Tune It Out

by Jamie Sumner

  “My treat,” he says.

  “Oh no, I can’t.” Just one of those ice cream bars is four dollars at the gas station. How much more can I possibly owe people?

  “Oh please,” Well says, waving me off as I try to hand the cafeteria lady my card. Which, if I think about it, isn’t any different than Well paying. I’m loaded down with everybody else’s money. At least when I sang, I earned the quarters and dimes and dollars. “That’s money to your name, Lou,” Mom would say.

  Well ignores my offer to buy tomorrow’s lunch and leads us back toward the tables. I hold my breath to see which is “his table,” but he keeps walking until we reach the doors that open onto the lawn.

  “Where are we going?” I ask when he doesn’t stop at the picnic tables.

  He arches an eyebrow at me. “Where the cool kids eat, of course.”

  As we cut across the baseball field, I watch my saddle shoes turn orange from the dugout dirt and try to breathe normally at the thought of meeting Well’s friends. He’s heading toward the football stadium. Even from a hundred yards away I can see three kids sitting in the bleachers, and I freeze, right in the middle of the outfield.

  I’ve just started getting comfortable around Well. Other people, though… What if they ask me about my mom? Or what my old school was like? What if they make a joke about my skinny bird legs? Or what if they do something crazy like run up and down the bleachers? The sound of that bang, bang, bang of feet on metal is a bad one for me. More than a shiver. More like a scream.

  “Why’d you stop?” Well asks, a few feet ahead now.

  “I, uh, I think I’m going to go back in. I don’t want to be late for fourth period.”

  “No. Uh-uh. Fourth period is theater, and I make it a habit to be fashionably late. Besides, see those jokers? They’re in theater too. We can all be late, or on time,” he adds when he sees me start to turn away, “together.”

  “No, really. I’m going back.”

  “Lou, stop or I swear to God I will eat your ice cream bar.”

  I stop.

  “Now sit down.”

  I look at the wet grass covered in leaves. “What? Here?”

  “Yes, here.”

  Well takes off his navy school jacket and spreads it on the ground. He sits, then pats a spot next to him. When I keep standing, he unwraps both Snickers ice cream bars and holds one up under my nose, like a bouquet of roses. I sit.

  “Now listen.” He hands me the Doritos to open. “I was saving this for later, because it felt like a perfect end-of-the-first-day thing to do, but you have forced my hand, Lou.” He looks at me from under a fringe of black hair. “So, if it falls flat, that is on you. Do you get me?”

  “I do,” I say. Except I don’t, because I have no idea what he’s talking about. And I hate surprises for obvious reasons.

  He pulls a phone from his pocket. I watch him scrolling through his music and can’t stop myself from leaning in to see what’s on his list.

  “This, Louie Lou, is the Spotify app, which I noticed you do not yet have on your phone, and we will fix that posthaste, but for right now I am going to play you a song and you are going to love it, okay? Here,” he says, plugging in his earbuds and handing me one. “Don’t worry, they’re clean.”

  I don’t take it at first. What if it’s death metal or screaming punk? What if I literally curl into a ball and cry at the first note?

  He sighs. “Just trust me, okay?”

  I don’t trust him. Not yet. But I do put the earbud in as he puts in the other, because right now Well is my only maybe-friend and I can’t lose that. I watch him click play and cross my fingers I don’t freak out.

  It starts off easy enough. A simple guitar solo. And then I hear a tenor voice. High and sweet as summer. It’s a guy singing about going back to school in the fall. He meets a friend. They climb a fence and walk to the park. “Walk with me, Suzy Lee,” he sings, and I look over at Well. He’s smiling and nodding along and biting into his ice cream bar. A piece of chocolate falls onto his shirt collar. I close my eyes to listen better. Simple strumming. Simple melody. It’s beautiful.

  I let it play all the way until the end before I open my eyes. And when I do, I feel calm and happy—that mood that only music can make. How did Well know? I turn to ask him, but he’s opening and closing his mouth without saying anything.

  “What?” I yank the earbud out, panicking, because even though I haven’t known him long, I know a speechless Well is not normal.

  “You, Lou, have been hiding something.”

  He points a black fingernail at me.

  “What? No!” I shake my head.

  “Yes. Oh yes,” he says.

  Whatever he’s about to say can’t be good. I have no good secrets. Just embarrassing or terrifying ones. I get up, let the earbud fall onto his jacket, and start to go.

  “Wait!” he shouts, and runs after me.

  I speed up. And so does he until he’s speed-walking next to me.

  He holds up his phone and blurts, “You, Louise, can sing.”

  I stop, confused.

  “What?”

  He shakes his phone at me, like it holds all the answers.

  “You were singing out loud,” he says.

  “Oh, that.” I didn’t even know I was doing it.

  “Yes, that. You’re like a bluesy lounge singer hiding in Tinker Bell’s body,” Well says, sounding impressed.

  I have no idea how to respond to this, so I settle for finishing my ice cream bar.

  “Stop staring at me,” I say.

  “I can’t. You might be the next American Idol.”

  I turn away, but then I’m facing the bleachers again, and there’s nothing left to do but start walking toward them, because it’s better than Well staring at me like I just levitated.

  “How can we not talk about this?” Well says, catching up.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Nothing to talk about? You are a diva!”

  “No, I’m not.”

  I walk faster, so he has to jog.

  “Fine. I’m just… impressed.”

  “It’s a good song.”

  “It is a good song, a great song, by the White Stripes, which is now officially epic, thanks to you. My dad hates it, though. He only listens to country.”

  I laugh. Finally, something we have in common.

  “Yeah, my mom, too.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  It’s the first time I’ve mentioned Mom, and I can tell he’s waiting for me to say more. But he lets it go when I don’t. Instead, right before we get to the bleachers, he says, “The reason I played you that song… this was before I realized you were actually Tina Turner… is that I’m glad I met you. You’re my Suzy Lee, get it?”

  I do not. He barely knows me. And it could either be super creepy or super sweet. But I think of all those lonely days, just me and Mom, and all the random schools where I never even got close to being friends with anybody, and I think, Yeah, I kind of do get it. Because it’d be nice to be someone’s person and you wouldn’t have to do anything other than just be you. I shake my head. Well is probably the kind of guy who has tons of friends, like the ones on the bleachers currently waving blue and silver pom-poms. Actual pom-poms. This is just Well being Well.

  “Dude, check these out! Found them under the bleachers!” a kid who looks big enough to be an eighth grader yells from where he’s lying on his back on the bottom row, shaking pom-poms like maracas. He gives me an upside-down grin.

  Well begins the introductions: “Lou, this is Tucker. Tucker is a gentle giant and would rather snuggle up with a casserole than do any kind of physical exercise. But he’s not bad in the props department, which is why we let him hang with us.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m in training,” upside-down Tucker says, and pretends to bench-press his pom-poms.

  “Yeah? For what? Cheerleading tryouts?” says Well, and grabs one of them. What’s the singular for pom-poms? Po
m?

  “No.” He sits up and tugs the ends of his curly blond hair behind his ears. It’s just long enough. “Hot-dog-eating contest at the end of October.”

  “Really?” I say despite my shyness. I watched one of those at a county fair we were working two years ago. The winner ate sixty-three hot dogs in ten minutes.

  “He does not lie,” says the girl sitting one row up from Tucker. I take a step back, closer to Well. Girls make me more nervous than guys. They are sneakier at teasing.

  “This lovely green-haired goddess is Geneva,” announces Well. “She’s just finished a stint as a fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the performing arts center downtown. It’s the only reason the school let her dye her lovely locks.”

  Geneva stands and gives a salute. There’s a half-finished bird drawn on her wrist. “Hiya, Lou. Maxwell here has talked a lot about you in the last forty-eight hours. A lot. So I’m glad you’re here, and he can finally shut up.”

  I look at Well and he shrugs.

  “When are you going to start calling me Well?” he asks Geneva.

  “When I’ve known you as many years as Well as I have as Maxwell. So”—she pretends to look at her watch—“six years and counting.”

  “Whatever.” Well turns to the only person who has yet to look at me. “That geek over there with the laptop who is completely ignoring us is Jacob. Jacob is a budding sound engineer who also likes to play Dungeons and Dragons in his spare time with his virtual friends.”

  Jacob’s technically in uniform, but just barely. I see a red T-shirt peeking out from under his collar, and his Sperrys have neon-green laces. “Don’t knock it,” he says without looking up. “I still catch you there on a Saturday night.”

  Well totally ignores this and turns back to me.

  “And this, Lou, is pretty much the sixth-grade division of the theater department. We hold our own.”

  I turn to him. “What do you do in theater?”

  “Me?” Well puts a hand to his chest. “I act, of course. I am a thespian.”

  Tucker throws his other pom at him. And Geneva, after checking her watch for real this time, adds, “You’re about to be a tardy thespian. We all are if we don’t make a run for it.”

  * * *

  Somehow, and one of these days I’m going to figure out how, I managed to get through a traumatic self-help test, three classes, and lunch without actually thinking about the fact that I had signed up and would eventually have to go to an acting class.

  But when I walk into the dance studio where theater is held, I realize I am in serious trouble, and all the panic that had stayed barely in check since I walked in this morning comes flooding out. I can’t act. I spend every minute of every set Mom and I do pretending I’m invisible. I have to get out of here.

  Well, Geneva, Tucker, and Jacob are ahead of me. We are the only sixth graders in the class, and it’s the only class in the middle school that combines grades. The seventh and eighth graders are sitting in groups by the huge wall-to-wall mirror texting and putting on makeup. I cannot do this. I start to breathe a little too fast. I take a step backward. I’ve got one foot in the door and one foot out. Nobody sees. If I make it to the hallway, I will run. I will run straight to Andrea’s office and plead temporary insanity and sign up for something safe like knitting.

  Just one. More. Step.

  I back into someone, and it’s enough to make me scream.

  “You’ve got a set of lungs on you, sweetheart!”

  I turn around to see a woman who looks like one of the fortune-tellers outside the casinos in Biloxi. Her hair is fluffed out all over like a dandelion, and her hoop earrings are as big as the bangles on her arms. She studies me and hmmms. “Look at those eyes. You could be a fawn in a forest, my dear. Now why don’t you shimmy on in so we can get started?”

  I want to get out, not farther in. My heart’s still jumping. But it’s either take a seat next to Well or physically push past her, and that would mean touching. I shuffle off to the side, and Well grins. I swallow and taste Dorito all over again.

  “For those of you who are new”—she pauses to wink at me—“I am Mrs. Nicole Russo. Mrs. Nicky, for short. And today is movement day. By the end of the week, we’ll wrap up casting for Into the Woods, our winter musical. And remember”—she snaps her fingers and I wince, just a little, not enough so you’d notice—“if you make it past round one, round two auditions are Thursday at four in the gym. Do not be late. It’s unprofessional. Now—” She snaps again, but I stay still. I was ready that time. I make a mental note: Mrs. Nicky is a snapper. “Take off your shoes and stretch those toes and roll those shoulders and loosen your mind. No thoughts today. Only movement and music and… physicality.”

  “Aleeeeeexa!” she singsongs, calling roll, I guess. But nobody answers. She says it again louder. “Alexa, play a rrrrrrumba!” She rolls her rs and her hips at the same time. I look toward the piano, but there’s nobody there. Then a little hockey puck on the piano bench lights up and says in a creepy voice, “Playing Rumba Playlist from Amazon top picks.”

  “What was that?” I whisper to Well as Spanish dance music thrums across the open space.

  Well is already balling his socks, light purple with yellow stars, into his shoes and not looking at me. “This, Suzy Lee, is the rumba. Think Ricky Martin meets Carlos Santana.”

  “No, I mean that.” I point at the hockey puck.

  Well’s mouth falls open and I know I’ve just said something dumb, but I have no idea what, and then he bursts into laughter so hard he actually has to bend over. Is he laughing at me? My cheeks flush red, and my pulse picks up all over again.

  He stands up and wipes his eyes. “Are you telling me you don’t know Alexa? The first world’s answer to to-do lists and Google searches and mood music and any kind of simple math? Oh, Lou. What basement have you been hiding in?”

  I cringe. What would he say if he knew it was actually a truck?

  Jacob leans forward on the other side of Well, where he was typing away on his laptop again, and says, “Pay no attention to him. Alexa is for people who can’t find their way out their own front door without directions.”

  “So, perfect for Max, then,” Geneva says, and glides her way onto the dance floor with her arms lifted like a belly dancer. Tucker slams Jacob’s laptop shut with his foot and then runs off when Jacob chases him.

  “Sorry, I was just teasing. It’s a thing I do. But I’m working on it. I’m in a twelve-step program.” Well holds his hand out to me and nods toward the dance floor. “Let me make it up to you?”

  My throat closes up. I cannot even pretend to do this. I shake my head. Well mistakes it for the first dance move and starts to shake his head too. No. He’s not getting it. I shake my head harder. And he shakes his back. He thinks I’m dancing with him. Then Jacob, who has chased Tucker in a full circle around the room, knocks into Well, who smacks into me, and I cannot take it another second.

  I push Well hard and run out. Alexa and the rumba echo down the hall, and I can’t get far enough away. I stumble and trip on one of my shoelaces. My knee drags across the carpet in a slow burn that rubs off the skin. The pain clears my head enough for me to look up and search for an exit. I am in the middle of the hallway. I need to get somewhere private. And quick.

  * * *

  By the time Mrs. Nicky finds me in the bathroom, I am holding a wet paper towel over my knee and breathing normally.

  “So, not a fan of the rumba, then?” She leans against the wall and crosses her arms. She’s blocking the only exit, and I have to fight the instinct to push her like I did Well.

  “No, ma’am. It’s not that. I’ve just got a headache.” I point to the concussion bump, still yellow and purple on my temple.

  “Ahhh.” She leans forward. “A bit ghoulish.” She studies my head and then my skinned knee. “I’d like to see the other guy.” She comes closer, earrings and silver bracelets jangling. I back up until I feel the paper towel dispenser poke in
to my spine. She cocks her head at me.

  “Listen, Lou, I’m going to be straight with you. Theater’s not for the faint of heart.”

  She’s giving me an out. She can see I’m not like everybody else. I’m weird in a way that isn’t theater-kid cool. I’m not eccentric. She’s right. I’m “faint of heart.”

  I picture everyone dancing and laughing while I stand in this bathroom with a stupid paper towel on my leg. It’s not fair. I don’t want to be this way. Ten minutes ago I would have taken Mrs. Nicky’s chance to drop the class in a heartbeat. But now, I’m… What am I? I’m angry.

  “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  For a split second she looks pleased, like this is what she’d been after all along. But then it’s gone, so I can’t be sure. “All right, then. Let’s do this.” She throws open the door but turns back to say, “I’ll give you a hint. Dance number two is a bluesy number. Think of all your heart’s aches, those bumps and bruises of the soul, and let them propel you across the dance floor.” Then she’s gone.

  So, after apologizing to Well for “needing some air,” which he doesn’t even question because he’s too busy dancing, I slide my feet from side to side in the corner of the dance studio. For exactly two minutes and thirteen seconds, I shuffle to the tune of a very sad trumpet. I am, at least for now, a theater kid.

  9 Everything’s Okay

  I’m sitting on top of Ginger and Dan’s dryer listening to Patsy Cline sing about how she’s crazy for feeling so lonely, and I’m thinking about Mom, again. I’ve called Joe’s a hundred times to check up on her since Monday, but I always hang up. I shouldn’t have to be the one who checks in. That’s her job.

  She used to always make me sing Patsy Cline at the state fairs, the same ones that have the hot-dog-eating contests. State fairs are the poor person’s beauty pageant. You can sign up to sing at the last minute, and everyone’ll loan you their hairspray and handkerchiefs. It’s heavy on the country music and also, weirdly, on the Disney solos. There were Patsy Clines and Dolly Partons, but also a lot of Queen Elsas and Ariels. Patsy takes me back to hot funnel cakes and face-painting stands and pony rides. There were also BB-gun shots from the target booth and the clanging metal of the Tilt-A-Whirl and the ding! ding! ding! when someone hit the top of the Test Your Strength game, but I don’t like to think of those.