by Rob Rufus
I tried not to stare, kind of.
“You’re Nat’s brother, right?” Mandy asked.
“We’re twins.”
“Um, ya think? No shit.” She rolled her eyes and smiled.
“I love Nat,” Ali said. Her voice was raspier than I’d expected. “He’s so funny! We have seventh period together.”
“Nat’s way hotter,” Mandy said. “I like that all-black look.” She looked back at me. “What’s his deal? He dating anyone?”
A few months before, Nat had met a chick named Ashley at one of our shows. She was a quiet, mousy thing who’d just started her first semester at college. She was too shy to talk to me or Paul—but she’d talk to him. Lately, the two of them had been spending a lot of time together.
“I mean, he kinda has a girlfriend.”
“Well shit,” she yelled. “Let me guess, one of those Marilyn Manson–looking bitches?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
“Gross. Ugh. Well, you tell your brother to come talk to me when he wants a real girl—tell him that just ’cause I don’t look like Dracula, it doesn’t mean I can’t suck! Ha!”
“Oh my God,” Ali said, slapping Mandy on the arm.
We shared a look—only for a second—and then our eyes fell to the floor.
“I’ll let him know,” I said.
“Fuck, yes, you will,” Mandy said. She flashed another all-teeth grin, and then started walking.
Ali lingered behind, barely. I had to say something to her.
“I . . . I dig your nail polish,” I stammered.
Idiot! I didn’t even know if she was wearing nail polish. It just came out.
She lifted up her hand—her nails were a chipped apple green. She smiled. She didn’t reply, but she smiled that smile.
And then she was gone.
* * *
In class, I dreamed of her freckles. I imagined the ones on her neck, glowing with the rhythm of her breath—dim, rising easy, and then glowing again, lit up like constellations in my young, lonely mind.
2
I decided to invite Ali to our show on Saturday.
Normally, I wouldn’t have dared. Some people at school vaguely knew I was in a band, but that was it. No one had actually heard us—if someone came and thought we sucked, I imagined I’d be getting picked on even worse than we did back in junior high.
But she smiled at me—that must mean something.
So the next morning, I spiked my hair extra spiky. I wore my red button-up shirt—it had a collar, so I thought she would like it. Before I went downstairs, I shoved a show flyer into my pocket.
* * *
I leaned against the same locker at school. Hands in my pockets—James Dean cool.
Mandy walked by with a group of boys, but no Ali. The final bell rang, and classroom doors began to shut. The hall emptied. I just stood there.
I counted the seconds. Is it creepy to wait here like this? I wondered. I heard my brother’s voice inside my head, saying, If you have to ask, then it is.
I sighed. Forget it.
I grabbed my backpack and started walking to class—but then she appeared, stumbling quickly down the middle of the hall. Her hair was a mess. She wore the same clothes as the day before.
Rumors popped in my mind—all the popular kids are druggies, train wrecks. Nah, not her. People like me just said that sorta stuff because we were jealous. I waved toward her, but she was staring straight down.
“Yo, Ali!”
She looked up. “Oh . . . hey.”
Even without makeup, even in the soiled clothes, I couldn’t imagine this girl as a train wreck—Mandy, maybe, but not her. Not a girl like this. Her eyes were clear, like little black pebbles. I dismissed the gossip as bullshit.
“Long night?” I asked.
“Uggghh, yeah. I was busy all night.”
“Me too,” I lied. “I’m glad I ran into you, though. I wanted to . . .” I fumbled in my pocket for the flyer.
My fingers were too sweaty to grip it. My hand got twisted inside my pocket. I yanked at it. She looked at my pants.
Finally, I yanked out the flyer and shoved it into her chest.
“. . . I wanted to give you that,” I finished. I grinned nervously.
My sweaty hand had left the flyer looking like a used napkin. Ali straightened it out on her jeans.
“It’s a flyer for our show this weekend.”
“No way!” she said, skimming it. “Which band is yours?”
“Defiance of Authority.”
“Ha. I mean, cool. I keep telling Nat I wanna see y’all play. I don’t think he believes me.”
“Nat never believes anyone about anything.”
“Saturday? Hmmm, well—maybe I need to come and prove him wrong.”
I nodded. “Yeah, maybe you should.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep.”
“Well, right on.”
I shrugged apathetically. Ali folded the flyer and stuck it in her back pocket.
“I gotta go,” she said. “This semester just started, and I’ve already been late about ten times.”
I flashed the peace sign—V for fucking victory. I leaned back against the locker and watched her go.
James Dean cool.
3
By the time dark came, the lot beside the YWCA was full. Used cars were parked crookedly, covered in stickers and beat to shit. Punks leaned against them, huddled together breathing blue smoke into the cold. A few drank from paper bags. The streetlights on the corner made them look like shadows.
Once the opening band was set up, Paul popped the door and people filed through it. I saw Egor come in, even more metal now dangling from his face. I saw a couple tattoos but no freckles. I saw druggies walk by, but I didn’t see Ali.
Even if Ali didn’t show up, watching the crowd walk through the door wasn’t without pleasure. It was nice to see the way shoulders eased as people came inside. I knew it had little to do with the cold—these shows were our break from “normal” life, a recharge from the exhausting pressures of existence. The shows were a bloodletting.
The shows were five bucks at the door.
* * *
The third band was finishing their set. The crowd had doubled in size by now, and the room was getting packed. We were on next. Ali still hadn’t shown.
She had probably never actually planned on coming in the first place. Fuck it. I gave up on watching the door.
Someone tugged at my arm—it was Paul.
“Yo man—y’all are on,” he said.
I hadn’t even noticed that the music had stopped.
I joined Nat and Brody in the corner, and we lugged our gear up to the stage. I arranged my drums exactly as I did at practice, and made sure my cymbal stands were tightened tight. Nat taped his guitar cables to the floor. Brody tuned his bass, tugging at the shoulder strap to make sure it would hold.
We went out of our way to avoid any fuckups.
The crowd stayed close to the stage, talking amongst themselves. They didn’t walk outside the way they did when the other bands set up. For us, they waited.
Nat turned his back to the crowd and looked at me. He nodded, I nodded back—it was time.
He pointed his guitar toward the speaker of his amp, twisting his volume knob to create feedback. I raised my sticks into the air, but Nat shook his head—not yet.
The squeal of the amp grew louder. The crowd covered their ears, cursing.
Nat nodded—now.
“One!”—click—
“Two!”—click—
“One! Two! Onetwothreefour!”
Nat and Brody both jumped into the air, landing on beat with the first cymbal crash. Nat pounded the strings of his guitar.
/> “Let’s GO!” Brody yelled into the mic.
The crowd yelled back.
We opened with a song called “Watch You Fall,” because it was the fastest one we had. Not that it really made a difference—when we played live, every song became the fastest song. No matter how much I practiced, the second I was in front of an audience I pounded through each song at warp speed. I couldn’t help it—I felt the energy of the room, and the tension in my arms as my sticks hit, hit, hit, hit—damn, man!
It was exciting. If that meant I played a little too fast—screw it.
Traditionally, the band follows the drummer. But in our band, I followed Nat—completely zoning out the rest of the stage. So no matter if we played sloppy or tight, the two of us were always in time with each other.
* * *
After the third song ended we held for applause.
This was the part of the set where Nat fucked around with the crowd. I don’t remember what he said—all that I remember is hearing that laugh. That bellow—heavy, coming back at us.
I froze.
She—they—were standing right there. Ali and Mandy, second row, stage left. They both waved.
I was instantly nervous. My arms turned to rubber. I looked down, over, up—anywhere but back toward the crowd.
Nat nodded at me, and I counted us into the next song. I got through the first verse okay—but I messed up two drum fills, and at the end of the song I dropped a stick. . . . I just couldn’t concentrate. Seeing Ali caught me way off guard.
Performing for a crowd and performing for a girl are completely different things—a guy needs time to mentally prepare for that shit, you know?
Now I was running on autopilot, hoping enough muscle memory would kick in to get me through the rest of the set. I didn’t once look back toward her.
* * *
Five songs later, the show was mercifully over.
It’s always amazed me how fast a crowd breaks up at the end of a concert. All these people sing and dance together—but the second the music ends, they file toward their cars like polite strangers. I left my kit and pushed against the moving crowd, heading quickly for the back of the building.
I knew Nat and Brody were going to bitch me out for playing so bad, and I was already humiliated enough. All I wanted to do now was escape.
I moved past the bathrooms and into the hall, toward the back door. I’d wait outside while the room cleared out. I didn’t want to see anyone—Ali and Mandy especially—or hear any half-assed “good show” comments.
I grabbed the door handle—it was cold. Good. That’s what I needed—to cool down, catch my breath, and hide.
* * *
“Good show,” a voice I couldn’t yet connect to a body said.
I gritted my teeth. I was sitting on the ground with my head against the wall. My wet T-shirt was frozen to my body. I looked up.
It was Ali. She was alone too, hugging herself from the wind. A cigarette dangled between her fingers.
“Thanks,” I said, embarrassed. I stood up and shoved my hands in my pockets. “I didn’t really think you’d come.”
She took a drag from her cigarette. I could feel her look me over. My fucking goose bumps got goose bumps.
“I didn’t think I would either. Mandy’s in charge of driving tonight—I ended up having to tell her that Nat had a thing for her just to get her fat ass to come down.”
I laughed. We moved closer to each other without realizing it.
“But you guys were, like, good!” she said.
“Ha—don’t sound so shocked.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Okay, well maybe I did. I knew you’d be good, I just didn’t know that I would, like, like it!”
“Well, thanks,” I said. “I know this scene can seem a little odd.”
Ali exhaled.
“So, where’s Mandy,” I asked, trying not to cough. “Hunting down my bro?”
“Nah, in the car. She said she was gonna warm it up while I smoked, but I just know that bitch is snorting up all the Purple Footballs we bought.”
“Lame,” I said, not knowing what a Purple Football even was. Later, when my world became one large medicine cabinet, I learned it was a tag for Xanax, the wonder drug. “What are y’all doing for the rest of the night?”
“Adam Goldstein’s having a party. So the usual.”
Everyone knew Adam’s house. It was the biggest one in town, at the very top of Washington Boulevard. I’d never been invited to one of his parties, but many Saturday nights I saw the lights burning as we drove by—saw silhouettes stumbling in the dark outside, teens doubling as drunken lawn art. I tried not to imagine her as part of the landscaping.
“Sweet,” I said.
She shrugged. “It’s whatever.”
She flicked her cigarette into the dark.
“Looks like you’re done with your smoke.”
“Looks like it.”
We locked eyes—just for a second. She broke her gaze first and dug through the small purse hanging from her shoulder.
“So,” she said, “you want to hang out with me again sometime, or what?”
“YEAH!”—I cleared my throat—“I mean, sure. That’d be cool.”
She grinned, pulled a pen from her purse, and popped the cap with her teeth.
“Gimme,” she said, grabbing my hand.
She led me to where the light from the door made the blacktop shine. I could see her hand—her nails were freshly painted black. The tip of her pen dug into my clammy palm. She tattooed her phone number into my skin.
634-3433
“Call me, drummer boy,” she said. She put the pen back into her purse, and then she disappeared.
I heard a car door open. I heard it slam shut.
I stood in the cold alone. I held my hand up to the sky, inspecting it in that sliver of light. I traced the dark blue lines that she’d put on my palm. I followed each one. I read my future.
4
I woke up thinking in dial tones.
I looked at my hand—it was nothing but a blue smear. I’d rubbed most of Ali’s number off during the night.
I flew out of bed, running her number through my memory while I searched for a pen. SIXTHREEFOURTHREEFOURTHREETHREE! I wrote her number down on the face of my small desk and let out a sigh of relief.
I got back in bed and shut my eyes.
The number kept playing in my head. I heard it in different patterns and melodies—even the tempos changed. But the lyrics were always the same—sixthree four three four threethree—my dial was tuned to the Wilhelm Power Hour, only on 634.3433 FM—your station for all Ali, all the time.
* * *
Nat was ignoring me. He was still pissed that I’d blown our show. Which sucked, because I really needed his advice.
I mean, he had a girlfriend—but at seventeen, I still had almost zero experience with chicks. I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten Ali’s attention in the first place, but the fact that I hadn’t lost it yet was a small miracle. One misstep could ruin the whole thing.
So I needed advice—how had he gotten Ashley to like him? What made her take him so seriously?
But unless I was telling him I’d signed up for drum lessons, Nat had no interest in talking to me. I was on my own.
So I thought about him and Ashley, trying to remember little things that happened when they first started hanging out. The memory that stuck out the clearest was when Ashley made him a mixtape, before she went home over Christmas break.
Now, all our friends made mixtapes—skating mixes, Halloween mixes, best-of mixes—so I never thought it was a big deal. But when she made Nat one, I could tell it was something different.
Maybe it was the order of the songs, or maybe it was the lyrics. Maybe it was the little hearts Ashley drew on the label. Whate
ver made it special, Nat was obsessed with that tape. He treated it like a coded message, a prized possession, a sacred thing.
There must be something to that, right?
I knocked on the door of Nat’s bedroom.
“What?” he yelled through the door.
“Hey, dude. I know I fucked up the show super bad. And I know you don’t wanna talk to me. All I want to know is, do you have any blank tapes?”
* * *
I knelt before the stereo.
It was well past midnight. Tapes and CDs were freed from their jewel cases and spread all around me. Near them was the cellophane wrap of the fresh, untouched cassette. I plugged in a set of headphones so I wouldn’t wake anyone up.
I’d been working on her tape for hours. It was hard picking songs—there are endless numbers of love songs, even in punk rock, but a tape full of love songs was too predictable. I wanted this tape to be full of songs that Ali might actually like.
I didn’t want to use anything too cheesy or depressing (none of Nat and Ashley’s slit-your-wrist-type emo shit). I didn’t want to seem too forward, but I needed my intentions to be unmistakable. Otherwise, even if Ali and I started hanging out, I was likely to fumble my way into the friend zone.
Making this tape was a chance to prove myself, to show off my true talent—not playing music, but feeling it. Because at the end of the day, I never considered myself anything more than a fan.
I made sure the tape was rewound. I pressed the play and record buttons with all my might:
Ali’s Mix
SIDE A
1. Nada Surf—“Popular”
2. Descendents—“This Place”
3. Blink-182—“Untitled”
4. Rancid—“She’s Automatic”
5. Sublime—“Smoke Two Joints”
6. Black Flag—“Wasted”
7. Dead Milkmen—“Punk Rock Girl”
8. The Misfits—“Skulls”
9. The Humpers—“Mutate with Me”
SIDE B
1. The Ataris—“Your Boyfriend Sucks”
2. Bad Religion—“21st Century (Digital Boy)”
3. Descendents—“I’m the One”
4. Social Distortion—“When She Begins”