The Victoria in My Head

by Janelle Milanes

  It’s a nondescript pub, not the ninth circle of hell I was expecting. Dim lighting, dark wooden tables, and a Guinness sign perched over the liquor shelf. My nostrils are greeted by the smell of fried food, which does nothing for my stomach’s current state. At the corner of the bar is a small elevated stage, and I see a guy frowning over his bass guitar. His black hair is slicked and parted to the side and he wears thick-rimmed glasses, ones that might be for optometric purposes or a geek fashion statement. He looks nerdy, but nerdy by choice, which possibly makes him cool.

  Behind him an Indian girl with a Mohawk, an actual Mohawk, is setting up her drums. I know who she is, but only by reputation. Krina Chaturvedi. When you see someone with a Mohawk clomping around a prep school like Evanston, you tend to know that person’s name. Today Krina wears torn low-riding jeans and a cropped shirt revealing a pierced belly button. Unlike me, she probably didn’t tear her clothes on purpose to look cool.

  Krina is the type of person you hear things about, and you can’t quite separate fact from fiction. She becomes more of a myth than an actual person. There was a rumor going around that she had sex with our gym teacher, Mr. Dobbs, on the wrestling mat in the gym. Someone else said Krina once got caught shoplifting a pregnancy test. The rumors spiraled from there. One student swore Krina got a zombie tattoo across her entire back, and Ned Rowley claimed she drank a cup of pig’s blood on a dare. (I’m pretty sure that last one has to be fake.)

  Krina terrifies me. Everything about this moment terrifies me.

  I hesitate by the bar’s entrance. I’m not sure I can handle fantasy and reality crashing together. This won’t turn out to be the stunning, flawless performance the Victoria in my head always gives. I’m actually here. I’m going through with this. Maybe I should go. The band is still setting up, and no one’s seen me come in. There’s no sign of the beautiful boy who put up the flyer, so he would never know that I came, I saw, I chickened out.

  As I turn to leave, I hear, “Victoria, right?”

  Dammit. I’ve been spotted by the boy in glasses.

  “Um, hi!” I call, my voice emerging too chipper. It’s too late to leave now, so I trot over to the stage.

  “I’m Levi,” he says.

  Levi Schuster is not the sex god who put up the flyer. He’s much less intimidating, like his picture would accompany the definition of a nice guy. The glasses are a big help. His nonscariness makes up for Krina, who is glowering at me from behind her drum set.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  Levi props his bass against the wall and nudges his glasses higher on his nose. “You’re a little early—”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” I cut in. “I can be annoyingly punctual.”

  “No, I mean . . . I like it.” Levi smiles at me, exposing a chipped front tooth. “It shows you’re responsible, which is definitely a plus.”

  “Levi gets off on punctuality,” Krina adds drily. She steps away from her drums and extends her hand. “Krina.”

  “Victoria,” I reply as we shake hands. I hope Krina isn’t grossed out by the film of sweat on my palms. If she is, she doesn’t show it.

  “Victoria, do you want a water or anything?” Levi offers.

  “Oh no, I’m fine. . . .”

  “You sure?”

  “Yup.”

  Krina goes back to fiddling around with her drums, leaving Levi and I to make conversation on our own.

  “So.” A bead of sweat appears above Levi’s upper lip. “I haven’t really seen you around school.”

  “I’m kind of a loner.” What sounded cool in my head sounds unbearably pathetic out of my mouth.

  “Really? No . . . boyfriend or anything?”

  I bite back a laugh. If only he knew how nonexistent my dating life was. “Nope. I’m a free agent.”

  “Oh yeah? That’s cool. I’m a free agent myself.”

  It occurs to me that Levi Schuster is hitting on me. I’m making him sweat.

  It puts me in an awkward predicament. If I’m too nice, he’ll think I’m flirting with him. If I’m not nice enough, he won’t want me in his band.

  So, I make an unintelligible “hmph” sound to his revelation that he’s single, and we stand there in silence.

  “You sure you don’t want anything?” he asks again. “Not even a water?”

  “No, no,” I say quickly. “Thank you, though.”

  Again, I regret showing up early. I’ve never been one for small talk, and I’m grateful when my painful attempt at conversation is interrupted by the swing of the front door.

  “Our first audition,” Levi tells me as a bearded man with a stringy blond ponytail enters the bar.

  Beardy strolls over to us and I instinctively straighten up as if I’m meeting someone’s dad. Up close, I can see that Beardy is well into his thirties. He introduces himself as “Greg” and he doesn’t seem nervous at all. Where did they find this guy? He’s obviously not an Evanston student, and I can tell that, unlike me, he’s no virgin to the audition circuit. I try to imitate his loose stance so I don’t seem so uptight standing next to him.

  “This is Victoria,” Levi says to Greg. “She’s auditioning today too.”

  Greg glances over at me, obviously unimpressed. “Cool.”

  We don’t shake hands. He’s probably wondering why I’m here so early, imposing on his audition time.

  “We’re just waiting on Strand and then we’ll get started,” says Levi.

  “A strand of what?” I blurt out, hoping it’s not drug lingo. Last year one of the kids at Evanston was suspended for doing coke in the bathroom. When Mom and Dad found out, they sat me down and rattled off a bunch of scary drug statistics they printed off the Internet. Then Dad told me a totally made-up story about his friend who overdosed when he took some extra Tylenol.

  Krina snorts. “Not ‘a strand,’ just Strand. Our guitarist. His dad owns the bar.”

  And then I realize who Strand must be. The blue-eyed boy has a name. A weird one.

  “Victoria, you’re totally welcome to stay put and watch,” Levi says, motioning to the tables scattered in front of the stage, “if Greg doesn’t mind . . .”

  Greg shrugs. “Cool.”

  Greg doesn’t seem fazed by much. Does that confidence come with age or experience? Whatever the case, I want to bottle it up and chug it down. I need it now.

  “And look who deigned to show up,” Levi announces, staring over my head at the door.

  I turn and the blue-eyed boy, Strand, is there in reality. He exists. I haven’t seen him since that day in the hallway, and I had almost chalked up our encounter to a fevered hallucination. But this time he isn’t alone. He hauls a guitar case on one arm and a girl on the other. The girl is short and chesty, with wavy black hair cropped to her chin.

  I feel my fantasies of Strand collapse around me. He has a girlfriend. Of course. He’s too pretty to be single.

  “You’re late!” Levi calls.

  Strand pries the girl off him and whispers something in her ear, then saunters over to us. His curly brown hair sticks up in multiple directions, and a confident smirk lingers on his face. All he’s missing is a leather jacket and a cigarette lodged between his lips. I can already tell he’s not the kind of guy who hurries, because he knows people will wait for him.

  “Who’s this one?” Krina asks Strand, her eyes darting to the chesty girl who has seated herself at the front table. “Five bucks if you get it in ten seconds.”

  “For your information . . . ,” Strand stalls, glancing back at the girl, who waves at him eagerly. He snaps his fingers. “Her name is Jenna.”

  “Jenna,” Krina repeats doubtfully.

  Levi rolls his eyes. “Can we please get started?”

  “Hey!” Krina calls to the girl. “What’s your name?”

  The girl blinks back at us. “Janine.” Her voice is surprisingly chirpy, almost birdlike.

  Strand groans under his breath. “Did I not say Janine?” he asks in feigned innocenc
e, but he slips a bill out of his back pocket and slaps it on the snare drum in front of Krina.

  “Janine . . . ,” Krina muses as she pockets the money. “Pretty name . . .”

  A sudden stab of disappointment infuses my already-nervous state. So it turns out that Strand is kind of a jackass.

  Not that I thought anything would happen between us anyway. Guys like Strand don’t notice girls like me. And honestly, I wouldn’t be interested in someone who couldn’t remember my name. No matter how pretty he is.

  “No visitors allowed at practice, Strand,” Levi says, his fingers twitching. “Krina, don’t encourage him.”

  “Ah, but this isn’t a practice,” Strand replies with a crooked grin. “It’s an audition.”

  Greg and I are still standing onstage, awkwardly taking in the exchange.

  When Strand sees me, his grin grows wider.

  “Glad you changed your mind,” he says to me, and despite my newfound disgust for him, I’m the tiniest bit pleased that he remembers me.

  “Their names are Victoria and Greg,” Krina says to him. “Try not to forget.”

  Strand taps the side of his head. “It’s locked in here forever.”

  “Let’s get started,” Levi cuts in. “Greg, you ready?”

  “Yup,” Greg answers. Being monosyllabic seems to be his thing.

  As the band gets ready, I sit at the table with Janine. She doesn’t speak to me. She doesn’t even look at me. I must have uncoolness seeping out of my pores. Onstage, Krina adjusts her stool and taps the foot pedal, then pauses to readjust her seat again. Levi stretches his long fingers over the neck of the bass. He periodically stops and frowns as he plucks the strings. Strand is laughing and talking to Greg as he tunes his guitar.

  My heart thuds against my chest. What am I doing here? They all look so cool and confident. What will they do when they find out that I’m the type of girl who practiced for this audition by serenading a lamp?

  It’s not too late to leave. Greg deserves this more than I do. From the look of him, he’s been at it longer.

  But I want this. I need this.

  I hope that Greg sucks. I hope his voice gives out and he falls off the stage. Not so badly that he’s terribly hurt, but enough that he’ll be put off from performing in the near future. Maybe a twisted ankle or something.

  “Are you with the band or what?”

  I turn to find Janine staring at me icily.

  “No,” I answer quickly. “I mean, I hope to be in it . . . I’m auditioning.”

  Her face slackens as she determines I’m not a likely threat to her claim on Strand.

  “He’s hot, isn’t he?” She juts her chin in Strand’s direction.

  I watch him, noting the way his thin T-shirt clings to his body and how his smile reveals a crescent-shaped dimple on his left cheek. Hot is an understatement.

  “I guess,” I agree. He is, but he knows it, which now makes him a little less hot in my eyes. Not so for Janine. Every time he looks at her, she visibly turns red. It’s like sitting next to a fire hydrant about to explode with sexual longing.

  “Test,” Levi says into the microphone, and the word reverberates throughout the bar.

  Levi nods at Greg to take his place behind the mic. Strand has his guitar plugged into an amp, and as his fingers strum the song’s opening chord progression, I momentarily forget my jangling nerves. I’m excited for the music, which sounds like it will be harder and grittier than the version I’m used to.

  Then Greg opens his mouth and reality smacks me in the face.

  The man can sing. He can really sing. It sounds as though he’s practiced for this moment his entire life, like his mom pressed a speaker onto her stomach while Greg was still in the womb. His voice soars and glides over the notes, hitting each one precisely on pitch. His face doesn’t clench with effort when he sings like mine does. It’s like he doesn’t even have to try. Janine bobs her head in appreciation and I want to throttle her.

  You don’t need to do this, the little voice in my head murmurs in reminder. And I want to listen to it. I think about leaving right in the middle of the song, without an explanation. I think about the relief of not having to audition.

  Then I see Levi and Strand exchange a look. Their faces are blank, expressionless. Strand’s smirk has vanished. They seem . . . bored.

  Even as the song gains momentum, Greg’s voice is unaffected. He’s almost too calm. Too easygoing.

  “What do you think?” I whisper to Janine.

  “He looks great,” she sighs, without so much as a glance at me.

  Oh geez. She’s still focused on Strand, who is listlessly strumming his guitar. He and the rest of the band do look great. They sound great too. I would never guess I’m listening to a high school band. I realize that the reason I’m ignoring the little voice in my head is because I want to be near this greatness a little longer. Maybe it’ll rub off on me.

  The song winds down and ends on a final sustained note. I clap politely, while next to me Janine loses her mind, whistling and hooting like it’s the height of Beatlemania. She reeks of desperation, and I see Krina clamp her lips shut to keep from laughing.

  “Do you want to run it again?” Levi asks Greg.

  Greg shakes his head slowly. “Nah . . .”

  There’s the look again. They’re disappointed with Greg! I still have a chance. The four of them huddle together onstage, speaking in hushed tones. After a minute they each shake hands with Greg.

  “We’ll call you,” Levi says as Greg turns to leave.

  “Cool.”

  I wonder what Greg will do for the rest of the day. Practice some yoga, maybe. Pick up some hemp at the local farmer’s market. Float through life without a care in the world.

  And then there’s me, the girl with tiny puddles of sweat gathering in her boots. The polar opposite of cool, composed Greg.

  “You ready, Victoria?” comes Levi’s voice through the mic, and my chest squeezes.

  I get up and walk onto the stage, and it’s a strange contradiction, because my heart is palpitating rapidly but my body moves like I’m walking in Jell-O. Even though I stare down at the floor while I walk, I feel the band’s eyes on me. I am about to collapse into a sweaty heap on the stage. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe normally, let alone through my diaphragm or whatever Annie was spouting off about when she helped me rehearse for this.

  Levi adjusts the mic stand for me, and I stare out into the nearly empty bar. The band waits silently for me. I nod at them.

  I’m ready.

  Chapter Six

  “SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER”

  —SUFJAN STEVENS

  I wasn’t ready. Not even close.

  I wake up on Sunday morning hoping the entire fiasco was a nightmare that never actually happened. Flashes of it sneak up on me like a horror movie montage. The way Janine wrinkled her nose throughout the performance. The way Levi smiled when I looked over at him, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. And the worst part?

  The shaking. The way my body, from my toes to my vocal cords, wouldn’t stop shaking. No matter how much I tried to cling to a note, it would slip away like a pool of water seeping through my fingers.

  I stay in my room the rest of the weekend. Annie’s left me nine hundred texts, but I can’t talk to her. I can’t stand the thought of her disappointment layered on top of mine. Not to mention the band’s disappointment.

  “We’ll call you.” Levi said it the same way he said it to Greg. Practiced, measured. We both knew it was a lie, but I kept up my part of the deal, smiling tightly, shaking everyone’s hand.

  My only plan now is to avoid the junior halls like the plague. I never want to see any of them again.

  Chapter Seven

  “BIRTH IN REVERSE”

  —ST. VINCENT

  Entering Evanston on Monday morning, it hits me that avoiding the band forever is an unrealistic goal. I’ll probably spot them in the library or the quad at some point
. Evanston is a big school, but it’s not totally anonymous. So I need to act normal, in case I do run into anyone. Unfazed.

  The unfazed version of me begins first thing in the morning. I put on my uniform. I eat peanut butter toast for breakfast. I take the train to school. La di da. Another insignificant day in the life of Victoria Cruz. Saturday was a weird anomaly, a bitter taste of another world to make me realize I belong back on Earth. I belong here, at Evanston, earning my future scholarship to Harvard.

  Then I see Annie stationed by my locker, her lips as tight as her ponytail. She taps her nails against her crossed arms and narrows her eyes at me. “You couldn’t spare five minutes to call me back?”

  I open my locker and shove my books inside. “Hello to you, too.”

  “Victoria.” She eyes her reflection in my locker mirror, zeroing in on a stray wisp of hair inching out of her headband before poking it back into place. “Explain yourself.”

  “I didn’t know you cared about the stupid audition so much.”

  “Um . . . yeah? I helped you get it, didn’t I? I’m emotionally invested in the outcome.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry for my lack of updates.”

  “Darn right you’re sorry,” she says, and I try to hide my smile. Annie never curses, so her intimidation tactics can fall short. Plus she’s, like, four foot eleven.

  “It’s not funny, Victoria!” she admonishes as I close my locker and we walk in step toward Ms. Hammond’s room.

  “Did you get the bonus problem on the homework?” I ask her, hoping the tangent will throw her off.

  “Of course I did. Stop trying to distract me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “What happened? You’re being cagey. Did you warm up before the audition like I taught you?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it.” I hope for once Annie will stop being Annie and leave me alone.

  She doesn’t. “Give me something, Vi. A crumb of information. I deserve it, don’t I?”

  We walk into Ms. Hammond’s room and Annie takes a seat directly behind me. I pivot to face her. “It was . . . humiliating? The worst experience of my life?”