The Victoria in My Head

by Janelle Milanes

  And it’s like heaven’s gates open up to me—if heaven is a loud, dirty bar smelling of pee and vomit. When we’re safely inside the bar, Annie and I squeal and jump up and down. This is officially the biggest act of rebellion in our entire lives.

  “How did you come up with Coral Gables?” I ask over the pounding music.

  “What?” she shouts back.

  “How did you come up with Coral Gables?!”

  “My aunt Deb lives there!”

  We have to scream over the speakers blasting Katy Perry at top volume. The bar is packed and we squeeze into a corner to regroup.

  “Can you see Krina?” I ask Annie.

  She stands on her tiptoes and gazes over the sea of bar goers. “I think they’re in the back!”

  They might as well be in Guam. We move inch by inch, pressing through the wall of people surrounding us. I dodge a splash of beer that hits my boot. In the slivers of space between bodies, I spot the three of them—Krina, Levi, and Strand—sitting on a long built-in couch. The crowd parts for us, not much, but enough so that I notice the small stage at the back of the bar.

  My legs almost give out at the sight of it. I realize it’s not Katy Perry I hear through the speakers. It’s the voice of a wobbly drunk girl onstage, wearing a glittery top that makes her look like a human disco ball. She’s slurring her words into the mic so badly that the crowd starts to boo.

  I yank on Annie’s purse strap to stop her from moving forward.

  “This is a karaoke bar?” I shriek into her ear.

  “Ow!” She scowls at me. “And yeah, I don’t think this girl is a professional.”

  “Nope.” I turn to head back out the door. “I’m out of here.”

  Annie grabs me by the hair. “Stop, Vi! We’ve made it this far!”

  “I am not singing in front of all these people!” I screech, my panic building.

  “No one asked you to!” she retorts. “We’re just hanging out. Come on, Natasha!”

  She has a point. No one’s asked me to sing, and even if they do, I’m a grown-ass twenty-one-year-old woman tonight. I won’t be forced to do anything I don’t want to.

  As we approach, Strand sees us first. His face slips into a smile, like he’s waiting for the punch line to a joke only he knows.

  “Victoria,” he says. That’s it. No “hi” or “hey.” I’m surprised, shocked, that he remembers my name. Then I’m disappointed in myself for caring.

  “Strand,” I reply in the same obtuse manner.

  At the sound of my voice, Krina and Levi both look up. I’m relieved to see Levi smiling, like I’m not a completely unwelcome presence in his life.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” Krina says in her monotone.

  “Sit down,” Levi invites us, and the group smushes together so that Annie and I can fit. I’m wedged in between Annie and Levi. The small table in front of the couch is littered with napkins, beer bottles, and empty glasses.

  They don’t seem too drunk. They seem happy. Then again, I’m not around drunk people very often. Despite my Natasha clothing, I feel prudish. I tuck my hands under my legs and try to take up as little couch space as possible.

  “Do you guys want something to drink?” Levi asks us.

  I open my mouth to say no, but Annie speaks first. “Water for me, and Victoria will have a whiskey sour.”

  I stare at her. Did she and the real Mara pull a Freaky Friday and switch places?

  “Actually, I think I’m okay,” I tell Levi, but Annie nudges me in the ribs.

  “Bring her one anyway,” she says.

  “Sure.” Levi rises from his seat. “Be right back.”

  I elbow Annie back when he’s gone. “What are you doing?”

  “The band needs to see you loosen up,” she hisses. “One drink isn’t going to kill you.”

  Another performer is up onstage, a skinny pale guy who sings Ariana Grande in a high falsetto.

  “That dude sings way higher than I ever could,” Krina comments.

  I want to respond and have a lighthearted conversation, but looking directly at the stage makes me break out in hives. It reminds me of the shaky mess I was last week. Luckily, I have Annie to maintain conversation while I battle my posttraumatic stress.

  “Do you sing?” she asks Krina.

  Krina shakes her head, but her Mohawk doesn’t move. “There’s a reason I stay behind the drum set.”

  “What about you?” Annie leans over to look at Strand.

  “Only when I drink,” Strand says, “but no one wants to hear it.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Krina tells him. She turns to us. “Strand has the voice of a goddamn angel. He just prefers the guitar.”

  Strand grins at her and doesn’t reply, just takes a swig of his beer.

  “Will we see you up there tonight?” he asks me, nodding toward the stage.

  I try to laugh, but my throat is tight. “Doubtful.”

  “Why not?”

  I shift in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable. The couch is flat and cushionless against my rear. “Sore throat. I think I’m coming down with something.”

  “Shame.” He studies me a little too intensely, and I look away. It’s a habit of mine, to avoid eye contact when I lie. When I sneak a glance back at Strand, he’s still watching me. I’m grateful when Levi returns with my whiskey sour.

  “Maybe a few drinks will dull the pain,” Krina suggests, raising her glass to mine.

  Annie offers me an encouraging smile, but all I can think about are my parents’ faces were they to witness this moment. I think about the D.A.R.E. representatives that come to our school every year to lecture us on the dangers of alcohol consumption. Then I push all of those things out of my mind and tilt the glass to my lips.

  I’m not sure what I’m expecting sin to taste like, but when the drink floods my mouth, it’s not bitter or harsh. It’s like liquid candy. Tangy sugary sweetness. In five minutes I’m halfway through it. I feel warmer. Looser.

  I’m bold enough to ask Levi, “So when will you guys decide on a singer?”

  “Probably this weekend,” he says.

  I take a gulp of my drink. “I really screwed up the audition.”

  At this point I should probably stop talking, but I’m almost finished with my whiskey sour and my head is light, like my brain filter decided to go off duty.

  “You didn’t,” says Levi. “You need more practice, that’s all.” He blinks at me from behind his glasses and looks so earnest, I start to feel better. Maybe all hope isn’t lost.

  “Oh, hey! I know you guys!” A girl with cherry-colored hair edges her way into the group. “Didn’t you perform at Lauren’s party last year?”

  She wiggles in next to Strand and continues to talk animatedly. I feel unreasonably annoyed that this girl has invaded our area.

  “You guys get groupies?” I ask Levi.

  “Strand does,” he says, watching the girl as she laughs and pets Strand’s arm.

  “What about you?”

  “Eh . . .” Levi shrugs. “Not really.”

  “That’s surprising,” I say, with uncharacteristic boldness. “Some girls really like that Rivers Cuomo look.”

  “You think I look like him?”

  “Yeah, circa The Blue Album? Totally. You’re rocking the geek chic thing.”

  “It’s the glasses.” He pushes them up the bridge of his nose as he says it. I can see Levi having a few of his own groupies. He’s not as obviously attractive as Strand, but with his button-down shirt and neatly parted hair, he has his own appeal.

  As we speak, Annie is bent over a karaoke songbook, flipping through its pages.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I warn her.

  “Speaking of Rivers Cuomo, they happen to have some Weezer in here . . .”

  I drain the rest of my glass and stand up. “Not happening.” I’m a little dizzy, so I press my hand against the wall for balance.

  “Where are you going?” Annie asks.

  “I�
�m getting another drink. You want one?”

  “I’m okay. . . .” She studies me. “Want me to come with you?”

  “I’m good,” I insist, turning to leave. I’m not drunk, but I do feel different. I feel loose, like I could do a little jig and not care if someone saw me. I push through the crowd until I reach the bar.

  “Excuse me, sir?” I say to the bartender. “Can I get a whiskey sour please?”

  I’m so grown-up right now, I can’t even handle it. The bartender shakes a bunch of ingredients together and strains it into a glass, then garnishes it with a maraschino cherry and an orange slice. Moments later, the liquid candy is back in my hands. When I reach the group, Annie is now sitting next to Krina. They’re pointing to entries in the karaoke book, so I scoot to sit in between Levi and Strand. The groupie is on Strand’s other side.

  “This,” I announce to no one in particular, sloshing my drink around in the glass, “is delicious.”

  “It’s a little too sweet for me,” Levi says.

  Strand looks amused. He inches away from his groupie. “You don’t drink often, huh?”

  “How can you tell?” I ask.

  Gulp, gulp, gulp.

  “Wild guess.”

  Whiskey is miraculous. I can now talk to Strand without feeling self-conscious.

  “Do you want to try my beer?” he asks me.

  “Sure.”

  It’s silly, but when I raise Strand’s beer bottle to my lips, I can’t help but blush at the fact that his lips have touched the same spot. It seems intimate, sharing a drink with a guy I barely know. Then the beer washes over my tongue, and I almost choke on its metallic taste.

  “Blech! Oh sweet lord!” I shudder and hand the bottle back to Strand, then reach for a napkin to dab at my tongue.

  Strand’s smirk shifts into a real smile. “Are you always that dramatic?”

  “It’s disgusting,” I say.

  “To you.”

  “No. There’s no way anyone actually enjoys that taste.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah,” I challenge. “I think you drink it to look cool.”

  “You think I’m concerned with looking cool?”

  “Of course you are. Isn’t everyone?”

  Strand fingers the rim of his beer bottle and sets it back down on the table. “To an extent, maybe.”

  Strand’s new groupie looks me up and down, her expression turning cold. Wow. She views me as competition. Like I would waste my time vying for Strand’s attention.

  “I’m Victoria,” I say to her, trying to look as friendly as possible.

  “Diana.” She forces a smile.

  “Victoria is our potential lead singer,” Strand tells her.

  She looks less than thrilled at the prospect. “Oh. What happened to the other one?”

  “Long story,” Strand replies hurriedly. His eyes dart over to Krina, who is preoccupied with the karaoke book.

  Levi slaps his hands on his knees and gets up abruptly. “I’m getting another drink. Victoria? Whiskey sour?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Why the hell not.”

  I’m a few sips into my second drink, and looking at the stage doesn’t intimidate me as much anymore. It helps that the person up there now, screeching through the chorus of “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” sucks. I can do better than that. People should hear me do better than that. Why do I settle for singing in the shower?

  Strand slings an arm around me and leans in so close that our foreheads are practically touching. I try to ignore the annoying fluttering sensation in my stomach.

  “Want to know something?” he murmurs in my ear.

  The fluttering intensifies. He’s sexy, and I’m weak. I can’t help it. For a moment I think Strand is about to ask me out or start making out with me, and, maybe it’s the whiskey sour, but I am 100 percent okay with both of those things.

  “Yes,” I say. I’m breathing too hard, like I finished a 5k. Every inch of my skin is overheating in anticipation of what is about to happen.

  Strand cups a hand over my ear and says, “He likes you.”

  I pull away from him. “What?”

  “Levi. He likes you,” Strand repeats. “How do you feel about that?”

  I feel . . . duped. Stupid. Disappointed. It takes me a second to regain my composure after the fluttering stops.

  “How do you know?” I ask Strand.

  “I know him.”

  I watch Levi at the bar, trying and failing to get the bartender’s attention. He’s good-looking enough. Not a sex god like Strand, but maybe that’s better. Someone like Strand is too much work to catch, and even more work to hold on to. Would it be so bad, to be liked by Levi?

  “What do you think?” Strand watches me intently.

  “Why do you care?” I counter, and he looks taken aback. He takes another sip of disgusting beer, still watching me.

  “He’s my friend,” Strand says. “I don’t want him to waste his time if you’re not interested.”

  The sad truth of the matter is that I was still hoping for Strand to show a hint of what I was feeling, because I can’t believe that kind of chemistry can be one sided. Then again, that’s probably how all of his other girls have deluded themselves. The reality is that Strand could have chemistry with a brick wall. Chemistry means nothing.

  “I am interested,” I say with impressive conviction. I turn away before I can overanalyze Strand’s reaction.

  When Levi comes back with my drink, I try to give him my full attention. No boy has ever shown much interest in me, with the exception of Ryan Arevalo in the first grade. He gave me a valentine that read “i lik yu,” and that’s been the extent of my relationship experience.

  “Having fun yet?” Levi asks, handing me the glass.

  I nod vigorously. “Yup,” I add for good measure. “You?”

  “Yes. I’m glad you came.” He gives me the sweetest smile, and I know giving him a chance is the right decision. Chemistry doesn’t always have to be instant. It can be learned.

  When I look back at Strand, he’s blocked by Diana, who has climbed on top of him and is kissing him like she wants to devour his entire face.

  Yeah. I definitely made the right decision.

  Levi is someone who will focus on me. Strand is someone who will play with my head and make out with another girl seconds later. I can never let myself forget that.

  By the time I’ve finished my third glass, I’ve fully transitioned from shy Victoria to fearless Natasha. I talk to Levi and Strand as though I’ve known them my whole life. I tell them about how the first album I ever bought was David Bowie’s Hunky Dory, and how I sing under my comforter when I feel sad, and how when I’m home alone sometimes I’ll dance naked to Beyoncé songs.

  That last fact gets me a raised eyebrow from Strand.

  I start to realize that my verbal diarrhea could mean I’m a tad drunk, which I didn’t think was possible after only three yummy candy drinks. The next thing I know, someone with a microphone calls my name.

  “Huh? What?” I say aloud.

  “You’re up!” a voice in the crowd yells.

  “Victoria Cruz to the stage!” the man with the microphone bellows. How the hell does he know my name?

  “Yeah, Vi!” Annie hoots, clapping her hands, and I know she’s somehow responsible.

  “I’m going to kill you!” I yell back at her, but she and Krina just laugh.

  I must float onto the stage because I don’t remember walking. A haze blankets my mind and my body moves on its own, free to manage itself. Even as I look down on the crowd in front of me, they don’t seem real. Instead of hiding from their attention, I absorb it. I drink it up like my whiskey sours.

  The pumping riff to “Freedom” begins and I don’t need to think or look up at the lyrics on-screen. The song is ingrained in me, and even through my alcohol-induced fog I remember every word. I strut around the stage like I would in the privacy of my own bedroom, and the crowd starts to cheer. The cr
azier I get, the bigger their response.

  It’s amazing.

  I think I can hear the band yelling my name, and it propels me higher. I need to show them all that I’m not the Victoria who blew her audition last week. When the bridge hits, I sustain my note, holding it until my throat is raw. And then the guitar kicks back in. I jump up and down, whipping my hair around and spitting out every lyric. For the first time in my entire life, I stop caring. I empty all of my frustrations onto the stage until there’s nothing left in me.

  It feels like I’m only onstage for ten seconds, but I’m panting by the end of the song, and the crowd is screaming for an encore. They love me. When I look over everyone’s heads at Annie and the band, they’re all standing and pumping their fists into the air. They love me too. And for once, I love me. The real me, not the one in my head.

  Chapter Ten

  “SUNDAY MORNING”

  —THE VELVET UNDERGROUND

  I open my eyes to a room with pale-pink wallpaper and fancy crown molding. This isn’t my bedroom. My walls are painted a faded blue. Then the dull ache in my head brings everything back to me. Well, most of it. I don’t remember how we got back to Annie’s last night. Or what time we left the bar.

  My mouth is sticky and dry, my saliva like glue. It’s far too bright in Annie’s room. The sunlight pierces through the slats in her blinds, projecting fuzzy stripes across the floor. I lift myself off the bed and the room revolves around me—what I can only assume is my first hangover.

  “Ugh, this sucks,” I say out loud, my voice hoarse. “Annie?”

  “Good morning, rock star!” She enters the room, fully dressed and carrying a glass of water. She’s annoyingly perky. And loud.

  “What time is it?” I ask groggily. “Why is my throat so sore?”

  “It’s nine in the morning.” She sets the water down next to me on the nightstand. “And your throat is sore because you regaled us with five karaoke performances last night.”

  I squint at her. “I did not. I only sang once.”

  “False.”

  My head feels as massive as a beach ball. “How much did I drink?”

  “Not nearly enough compared to how wasted you were. You’re a real lightweight.”

  “God.” I cover my face with my hands. “What did I do?”