The Victoria in My Head

by Janelle Milanes

  “Well, you sang Beyoncé and then . . .” She smiles fondly, like it’s a treasured memory.

  No, no. God, please no. Things happen to me when I’m singing Beyoncé. I lose control of my body and mind, I fuse with her spirit. And that’s when I’m sober.

  “Annie,” I demand. “Tell me. Now.”

  “You got really into it, like belting out the chorus, and then you threw your chicken cutlets into the crowd.”

  I sink back into the bed and bury my face in a pillow. “You’re messing with me.”

  “I’m not. It was kind of amazing. One of them hit Levi in the face.”

  I give a muffled groan.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “Strand and Krina thought it was hilarious.”

  “While Levi will never let me in the band.”

  “He looked really impressed up until he was hit . . .”

  I feel my breath, warm and reeking of alcohol, against Annie’s pillowcase. Not only did I blow the audition, I failed my do-over, too.

  “Do you want anything to eat?” Annie asks. “We can go get some bagel sandwiches.”

  “I can’t eat. My life is ruined.”

  “Hey.” Annie pokes the back of my head. “Stop freaking out. You were really impressive last night.”

  I turn my face to look at her. “Seriously?”

  “Yes,” she says emphatically. “You were being yourself onstage. No shyness. Now you just need to do it without the alcohol.”

  Like I’ve mentioned before, Annie doesn’t lie, so I know that whatever comes out of her mouth is the Bible truth.

  “I’ll work on it,” I say.

  She gets up, crosses the room, and sweeps open her blinds. The sunlight stabs me in the eyes.

  “Time to get up,” she says. “You look like hell.”

  * * *

  I get home later that afternoon. I’m worried that when I walk through the front door, Mom will immediately know I drank last night. I’ve hidden every piece of evidence—scrubbed the makeup off my face, brushed my teeth and tongue, taken an aspirin for my headache—and I’m still terrified.

  “Did you and Annie have fun?” she asks, taking a seat next to me on the couch.

  “Yup.” Not a lie.

  “I hope you two didn’t keep her parents up.”

  “We didn’t.” Still technically not a lie. The Lins could sleep through a hurricane.

  “You’re not very informative today.”

  “Sorry. I guess I’m just tired.” I stare at the TV. She has a telenovela on, and a beautiful woman on-screen slaps a man across his face.

  “So what did you girls do?”

  My heartbeat quickens. Does she know something, or is this her usual interrogation routine?

  “We watched a movie, had some pizza,” I say, my voice slightly high-pitched. “Nothing that interesting.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  “That’s nice. You and Annie haven’t had a sleepover since middle school.”

  “Yeah. It was fun.”

  “I like Annie. She’s a good girl.”

  I’m sure Mom would change her tune if she found out her precious Annie encouraged me to partake in underage drinking last night. I don’t say a word, though. As long as Mom believes in Annie’s perfection, I am perfect by association.

  * * *

  My cell rings in the middle of dinner on Sunday night. We’re eating takeout, except for Matty. He’s eating a peanut butter sandwich because Mom said it wasn’t worth the fuss tonight. If my parents keep letting him eat whatever he wants because they’re too lazy to fight it, he’s going to become even more spoiled. Of course, no one will listen when I tell them that.

  I freeze when I hear my ringtone, fork halfway to my mouth. Levi. They made a decision.

  “Can I take this?” I ask my parents. “Please?” Dad hates when anyone interrupts sacred family dinnertime.

  Dad looks annoyed. “Can it wait, Ria?”

  Mom shushes him. “Go ahead,” she says to me. No one ever calls me, and she looks ready to combust with curiosity.

  I carry the phone into my room, unfortunately situated next to the dining room. “Hello?” I answer in a voice slightly above a whisper.

  “Hi, Victoria. It’s Levi.”

  “Levi, hey. Listen . . . I’m sorry about—” I glance over my shoulder to find my parents staring at me. When they’re caught looking, they guiltily go about eating their food.

  “Who’s Levi?” Matty calls as I close the bedroom door behind me.

  “I’m sorry about your face,” I continue.

  “Oh, that. It’s okay. No big deal.” He sounds embarrassed.

  “Did it hurt?”

  “My cheek’s a little red, but I’ll survive.”

  “Okay. Good.” It’s strange to talk to Levi like this after being so open with him on Friday night. We both sound so stiff and . . . sober.

  “Anyway, I have some news for you,” he says. “We all talked and we decided we want you to join the band . . . if you’re still interested.”

  I have to squelch the squeal rising in my throat. My energy level is suddenly off the charts, as if I’ve been held down by an anchor and released with Levi’s words. I want to dance around my room, jump on my bed, scream as loudly as I can.

  “Victoria?” Levi asks.

  “Yes, sorry! I zoned out.”

  “So . . . you’re still interested?”

  “Yes! Definitely. Yes.”

  “Cool. We usually practice in the band room after school. Can you come by tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” I’ll have to figure out a way to bail on cross-country practice.

  “I’m looking at the set list,” Levi remarks, “and I was thinking that maybe we should add some of what you sang at the Cave.”

  “Good idea,” I agree. “No Beyoncé, though. We can’t risk any more cutlet-related violence.”

  Levi laughs. It’s a hacking, coughing sound, like he’s trying to expel a piece of food lodged in his throat.

  “If we want to stand a chance at Battle of the Boroughs, I need to find the perfect song,” he says.

  “What exactly is this Battle of the Boroughs?” I ask.

  “It’s the biggest music contest in the city.” Levi’s voice quickens in excitement. “Hundreds of music acts enter. The winner gets tons of prizes, like a recording session with award-winning producers, a music video, a photo shoot, and a magazine spread.”

  “Wow,” I say, but I fail to match his excitement. All I can muster is fear. I’ve only recently learned to sing in front of high schoolers. I’m nowhere near ready for professionals.

  “Don’t worry,” he assures me. “The Battle isn’t until the end of March, so we have plenty of time to prepare.”

  “You know,” I mention, eager to change the subject, “I can look over my music and see if there are any other songs we might want to work in to our set list.”

  I expect him to ask me which ones, but he just says, “Oh . . . sure. I can think about it.”

  “Awesome.” I’m already on my computer, adding potential songs to a brand-new playlist.

  Levi turns silent for a moment. I check my cell’s display to make sure the battery didn’t run out.

  “Hello?” I say into the phone.

  “I’m here. Sorry. Hey, I was wondering something.”

  “Yeah?” I click on the The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust album. There probably aren’t any Bowie songs on our set list, and that needs to be rectified.

  “Do you have any plans on Saturday?”

  “No plans. Why?”

  “My parents have tickets to see the London Symphony Orchestra at Carnegie Hall.”

  “Oh . . . wow.” I’m not sure how to respond, because he didn’t directly ask me a question. Is he implying he wants me to come with him and his parents? I’m not sure about a family outing. The Schusters sound so refined and sophisticated. So very unlike Jorge and Gloria Cruz.

  “They’re going out of town this
weekend, though,” he continues. Ah. “Have you been to Carnegie Hall?”

  “No, never. I would love to go.”

  “Great.”

  “Is this, like, a band field trip?” I ask.

  Levi pauses. “No . . . I think Krina and Strand are busy. Is that all right?”

  I realize that Levi is making his move, in the slowest way possible.

  “Yeah, no problem,” I say, careful not to betray any hint of overanalysis, because this is what normal teenage girls are supposed to do. They go out with boys like it’s no big deal. So that’s exactly what I’ll do too.

  After I hang up, I calmly sit back down at the dinner table even though every muscle in my body is vibrating. My parents try very hard to be casual. I can practically see their mental clocks ticking.

  After a reasonable amount of time passes, Mom scoops some stir fry onto her plate and asks, “So is this Levi a friend of yours?”

  I shrug. “More like an acquaintance.”

  “Or a boyfriend,” Matty chimes in, his mouth full of soggy bread.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I tell him. “It’s gross.”

  He sticks his tongue out at me, speckled with sandwich crumbs.

  “Matty,” Mom says sharply.

  “You can tell us if you have a boyfriend, you know,” Dad says to me. “We’d be cool about it.” His tone is light, but he’s clutching his fork in some kind of kung fu death grip.

  “Levi is not my boyfriend,” I say. “No one is my boyfriend.”

  Dad relaxes the grip on his fork. “Good for you. Teenage boys are a waste of time.”

  “Oh God, Dad.”

  “I’m serious. They’re only interested in one thing, tu sabes?”

  My dad can be a total caveman sometimes.

  “But we’d rather you tell us if you’re dating someone,” Mom adds.

  “Right,” says Dad. “Even though you shouldn’t be.”

  “What is the one thing?” Matty asks.

  Mom nudges Matty’s plate toward him. “Finish your sandwich, anda.”

  “I was a ladies’ man in high school,” Dad says to me. “I know what I’m talking about.”

  I drop my fork onto my plate. “I’ve officially lost my appetite.”

  “Does Levi get good grades?” Mom asks me.

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Ay, Victoria, you get so worked up. We’re just having a conversation.”

  “I’ll be sure to bring you a copy of Levi’s report card tomorrow. I’ll get his social security number too; that way you can perform a full background check.”

  “You two must be dating, because you’re getting very defensive.” Mom eyes me as she takes a sip of her wine.

  I press my thumbs against my temples.

  “We don’t care if you’re dating,” Dad insists.

  “Sure,” I say. “You guys could not be more easygoing . . .”

  “What happened to his face, anyway?” Mom asks.

  “What?”

  “You said you were sorry about his face.”

  I stare back at her. “Seriously? You were eavesdropping?”

  Mom and Dad exchange a look. “Not at all,” she says. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She looks away when she lies, just like I do.

  Chapter Eleven

  “EVERLASTING LIGHT”

  —THE BLACK KEYS

  I have to quit cross-country. I’ve missed two practices so far, and now that I’m in a band (I’m in a band!), I’ll have to miss a lot more. My parents will never be okay with it. Today I shove these thoughts aside and hide them in the corner of my mind. That can be a problem for Future Victoria. Present Victoria is in a band.

  Annie walks me to band practice after school. We’re striding across the quad to the Paul Fridman building where band, orchestra, choir, and all other music-related activities are held. Annie informed me that Levi is to the school band what she is to the orchestra. The bandleader loves Levi so much that Levi gets unrestricted access to the Evanston band room when it’s unoccupied.

  “When are you planning on telling your parents?” Annie pesters me. I’ve been in a band for about a day and she’s already killing my buzz.

  “That would be never.”

  “You have to tell them, Vi. They’re going to find out.”

  “Then I’ll make something up.”

  Annie’s face reeks of disapproval. “I think you should tell them tonight and get it over with.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Did you at least tell Coach B you’re quitting cross-country?”

  I stay silent.

  “Victoria Cruz, you didn’t quit the team? They’re at practice right now! Probably waiting for you!”

  The thing about Annie is her tendency to drag into the open everything I want to hide. We reach the music building and I pull open the front door. “I’ll tell Coach B tomorrow. Give it a rest, okay?”

  The Fridman lobby is designed with plush carpets and velvet sofas to soak up noise, and heavy soundproof walls surround each music room. As soon as we walk in, I immediately feel the need to speak in hushed tones.

  “I know you,” Annie goes on in a whisper. “You’re going to put it off, and it’s only going to make things worse in the end.”

  “Which way is the band room?” I interrupt her.

  “This way.” She heads for the metal staircase that winds three floors up. “Are you listening to me, though?”

  “Yes, Annie. For the love of all that is holy.”

  She doesn’t reply, just stalks ahead of me and up the steps. I follow her to the second floor, down the carpeted hallway until we reach a corner room.

  This is it. Band practice.

  The walls of the practice room are stacked with chairs and lined with arched windows half-covered by drapes. Krina and Levi are already inside setting up. My nerves tingle even though the hard part is supposed to be over. I auditioned already. I’m in. I’m here. So why am I on edge?

  Levi gives us an awkward wave. “Hi, Victoria. Hi, Annie.”

  Thankfully, there’s no cutlet-shaped imprint on his cheek. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to go over and talk to him, this boy who asked me out on a date. What are we if we haven’t yet gone on said date? How should we act with each other in the meantime? Are we telling everyone else about our plans? I settle for waving back at him, like we’re two acquaintances passing each other in the hallway. I immediately feel stupid about it.

  Krina mutters a hello. Today her Mohawk is covered by a patterned scarf and she’s padding around the room in ripped tights. Her boots are sitting by the doorway.

  I say hello to her, keeping my distance, but Annie walks straight up to her without hesitation and says, “So I listened to that Sleater-Kinney album.”

  I’m surprised to hear this come out of her mouth. Annie never listens to my music. She says she doesn’t have time to listen to music for fun, only for educational purposes like violin practice.

  Why are Annie and Krina recommending music to each other? Are they buds now? How is Annie suddenly friends with someone so scary?

  I’m not sure what it is about Krina, whether it’s the rumors or the Mohawk or the hulking black combat boots. Maybe it’s all those things. But mostly I think it’s because Krina can look at me and make me feel like I’m five years old playing dress-up in Mom’s heels.

  “I told you to listen to Sleater-Kinney months ago,” I say to Annie.

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “Did you like it?” Krina asks her.

  “I loved it!” Annie twirls a lock of hair around her finger. “So much rage.”

  “If you want real rage, listen to ‘Rebel Girl.’ ”

  Annie has rage? Since when? I try to edge my way into the conversation. “I love Bikini Kill.”

  “Yeah,” says Krina. “Who doesn’t?”

  “I’ll try them next,” Annie replies. Her eyes dart to the mounted clock above the door. “Shoot. I’m lat
e to rehearsal.”

  “You’re what?” I look at her in shock, but she doesn’t look back at me. Annie has never been late to anything in her life.

  “See you guys later,” she calls as she heads toward the door. When she opens it, Strand is framed by the entryway, guitar case in tow.

  “Bye, Strand,” Annie says as she brushes past him.

  Strand nods at her, then catches sight of me. His face brightens. “Chicken Cutlet! Welcome to band practice.”

  “Can we please not make that a thing?” I glance at Levi.

  “It’s already a thing. Probably the best moment of my life,” Strand says, popping open his guitar case. “I’m almost sad I peaked so young.”

  “Again, I’m so sorry,” I tell Levi.

  Levi points to his cheek. “Look—no permanent damage.”

  “Don’t be sorry, be proud,” Strand says. “When you whipped out those cutlets and snarled at the crowd? Performance of our generation.”

  Strand might as well be describing a stranger. Maybe I get a strange Jekyll-Hyde complex when I drink. In my sober reality I don’t snarl at people. I smile pleasantly, never wanting to make waves, always seeking approval.

  “Was that supposed to be a feminist statement?” Krina asks.

  I want to say yes, a feminist statement, not a drunken mistake. Then Krina can stamp her approval on my coolness. Instead, I admit the truth.

  “I don’t even remember doing it. Annie forced me to wear the cutlets so I’d look older.”

  “The crowd did love it when you threw them,” Levi points out. “Maybe that should be your trademark.”

  “It could be a protest against the impossible standard of beauty that society forces on women,” Krina says.

  “I don’t think Victoria needs to resort to a gimmick,” says Strand as he tunes his guitar in the corner. “Gimmicks are for people without talent.”

  Was that a compliment?

  Krina lets out a small snort and Levi looks at her questioningly.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I just pictured you getting hit in the face again.”

  That gets Strand going, and Levi closes his eyes like an exhausted parent.

  “Moving on,” he says. “We need to talk about our set list.” He hands me a thick packet and when I open it, I find a stack of papers clipped together and a flash drive. “The first page is a list of the songs we’ve been playing. The flash drive has the music in case you’re not familiar.”