The Victoria in My Head

by Janelle Milanes

  “Wow. Thanks. You’re very . . . well prepared.” I scan the set list. I’m familiar with most of the songs, but I don’t know all of them by heart.

  “You have a say in the set list too,” Krina cuts in. “Nothing’s written in stone.”

  “Yeah, feel free to chime in.” Strand finishes tuning his guitar and looks up at us. “We haven’t changed our set list since—”

  Abruptly, he stops talking and looks over at Krina, whose face turns stoic.

  “It’s fine,” she says. “Go on.”

  “. . . since she who will not be named,” he finishes.

  Levi claps his hands together. “Back to the set list. Strand, what’s going on with that song you’re working on?”

  “Not finished,” Strand says.

  “It’s been about a year now . . .”

  “Can’t rush the process.” Strand’s voice sounds odd, clipped. He clears his throat, and his normal voice returns. “Have you given any more thought to my other suggestion?”

  Levi exhales loudly. “We’re not covering Billy Joel.”

  I raise my eyebrows at Strand. As someone who embodies cool, he doesn’t strike me as a Billy Joel fan. Are cool kids listening to Billy Joel now? Or does everything Strand touch become cool, like a King Midas thing?

  “Cutlet, what do you think?” Strand asks me.

  If he calls me Cutlet one more time, I may actually have to throw one at him. I don’t care how good-looking his face is. It could stand to get hit.

  “You’ll have better luck if you stop calling me that,” I reply.

  “Billy Joel isn’t our sound,” Levi protests.

  “We can make it our sound,” Strand says. “We could do a harder cover.”

  “Let’s just try it so Strand will shut up,” says Krina.

  “Fine.” Levi takes off his glasses and rubs his palms against his eyes. “We’ll try it later this week.”

  Strand raises a triumphant fist in the air.

  “Glad that’s settled. Can we play now?” Krina spins a drumstick around and around her finger, looking like a sullen baton twirler.

  “All right,” Levi agrees. “Let’s go with ‘Just Like Heaven.’ You know it, Vi?”

  I nod. It’s on my Future Wedding playlist. I don’t tell the others that whenever I hear it, I imagine myself in a vintage rose-colored wedding dress, dancing with my future husband on a starlit rooftop terrace. In fact, no one knows of my bizarre habit of making mental movies to go with my playlists. Unless my embarrassing alter ego revealed it when I was drunk.

  Strand plugs his Fender into the amp, which sounds like it’s buzzing in anticipation. Levi and Krina get their instruments set up, and Levi hands me a mic.

  I clutch it with both hands and practice breathing through my diaphragm like Annie taught me. My stomach flutters slightly, but it’s nowhere near as queasy as it was during my audition. There’s still some fear in there, but it’s mixed with a large dose of excitement. That dose only grows when Krina smacks her drumsticks together and counts off.

  “One, two, three, four!”

  The three of them play in unison, and the space is filled to the brim with music. That feeling rises inside of me again, but instead of playing a music video in my head, I feel like I’m living in one. The music bounces off the floor and reverberates through the walls, surrounding me in a loud happy bubble.

  My face slips into a smile. Now that I’ve made it into the band, maybe I can actually enjoy this.

  Strand’s guitar trails off as Levi handles the bass line before my intro. I take one more gulp of air and open my mouth, not sure what exactly will come out this time.

  Miraculously, my voice is steady. No shaking. I look over at Levi, who bobs his head to the music, and my voice grows louder. When Strand’s guitar kicks in again, we sound . . . like a band. I didn’t expect us to sound like this. Like they could play us on the radio and no one would change the station. My smile grows wider. I possibly look idiotic, smiling so much, but it feels good knowing I can do this. Even when I stumble over some of the lyrics, no one flinches and the music charges forward.

  I’m not 100 percent confident. I can’t imagine hurling any chicken cutlets or rolling around on the floor like I do in my room—but I’m not the stiff, shaky version of myself from the audition. So . . . that’s progress.

  When the vocals, drums, and bass fade, Strand ends the song with an improvised guitar riff before strumming the last chord. It lingers in the air long after he releases the strings, and Krina lets out a hoot.

  “That was fucking great,” she says. “Can we talk about how great we just sounded?”

  Levi frowns, loosening his shirt collar. “I think the rhythm could be a little tighter. We were all a little out of sync on the second verse.”

  Krina waves him off with her drumstick. “You’re way too critical.”

  “Yeah, man,” Strand agrees. “Cutlet came to play. We’ve never sounded better on that.”

  “I wasn’t talking about Victoria,” Levi says.

  “You should know that Levi is an insatiable perfectionist,” Strand says to me. “He’ll have you bleeding on the stage.”

  Being friends with Annie has made me an expert at handling insatiable perfectionists. Because I want to impress Levi, I suggest we run it again. Even though I think we sounded awesome.

  Levi looks pleased with my dedication. “Yeah, let’s run it again.”

  We run it five more times. I don’t hear much of a difference, although I become more comfortable every time we play. I even put some of my own vocal inflections into the song so it doesn’t sound like a carbon copy of the original.

  By the end, even Levi, the insatiable perfectionist, seems satisfied. I leave Evanston Academy smiling, which is a first for me.

  Chapter Twelve

  “NORMAL PERSON”

  —ARCADE FIRE

  Coach B has never looked more imposing than she does today, her white teeth hidden behind glossy pursed lips. Cross-country practice starts in fifteen minutes, but I’m still in my Evanston uniform, sitting on the other side of her impeccably organized desk.

  “We missed you yesterday,” she says in her semisweet tone, and I know she wants an official explanation for why I skipped yet another practice.

  I look down at my plaid skirt, ironing out the wrinkles with my hands.

  “Is everything okay?” she asks.

  It’s hard to look her in the eyes, all widened with concern, but I force myself to meet her gaze.

  “I . . . I wanted to let you know that . . .” I swallow so loudly I swear the whole team can hear it from outside. “I’m quitting cross-country. And I won’t be joining track in the spring.”

  She stares back at me, blank faced.

  “I’m sorry,” I add.

  Coach B leans back in her chair, assessing me. Her lack of reaction is worse than the lecture I imagined in my head.

  Finally, she speaks. “I have to say I’m surprised, Victoria. May I ask what led you to decide this?”

  I shift around in my seat. “I don’t have the time anymore. With homework and stuff. And to be honest, I . . . I never really enjoyed running.”

  “Your teammates will be disappointed.”

  I say nothing, but her guilt trip is working on me. Maybe I’m being selfish. Still, I’ve lived my entire life in fear of letting people down . . . my parents, Annie, my teachers, my team. In the process, the one person I end up letting down is myself. Can’t I put me first this once? Can’t I hang on to the happy feeling I had after band practice yesterday?

  “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?” Coach B asks.

  Don’t back down now. I think of snarling Victoria hurling her chicken cutlets across a crowded room.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  I leave Coach B’s office, and my rule-following instinct is to change into my workout clothes and join my teammates out on the field.
But instead of walking to the locker room, I turn decisively in the opposite direction, toward Fridman, where my bandmates are waiting for me.

  * * *

  Levi sighs when Strand arrives fifteen minutes late to band practice. “Come on, man.”

  “Sorry.” Strand unlocks his case and leisurely sets up his guitar. “I got caught up in something.”

  “Yeah, Brianna DeVito’s throat,” Krina murmurs from behind her drum set.

  Strand bends his head over his guitar to avoid Levi’s glare. I can’t believe his nerve, delaying practice to tongue-wrestle another admirer. Strand has no right kissing anyone when we’re stuck here waiting for him.

  He catches me frowning in his direction. “Did I offend you, Cutlet?”

  “No,” I reply evenly. “I couldn’t care less who you suck face with.”

  “Then why the schoolmarmy stare?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do it on our time, that’s all. It’s rude and inconsiderate.”

  Levi’s head pops up from behind the music stand, and Krina lets out a low but audible laugh.

  I’m a little surprised at the sharpness in my tone. As a people pleaser, I’ve never chastised anyone but Matty. But I don’t back down. I’m filled with an unexplainable bitterness toward Strand and his legion of groupies.

  He doesn’t speak right away, but he studies me like I’m one of Mr. Davis’s equations on the chalkboard.

  “Okay,” he says finally. That’s it. Okay. And he continues to tune his guitar.

  Levi gives me a little nod of approval and I swell with hope. Then I look at Strand and feel slightly bitchy. But why should I feel bitchy? I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. Maybe it’s good for me to put him in his place. Maybe now he’ll stop calling me Cutlet.

  The rest of the practice goes okay, but one of our songs, “Lithium,” needs a lot of work. I hold back on the high notes instead of slicing through them. My voice is limp and my rasp is too contained.

  “Take five,” Levi calls after we run through the song seven times.

  Krina accompanies me to the water fountain outside the room. I need to get some distance from Levi. And Strand.

  “What’s with the newfound sass?” she asks me as I lean over the fountain and take a mouthful of lukewarm water.

  “Do you think I was too mean to him?” I ask, wiping a few drops off my lips. “I feel mean.”

  “Nah. He’s a big boy. And I’ve never heard a girl talk to him like that. I’m impressed.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have snapped at him.”

  “He’ll be fine. Strand’s pretty resilient.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Okay. Breathe.” She raises her palm to stop me. “Has anyone ever told you that you worry too fucking much?”

  I consider this. “No, actually. I’m pretty tame compared to Annie.”

  “Well, no arguments there.” She lowers her hand back down. “Has Annie always been so . . .”

  “Intense?” I finish.

  “I was going to say bat-shit crazy, but sure. Let’s go with intense.”

  “Pretty much,” I say. I give Krina a quick history of our friendship and tell her about the time Annie visited a teacher at home to argue her way from an A– to an A.

  “Remind me to hook her up with some Xanax,” she says.

  Back in the room, Levi wants to practice the song one more time. Krina groans and points up at the clock with her drumstick, but Levi ignores her.

  “And, Victoria, don’t be afraid to let loose on this one,” he says to me.

  I quietly bristle. I know Levi’s trying to be constructive, but I’m reaching my breaking point. He’s in full-on dictator mode, and it’s throwing me off.

  “This is the eighth time we’re playing the song,” Strand points out. “Not that I’m counting or anything . . .”

  “We’ll play it five hundred times if we need to,” Levi replies.

  When his back is turned, Strand pretends to wallop him over the head with the guitar. I try not to smile.

  The great thing about being in a band is that when the music is loud enough, it can drown out your thoughts. When Strand strums his guitar and the chords buzz straight through my brain, I can let out my feelings without stopping to process. I spit the frustration and confusion into the mic. And boom, it’s instant therapy. The others might be working through their own issues, because we’re playing harder than before.

  All of us—even Levi, which is saying a lot—are smiling by the time the song ends.

  “That’ll do for today,” he says. It’s equivalent to high praise from a normal person.

  Strand doesn’t say much as he unplugs his guitar, and I almost go over to apologize to him for my earlier comment. Almost. I stop myself.

  He was being rude, and why should I feel bad for pointing it out? I was being honest. There’s only so much I can hold inside of me at once, and some frustrations are bound to slip.

  While everyone’s packing up their instruments, I let it slip to Krina that Levi and I are going out on Saturday.

  “Really,” she says. “You and Levi?” She looks surprised by this revelation.

  “Yeah.”

  “Huh.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask. “Why ‘huh’?”

  “I don’t know. I just didn’t see you guys together. Don’t you think he’s a little . . . tightly wound?”

  I study Levi and Strand from across the room—Levi’s hair cleanly slicked back, Strand’s wild and unruly; Levi’s shirt pressed and tucked into his khakis, Strand’s tied around his waist, revealing a black undershirt. A rock ’n’ roll odd couple.

  Levi’s traditionally cute. He looks like he could have been an extra on a fifties sitcom. The kind of guy who would buy a girl a dozen long-stemmed roses on Valentine’s Day. The kind of guy who would keep your heart safe.

  “I like him,” I decide out loud to Krina. I feel like I’m convincing myself as much as her.

  She gives me that look again, the one that makes me feel small.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Oh, nothing.” She slips her feet back into her heavy black boots. “I have to go meet Annie.”

  “You do?” I ask in surprise. “Doesn’t she have violin practice?”

  “Not today. Her teacher’s sick.”

  I feel an unexpected, unexplainable pang of envy. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that Annie is bonding with one of my bandmates faster than I am, or if it’s the fear of Annie replacing me with a much cooler, more interesting friend. Either way, it’s a stupid feeling, and I swallow it down and force a smile.

  “Have fun,” I tell Krina. Ugh. What a mom thing to say.

  She gives me a lazy wave as she heads out the door. When she’s gone, Strand wanders over to me, his guitar strapped over his shoulder.

  “You were right earlier,” he says, looking surprisingly contrite. “I’m sorry I held you guys up.”

  I have the urge to apologize too, but I stand my ground, remembering what Krina said about Strand’s other girls.

  “I’ll let you off with a warning this time,” I say, giving him a mock stern look. “But don’t let it happen again.”

  “Never again, Ms. Cruz.” He crosses his heart for good measure.

  I want to ask whether he really was tonguing Brianna DeVito, but I think I already know the answer. Brianna’s gorgeous, and Strand’s gorgeous, so what’s to stop them? Besides, it’s none of my business.

  “So,” Strand says. “Any exciting weekend plans?”

  “Actually, yes. Levi and I are going to Carnegie Hall.”

  Levi looks over at the sound of his name, and Strand’s expression stiffens before settling into a strange smile.

  “What the hell, man?” he says to Levi jokingly. “Why wasn’t I invited?”

  Levi laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Only two tickets.”

  Strand looks at the two of us for a moment.

  “Got it,” he says. “I guess I’ll take
a rain check.”

  There’s a sudden tension in the air, and I wonder if Strand is feeling some of the jealousy I felt about Krina and Annie.

  “Maybe you two should go instead,” I offer, but Strand shakes his head and laughs and I feel stupid for even suggesting it.

  “I was kidding,” he says. He ruffles the top of my head like I’m five years old. “Enjoy yourself, Cutlet.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “ARCHIE, MARRY ME”

  —ALVVAYS

  Levi insists on picking me up at my apartment on Saturday and riding the train with me to Carnegie Hall. This is a terrible plan for a couple of reasons. Levi lives on the Upper West Side, twenty blocks north from Carnegie Hall, so coming farther north to Washington Heights is out of his way. But the bigger reason I’m against his coming here is because he’ll have to meet my parents. Which means I have to tell my parents about him.

  Levi is a parent’s dream, clean-cut and polite, but I think the Cruzes are a potential boyfriend’s nightmare.

  I fess up to Mom and Dad while they’re watching TV in the living room. I wait until they’re watching a Seinfeld rerun so they’ll be at their most happy and unassuming. Mom lets out a loud guffaw at something Kramer says. Then, right when they’re midlaugh, I sit on the couch next to them and drop the bomb.

  “Just so you know, I’m going out with Levi tomorrow night.”

  Their laughter stops abruptly, like they’ve been put on mute. So much for the casual approach.

  Dad grabs the remote and shuts off the TV. Jerry Seinfeld’s face dissolves on-screen and we’re engulfed in silence. “Excuse me? Just so we know?”

  “You have a date?” Mom asks.

  “If you want to call it that.”

  “What else would you call it?” Dad asks tersely.

  “An outing between friends?”

  Dad scratches the stubble on his chin. “Is this the Leo kid who was stalking you?”

  “Levi,” Mom corrects him. She turns to me. “Is Levi your boyfriend, Victoria?”

  “No. We’re just . . . hanging out.”