The Victoria in My Head

by Janelle Milanes

“I’d appreciate that.”

  I nod at the TV. “What are you watching?”

  “Anchorman. It’s terrible.”

  “Anchorman is a masterpiece.” I stuff a giant handful of popcorn into my mouth, suddenly famished. I wonder how many calories a person burns by kissing.

  We watch the movie in silence, the only sound in the room coming from the TV speakers and our random spurts of laughter at Will Ferrell’s cartoonish facial expressions.

  “He’s a nice boy, right?” Mom asks suddenly.

  I swallow down my popcorn. “Will Ferrell? I’m sure he’s great.”

  “Funny.”

  “Oh, Levi,” I say in mock realization.

  “Yes, Levi. He’s nice? He’s not . . . pressuring you to . . . ?”

  “Mom,” I groan. “No. He was a perfect gentleman.”

  “Good.” In a show of surprising restraint, she doesn’t say anything more. No questions about the date, no mention of kissing, no belated birds-and-bees talk. I’m thankful for the quiet. We sit and watch Anchorman, and I start to think that the best part of a date night might be when the date is over and you don’t need to work so hard anymore.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “GIRL”

  —JUKEBOX THE GHOST

  Strand’s hands are clasped behind his head, his long legs propped up on the folding chair in front of him. His face slips into a smile when I walk into the band room.

  “Finally . . . ,” he remarks. “I’ve been here for ages.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I drop my backpack onto the floor. “Congrats on making it to practice on time, something the rest of us do every day.”

  “As long as you acknowledge my efforts, I’m satisfied, Giggles.”

  “Giggles?” I ask, slipping out of my blazer and hanging it on the chair beside me. “What happened to Cutlet?”

  He doesn’t respond, still smiling, waiting. And then I piece it together. “Oh my God. Levi told you?”

  “I didn’t think the kid was that bad.” The grin expands, threatening to take over his face.

  “He’s not bad,” I insist. “I don’t know why I laughed. And frankly, it’s none of your business anyway.”

  I shove his feet off the chair (even his feet look smug, flopping across the seat) and plop down onto it.

  “You’re getting defensive,” he observes calmly.

  “No I’m not. Levi is a great kisser. Thus, I have nothing to defend.”

  “I believe you.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “You’re trying to pacify me.”

  “Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe you.”

  “I can’t believe he told you . . .” I glare at him. “Wipe that smile off your face, please. It’s so annoying.”

  “Don’t lose heart. There’s more to a relationship than the physical.”

  “And as resident man-whore, you would know that how?”

  He looks taken aback for a second before his face shifts into a neutral expression. “Maybe I’m not the man-whore you think I am.”

  “If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck . . .”

  Strand gives a short laugh. “Let me see if I understand. Because I enjoy the company of women—”

  “Oh God,” I scoff. “The company of women? Are you Hugh Hefner?”

  “Because I enjoy the company of women,” he repeats, “that makes me a bad person?”

  “I never said you’re a bad person.”

  “Man-whore doesn’t have the best implication.”

  “When you lead women on, use them, and dispose of them . . . well, it doesn’t make you a good person, does it?”

  “That’s what you think I do? Use them?”

  “How else would you spin it?”

  “I’m up-front and honest with anyone I meet. They know I’m not looking for a relationship.”

  I think about Janine, and the worship in her eyes when she watched Strand onstage. Even if Strand does tell these girls the truth, some part of them might hold out hope for something more than a one-night stand.

  “Not every girl wants a relationship like you do,” he says.

  “Who are you to assume I want a relationship?”

  “Come on . . .”

  “What?”

  “You’re a relationship girl. It’s so obvious.”

  “Maybe your other girls don’t want a relationship,” I reply, “but I’m sure they at least want their names remembered.”

  Strand stops, as if considering this. Then, surprisingly, he says, “Point taken.”

  The swish of the band door interrupts our conversation. Levi enters the room, and my stomach tightens at the sight of him. We haven’t seen or talked to each other since Saturday night. Krina comes in behind him, and she does an exaggerated double take when she notices Strand in the room.

  “You’re on time,” she states in disbelief. “Sign of the apocalypse?”

  “Ten minutes I’ve been waiting for you slackers,” says Strand.

  Levi slaps hands with him, then looks at me. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, then pull at the hem of my skirt. I feel Strand’s eyes on me.

  Levi walks over and gives me a peck on the lips, right in front of the others.

  Krina pinches my cheek. “You guys are so damn cute together. Aren’t they, Strand?”

  “Adorable.” Strand gets up from his seat to set up his guitar.

  Levi and I smile at each other. There’s a difference in me, pre- and postkiss. I feel as though I’ve been injected with a shot of sex appeal and confidence. I am a kissable person. It’s a proven fact.

  It comes out in my singing, too. When we rehearse “Lithium” this time, my voice growls and glides at all the right moments. I crouch down during the verses, making myself look demure, pretending there’s an audience I’m fooling. Then during the chorus I spring up, jumping around so that my hair flies over my face.

  When practice ends, Levi offers to walk me to the subway. The two of us zigzag through the suits and tired-looking nannies cramming into the uptown train entrance.

  “So when people ask me about you,” Levi says, pulling me away from a stroller hurtling toward us, “what should I tell them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do I call you my friend or the girl I’m dating or . . . my girlfriend?”

  “Do you want to call me your girlfriend?” I ask.

  “Yes. If you’re okay with it.”

  I hate to admit it, but I think Strand is right. I am a relationship girl. A relationship girl who has never had a real relationship, which now strikes me as sad. I’ve always wondered what it would be like. Why wouldn’t I try it with Levi? He’s cute, and he’s smart, and we both love music. My family approves. There’s nothing wrong with him, as far as I can tell.

  “I’m okay with it,” I say. Then, noting the way his smile wavers, I say, “I’m more than okay with it.”

  Levi places his hands on either side of my face and gives me one of his forty-five-degree angle kisses. When he pulls away, his glasses are foggy.

  “I have to get home,” he says, glancing down at his watch.

  “Okay.” I try to hide the disappointment clouding my face. Punctuality bests me again.

  “Believe me, I would love to stay and do this”—he motions between our lips—“but I have an essay due tomorrow.”

  “I have a lot of homework too,” I admit grudgingly.

  We kiss one more time, right outside of the subway entrance, until a homeless man barks at us to get a room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “THE KNOCK”

  —HOP ALONG

  Something bad is about to happen, because when I walk through the front door of my apartment, Matty bellows, “She’s here! Victoria’s here!”

  Mom comes rushing out of the kitchen, her hair in disarray, cell phone in hand. “Where the hell have you been?”

  I stand dumbly i
n the foyer with my backpack still strapped on. “You’re home early,” I offer by way of explanation.

  “Where were you, Victoria? I was worried sick.”

  “Does this mean we don’t have to go see Dr. Ferber today?” Matty asks happily.

  A hazy memory takes form at the mention of Dr. Ferber. Mom mentioned something yesterday about a doctor’s appointment after school. I was supposed to come straight home and skip cross-country practice. Or, what she thought would be cross-country practice.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, sliding my backpack off my shoulders. “I forgot.”

  “I don’t think you should be mad at her, Mom,” Matty says in the tone of a kid who believes his opinion will be taken seriously.

  Mom grips the phone so tightly her knuckles are white. “Matty, go play in your room.”

  He mutters something under his breath as he makes his exit, leaving me cornered by the wild beast.

  “Can’t you just reschedule the appointment?” I ask meekly.

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I’m sorry I forgot. It won’t happen again. I’ll come straight home.”

  “I called Coach B looking for you.”

  A miniature atom bomb explodes in my chest, destroying the remains of my happy mood. It’s been ticking away so quietly I forgot that it existed, that I had braced myself for this detonation to happen sooner or later.

  Mom’s voice comes out eerily quiet. “She said you quit cross-country last week.”

  “Oh.”

  “You owe me an explanation.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” I sweep past her and walk toward my room, on the off chance that she’ll leave me alone. But it’s silly of me to think that when she’s had two hours to stress and worry about my whereabouts. That’s a lot of pent-up emotion that needs to be fired at someone.

  “Do not walk away from me, Victoria,” she says, her voice right behind me.

  I stop and face her. “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to explain yourself, for starters. Why did you quit the team? Why did you keep it a secret?”

  “It wasn’t a secret . . . I was going to tell you . . .”

  “What the hell have you been doing after school for the past two weeks?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing my ass. Is this about Levi?”

  “No!”

  “Then why did you quit the team?”

  “Because I hated it, okay? I hate running, and I was sick of doing something I hated, so I quit.” I turn back around, stalking over to my room.

  “We’ll talk about this when your father gets home!” she yells after me.

  “Fine!” I shut my bedroom door and flop onto my bed. I’m too wired to do my homework at the moment, even though I have a chem test on Thursday and Dr. Miller’s tests are notoriously brutal. I slip on my headphones, crawl into bed, and snuggle under my comforter. I won’t quit the band. I don’t care what my parents do to me. My life is finally starting to feel like mine, and I won’t give that up.

  I make it through an entire playlist before Dad gets home. When I pull the covers off my head, I hear muffled Spanish outside my door. My parents still believe Spanish is this indecipherable secret language to me. Even though I don’t speak it fluently, I’ve been around it my entire life and can understand it almost perfectly.

  Mom is telling him I quit the team, and I can’t make out Dad’s reaction, but I hear the confusion in his voice.

  There’s a light rap on the door before my parents enter without waiting for a response, which in my opinion renders knocking unnecessary anyway.

  “Hi, Ria,” Dad says, taking a seat on the edge of my bed. He’s still in his work attire—jeans and a polo shirt emblazoned with the company logo.

  “Hi.” I sit up against my pillows.

  Mom sits next to him, hands folded in her lap. “We want you to know that we’re not mad you quit the team.”

  “You’re not,” I repeat doubtfully. She sounds like she’s reciting from a parenting book.

  “That doesn’t mean we agree with your decision—” Dad starts.

  “But that’s not why we’re mad,” Mom finishes.

  “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” I study the faded floral pattern on my comforter. “I was worried you’d force me back on the team.”

  “Victoria, you’ve lied to us for two weeks,” Mom replies. “That’s unacceptable.”

  “Yeah, but I thought—”

  “We raised you to tell the truth,” Dad says.

  “I understand that, I just . . .”

  “It’s the dishonesty that’s disappointing to us,” Mom adds.

  This is obviously a firing squad, not an exchange. I’ll have to let them run out of ammunition. “Okay. I get it.”

  “I want to know why you quit,” Mom says. “And I want to know what you’ve been doing after school for the past couple of weeks.”

  I have two options here, each carrying a certain risk. I can lie (again). Make up an excuse for where I’ve been spending my time. Find another lie to hide the band. Tutoring underprivileged youths? Volunteering at the local homeless shelter?

  Or I can tell the truth.

  I go for the latter, and I wish I could say it’s because of my strong moral compass, but it’s because I know my parents’ reactions will be that much worse if I’m caught lying again.

  I look them in the eyes and I say it. “I joined a band.”

  It sounds like a joke. The equivalent of telling them I joined the circus or the Harlem Globetrotters. My parents’ faces go through multiple stages of confusion.

  Dad looks to Mom, then back at me. “What?”

  “The school band?” Mom asks. “But you don’t play an instrument.”

  “Not the school band. I sing lead . . . for a rock band. Called Debaser.”

  “A rock band?” Mom’s eyes look ready to pop out of their sockets. I can see the associated images flitting through her brain: underage drinking, unprotected sex, hard drugs.

  “You sing?” Dad asks in surprise.

  “People seem to think so.”

  Mom gnaws on her pinkie nail, silent for a moment.

  “Levi plays bass,” I explain, “and there are two other members, Strand and Krina.”

  “That’s . . . not what I expected,” Dad says. He has a decisively calm look on his face, but his eyes are a giveaway. They’re blinking a little too hard, too rapidly.

  Mom’s face is nowhere near calm. She’s not one to hide her emotions. “I don’t understand. Why?”

  “Because I like it,” I reply simply. “It’s fun.”

  “I’m not sure it’s appropriate for a young girl to be in a rock band.”

  “It’s not the kind of band you’re thinking of, Mom.”

  “But Mr. Adams said you should have a sport for your college application.”

  “It’s not a necessity.”

  “What about track?” Dad asks. “You’re still going to run track, right?”

  “No.”

  That shreds through his calm. “What do you mean no? You’re going to drop everything for a band?”

  “I’m not dropping everything. I’m still going to school, getting good grades . . .”

  “Good grades aren’t enough,” Mom says. “And the lying, the quitting . . . I don’t like how this band is influencing you.”

  A rush of heat runs through my body. My voice comes out a couple notches too high. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you guys! I knew you’d react this way!”

  “Don’t you yell at us,” says Dad.

  “How can I not yell? You’re both sitting here attacking me!”

  “No one is attacking you,” Mom says. “We’re your parents. We have to think of what’s best for you.”

  “The band is what’s best for me! I’m finally feeling happy, and you’re trying to take it away from me!”

  “¡Ya basta, Victoria!” Dad barks. “You don’t raise your voi
ce at us.”

  Why do parents get to decide when it’s enough? And they can raise their voices at me, but I’m not allowed to do it back? What kind of hypocrisy is that?

  I’m shaking suddenly. I want to kick them out of my room, smash things around, run away from these control freaks, and never come back. I can’t do any of that, so I curl myself up into a little ball, physically shrinking away from them, and glare.

  “Your father and I will discuss the situation,” Mom says. “For now, you’re grounded until we say otherwise.”

  “What?” I snap.

  “You’re going to have to earn our trust back,” she says. “You’ll come straight home every day after school.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the sting of oncoming tears. The last thing I want is to give Mom and Dad the satisfaction of seeing me cry. They’re not going to win this.

  “You can’t ground me,” I try to reason. “I have band practice. They’re counting on me.”

  Dad looks at me with a mix of disbelief and anger. “You heard your mom. You’re grounded. End of discussion.”

  That’s when I lose control. I think about the band finding a replacement singer. Someone cooler, more confident. Singing with my band. My boyfriend. The tears trickle down my cheeks and along my jawline. I wipe my face off with my shirtsleeve.

  “It’s not fair,” I blubber, reverting back to a little girl.

  “We’re doing this for your own good,” Dad says. The cliché makes me rage. If this is for my own good, why does it feel so miserable? Why are my parents taking away the only thing that’s made me happy since enrolling at Evanston?

  My mom reaches out to comfort me, but I jerk away. She looks stricken. I don’t care. She did this to me, and she’ll have to deal with it.

  “I’d like to be alone right now,” I say coldly. I’m surprisingly calm considering what I really want to do is scream profanities at them for destroying everything.

  I turn my back to them without waiting for a response, and they wordlessly exit my room. After the door closes, I turn my music back on, and it feels like the tiniest of victories. They can prevent me from making music, but they can’t prevent me from listening to it. Angry music, with lyrics that would make them clutch their imaginary pearls.

  I fall asleep before the music stops.