The Victoria in My Head

by Janelle Milanes

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I’M NOT PART OF ME”

  —CLOUD NOTHINGS

  The next morning I slip a note into Levi’s locker, calling for an emergency band meeting at lunch.

  Annie notices something’s wrong as soon as she spots me in the hallway. I know I look rough. I got three hours of sleep last night. My eyes are bloodshot, my hair knotted and wild.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, reaching for my shoulder.

  “My parents found out,” I say in a flat voice. “About the band.”

  Her eyes widen. “What did they say?”

  “Let’s see. They’re disappointed in me, they think I’m a liar, I’m grounded for the foreseeable future . . . oh, and I might have to quit.”

  Annie fiddles around with the ends of her hair the way she does when she’s deep in thought. “There has to be something you can do. A way you can change their minds.”

  “I’m working on it, but . . .” I raise my shoulders in defeat.

  “They’ll come around. You have to let them calm down a little.”

  Annie’s gotten to know my parents well during the course of our ten-year friendship. She was there for the Battle of 2007, when I ate all my Halloween candy after Mom told me not to and I threw up all over our newly remodeled living room carpet. She also witnessed the Hair Debacle of 2010, when I decided to cut my own bangs and ended up with a crooked slump of hair sitting on top of my forehead. Even the hairdresser who we paid to fix it helplessly suggested a strategically placed headband.

  My parents and I were due for another blowout, I guess. But this time I have more at stake.

  At lunch I wait until we’re all seated together. Levi takes my hand underneath the table and my stomach sinks. Will I still have a boyfriend if I’m forced to leave the band? Or is the band destined to be our only shared experience? The sole reason for my appeal to Levi?

  “What’s this about, Cutlet?” Strand asks. He actually looks somewhat concerned.

  Maybe Strand and Krina will vote me out of the band, thinking I’m not worth the trouble. Greg is probably still available to sing lead. Greg with his stupid beard and perfect pitch.

  I stare at Krina’s sandwich, hummus and red pepper, and say the words quickly, avoiding their faces. “My parents found out about the band and I, um . . . I’ll probably have to quit.”

  There. The words are out there, floating in the universe. The possibility of me leaving is real now.

  Levi lets go of my hand. “But I just booked a gig in two weeks!”

  “Screw that,” Strand says. “We can cancel the gig. Or reschedule.”

  “Yeah, the bigger issue is keeping Vi in the band,” Krina adds.

  I look at each of them in surprise. I wasn’t expecting either to rush to my defense. Not Krina, who is perpetually indifferent, and Strand, who I nag and scold.

  Meanwhile, my boyfriend stays silent. I look to him for support, but he won’t meet my eyes.

  “We need a plan,” Annie says.

  Krina chews thoughtfully on a piece of her sandwich. “Give your parents a few days to cool down. You need to prove to them that nothing’s changed.”

  “And then what?” I ask.

  “Negotiate,” Krina replies. “It worked on my parents. They freaked out when I joined the band. I studied medicine in India over the summer so they would think I was still on the PhD path.”

  “But you’re not?”

  “Hell no. But they don’t need to know that.”

  “In the meantime, try not to piss them off,” Strand says. “Be the model daughter for a few days.”

  Levi has turned his body slightly away from me. His fingers are intertwined, except for his index fingers, which are resting on his chin. He looks deep in thought. What those thoughts are, I wish I knew.

  “I can help you practice for when you talk to them,” Annie offers.

  “Thanks, guys,” I say. “I appreciate the advice, but I don’t see them backing down.”

  “Hey.” Krina points her sandwich at my face. “Failure is not an option here.”

  Strand offers me half of his chocolate chip cookie. It tastes like wax and sugar. “Yeah, Cutlet. You’re stuck with us whether you like it or not.”

  “You guys are so cheesy,” I tell them, but I feel strangely sentimental, like I’m seconds away from crying.

  * * *

  For the rest of the week I follow their advice. I rush home after school, even getting a head start on my homework while I’m sitting on the train. I help my parents cook dinner at night. I make Matty peanut butter sandwiches for dinner. I hand him his sandwiches without calling him a spoiled brat, which takes plenty of restraint.

  When we’re finished with dinner I stay in the kitchen to help Dad handwash the dishes. He passes me a freshly rinsed plate and I dry it with a terry-cloth rag, peering up at him for some indication that the tide has turned, that my good deeds have earned me back my band.

  I spend the weekend in my room, catching up on schoolwork. As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve let some things slide in the wake of joining the band and dating Levi.

  Levi sits with me and Annie at lunch now. So do Strand and Krina, most days. It’s my only contact with them now that I’m missing band practice. I update them on my interactions with my parents, and we analyze the data for signs that they’re giving in.

  They seem confident that my parents will let me back in the band before our gig. Well, except Levi, whose face crumples with worry whenever the subject is brought up.

  I want to go on a real date with Levi again. Since the grounding, the only real time we have together is our lunch period and any free pockets of time in the school day. If we’re in the library, we’ll head to a section that people rarely visit, like Linguistics, and make out against the stacks. Levi’s anxiety about the band seems to make him more passionate.

  Our make-outs are still prudish by most standards. Levi’s hands run over my waist and lower back, but never below the belt. I keep mine clamped around his neck. It seems wrong to go farther when there’s a chance that Mrs. Hester, our seventy-year-old librarian, could find us groping each other against The Changing English Language.

  On the whole, I’ve been a respectful and well-behaved young adult. My parents seem to have cooled down. They’re back to smiling at me, calling me their syrupy Spanish nicknames. It’s me I’m worried about. Underneath my perfect child exterior, I’m ready to crack.

  My life is quickly reverting to the bleak, stodgy routine it was a couple of months ago.

  The band is practicing without me, and we’re still adding new songs to our set list. I know it has to be done. They need to hash out chord changes, and Levi is checking for kinks in his arrangement. Strand is taking over the vocals until I come back.

  “Don’t get too used to it,” I tell him, only half joking.

  He reassures me that he’s strictly a guitar guy and would never be able to pull off the chicken cutlets like I do.

  Still, I worry.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “CLASS HISTORIAN”

  —BRONCHO

  At dinner Mom mentions that Jessica is in a tough spot. Matty is eating at a friend’s house tonight, so the three of us are spared the usual headache that goes along with our meal.

  “Who’s Jessica?” I ask.

  “You know Jessica,” Dad says.

  “Jessica,” Mom stresses, like repeating her name with more emphasis will help jog my memory.

  “Again, who’s Jessica?” I ask.

  “Your dad’s second cousin’s daughter.”

  “We went to their house in Jersey a few years ago,” Dad reminds me.

  I vaguely remember a two-story colonial with a pool in the backyard. A girl with wide-set black eyes and silky dark hair hanging down to her waist.

  “Anyway,” Mom continues, “Jessica’s having a quinceañera in February.”

  I can’t help the roll of my eyes, which luckily goes unnoticed, because perfect daug
hters don’t roll their eyes.

  A quinceañera is the Latin American equivalent of an American sweet-sixteen party on crack, except we celebrate when a girl turns fifteen years old. It’s a cheesy, overpriced spectacle involving tacky ballroom gowns, towering hairstyles, and video montages set to sappy Spanish ballads.

  Krina would find it all horribly sexist. I may find it sexist too, among other things.

  Mom and Dad gave me the option of having a quince when I turned fifteen last year, and without a second thought, I turned it down. I think they were both relieved at not having to scrounge up thousands of dollars for an overblown birthday party.

  “What’s the problem?” Dad asks Mom in between mouthfuls of mashed potatoes.

  “She needs more couples for the court. Clarita asked if I knew anyone.”

  Mom innocently pats the corner of her mouth with a napkin, training her eyes on Dad before letting them drift over to me. Then, as if it’s just occurring to her and not a thought-out manipulation, she says, “Oh, Victoria, maybe you can volunteer!”

  I open my mouth, ready to argue, and then snap it shut. The perfect daughter doesn’t argue. If I put up a fight, there’s no chance my parents will ever let me back in the band. Besides, if I know Mom, she’s already told Clarita yes on my behalf. Refusing would make her look bad.

  “What would I have to do?” I ask cautiously.

  Mom tilts her head in feigned nonchalance. “Go to a few rehearsals, dance with a partner, wear a princess dress . . . it could be fun.”

  I take a sip of water, swirling a piece of ice around with my tongue. Fun. Sure.

  “Would we have to buy the dress?” Dad asks, frowning.

  “Of course,” Mom says.

  “Sounds expensive,” he mutters.

  “Jorge, por favor.” She silences him with a death stare and turns back to me. “Ria? What do you say?”

  I mentally adjust my perfect daughter halo and slap a smile on my face. “Sure. I’m happy to help Jessica.”

  “Good,” she says. “Ask Levi tomorrow.”

  I take a piece of Cuban bread and slather it in butter, pretending not to notice the way Dad shakes his head in disapproval. “Ask him what?”

  “To partner with you.”

  I’m having trouble processing her words. “Partner . . . wait, what?”

  “Por dios, Victoria, you can’t dance in a quince by yourself.”

  “I thought Jessica only needed girls.”

  “No, no, no. She needs couples. I thought you could ask Levi.”

  “I can’t ask Levi to be in a quince with me!” I try to imagine Levi surrounded by powdery pink dresses and old women kissing his cheeks while rattling off Spanish. The two images refuse to merge.

  “Why not? He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “But what?” Mom presses. “These are the kinds of things that boyfriends are supposed to do.”

  “We’ve only been dating for a few weeks,” I say. “I don’t even think Levi knows how to salsa dance.”

  Mom tears off a chunk of my bread, even though she’s on a diet this week. She claims it’s not cheating when it’s my food she eats.

  “You don’t know how to salsa either,” she points out, popping the bread into her mouth.

  “Yes I do!” I act affronted.

  “You can move your hips, but you don’t know the steps or the turns. That’s why you guys will have rehearsals.”

  A perfect daughter would ask her boyfriend to do this. She would smile and nod like it’s no big deal. I stuff more bread into my mouth, eating away my annoyance, filling up the pockets of my cheeks so I can’t talk back. The imaginary halo above me dims and fades.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “STRANGE”

  —BUILT TO SPILL

  I wait until the end of lunch to ask Levi about the quince. For some inexplicable reason, the idea makes me nervous. I can’t predict his reaction. He might laugh in my face or freak out and break up with me on the spot.

  “I have a huge favor to ask you,” I say to him while the others are talking, my voice low.

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  I lick my lips, which suddenly feel cracked and dry. “Have you ever heard of a quinceañera?”

  “Oh God, don’t tell me you’re having one of those.” Krina looks over at us with an expression of deep disgust.

  “It’s not mine,” I say defensively. “I’m already fifteen. It’s my cousin’s.”

  “Okay, hold on.” Levi raises his palm. “What is a quince-whatever?”

  Annie opens her mouth to explain, but Krina cuts her off. “It’s a party that signifies a teenage girl is on the market, ready to be purchased for marriage.”

  I bite down on my cheek. The last thing I need is for Krina to go on a rampage against quinceañeras and turn Levi against them.

  “That’s not what it is anymore,” I tell her.

  “That’s how it started. That’s what’s behind it.”

  “Easy, Krina,” Strand says, but the corners of his lips twitch like he’s fighting a laugh.

  “Can you put a lid on the feminist agenda for one second?” I ask. The sentence flies out of my mouth before I can distill it.

  Crap. No one talks to Krina like that, especially not me. I don’t talk to anyone like that. The thing is, I partly agree with her. The quince tradition is firmly mired in sexism, yet somehow I have turned into its defender. It’s one thing for me to bash my culture—it’s another for Krina to do it.

  I brace myself for the fallout, but Krina doesn’t say a word. Her face dips into a scowl.

  “It’s kind of like a sweet sixteen,” I explain to Levi. “I’m one of the girls in my cousin’s court, and I need a partner.”

  “Okay . . . ,” he says slowly.

  “A male partner.”

  “Ah.”

  I try to analyze his expression. Not thrilled, but not completely horrified.

  “So . . . what exactly would I have to do?” he asks.

  “You get to wear a tux!” I say with scary enthusiasm. “Like James Bond!”

  I fail to mention that the tux will probably be white and paired with a tacky pastel-colored tie. Decidedly unlike James Bond.

  “I wear a tux and walk you around?” Levi confirms.

  “Walk . . . dance . . .”

  “Dance?” he echoes.

  “Huh?”

  “Dance?!”

  “Okay, yes, dance,” I admit. “But there will be rehearsals!”

  “Rehearsals?”

  “Why are you parroting back everything I say?”

  “Levi doesn’t dance,” Strand comments, plucking a blueberry muffin off his plate. “He despises it.”

  “It’ll be easy,” I tell Levi. “It’s all choreographed.”

  He sinks down into his chair and lowers his chin to his chest. “When is it?” he asks without looking up.

  “February twenty-seventh.”

  The date is still a couple of months away. By committing to this, Levi is essentially committing to us, to staying together at least until then.

  He lifts his head, and his facial features loosen in relief. “Oh. I can’t do it, Vi. I’m sorry.”

  I’m keenly aware of Strand, Krina, and Annie still watching us, an audience to my current humiliation. I knew Levi wouldn’t love the idea of a quince, but I never dreamed he would outright reject me in front of everyone.

  “Why not?” I ask, my voice wilting a little.

  “Evanston Band competition,” Levi answers. “We’re going to be in DC for a week in February.”

  “You can’t . . . I don’t know, leave early? Or anything?”

  “I can’t, Vi. I’m the only bassist they have. I’m sorry.” He shifts his face into an appropriately sorry expression, but I see the relief seeping through the knitted brows and downturned mouth.

  Strand clears his throat. “I can partner with you.”

  We all whip our heads around
in unison to look at him. He’s slouched in his seat and flashes me a bright, possibly mocking smile.

  “Not funny, Strand,” I reply.

  “Who’s being funny? I’ll do it.”

  I stay silent for a beat, waiting for the punch line, but it never arrives. “You’re serious?”

  “Yeah, why not? Could be fun.”

  “You realize you’ll have to salsa dance. Come to rehearsals. Learn choreography.”

  “I’m not a half-wit, Victoria. I can handle a few dance steps.”

  It’s not the dancing I’m worried about. It’s Strand’s inability to commit, as evidenced by his flavor-of-the-week dating style.

  Levi is fully on board with the idea, since now he’s off the hook and can reject me guilt-free. “Great!” he says. “So if Strand is in, everything works out.”

  “It sure does,” Strand agrees. “Right, partner?” He turns to me with a positively gleeful expression.

  “Right,” I mutter.

  I refuse to call him partner. I’d be better off partnering with Matty.

  Chapter Twenty

  “BONES”

  —RADIOHEAD

  It hit me this morning, while I ate my peanut butter toast. While Dad poured soy milk over his cereal, and Matty tried to play his 3DS under the table before Mom snatched it up from his skinny fingers.

  My parents will never let me sing in the band. I’ve been fooling myself this whole time.

  Everything is exactly how it was, the way they want things. I even asked them, point-blank, if they came to a decision. They made their excuses, like how Dad’s been busy with work and they haven’t had a chance to talk about it. Then they exchanged a look, a look that gave me my answer. In fifteen years, I’ve become an expert at reading my parents’ faces. I know when they’re biding their time, waiting me out in the hopes that I’ll forget. Like this band thing is some dumb teenage phase that I’ll grow out of.

  “Victoria?” Mr. Davis’s voice interrupts my thoughts. He’s wearing his white button-down shirt today, the one that accentuates the sweat stains. “Can you find the value of x?”

  It’s been twenty minutes since I stopped paying attention. I can always find the value of x without a problem, but today the equations on the board blur together in a jumble of unrecognizable symbols. Next to me, Annie cups a hand around her lips and mouths the answer, but I can’t focus on her long enough to interpret it. I’m so tired. It’s like I’ve used up all my strength being the perfect daughter, and I don’t have enough left to be the perfect student.