So Lyrical

by Trish Cook

  Bebe mercifully dropped the subject of me being caught hunching alongside Brina yet again. “You going for a long one today?”

  I gulped down some prerun water. “Eight miles. Why, you need me?”

  “My agent always thinks going to a show will inspire my next book, so he bribed me with these,” Bebe said, waving a couple of familiar-looking rectangles at me. “Got tenth-row tix to see the luscious Hall and Oates tonight.”

  “Who’s luscious?” I asked her. “Hall or Oates?” I can never keep them straight.

  “I don’t play favorites,” Bebe said, licking her lips, just in case I didn’t realize she thinks they are fine, so divine. Believe me, I got it well before the spit dried.

  “Can’t go, Bebe,” I said, thankful for my math punishment now. I mean, yikes. No one’s heard from those guys in twenty years. “Flagstaff caught me passing notes in trig class and I ended up with extra homework. Brina got off the hook, of course.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Your teacher was probably blinded by her boobs.” Bebe put down the tickets and picked up the phone. “I’ll just call Trixie to come with me,” she said, hitting the speed dial. Trixie is Bebe’s one and only Winnetka friend.

  Bebe ended up here—in the world’s most conservative suburb—once it became apparent that she had picked up more than just waitressing experience at the shore during her eighteenth summer. Once she started showing, Bebe got shipped off to Great-aunt Betty’s house in Winnetka under the guise that it would do her some good to get out of New Jersey for a while. The truth is, it made for a lot less explaining. Never mind the fact that Bebe’s parents—my grandma and grandpa Tillingham—are so cute yet so clueless, they’re probably still wondering why Bebe hasn’t been nominated for sainthood, what with her having had an immaculate conception and all.

  To this day, Bebe says living in Winnetka is her sacrifice to me; she wanted me to have as normal an upbringing as possible, given the circumstances. And I can’t imagine a better place for a kid to grow up, or a more unsuitable one for Bebe. I mean, she just doesn’t blend. Instead of wearing tennis whites and listening to NPR in a luxury SUV, Bebe has holey-kneed jeans and cruises around in a beat-up Beetle cranking Quiet Riot or some other band that horrifies both me and the Winnetka ladies, though for different reasons. I’m embarrassed; they’re disturbed by the noise.

  “Sure, Trace would love to watch the kids until John gets home from his meeting,” Bebe was saying into the phone a minute later, winking at me. And I was pretty grateful for the job—even if she didn’t have the courtesy to ask me first—because I might as well make some money while slaving over my math punishment.

  The slp note, trig torture, and my nonexistent dad kept rolling around in my mind when I first started my run. But after a mile or two I went into the brain-dead zone, happily listening to my latest and greatest playlist and singing along whenever the spirit moved me.

  My mind made it back to the land of the living when I noticed an extremely cute guy jogging alongside of me. OK, he wasn’t just jogging; he was laughing. At me. I stopped singing and started scowling. What a reality slap—there was no soundproof bubble surrounding me when I had headphones on like I’d always imagined.

  I shot the guy my best pissed-off Jersey Girl look—honed during our annual two-week summer vacation at Long Beach Island with my sweet ’n’ ditzy grandparents—and kept running. He didn’t seem the least bit intimidated and stayed in stride with me.

  “You like Jimmy Eat World a lot, huh?”

  I ignored him, even though I was impressed. They’re not the world’s most well-known band—not yet, at least.

  “Know how I guessed?” he asked, belting out their song “The Sweetness” in way too good of a voice. Even all the whoa-oh-ohhhohhh-ohs sounded right. And to think, his ears were the recipients of my most recent off-key, a cappella solo. Even worse, after hearing him sing the right ones, I was pretty sure there was a place waiting for me in the Misheard-Lyrics Hall of Fame.

  “See?” he said, grinning at me.

  “Sorry I offended your virgin ears, Mr. Rock Star.” All the good comebacks would no doubt torture me tonight while I was tossing and turning in bed, trying to sleep.

  “Not offended,” he said, flashing a killer smile. “Not a virgin, either.”

  Hard as I tried to stay mad, I ended up laughing instead. He took it as encouragement.

  “I’m Zander O’Brien,” he said, sticking out his hand.

  I stared at his long, tapered fingers, not sure what to do with them. After all, we were still moving at a nine-minute-mile pace. I just couldn’t imagine the mechanics of the whole thing working out.

  Zander gave up on the doomed handshake thing, using that arm to pump again. “How long you running for?” he asked, panting.

  By now, the adrenaline shooting through me had picked my pace up to sprint. “Almost done. I’m on my last mile.”

  Zander seemed like he was about ready to pass out. “Want to hit . . . Starbucks . . . so we can talk . . . without me . . . gasping . . . for . . . breath?”

  “Sounds great, but I gotta get home. I have to babysit tonight so my mom can go to the Hall and Oates show.”

  Zander stopped short. “You do?”

  I stopped, too. “Yup.”

  “I don’t think my mother has ever even been to a concert. And the only tunes she listens to are by guys who died a million years ago. You know, like Elvis and the Beatles.”

  “Not all of the Beatles are dead,” I had to point out. “There are Elvis sightings all the time. And Hall and Oates haven’t had a hit since the eighties.”

  “Whatever,” Zander said. “At least you don’t have to leave the house whenever your mom puts her music on.”

  If he only knew. “I wouldn’t go that far,” I told him. “But I will admit, my mom is pretty unique. And we’re both really into music.”

  That’s a gigantic understatement. My mom spends her days writing, and cranking out tunes that everyone else—with the exception of those retro shows—forgot decades ago. A dilapidated jukebox in the corner of our basement plays Bebe’s prehistoric 45s. The portable turntable left over from her childhood spins the stacks and stacks of albums she spent her entire allowance on growing up. And her boom box, circa 1989, plays the songs contained on the seventeen thousand little cassettes that keep threatening to take over the attic someday.

  Thankfully, a brand-new, state-of-the-art home entertainment system in the living room takes care of our continuously growing mountain of CDs. Because I want to save my music from any premature aging, I’ve separated the CDs into two piles: hers and mine. And it’s easy to tell whose is whose. Bebe owns the ones only Oldies 101.5 would play; my bands rock MTV2.

  To further prove her musical fanaticism—and make us the biggest freaks in all of Lilly Pulitzer-wearing Winnetka—almost every wall of our house is plastered with photos of Bebe and her now-aging idols.

  Autographed ticket stubs, T-shirts, and a bass round out the mix. The absolute kicker is in the family room: a drum set turned coffee table signed by all of Dexy’s Midnight Runners. Whoever they were.

  Whenever my friends come over for the first time, it’s always a big freak-out until they realize they have no idea whom or what they’re really looking at. It’s always, “Is that Slash from Guns N’ Roses with your mom in this picture?”

  And I say, “Nope, it’s Billy Squier.”

  Then they say, “Who?”

  And I tell them, “Never mind.”

  Next they study the autographed bass. “Whoa. Nikki Sixx signed this?”

  And I say, “Actually, Keith Scott did.”

  Then they say, “Who?”

  He played with Bryan Adams, but they don’t need to know that. Instead, I tell them, “If you don’t know now, you never will.”

  Finally, they spot the drum set/coffee table. “Don’t even ask,” I say before they get totally confused.

  Though I normally dreaded this whole routine, I thought I mi
ght actually enjoy running through it for Zander. I prayed to the ancient third-string rock gods he would come over for a visit soon.

  Meanwhile, he was right next to me in the present tense, trying to make small talk. “You know what? We have a lot in common.”

  “We do?”

  “Yeah. For one thing, we’re both into running.”

  You could have fooled me, I thought. I just watched you and it wasn’t pretty. “You’re a natural,” I said. Obviously, my brain was working just fine—it was only my mouth that refused to let all the good lines out.

  “And music. We both love music.” Zander gave me a slightly crooked smile that reminded me of Ashton Kutcher’s. I was getting sucked in despite the fact I’d sworn off guys just last month. “I’m in a band. Want to hear us play sometime? Maybe you could sing backup or something.”

  “Ha-ha.” I dug my fingernails into my arm really hard, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Red half-moons appeared, proof positive I was awake.

  “If you’re afraid of being alone with me and the guys, you could bring a friend along,” he said. “C’mon, I don’t bite. Not unless you want me to.”

  “I might be able to arrange that,” I said, hoping I sounded sexier than I must have looked, with the sweat dripping down my face and all.

  “Maybe later,” he said, flirting like crazy. “After you’ve showered. So, do you go to Northshore Regional?”

  “Yup. You?”

  Zander looked slightly embarrassed. “Nope. Country Day.”

  “Ahhhhh. One of them.” Them unbelievably rich people, I meant. Yikes. This guy was so out of my league, I might as well quit now while I was ahead. “Well, gotta run, Zander. Nice meeting you.”

  He reached out and put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. “You haven’t even told me your name yet.”

  Finally, something I could answer without feeling the need to be clever and witty. “Trace. Short for Tracey.”

  “So, Trace,” Zander said, twirling my name around in his mouth. “You want to come see my band play at the rec center on Friday night or what?”

  It was time to admit it: Wild horses couldn’t keep me away. “Sounds good, Zander.” My tongue must have swollen to gigantic proportions over the past few minutes, because it came out sounding like “Zounzgoozandah.”

  If he noticed, he didn’t mention it. “Hey, in case you don’t make it, what’s your last name?”

  “Tillingham,” I said, my tongue returning to its normal size instantaneously.

  I started the short run home, making it a full block before I gave in to my screaming mind and turned around for one last look at Zander. By then he was peanut-sized. Figures he’d pick now to turn into a gazelle, I thought.

  “Good run?” the back of Bebe’s head asked me as I banged through the front door. My mom’s face was buried in the computer screen, as usual.

  “Great one. I just met the hottest guy from Country Day.”

  Bebe twirled around in her chair and stopped working on whatever her latest novel was going to turn out to be. “Someone who can cure the T. J. blues?” T. J. was my last boyfriend—the one who dumped me for that slut Claire Russell the day after declaring his undying love for me.

  “Could be. It’s too early to tell.”

  “Gonna see him again?”

  “Yup. He invited me to watch his band play Friday night.”

  “Hey, maybe I’ll come along!”

  I crinkled up my nose at the thought of it. “I don’t think so. Not only would that mortify me, but they don’t play oldies. Not your style at all, Bebe.”

  “I’m too cool to be mortifying,” she said, clearly delusional. “And Duran Duran is playing the House of Blues, anyway. They can probably still blow the doors off your new boyfriend’s band.”

  “Probably,” I said, though I sincerely doubted it was true. I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and took a chug, wondering if Bebe even realized what a music time warp she was in.

  CHAPTER 2

  Brina and I were just sitting down for lunch the next day when she whipped out another piece of paper from that little zipperycompartment thing of hers and handed it to me. “I almost forgot to tell you. Slp struck again.”

  “Really? When? Where?”

  “No, I’m lying. This morning. Stuck in the grates of the broken locker next to mine,” she replied, shooting off her answers rapid-fire.

  Just like the first one, I thought, unfolding the note. I scanned it while Brina tapped her fingers on the table.

  Brina,

  I like your scent when you walk by

  Always try to catch your eye

  But I’m afraid of what you might see

  Maybe you should take a closer look at me

  slp

  Brina fake-shivered and showed me the hairs on her arm that were supposedly standing on end. “Is that creepy or what?” she asked. It was so like Brina to question the motives of a guy who was being nice to her. Assholes, she was used to.

  “Yeah. Sweet and sexy always scare the hell out of me, too,” I said.

  “Oh, come on, Trace,” she snorted. “What the hell is he talking about, smelling me in the halls? He’s going all Silence of the Lambs, for chrissake!”

  I rolled my eyes. The drama of it all. Anonymous love notes aren’t enough for Brina. Oh, no. She has to turn it into a potential murder case.

  “If you’re really worried, why not talk to Mr. Perry about it during your conference today?”

  “I totally forgot about that!” She slapped her forehead so hard I was sure her ears would still be ringing by eighth period. “Who cares about slp? What am I gonna say about college? I have no idea where I want to go next year.”

  “Tell Mr. Perry you need help, then.” The fact that Brina hadn’t even begun her college search yet was incredible to me. My applications were practically signed, sealed, and delivered already.

  “Never. Never in a million years,” she said, repeating it to emphasize the strength of her misguided conviction. “He’s way too cute to disappoint. I’ll just have to wing it.”

  Mr. Perry, Northshore’s youngest guidance counselor, was the clear front-runner for Hottie Teacher of the Year according to all the girls’room walls. Rumor even had it that he’d hooked up with the Amazonian captain of the girls’ volleyball team last year.

  Glancing down the hall, I noticed something that made me feel sick yet oddly satisfied at the same time: Sanford Paulsen, fishing a huge booger out of his nose.

  “Brina? Here he comes. Case closed.” I could feel the hunch coming out of my back now that slp had been exposed as a nose-picking, flood-pants-wearing geek.

  She stamped her foot. “That’s not him.”

  “It is, too. And I’ll prove it.” I waved Sanford over.

  “What can I do for you ladies today?” he asked, trying to indiscreetly wipe his finger on the leg of his pants. The booger stayed stuck. He rubbed harder. Still no luck.

  “We’re doing a survey about middle names,” I said. “What’s yours?”

  “It’s Wendell, but—”

  “See?” Brina flashed me a triumphant look. “Told you so.”

  “Told her so, what?” Sanford asked.

  Brina opened and closed her mouth, but nothing came out. I jumped in to help her. “You may not believe this, but you’re our third Wendell today. I bet Brina we’d never get another one, and she said we would.” I turned to Brina. “You win. I’ll pay you later.”

  Sanford looked worried now. “I’m sorry, Brina, but I think it should be a do-over.”

  Do-over? Jeez, this guy had obviously never made it out of elementary school, maturitywise. How else could you explain his goofy word choices and inability to keep his fingers out of his nose?

  “Why?” Brina asked, apparently interested enough in what Sanford had to say to ignore his completely juvenile behavior.

  “Because I usually use my confirmation name instead.”

  “Which is?”

&nbs
p; “Luke.”

  Brina choked on her Diet Coke. When she couldn’t stop coughing, Sanford grabbed her from behind. Brina barely escaped getting Heimliched—but not before Sanford had a chance to casually toss off a “So, you wanna hang out with me Friday night?”

  Brina smiled sweetly and croaked, “Sorry, I’m busy.” She brushed at her sweater a few thousand times to make sure Sanford hadn’t left any presents on it and took off down the hall.

  Not about to blow his big chance like Sam Parish had, Sanford yelled after her, “What about Saturday, then?” Brina pretended not to hear and just kept going.

  I went to retrieve my English-lit notebook from my disaster of a locker, miraculously finding it right away. With a few unexpected minutes to kill before class started, I dug around some more in search of a Sharpie. What a joke. I had to settle for using a bitten-up, thumb-sized pencil to add Sanford to Brina’s list. It now read:Secret Lesbian Pal

  Some Lovesick Puppy

  Sam ??? Parish (sniffs a lot—note says he likes her scent)

  Sanford Wendell (Luke) Paulsen

  Mine was the same as always. Not-so-famous-anymore eighties dude number one, two, three, and four, plus Bruce Springsteen thrown in for good measure. I’ve really got to find a way to eliminate some of these guys, I thought, making little xs around the perimeter of my locker.

  That night, I must’ve tried on everything in my closet before I settled on my usual uniform: superlow Bartack jeans, a cute T-shirt, and funky Steve Madden wedge-heeled boots. I left the pile of rejects slumped sadly on the floor and took the stairs two at a time.

  “Bye, Bebe, I’m outta here.”

  She looked up from her usual spot at the computer and waved. “See ya, love. I’m going out later, too. Duran Duran, remember?”

  Don’t remind me, I thought. I jumped in the Bug and headed for Brina’s, screeching into her driveway on two wheels a couple of minutes later. Then I walked through the door unannounced, just like I always do.

  “Brina!” I yelled. “You ready to rock?”

  I peeked around the corner and saw Mrs. Maldonati in the laundry room ironing—her favorite thing to do, with the possible exception of not eating. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Maldonati.”