by Andy Behrens
“I’m a little bit of a babe, it turns out. I have a date.”
“A date? Like, with destiny?”
“No, a boy human.”
“Who asked you?”
“It’s who I asked. Wake up to the new millennium, Fonzie.”
“So who’d you ask, tramp?”
“Sloth.”
Duncan laughed again. “Good one. Sloth.”
“No, really. Sloth. I called him.”
“Come on. No you didn’t. I mean, a nice guy, Sloth. But you were attracted to hi—”
“Oh, ick. No.” She chomped another celery stick. “I’ll admit that I kinda like the bad boys. But not the furry bad boys. No, I just thought he was a nice guy. And it seemed kind of sad, Sloth workin’ the third shift just to afford a dinky bug-trap in that war-zone apartment complex. He’s had no authentic high school experiences. Zero. None. A Maple North outlaw. Kinda sad. So, after you and I blatantly misjudged him, I thought it would be a nice gesture to take him to a function. And he can’t really go to one of his own school’s events, what with his reputation. So he’s coming to one of ours.”
Duncan stared, slightly bewildered. “That’s so . . . hmm, there’s a word . . .”
“Nice? I know. I am nice to a fault. I am kindness itself.”
“Something like that, yeah. It is nice.”
“Celery?” she said, offering a stick from her pile.
“No thanks.”
“These things suck. Like eating fingers. I don’t know how anorexics do it—the broth, the carrots, the lettuce, the fasting. Gimme a stack of cookies, yo.” She chewed, looking miserable. “So why are you visiting the old lunch table? Feeling nostalgic? There was something about a wall, right?”
“Yes, the wall. I’ve hit it. That’s what I said before you dropped this Sloth bombshell.”
“What the hell does that mean, ‘hit the wall’? Isn’t that a sports analogy? Please don’t use those.” She bit into more celery.
“Sorry. I’m just stressed. Nearing a breakdown, maybe. There’s the demise of the band. Stew hates me. I’m neck-deep in TARTS responsibilities—and I hate, hate, hate rats, by the way.” He sighed. “And there’s this ongoing lie with Carly, which I’m feeling horrible about because one, it’s a lie, and two, it got Freddie suspended. Or my mom got him suspended because of the lie. But whatever.” He thought for a moment. “Oh, and get this: I have to find Freddie a date for homecoming. Why didn’t you tell me you had a thing for goons before today? Where was this information being kept?”
“You don’t really ask what other people are thinking, Duncan. At least not lately.”
He looked down. “Sorry. I know. So what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that Stew doesn’t hate you. He just thinks you’ve prioritized a stupid fantasy over your friends, which you have. And I’m thinking that I can work with Freddie a little to get him date-ready.” She spit a wad of partially chewed celery onto her tray. “Blech. Seriously, these things are vile. I especially hate the ends. It’s like gnawing on cold wool.” She took a sip of her soda. “Lastly, I’m thinking that Syd’s going to be sitting here in about a minute, and you should apologize to her.”
“For what?”
“For making her feel like she’s responsible for breaking up the band. For making her feel like a complete failure.”
“But she’s responsible for breaking up the band. And she’s a complete failure.”
“You can be such a jackass, Duncan.”
He heard sniffling from over his right shoulder and the approach of Birkenstocks. He saw Jessie looking up at someone behind him, so he turned. Carly stood there, teardrops running down her cheeks. She sniffled again, then produced a loud, emotive “Ohhhhh . . .”
“Carly!” he said, standing and offering her a seat. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She sat next to him, continuing the audible crying. He’d had never seen her so distraught. He’d seen her cheerful, amused, and aggressive—but never sad. Not like this. Like, with sobbing and mucus and goo and tears. She sat, then fell against his shoulder, closed her eyes, and cried louder. Jess looked at him coolly and made a gagging motion with her finger.
“Oh, Duncan,” sobbed Carly. “It’s so awful.” More tears. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. . . .” Sniffle, sniffle.
Jess tilted her head, pointed at Duncan, and made a talking gesture with her hand. He knew he should say something, but he wasn’t prepared to comfort Carly—his more successful interactions with her required preparation. But he tried.
"W-what’s up, Carly?” he said hesitantly.
Great, he thought. Whassup? Idiot. Like you just greeted her at Applebee’s.
“Oh, Duncan! It’s terrible. Terrible! The TARTS rally is . . . [sniff] completely falling apart! It’s awful!” She sobbed against his arm.
Jessie rolled her eyes.
“What happened?” Duncan asked. “How can it fall apart? Things can’t be so bad. We plan every day. We double-check, we triple-check. We’ve plastered the town in flyers. We’re like an elite paramilitary group. We—”
“The band!” Carly sobbed. “We lost the band! And the rapper! They were like . . . [sniff] a package deal. Tripbunny and . . . [sniff] MC Fatso. I was so excited, too. I was [sniff ] . . . so counting on this. The band was going to . . . [sniff] be this big crescendo for the rally. All these VIPs from the national . . . [sniff] TARTS organization are coming into town. And we promised . . . [sniff] live music! It’s on the posters, Duncan!” More sobbing. “The posters . . .”
Duncan looked at Jessie. She raised her hands as if to say, I have no part in this, dude. Duncan flashed her a thumbs-up. Carly sniffled loudly on his arm. Jessie gave him a look that seemed to ask, How is this good?
“Relax, Carly,” said Duncan. “It’s okay. My band will play the rally.”
Carly stiffened, giving Duncan a quizzical look. Jessie gave him a significantly more quizzical look.
“Are you guys, um . . . good?” asked Carly.
Jessie leaned forward across the table. “Hey, dude, we don’t eve—”
“We rock,” said Duncan firmly. “I mean, unless you want us to slow it down. ’Cuz we can do that, too. We can do whatever’s needed, basically. We’re a versatile band. And very socially conscious. We’ve actually been looking to do, you know, um . . . more rallies and benefits and such.”
Jessie’s mouth fell open. Duncan continued.
“We’ve been together a long time, Carly. We pretty much rock.” He looked into her eyes. “Really.” He looked at Jessie, who seemed astonished. “We don’t have any other gigs next Friday, right?”
“Nope,” she said, shaking her head, her eyes wide. “Not a single one.”
Carly brightened. She wiped her eyes, then enveloped Duncan in a hug. He flashed Jessie another thumbs-up. Syd arrived at the lunch table looking mortified.
“Oh, Duncan, I am soooo grateful!” said Carly. “You are a total savior. Where have you been my whole life?”
Stalking you mostly, he thought.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
She took his face in her hands and planted a kiss on his cheek. He blushed. Carly then leaned back and gave him a sly smile. “Okay, I have to tell you how the rally is ending,” she said. “Because the band is key. I can’t even contain myself.” Her knees bounced excitedly. “So all the speakers will have spoken—a city councilwoman, a state legislator, the morning deejay from XRT, me—of course—and I introduce . . . what’s your band’s name again?”
“The Flaming Tarts,” said Duncan, smiling, pleased with himself.
“The Tarts!” said Carly. She squeezed him again. Jessie and Syd exchanged a look. “So I’ll introduce the Flaming Tarts,” continued Carly, “and you’ll come out and play for, like, fifteen minutes—no explicit lyrics, please, we’re at the park—and then . . . oooh, this is so great! The girls and I—everyone: Kylie, Hayley, Marissa, Zoe, Chloe, Sophie—we streak across the park
with this giant banner.”
She looked at Duncan for a reaction.
“That’s cool,” he said. “I like banners.”
“Duncan, we streak.”
“Like you have a race?”
“Like we’re naked. Stripped, just like rats are stripped of their rights.”
Syd snorted. Jessie half spewed soda on her tray. Duncan merely stared, imagining the scene. It was not unpleasant.
“The hope,” said Carly, “is that we all get arrested or something. That’ll get TARTS so much attention. We know the Elm Forest police will be there, so there’s a decent chance.”
Duncan kept staring. “What, um . . . what gave you this idea, Carly?” he finally asked.
“Well, you know how we’ve been calling TV stations trying to get someone to cover the rally? No one was interested. No one at all. But then Kylie and I were downtown last weekend and we sort of forced a Fox News van off the road. We made our pitch about the rally—right on the side of Lake Shore Drive, cars and trucks whizzing past—and this producer was all like, ‘What’s the hook?’ And we’re like, ‘Hook?’ And he’s saying, ‘This is Chicago. There are rallies. Big whoop. Will there be a million people? Will there be violence? Is anyone naked?’ And I was like, ‘Deal. We’re so naked.’ And he was like, ‘Can we have an exclusive?’ And I was like, ‘Yes!’ So we streak.”
“You’re getting naked?” Duncan said. “Definitely? And risking arrest?”
“Definitely.”
“We’re proud to be your band,” he said.
Carly winked at him and said, “I’m glad you’re going to be there, Duncan. It’s going to be an awesome day.” She stood, dabbed tears from her cheeks, and began to walk away. Then she turned her head back, grinning. “Hopefully it’ll be a great night, too.”
Duncan stared at Jessie, a stunned expression on his face. “What did that mean? ‘A great night’? That’s good, right?”
The phrase had galactic heft. It overwhelmed Duncan. “A great night.” Vague, he thought, yet still somehow an explicit promise. Carly had to know how Duncan would define “great night.” Was she acknowledging some shared sense of romantic inter—?
“Dude!” interrupted Jess. “You have a minor problem. There is no band. I mean, I’ll play. As long as Syd is in.” Jessie elbowed Sydney. “But Stew? Man, Stew’s pissed.”
Without a word, Duncan walked to where Stew sat, alone and sullen, in a far corner of the cafeteria.
“I apologize,” he said. “Wholeheartedly and without reservation. Now come on, get up. We have to go sit with Jess and Syd. We need to come up with a set list. The band is back together.”
Stew stared with a severe expression. “You think you can walk over here, wave the magic apology, and—poof!—I’m back in the band? Well, you can’t. There is literally nothing you could say that would make me reunite with the band. Nothing.”
Duncan stood unmoving, eyeing him for a moment. “We have a gig. There will be at least seven naked women there.”
Stew blinked. Then he stood, picking up his tray. “Okay, well, I can practice pretty much any night, any time. We should definitely work through some of the new rodent material, I guess. . . .”
20
Band practices resumed with renewed vigor: two and a half hours on Friday night, three hours on Saturday. Duncan allowed all his other responsibilities—most notably finding Freddie a date—to fall by the wayside. The Flaming Tarts convened again on Sunday afternoon, and they vowed to keep jamming until they’d perfected a six-song set. For the good of the group and the promise of rampant nakedness, Stew showed remarkable patience with Syd. She, however, did not display any improvement on guitar whatsoever. But when frustration crept over Duncan, he repeated three words to himself like a mantra: “A great night.” It centered him. Syd would become competent, he vowed. And she was trying extremely hard—that much was clear. Duncan rewrote much of the new rodent-related material, simplifying Syd’s responsibilities to a ludicrous extent. But somehow she was always just . . . off.
“Potty break!” called Jessie.
“Dude,” said Duncan, “we’re still totally struggling with the bridge on ‘Mouse of Pain.’ Just one more time through, okay?”
“I said potty break,” Jessie insisted, standing up and walking toward the door. “My drumming does not improve when I have to pee. I just get faster.”
Duncan sighed. Stew set down his bass and walked toward the door, too.
“I’ll jump on the potty wagon,” he said.
Soon, Syd and Duncan were alone in the garage. He flipped through sheets of lyrics and music even though he had a perfect familiarity with the band’s material. Syd spent a minute or so trying to nail a G, C, D, G progression, yet always failing. Duncan hid his dismay, cringing only slightly.
“I’m pretty horrible,” Syd sighed. “Sorry. Just thought I should throw that out there.”
Yeah, thanks for the news flash, thought Duncan.
“You’re fine, Syd,” he said, looking up from his papers. “Don’t sweat it.”
“I am beyond help. You make my parts easier, and I make them suckier.”
You really are criminally bad.
“You won’t get any better thinking like that, Syd.”
“I know. But I can’t stop thinking like that. Which is why I’m pretty sure I can’t get better.” She sighed again. “You know, I’m actually reasonably confident in all other areas of my life. But this one—the one that I really care about—well . . .”
Jessie and Stew returned, each with a handful of cheese- flavored chips.
“Thought you were in fit-into-the-dress mode, beauty queen,” said Duncan, grinning at Jessie.
“Screw that,” she said. “I love cheese.” She sat back down at her drums. Stew jammed his chip pile into his mouth and chewed noisily.
“Okay,” said Duncan. “So as I was saying before Jess’s bladder interrupted us, we’re struggling with the bridge on—”
There was a knock at the side door of the garage.
Duncan looked at the door, puzzled.
Another knock. “Who the—?”
The door creaked open. Carly stepped through lugging a large plastic bag.
“Hi, Dunky!” she said.
“Oh, hey!” he yelped. “You finally came to watch us! Awesome! This is too great. We’re so stoked about the rally, right, guys?” The band said nothing. “Put your stuff down anywhere—we’ll play something for you.” He grinned, then looked at the band. Jess and Stew kept chewing. Syd bent the Twins cap low over her eyes.
“Okay,” said Duncan. “Let’s let’s try ‘Rat Maze Funk’ on my count. One, two—”
“Actually, Duncan, I can’t stay,” said Carly.
Syd exhaled loudly.
“I’m so swamped with all this pre-rally stuff,” continued Carly. “So much to plan. It’s mere days away!” She clapped silently. “I’ve gotta reconfirm with the Fox crew, then I’m giving an interview to the Elm Forest Leader.” She shook her head. “I seriously can’t believe I’m giving an interview. Wow.” She dropped the bag. “Anyway, I just wanted to drop off costumes. ”
This drew a blank stare from Duncan, and three horrified looks from the rest of the Tarts.
“Costumes?” asked Duncan.
Carly rustled in the bag for a few seconds, then held up a rat mask, a fuzzy suit, and an outlandishly long white tail.
“Hee!” she squealed. “Now just tell me that’s not the cutest!”
“Dude,” said Jessie. “I liked the conquistador outfit a little bet—”
“Are we supposed to play in those?” asked Duncan, cutting her off. “Because, I mean, that’s no easy trick. A five-foot-long tail is not really something most musicians have to deal with.” He thought of just how dreadful Syd’s playing was when she went without a mask. He couldn’t imagine what impaired vision might do.
“Dunky, we’re so happy to have your band at the rally,” Carly said. “And we’d really be supert
hrilled if you guys could wear the rat suits. Please? A lot of our members are wearing them. To show solidarity.”
“This band doesn’t do gimmicks,” declared Stew flatly. He folded his arms.
Carly flashed an exaggerated frown, then looked toward Duncan. “Pleeeease?” she asked.
The band stared at him. Carly pouted.
“I . . . we . . . it’s just . . .” Duncan looked at his feet. “Stew’s right, we are not a band that has traditionally engaged in gimmickry, really, and, um . . .”
More pouting from Carly.
This is not what the group reunited for, Duncan thought. Our first public appearance cannot involve masks with long whiskers. But I can’t start saying no to Carly, either. Not with things progressing at the present rate. A great night, he thought, almost mouthing the words.
“I’ll wear the suit, Carly,” he said. “I can promise you that.”
“Actually,” she said, still pouting, “I didn’t bring a full suit for you, Dunky. Just a tail and a mask. The suit is kind of tricky to get in and out of. I was hoping you’d just wear a robe or something.”
He looked at her, confused again. “Sorry, I’m not really following.”
“She’s saying she wants you nekked, Dunky!” said Jessie, snorting.
“Well, I was sort of hoping that you would streak with us.” She smiled, then emoted. “For the past couple weeks, you have been the key member of TARTS, Duncan. Nobody’s done as much for us. Not Marissa, not me . . . no one. And volunteering to perform at the rally? Well, that’s over the top. You’re the best. It occurred to me that at the end of the day, all the attention is going to go to the streakers.” Carly walked toward Duncan and grabbed his hand. “If anyone has earned the right to streak, it’s you,” she said.
Jessie snickered. Duncan was struck by a kind of aphasia. His mouth moved, but no sounds emerged.
“I thought you were committed, Duncan,” said Carly. “Totally committed.”
More soundless mouthing. Carly stared.
Finally, this: “I love the mice. But, I mean . . . getting arrested? That’s no small thing. We might miss homecoming, Carly. Because we’re in jail. We’ll have jailhouse homecoming. I hadn’t really pla—”