by Andy Behrens
THWAP!
She used to protect me from just this sort of thing, he thought.
“How could you, Duncan?!” Carly breathlessly demanded.
“I . . . I still don’t really know . . . hey, what’s up with you and Kurt?”
THWAP!
“What?! There is nothing up with me and Kurt.”
“You kissed him! I totally saw it! Like you kissed me.”
“It was for luck, Duncan. Of which you apparently have none. And out of gratitude, kindness . . . that sort of thing.”
“Oh,” said Duncan, looking away. “’Cuz I thought you were, like, kind of into him now, instead of me.”
THWAP!
“Instead of you? I thought we were friends, Duncan. I thought you cared about the things I care about!”
“I thought you cared about me,” he offered sheepishly.
THWA—
Duncan managed to catch the tail before it connected again. “Okay, it’s kind of hurting now.”
“You’re suddenly defending yourself?” Carly said.
Ouch, thought Duncan.
Carly snatched the rat tail back.
“I never actually needed defending,” he said, suddenly in the confessional mood of the clinically despondent. “Just so you know, Freddie only attacked me so you’d notice me. He’s actually a pretty okay guy. All my bullies, it turns out, are girls. You, Mom, the twerp who lives next door. Freddie’s cool. If it makes you feel any better, he’s pissed at me fo—”
THWAP!
“So I’d notice you?!” Carly was mortified. She let the tail dangle at her side like nunchuks. “That was all a . . . a . . . a big put-on? I was being manipulated?!”
“Well, that’s a strong word for it, ‘manipu—’”
THWAP! THWAP! THWAP!
From a corner of the stage, they heard cameras snapping. Photographers from both the Owl’s Nest and the Elm Forest Leader were capturing the odd scene of Carly Garfield beating Duncan with a giant detached tail.
“Great stuff, guys,” said one of them. “Keep it up.”
Carly paid no attention to them.
THWAP!
“You know you’ve ruined this event, right?!” she yelled. “You know that, yes? There is no salvaging this, Duncan. The TV van is gone. The legislators are gone. The people are gone. You scared them away.”
“It was a freak occurrence, Carly. I swear I dunno what the deal is with the sound equip—”
“I’m disappointed in you, Duncan Boone.”
He sighed. “Yeah, that’s kind of a recurring theme today.”
24
Duncan sat in his dim and windowless garage on the fender of a car that hadn’t budged in perhaps a year. He fumbled in his backpack for his journal, which Mrs. Kindler had returned the previous Monday. She’d made no notations. Duncan opened it to an empty page.
ENTRY #14, OCTOBER 15
So, um ... the band had its first show today. So, um ... the band had its first show today. Think I saw you there, Mrs. K. Thanks for the support. We didn’t play long. The opening act was received warmly. The Flaming Tarts? Not so much.
On the cycle of good day/bad day that we’ve been documenting here, this can be filed under “bad.” I’ve made an utter mess of a few things, as I’m sure you noticed. Today I seem to have lost a girl—no, *the* girl—and most of my friends. No, my *best* friends. I am not, as it turns out, attending homecoming. But I’ll keep a good thought for the fightin’ Owls. Hoot.
And so we beat on like boats, blah-blah-blah. Or however Fitzgerald has it.
He threw the journal down and looked up at the musty garage rafters. The band’s equipment was piled in a corner. Sometimes, in bleak moments that weren’t quite that bleak, Duncan would play something. But just then he was too disgusted with the idea of music to pick up a guitar, and too disgusted with the idea of himself to sing.
He sighed.
I shouldn’t even wallow, he thought. I’m not good enough for wallowing. Wallowing is for the virtuous, the wronged, the worthy. Hmm, there might be a lyric there. . . .
The garage door creaked open.
“I’m fine, Mom,” he said, not looking up. “Really. Thanks for checking again, though.”
“Hey, rocker,” said Jess. “Your parents said I’d find you here. A mild surprise, since I thought you liked to do most of your self-flagellation in the park.”
“I’m avoiding the park for a while,” Duncan said. “See if you can guess why.”
Jessie giggled.
“Where’s your date, Jess?”
“Sloth? He’s been cool, actually. Drove me here. He’s outside. But between the rally and the parade, I think he’s already seen enough to reaffirm the decision to disengage from high school society.”
“Did he say if he was looking for a roommate?” said Duncan. He sighed again, then sat up. “I was so close to having it all, Jess.”
“Your melodrama is showing, dude. Get over it.”
“But the band was right there, on the bri—”
“Oh, the band is still right there. No one’s left the damn band.” She paused. “I do think it’s time for another name change, though.”
Duncan smiled. “How ’bout The Three-Hundred-Decibel Atomic Shriek of Death?”
“That does fit nicely with our local reputation,” she said. “And I don’t suppose Carly will be hiring us anymore.” Jess sat down next to Duncan atop the car. “What’d you ever really like about that chick, Duncan? Seriously, what?”
Ideally, thought Duncan, this is where I’d say how fun she was. Or how sweet she was. Or how mind-bendingly sexually compatible we were. But, let’s be honest, none of these things are true. Well, the first two definitely weren’t. And the third isn’t likely to be determined. So . . .
“She cares deeply about . . . um, things.”
Jessie laughed. “There’re the rats, I guess. And don’t forget the beavers.”
“Mmm, yes. Can’t forget those.”
“I think maybe you liked an idea of Carly Garfield more than Carly herself. You had no commonalities, so you tried to invent some. That was pretty dumb, dude. What you need is a girl who really gets you. Someone fun. Someone you won’t have to deceive just to sit with her at lunch.” She paused. “Maybe you should look at your own lunch table, actually.”
Duncan sat up.
Oh crap, he thought.
“Jess, wait. This is kind of awkward, because I know I’ve already screwed up this day about as thoroughly as I can, but I don’t really like you like tha—”
She flicked his ear.
“Oww!”
“Jeez, you are profoundly dense,” Jess said with a smirk. “Once you’ve kicked a man’s ass the way I’ve kicked yours, Duncan, a line is crossed that cannot be recrossed. I don’t have a crush on you.” She grinned. “But I know someone who does. Or at least she did.”
“At our lunch tab—?”
Sydney Wambaugh? he thought.
No.
Oh, hell no. She snorts. And she’s loud. And she’s a total disaster on guitar. And her brother decided I was too lame to beat up. And . . . well, she could name every member of the Faces. And she’s fun. And she crowd-surfs. And she does dig Wolfmother. And when she wears that Soul Asylum shirt tucked in with that obnoxious AC/DC belt-buckle and the jeans with the safety pins and the . . . hmm. Sydney Wambaugh. Maybe.
He looked at Jess earnestly. “Do you think Syd can ever be a good guitar play—?”
“No, Duncan,” said Jess. “No, I do not. She can be many things—almost anything, really. But guitar mastery is clearly beyond her.” Jess smiled. “Can you deal with that?”
I can fix her, he thought.
“Yeah, I can deal with that.” He stood up. “But what about Freddie? I promised him a girl. I’ve totally let him down. I don’t think I’m very high on his list of acceptable suitors for his sister at the moment.”
“Don’t worry about Freddie,” Jess said. “I have just the girl
for him.”
“Don’t start cutting deals with Freddie, Jess. I’m warning you. It never ends. He just asks for more and mo—”
Jess shook her head. “Leave it to me,” she said. She hopped off the Skylark, picked up Syd’s Flying V guitar from the mound of band gear, and handed it to Duncan. “You need to go return this.” Jess scampered out of the garage.
Duncan, his head gathering around this new idea of Syd, drifted inside to groom. He spent far too long deciding which band’s shirt to wear (deciding on the Misfits, ’cuz the cut flattered him) and which pair of shoes to slip on (the new black/gray Adios, ’cuz Syd had sort of complimented them). Then, moving slightly quicker, he hurried to his car with the guitar in hand. It wasn’t far to the Wambaugh house, and he drove with obscene haste, yet he worried that this would somehow be the final humiliation in an already profoundly humiliating day.
There was, he realized, a good chance that Syd would simply snatch the guitar from him, possibly whack him with it, and then slam the door in his face. He had at least that much coming. Or maybe Freddie would answer the door, snatch the guitar, and use it to shatter Duncan’s kneecaps. That might be more in line with what he deserved. Duncan saw Syd’s house well before he pulled into the driveway. It was backlit by a blinking green fast-food sign, so the place seemed to wink at him as he approached. He parked, raced across the grass to her door and then . . . froze.
Duncan stood on the front step in the dark, growing steadily more intimidated.
He didn’t knock or ring the bell.
Strange, he thought. He hadn’t been at all frightened onstage at Watts that afternoon, with so many people around and such disaster looming. But there, alone at Syd’s, he was terrified. You’ve totally insulted this girl, he reminded himself. Not just mildly insulted her, but deeply. Directly. Abstractly. Intentionally. Accidentally. Privately. Publicly. It isn’t possible to humiliate a musician at a more fundamental level. There is no way she’s going to want to see you. No way. Just put the guitar down and leave. This isn’t going to . . .
The door swung open and Syd stood in the entryway, her Twins hat pulled straight and low, the Soul Asylum shirt just like Duncan liked it.
“Well?” she said.
He said nothing for a long moment.
“Well?” she demanded.
He coughed. “Um . . . hey. Brought your guitar.”
“The one you unplugged? To make sure I couldn’t be heard, not even a little?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Thanks.” She took the case in her small hand, then stared at Duncan. “Will that be all, then?”
His eyes were wide as 45s, his hands sweating, his feet tapping nervously. He had never before felt a smidge of anxiety with Syd—none. This is insane, he thought. It’s just Syd, the chick who makes all those horrid sounds. Except, um . . . cuter somehow. And very close.
“I’m guessing from your total deathly silence that it is, in fact, all,” she said. “So good night.” She began to shut the door.
“No,” he said. “No, it isn’t.” The door creaked back wide. He shuffled his feet. “I’m sorry,” he managed. “Thoroughly sorry. I am every kind of idiot. I’ve had about a hundred opportunities to see how epically perfect you are, and I’ve blown every one. So, you know . . . um . . . well . . .”
“So?” she said, maybe with a glimmer of a half grin.
“So . . . um . . .” He shuffled a bit more. “I’m willing to offer you another guitar lesson. For free.”
Syd smiled. “Wow,” she said flatly. “That’s great. And will you teach me how to do that thing where you shred eardrums with scary feedback? That was kinda cool.”
“No,” he said, laughing. “That lesson you have to pay for.”
“Oh, I feel I’ve paid for it already,” Syd said. She leaned against her guitar case in the doorway. “I never once cared about getting better on the guitar, Duncan. I just liked all the hanging out.”
“Me, too,” he said. “I don’t care how you sound, Syd.”
He inched forward with uncharacteristic stealth. Syd didn’t back away. They stared at each other, and not awkwardly. He drew closer, his hands sliding down her bare arms. When they kissed, it wasn’t quick and mechanical, but something deep and clumsy and exciting. Her hat fell backward to the floor; her blond hair fell across their faces.
After a minute, she broke loose. “Okay, I’m calling BS.”
“On what?” asked Duncan, a bit disoriented.
“You totally care how I sound,” she said. “It’s killing you.”
He smiled sheepishly. Point, Syd, he thought. You’ll improve. I’ll make it so. “Nuh-uh,” he whispered. “I like you like you are.”
More kissing. They moved slowly into the house, eventually settling with a thump on the shag-covered stairs. Minutes passed. Syd and Duncan tugged at each other lightly, purposefully, aggressively, their hands running over their faces, necks, and . . .
“Hello, dorkface!” called a way-too-familiar voice.
Duncan’s head popped up. A deep, subarctic chill ran up the length of his spine. Just don’t throw me again, he thought to himself. He looked at the floor, then tried to speak. “Oh . . . um . . . oh. Hey, Freddie. Um . . . hey. We were jus—”
Duncan peered upward for a moment and was struck silent by the sight of Freddie and Jessie on the living room sofa, intertwined. Like, lovingly. With arms and legs and hands wrapped around each other. They were utterly disheveled.
Jessie grinned.
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” Duncan finally managed. “Is that—?”
“Yup,” said Syd. “Jess came over a few hours ago. They’ve been at it for, um . . . a while. I thought she came over to console her brokenhearted friend—”
“—but she’s not the consoling type, is she?” asked Duncan.
“Nope, not really,” said Syd.
“I told you I had just the girl for him!” Jess said contentedly, snuggling with Duncan’s bully.
“And where’s Sloth, exactly?” asked Duncan. “If you tell me he’s in another room with Stew, I’m totally gonna throw up in my mouth.”
Jessie smiled. “He bailed,” she said. “Right after I told him that I couldn’t really make homecoming, and that I kinda/ maybe had a thing for this other dude.” She slugged Freddie’s shoulder.
“You should’ve set that guy up with your friend Marissa, dweeb,” said Freddie.
“Marissa is not my frien—”
Freddie was smooching Duncan’s drummer again. They sank low into the couch.
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” Duncan mouthed.
“Hey, I forgive you, buddy,” called Freddie between the slobbery, squishing smooch noises. A cushion fell atop him.
Duncan looked at Syd. “Those two are kinda gross, eh?”
Syd snorted—subtly, if that’s possible. Duncan kissed her again, and they fell back against the stairs. He took her fingers in his. She pulled away smiling.
“You’re still thinking you can fix my guitar playing,” she whispered, swatting him lightly. “I know it. I can see it in your scheming face.”
Oh, I’ll fix it, he thought. ’Cuz there’s no kicking you out of the band now.
“Nope,” he said. “That’s definitely not what I’m thinking. Nope.”
Syd sighed, then yawned.
“I’m boring you?” asked Duncan.
Syd smiled, then lowered her eyes. “No. It’s just been kind of a long day.”
Could still be an excellent night, he thought.
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