“No one has ever written a song about me before,” she says.
“I find that hard to believe,” I say. The words tumble out of my mouth all honest and raw before I can stop them. “You should have a hundred songs written about you.”
“I don’t know about that,” she says. “But the song is good.”
“You think?” I ask as my heart does this funny flutter in my chest. In a rom-com this would be the part where an Of Monsters and Men song would swell. But I don’t need a soundtrack to tell me what I’m feeling right now. I finally allow myself to look at her.
“Yeah,” she says, giving her hot pink flip flops a half smile. Her pedicure matches the polish on her fingers.
A chunk of dust from the light fixture overhead drifts down onto her black sweater. I step forward to brush it away, my thumb brushing the edge of her collarbone. Madison stills under my touch and when I move my hand away she glances up at me. We are almost the same height and she is looking right into my eyes. The force field around her draws me closer and my lips are twelve inches, now six inches away from her. They part and I can almost taste her peppermint lip gloss.
My breath catches in my chest as I close my eyes and the distance between us. Her breath is warm on my face. I’m reaching out to cup her cheek, to draw her into me and erase these final inches when someone asks, “Can I help you girls find something?”
It’s the guy with the bad toupee. I didn’t hear him roll up with his cart full of books. He’s holding a copy of The Encyclopedia of Country Music. “Thanks but I found what I was looking for,” I say grabbing the Bob Dylan songbook I spotted earlier. I hope he can’t see my cheeks burning through his glasses.
“Very well, then,” the guy says. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
My heart is pounding in my chest, a combination of adrenaline and desire. I turn around but the aisle behind me is completely empty. Madison is gone.
THREE HOURS LATER, my lips are still burning from the heat of that almost kiss with Madison. I can’t erase those seconds from my head. What was that? It felt like she was totally into me and then she was a ghost. I tried looking for her but all of her shit was gone from our study table by the time I got back there. The only thing left was my Moleskin. I took the scenic route along the Gulf to band practice, blasting Tegan and Sara’s Love You to Death album with the cold February wind whipping through my open windows.
When I get to Monica’s, I had to sit in my car with the air conditioning on full blast for ten more minutes before my body temperature returned to normal.
Monica’s parents converted their garage into a practice space for us and soundproofed it after their neighbors complained. The space now contains all of our instruments and a beige tweed couch that once belonged to Monica’s grandma. We covered it with a leopard print sheet and while the animal print masks the ugliness of the couch, it doesn’t cover the two-pack-a-day habit Monica’s grandma kept up until the day she died.
“Hey,” I say letting myself in the side door of the garage.
“Hey,” Monica says looking up from the Entertainment Weekly she is reading on the couch.
Janet, Monica and I all connected at a Girls Rock! Guitar camp three years ago and pretty much formed a band right away even though they live up in Harbor Heights and I’m in the shitpit that is Oak Buffs. But we’re big enough now that we play shows most Saturday nights and hold practices at least two times a week. We’ve put out a couple of EP’s and our song, “I Just Wanna Know Your Name,” was in heavy rotation at the USF radio station last year.
“About fucking time you showed up. Let’s get this started,” Janet says. She’s wearing tight black pants and a black T-shirt. Her red Doc Martens match the fox screen printed on her shirt. She grabs her drumsticks from the cold garage floor. Janet is by far the most talented of us. She can play all of our instruments but her constant near state of rage keeps her behind the drum set.
Monica gets up from the couch and picks up her bass. She’s wearing her normal uniform of a nightgown over a pair of leggings and black boots. On anyone else it would look like they just rolled out of bed, but Monica is hot enough to pull it together. Today’s nightgown is black with tiny white stars.
While we warm up I pitch them the prospect of playing Prom.
“Did they say how much they were willing to pay?” Janet asks as she twirls a drumstick like a baton. She tosses it in the air and she leans forward and catches it with one hand behind her back.
“No,” I say giving her a golf clap.
“I don’t think we should do it for anything less than six,” Janet continues and tosses the drumstick in the air again. This time she doesn’t catch it and it collides with a cymbal on the way down.
Six hundred seems like a lot for student council to pay for a band to play Prom. I can’t imagine they would pay more than five hundred for a lame-ass DJ. I contemplate texting Madison to find out their budget but then I think of what almost happened in the library and I leave my phone in my pocket.
“I think we should do it for free,” Monica says after her bass is tuned.
“Why?” I ask picking up a couple of darts from a utility shelf leftover from the days when this was a functioning garage and not our space. I lob a dart at the board and it barely sticks before falling off the board and onto the Rubbermaid container of our EPs and the shirts we ordered off Cafe Press. For the first time ever there isn’t a picture of one of our ex-girlfriends on the dart board.
“I just think that since it’s your Prom, maybe we ought to do it for free. It’s not like we need the money, yet,” Monica says. “If our school had asked us to perform, I would have offered to do it for free.”
“Uh, yeah, we do,” Janet argues from her drum set. She runs her hands through her hair. Last summer she shaved her head and her hair has since grown back into a dark pixie cut. “That Winnebago for the summer tour ain’t gonna pay for itself. And Austin ain’t cheap. Hello, security deposit.”
“One free Saturday night show isn’t going to kill us financially,” Monica says pushing a strand of hot pink hair out of her face.
“But that’s a Saturday night we could be playing a bigger show someplace else.” Janet folds her arms across her chest obscuring the picture of the fox. “A show that could mean the difference between eating ramen and eating Taco Bell.”
I throw another dart, harder this time so it sticks to the edge of the board. I hate being in the middle of band politics. It would have been smarter to bring up Prom up after practice, not before. At this rate we won’t get any work done before tomorrow night’s show in Ybor City.
“Avery, you’re awfully quiet. What do you think?” Monica asks.
“Personally, I’d rather eat ramen over Taco Bell, but I think it is worth it to find out how much they have in their budget.” I pick up my last dart and focus on the center of the board. My dart lands three inches below the bull’s-eye. “But Monica has a point. We could do it as a charity thing.”
“Oak Bluffs High is the worst charity,” Janet snorts. “Based on your homophobe horror stories, we should be paid for playing it. We need to find out what the budget is.”
“Fine, but after this we need to practice.” I take my cell out from the back pocket of my jeans and text Madison.
Hey. DTG wants to know $$ before committing. I pocket the phone and plug in my Les Paul electric guitar to the amp. I’m good to go.
“What are we working on?” Monica asks.
Janet taps her drumsticks together. “What about the cover of “Stadium Love?” I’m thinking we should add a Metric song to the cover set.”
“You know I love that song,” I say. If we can finally nail it tonight we can debut it tomorrow at the post-Gasparilla parade party at the Green Parrot, one of Tampa’s many pirate-themed bars. It’s early enough in the evening to be an all-ages show. “Count it off,” I call to Janet. We launch into the song and it’s awkward and awful. I keep screwing up the lyrics so we pause long e
nough for me to find them on my phone. While I’m scrolling through the lyrics a text comes through. Madison.
“Madison has to double check but she thinks about five hundred to play the dance.”
“Who?” Monica asks looking up from her own phone.
“The student council president,” I supply.
“That might work,” Janet says, launching into a little drumroll. “What’s not working is this song. It might be too ambitious for us. It might even be too ambitious for you.”
“I promise to stop butchering the lyrics.”
“Whatever. You’re the one who always wants to make a big show about everything. Monica and I have already mastered this song, so you’ll be the one who looks bad screwing up the lyrics. This isn’t rocket science.” She glances at the giant watch she wears on her left wrist. “In case you’ve forgotten, it’s Valentine’s Day and some of us have plans.”
“You have plans?” I ask. Monica and I exchange a look.
“Maybe,” Janet replies and starts to count “Stadium Love” off again. Unlike Monica and me, Janet keeps her love life under wraps. In her eyes we’re a band first and friends second.
It takes three more tries before I finally conquer the lyrics for “Stadium Love.” Then we launch into “I’m So Excited,” doing a cover of Le Tigre’s cover. It became one of our signature songs after we watched The Punk Singer documentary. Then we follow it up with Tegan and Sara’s “My Number.” We always start and end our shows with a set of cover songs and the middle set is reserved for four to six of our originals. Eventually we’ll be big enough that we don’t need covers. And then other bands will cover our songs. After we practice a few of our originals, including “I Just Wanna Know Your Name,” and “I Won’t Break Your Heart But I’ll Break You,” I pause and turn to them. “I’ve been working on something new.”
“You have? That’s awesome,” Monica says pausing to pull her hair into a short ponytail.
“Yeah, but now might not be the best time to show you, what with Janet’s big date and all.”
“Just play the damn thing already,” Janet says as she stretches behind the drum set.
“Okay, okay. But it’s still pretty raw. Like sashimi raw.” I exchange out my electric guitar for an acoustic one. I haven’t really written the music yet for the song, but I have an idea of how I want it to sound.
I strum my guitar and launch into the song that Madison inspired.
Look at me with your ocean eyes,
Pull me in and let me drown
You don’t have to act surprised
That I won’t call for help
I don’t want to be rescued
Rescued from you
Let me breathe you in
(oranges and sunshine)
As the world falls away
Give me a sign, a signal, a flare
And I’ll promise I’ll stay
Monica is staring at me slack-jawed. Janet is a cartoon version of herself, all bug-eyed. Neither of them says anything for what seems like an eternity. I can’t tell if they love it or hate it.
Finally Janet breaks the silence. “What. The. Fuck. Was. That?” she asks. “No offense, Avery but that was seriously some Taylor Swift bullshit you just pulled. We can’t play that.” Janet and I don’t always agree on songs, but this is the bitchiest thing she has ever said to me.
“Why not?” My face is getting warm. Janet has never rejected one of my songs before.
Monica strains to keep a neutral look on her face. “Because it’s not us,” she says finally.
“That’s what some wannabe hipster solo artist plays in a coffee shop. Not something a punk band plays. You don’t want to be a hipster solo artist do you?” Janet asks.
“Of course not, but we don’t always have to be edgy,” I say. Madison’s song is the most earnest and honest song I’ve ever penned. “We could expand our repertoire and go in another direction. Good musicians evolve. Look at Jack White.”
“True,” Monica replies. A strand of pink hair escapes her ponytail and she pushes it behind her ear. “Look, I’m all for sappy love songs but I don’t want to play them. I want to play songs that people will dance the hell out of.”
“I second that,” Janet says. “No offense, but you’re not Jack White. And I don’t think we need to go any other direction than the one that leads us to Austin. We’re not going to get to Austin playing Taylor Swift knock-offs.”
“Your songs are always so good. This might be a fluke. I bet the next song you write will work better,” Monica offers and it still feels like she has just kicked me in the stomach with one of her Doc Martens.
“Maybe the next song won’t make me vomit in my mouth.” Janet smiles as an invisible boot kicks my kidneys.
“Maybe you should try and write a fucking song sometime,” I say putting my guitars into their respective cases. I grab my messenger bag and fling it over a shoulder before taking a case in each hand.
“You’re leaving?” Janet asks. “Over some minor criticism? Grow a backbone, Jennings. Us not liking your song is not the end of the world.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Real bands have creative differences.”
“Real bands actually collaborate instead of one person writing all the songs,” I retort. “Real bands try new things.”
“Yeah, well real musicians strive to not sound like a Taylor Swift B-side.”
“Fuck you, Janet,” I say and exit stage left.
IT TAKES ME the whole thirty-minute drive from Monica’s house up in Harbor Heights to calm myself down. By the time I make it to Scott’s, my rage is only simmering. He answers his door in a faded blue Detonate the Gazelle shirt. It was the first shirt we ever made and it brings me back to the early days of the band when everything we did was magic and had the potential to be awesome. That band is light years away from the band that just practiced in Monica’s garage.
“They hated my new song,” I say by way of greeting him. “They fucking hated it.”
“I’m so sorry,” Scott says as he wraps me into a hug. I can feel his spine under the thin fabric of the shirt. He smells like our favorite pizza.
I pull away. “Roasted garlic? Seriously?”
He grins and blows pizza breath into my face. “I saved you some. It has mushrooms and capers, too. I figure why not go all out. I’m not making out with anyone except maybe my pillow tonight.” He raises an eyebrow. “Do you expect to be kissing someone tonight?”
The person I want to kiss most is probably screwing her boyfriend right now. The image of Madison and Miles fooling around in his parked car sends bile up my throat. “No. Bring it on.”
Scott has taken over the den and turned it into his own little cave. I help myself to a slice of pizza out of the box on the coffee table and sink into the overstuffed couch. Scott plops down next to me. “What’s on the queue for tonight? Zac Efron as a high school heartthrob in 17 Again or as a rugged loner with his dog in The Lucky One?” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Or as a super hot player in That Awkward Moment?”
“We should probably start with his early work,” I say. “Because we know what will happen once we get to the newer shit. You’re gonna pause the movie to ogle his biceps.”
“Can you blame me?” Scott sighs. “I could write songs about those biceps.” He scrolls through our shared Netflix queue.
“Better not show them to Monica and Janet,” I warn and grab another slice. Even cold, this pizza still rocks. “Good call on the garlic,” I say as the movie starts.
He cuts the light from the lamp next to him. When he turns to me and smiles, his face is illuminated by the glow of the TV screen and my heart swells with love for my best friend. Then he ruins the moment with a loud fart.
“On second thought,” I say scrunching up my nose at the smell. “Maybe the roasted garlic was a mistake.”
THE FOLLOWING THURSDAY finds us back at a Lion Pride meeting. Now there are nine regulars, including Madison who won’t even look in my d
irection. She hasn’t mumbled two words at me since that almost kiss in the library, not even when Señora Catalana put us together in a small group yesterday to role-play shopping in an outdoor market. When I asked her, “Dónde estan los plátanos?” she just stared at me blankly like she didn’t know what a banana was despite holding the prop in her hand.
Madison sits across the table from me. She’s wearing a navy blue cable-knit sweater and her hair is down. I know from earlier today that she’s also wearing an impossibly short jean skirt and her pink flip flops. It’s a good thing I can’t see her legs right now because the sight of all that bare skin would fry my brain.
Scott leans back in his chair. “Do we have any old business?”
“Dylan Prescott is a dickweed,” Jessica says. A jumbo bag of Doritos is being passed around the room but it stops when it reaches Jessica. She starts eating the chips from the bag.
“Legitimate business,” Scott says.
“He is legitimately a dickweed,” Jessica retorts. Everyone laughs.
“Okay, then,” Scott says. “How about new business?”
“So I’m thinking we need T-shirts,” Darren says. He is sitting next to Madison, so close that their elbows nearly touch. Jealousy churns in my stomach.
“Totally,” Maura agrees.
“Nothing rainbow,” Jessica warns. “I’m not wearing a target.”
A horrified expression crosses Darren’s face. “Girl, with your coloring you would not look good in rainbow. For the love of God, stick with black.”
The rest of the club laughs and Scott says, “What about yellow shirts with a purple lion on the front? Something along the lines of this,” he grabs a marker and roughly sketches out the face of a lion on the whiteboard. It’s incredible what he can do in a few seconds. “It’s not exactly school colors, but it is close enough.”
“Yes,” Darren says. “It’s like you read my brain.”
Scott turns back to the group. “What do you guys think?”
It’s mostly a chorus of “It works” and “Go for it.” Madison doesn’t say anything. Instead she doodles in her notebook.
Secret Heart Page 4