How to Rock Braces and Glasses

by Meg Haston

  ONCE MORE, FROM THE TOP

  Thursday, 4:39 P.M.

  Hendrix greeted me at Zander’s door that afternoon with a quick flash of his incisors, but no bark. I took it as a sign of progress.

  “Sorry I’m late.” I hit the toes of my boots against the cement stoop, knocking frozen chunks of dirty snow from the treads. Inside, Zander, Nelson, and Kevin were setting up in the breakfast nook. The Beat was filming them with his camcorder. In the center of the coffee table, a cedar-scented pillar candle smoldered, making the entire loft smell like boy. “I stayed after to watch the tape of the broadcast.”

  I shimmied out of my coat and draped it across the leather sofa arm. When I yanked up my sweater sleeves, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Zander was watching me. Staring, even. I ran the back of my hand across my lips. Could he tell that Quinn had come centimeters away from kissing me?

  “Oh, yeah?” Instead of laying into me for being late, Zander wandered into the living area. “And?”

  “And…” I squinted into his eyes. This afternoon they were a light gray, and it looked like tiny flecks of gold danced around his pupils. Was he laughing at me? “And I think it went pretty well,” I finished lamely.

  “Yeah, it did.” Finally, he broke into a grin. “Guys in my homeroom thought it was gutsy, ragging on yourself like that. And it was cool to see you cut the kid some slack and give him real advice, for a change.”

  “Real advice?” A defensive note crept into my voice. For a change?

  Sensing a footage-worthy debate, The Beat rotated his camcorder in our direction.

  “You know. Like, nice advice. Stuff he could actually use.” Before I could argue that all my advice was stuff people could actually use, Zander refocused on my wrist. “Like that cuff bracelet, huh?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” I scrambled to unsnap it, embarrassed. It wasn’t like I was wearing it on purpose. I kept putting it on in the morning so I’d remember to give it back once I got to school. But then I’d forget and have to start over again the next day.

  “Leave it,” he said. “Looks cool.”

  I rubbed the leather between my index finger and thumb. “I’ll give it back at the end of practice.”

  “Whatever.” He shrugged and sat on the arm of the sofa. “So’d you listen to the Fleetwood Mac I left in your locker yesterday?”

  “Yeah, and I wanna do a cover of ‘Go Your Own Way.’ ” I nudged him over and sat down next to him. “Acoustic.”

  “You’d totally rock it.” Resting his forearms on his thighs, he cocked his head to the side to look at me. “We could work on some harmonies.” His expression glazed over, the way it always did when he was playing or talking music. When he closed his eyes, I could almost see the notes flying around in his head.

  “Hey!” Nelson looked up from his keyboard, his hands flying over the dials on the body. “What’s the holdup, kids?”

  “Coming.” I hopped up.

  Zander, Hendrix, and I crossed to the nook, and I took my place at the mic while The Beat set up his camcorder on a tripod.

  “Act natural,” he instructed me. “I wanna get some good behind-the-scenes footage for the site.”

  I nodded. I was used to the camera. Hendrix circled in front of me a few times, then dropped to the floor and rested his chin on his paws.

  “Anybody have an extra copy of the sheet music?” I tilted the mic down slightly and yanked the ponytail holder out of my hair, giving it a good shake.

  No answer.

  I looked up. “Hey. Guys. Sheet music.” My post-practice plans with Molly were the first we’d had in a while, and being late wasn’t an option. “I need it.”

  The Beat took his place behind me on the drums. “Not today, you don’t,” he said mysteriously.

  “You did good last week, but we need a lead who has rock in her soul.” Nelson closed his eyes.

  “Today, we rock freestyle,” finished The Beat. “You up for it?”

  “Freestyle?” My voice was starting to sound panicky. No lyrics? No sheet music? What next, no instruments? “You want me to make up lyrics. On the spot.” My eyes darted to the blinking camcorder.

  “You didn’t think we were gonna let you in the band that easy, did you?” Kevin scolded. “We gotta make sure you can jam.”

  I clenched the mic stand in my grip, twisting my fists back and forth. I was going to kill Zander. This was how he thanked me for hooking him up with the second-most—uh, the most—popular girl in school?

  “So here’s the deal,” Zander explained. “The Beat starts us out, and then we all jump in when we feel it. Other than that, no rules. Any questions?”

  Hendrix lifted his head and grinned at me, his tongue lolling out of the left side of his mouth. He was loving this even more than the rest of them.

  I nodded tightly, glaring at the dog. My glasses were starting to mist over with a thin layer of fear. I’d already ad-libbed once today and rocked it. Why push my luck, when things were just starting to get back to normal?

  I skipped the cleansing breaths and visualized myself strangling Zander with his own guitar strings.

  “Here we go.” Zander nodded at The Beat.

  No! Wait! I quit! I gripped the mic tighter to steady myself, but they slipped down to the stand. I wiped them on my jeans and tried again. No luck.

  When everybody else was making last-minute adjustments to their instruments, Zander shot me a secret smile. In return, I shot him a death stare.

  “And ONE! TWO! ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!” The Beat yelled. He started off with an easy, steady rhythm, accenting every other beat.

  “Called a backbeat! Emphasis on two and four. We’ll hang here for a while.”

  I ignored him, racking my brain for words. Any words that made sense. But my mind was completely blank.

  Soon, Nelson’s fingers were flying over the keyboard, and Kevin and Zander were rocking out, too. Nobody seemed the least bit concerned that THIS WASN’T A SONG.

  “Jump in!” Nelson said it like it was just a casual, optional invite.

  Any. Words. At All.

  “I don’t know what to sing!” I wailed. “I can’t just make something up!”

  “Yeah, you can!” Zander tapped his bare left foot against the floor. “Whatever comes to mind. Try not to think so hard!”

  “Nobody cares if it sucks,” offered Kevin oh-so-helpfully.

  My breath caught in my throat. Step one. Open mouth.

  “Just use whatever’s going through your head!” The Beat picked up, well, the beat.

  Fine. If they wanted ad-lib, they’d get ad-lib. I took a deep breath.

  “Gravity… weighs down… on me,” I started.

  “There she goes!” Zander hooted.

  “Met this… blue-haired guy, and I can’t deny,

  In his skinny jeans, ohhhhh,

  Looks like girls I knooooow—”

  “She got you, dude!” Nelson burst out laughing.

  Hendrix lifted his snout and howled along.

  “You asked for it.” I smiled into the mic while The Beat switched to a slower tempo, and everybody followed. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at Zander, just to make sure he knew I was joking. To tell the truth, I didn’t mind the skinny jeans so much anymore. They were kind of his trademark, like his version of the Simon Smile.

  Without warning, he leaned into his mic.

  “Yeah, she’s got frames, but they’re not to blame,

  For all the change, she’s seein’.

  And she rocks ’em out, yeah she rocks so mellow,

  She’s our Buddy Holly, she’s our Elvis Costello.”

  I laughed, leaning over and giving him a high five. The longer we rocked, the more the vibrations from the music massaged the tension from my body, transporting me to a whole new place where I could just be myself.

  CHEAT SHEET

  Thursday, 9:03 P.M.

  After scarfing down a quick dinner at home, I took the Red Line to Molly’s house to pick o
ut a date-night outfit and quiz her on her Zander Jarvis knowledge. For a girl obsessed, she was failing miserably. I vowed not to leave until she had something intelligent to say about Acoustic Rebellion or looked so cute it didn’t matter. Whichever came first.

  “Lightning round!” Stretching out on my stomach on her king-sized bed, I rested my pack of index cards against a sparkling silver knit throw. “You ready?”

  Other than a boot heel stomping against the hardwood floor inside her walk-in closet, I didn’t get an answer. I propped my chin in my hands and took a look around, bobbing my head to the low thrum of Acoustic Rebellion’s latest track.

  For the most part, Molly’s room looked the same as the last time I’d seen it: The ivory tulle canopy was still draped over the gigantic mahogany bed; the window seat across the room still offered a tiny peek of Wrigley Field if you pressed your nose against the glass and looked all the way to the left. Twinkling holiday lights were still strung across the ceiling, between her bedposts and the curtain rod over the window. But the details were different. The picture of the four of us that used to be taped to the painted vanity mirror next to her bed had vanished. The riding helmet that used to hang on one of the bedposts had been replaced with a black feather boa. And there was a hot pink bumper sticker pasted to the back of her bedroom door that read ROCK REVOLUTION. Was that a band Zander hadn’t told me about yet?

  The new touches in the familiar space made me feel like an outsider. It reminded me of the time I’d gotten back from summer camp, homesick and dying for my room, only to find that Mom had moved Ella’s bed where mine used to be and changed the lampshades. Mom had accused me of being dramatic when I insisted we move the furniture back. But she didn’t get it. Those details mattered.

  “Mols!” I called again. “Lightning round!”

  “Hit me.” Molly’s voice was muffled by the closet door.

  I plucked an index card from the center of the deck. “In the third track of the album, what contributes to the bluesy quality of the music?” Pumping up the volume on Molly’s iPod dock, I found the third track that I’d copied from the vinyl. Instantly, an eerie, sad sound floated through the room.

  “Are cowboy boots still in?” A pom-pom from Molly’s cheerleading day (singular) sailed from the closet and landed in front of the bed.

  “Are you even paying attention?” I groaned, settling on my back and staring at the ceiling. The twinkle lights shone dully through the tulle canopy, making it feel like I was staring at stars in a foggy night sky.

  “Totally,” Molly said. “Ummm… the major chord.”

  I sat up when Molly emerged from the closet, wearing a denim miniskirt, a too-tight Acoustic Rebellion tee, and cowboy boots over shredded tights. “What do you think?” She hopped over the outfit graveyard between us and did a little spin.

  “Wrong. It’s the minor key.” And I think that’s almost the same outfit you wore last Halloween to be a slutty cowgirl. “So… you actually want my opinion now?”

  Molly blushed. “Obv.”

  I leaned over to her bedside table and turned down the volume on the iPod dock. I think Zander was right: You really don’t care what people think of your outfits.

  Also, I think this guitar riff is amazing.

  “Hey.” Molly finger-snapped me out of my solo haze. “For real. What do you think?”

  “I—” I froze, Paige’s words of wisdom blaring in my brain. “I think, maybe… try it without the band shirt or the tights?” It sounded like a question. I sucked in and held my breath.

  Molly’s forehead crinkled. Then she turned to face her reflection in the full-length mirror behind the door. “Wait. Is this my slutty cowgirl costume?”

  “YES!” I exhaled. “DON’T DO IT!”

  “So how come you didn’t SAY anything?”

  “I know. Sorry.” My cheeks were suddenly flaming. Maybe Paige didn’t know everything there was to know about truth-telling. Maybe some people liked other people the way other people used to be.

  “What’s his dog’s name again?” Molly hurried over to her vanity and started removing her thick black glitter liner with a Q-tip.

  “Hendrix. As in Jimi.” I slid off the bed and riffled through the clothes pile on the floor. A slinky bronze tank and long-sleeved chocolate shirt caught my eye. “Here. Wear the tank over the shirt, with jeans and the boots, and lose the tights. Plus, we have to do something about that pink streak. It looks like you took a highlighter to your head.”

  In the reflection of the vanity mirror, I caught the look of relief flooding Molly’s face. “Ohmygod. You’re right.”

  “I know. Don’t worry. We’ll fix it.” The longer I spent in Molly’s room, the more it felt familiar. This was where I belonged. No matter what had happened between us, it was all in the past. Soon, we’d forget about the last two weeks, and all the girls would remember how much they needed me.

  Molly and I caught each other’s eye in the mirror and semi-smiled. Our reflections looked weird, mine standing behind hers, like a before-and-after shot for Extreme Makeover: Geek Edition.

  On the bedside table, my cell pinged.

  PAIGE: HOW’S IT GOING W/M?

  KACEY: SO FAR, SO GOOD. ALTHO SHE SUCKS AT LIGHTNING ROUND.

  PAIGE: OR: SHE COULD USE SOME IMPROVEMENT IN LIGHTNING ROUND.

  KACEY: SUUUUUUCKS.

  PAIGE: CAN WE WORK ON CAMPAIGN TMRW?

  KACEY: CAN’T. SLEEPOVER AT MOLS. SATURDAY AM?

  “Who’s that?” Molly demanded, turning around.

  “Zander,” I blurted. I didn’t know why I’d said it, exactly. “He says he’s psyched to hang with you tomorrow night.”

  “Nice.” Molly flushed. “Tell him same, but don’t put a smiley face or anything.” She swiped my wardrobe choices from the crook of my arm and disappeared into the closet again. “I’m gonna try on the new outfit.”

  I snapped my phone shut and tossed it on the bed, reaching for my note cards. “The next category is pre-show conversation topics,” I called. “Name two of Zander’s three biggest musical inspirations. In under ten seconds. Readyyyyyyy, GO!”

  “Wait!” Molly shrieked. “Brain freeze!”

  “Eight!” I called. “Seven! Six! Ohhhhhhhhmygosh this is the longest awkward silence in the middle of a date eeeeever! Four! Three! Two! Your second date depends on this one—”

  “WHO ARE THE JONAS BROTHERS?” Molly tripped over a pair of ice skates and stumbled into the middle of the room, sweaty and only half-clothed.

  “Wrong!” I shouted. Marley! Hendrix! Dylan!

  “Whatevs.” She giggled, collapsing on the bed and batting the tulle away from her face. “He’s, like, super lucky to be going out with me, anyway.”

  “Yeah. I bet he’s always wanted to date a slutty cowgirl.” Okay. I could have said something a little more… Paige-approved. But Molly deserved a little grief.

  “Bite me, four eyes.” Then she rolled onto her side and looked at me. But it wasn’t like she was staring at my glasses or making fun of me. It was sort of like… she saw the old me. “So Quinn Wilder totally misses you at rehearsal.”

  “For real?” I sat up. “He said that? When?” Had he told her about our near kiss in the hall?

  “Please. He didn’t have to. Who reads boys better than anyone you know?” she said confidently.

  “Youyouyou. Now spill.” I leaned forward.

  “So we were at Sugar Daddy yesterday after rehearsal, and Quinn was trying to decide what to order, and what was that cupcake you guys used to get?”

  “Butterscotch with dark chocolate frosting and mini-marshmallows.”

  “Right.” Molly blew a few rogue strands out of her eyes. “So anyways, he orders plain chocolate with peanut butter frosting.”

  I waited.

  “Get it?” Her eyes sparked with pride.

  “Spell it out for me,” I said flatly.

  She sighed. “He obv couldn’t order the butterscotch one, ‘cause it was too emotionally painful,
you know?”

  “Nice try.” I snorted.

  My phone pinged again.

  MOM: SCHOOL NIGHT. TAKE A CAB BACK—IT’S DARK.

  “I gotta go.” I jumped up. “That’s Mom.”

  Molly’s eyes widened in alarm. “But we haven’t even gone over my witty comebacks and date laugh!” She reached for the note cards scattered on the bed, but I swiped them away.

  “You’ve got this,” I promised. “He’ll love you. He’s a guy, isn’t he?” I half believed what I was telling her. Zander was a guy, despite the girl jeans and the fact that he was just… different from any guy I’d ever known. There was a part of me that thought Zander wouldn’t fall for Molly’s flirt tactics the way every other guy did. Or maybe at the core, all boys were the same.

  Molly bit her lip and smiled. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.” She shook her head back and forth, like she was shaking off any remaining doubt.

  “So you’re coming to the sleepover tomorrow, right?” she asked as I gathered my stuff.

  “Yeah.” I bit the inside of my lip, to keep from smiling too wide.

  “Good.” Molly sighed. “Liv and Nessa are getting kind of annoying.”

  “Yeah?” I probably didn’t have to sound so happy about it.

  “Like this morning, Liv picture-texted five times, asking which one of her grandpa’s ties would work best as a shoulder strap for her new line of bags.”

  The yellow striped one.

  “And it’s like, I’m not your mom. Make a decision for yourself.”

  “Sounds like you need a break,” I said sympathetically. “So… um, good luck tomorrow.” I reached for the door handle. But before I could leave, Molly bounded over and squeezed me tight.

  “I’m so glad we’re talking again,” she said into my hair.

  “Me, too,” I said. And of all the honest things I’d said that day, I meant that one the most.