by Carrie Jones
The good thing about a guitar is that it can’t tell everyone how crazy you are. It just makes the noise you tell it to. How great is that?
Tom was supposed to drive me over, but my mom pouted and fussed and guilted me into letting her drive. She drops me off and hugs me and tells me she loves me before she zooms back to the house so Jim can pick her up for her “LAST Big Date Before the Trip.”
That’s what she calls it. Her quote-unquote LAST Big Date. Is it any wonder where I get the dorkiness genes?
“I feel like a bad mother,” she says, again.
I fake smile and say again, “It’s fine. You aren’t a bad mother.”
But the truth is, I’m feeling a little abandoned. I’m feeling like this isn’t the mother who has always acted like my mother. If I told her about my possible seizures she’d rush into supermom mode again, cancel her date and everything, but that’s not what I want. If I told her about Em, she’d do the same thing. But I want her to be free and I want to be free, too. I want us all to be free.
So, I don’t say anything, just rush inside the school and to the stage where I have nothing to do but wait.
Pacing back and forth on an empty stage while your classmates file into the audience just behind the fat, heavy blue velvet curtain, which looks like something out of an Elvis movie, is not a good way of dealing with stage fright but I do it anyway because that is the kind of idiot that I am.
From the other side of the curtain some other kind of idiot yells, “Who’s gonna suck the most tonight? Any takers?”
“Dylan.”
“Naw, that tuba-playing girl.”
“Crap. Who cares. As long as we can see through her skirt again.”
Last year, Amanda Duffy wore a see-through white dress with lime green Kermit the Frog underwear. Kermit’s frog face was right in the front, smiling. Bad choice. People have been calling her Kermie ever since.
I punch the curtain. Dust billows out. A cloud of sloughed-off human skin.
It does not help things. I keep pacing and try to tune out the idiots who will soon be “my audience.” One foot marches in front of the other across the wood stage floor, pivot, and back. One foot marches. The other foot marches. Pivot. Again.
Different folk singers have different ways of dealing with stage fright.
Some try to imagine everyone in their underwear. This is not a good idea unless your audience is fantastic looking. If they are not fantastic looking you run the risk of vomiting or laughing hysterically throughout your set.
Some try to imagine they’re singing in the shower. That just worries me because then Gabriel would get wet and ruined. It just makes me more neurotic.
Some pretend everyone’s paid twelve thousand dollars for their seat because they love them so much. That’s a lot of responsibility. Twelve thousand dollars a seat.
I’ve tried them all and none of it works for me. So, I just clench and unclench my fists backstage. I pace back and forth. I run through the words of my song. I close my eyes. I open my eyes. I count backwards from ten thousand. Basically, it’s ridiculous that I’m even nervous. This is nothing compared to what Em is going through, nothing compared to what Eddie goes through.
Dylan scoots up to me and hugs me. “Hey, sweetie.”
I smile up at him and kiss his cheek. We do the kiss on the cheek thing that Dylan does with all his female friends. It’s kind of funny actually. Now that he’s come out, girls are always kissing him.
“You nervous?” Dylan asks me, smiling and showing off all his perfect white teeth.
“Yup.”
“Palms tingling?” he asks, grabbing them in his hands and rubbing them.
“Yup.” He knows me way too well. “How about you?”
He laughs and puts one of my hands over his heart. “My heart’s beating like five hundred times a minute.”
“You’ll be great,” I say, breaking our contact and rocking backwards. I jump up and down on my feet to try to get rid of all this extra energy. “You are a fantastic singer.”
“So are you.”
I shrug.
“You are.”
I fake hit him in the shoulder. “Aw, shucks sir, you tell a girl the nicest things.”
Anna scoots towards us because she’s stage managing and she’s all hectic, frazzled and crazy. “You two cannot flirt. You are no longer compatible. Now help me with the lights. Somebody forgot to lift up the lights. Crap-crap. Crap-crap.”
She races off and we follow her. Dylan shouts at her butt, “Gay men can still flirt with hot folk singers.”
I punch him again. “You think I’m hot?”
He touches me with a finger and makes a sizzling noise. “In that outfit? Obviously.”
Anna whirls around. “Oh my God. I’m dying here. Just help me haul up the lights.”
We heave on the cord to pull the lights to their proper position above the stage and then tie them off. Anna leans against the wall, sweating and looking like she’s going to puke. Dylan rolls his eyes and heads off to the greenroom to wait his turn.
My hand goes to her shoulder. “Anna, it’s going to be alright.”
“I get so nervous,” she says, wiping her head with the back of her hand. “So many things can go wrong.”
“They won’t,” I say. But I’m not thinking about Anna. I’m thinking about Em telling Shawn, wondering if she’s told him, wondering if they are here.
Anna stands up straight, grabs her Palm Pilot where she’s got a little checklist going. “How do you know? How do you know they won’t go wrong?”
“Because they can’t.”
She stares. She puts the stylus in her mouth. It dangles like a cigarette.
“You are such an optimist.” She puts her arm around my shoulders and pulls me along with her. “Come on and help me make sure everyone’s here. We only have twenty minutes ’til show time. Did you know Mimi Cote has an act?”
I freeze in place.
Anna pushes me on. “It’s okay. Really. It’s a dance number.”
“Oh my God. She’s never been in the talent show before.”
Anna shrugs. “She says she’s only doing it to kick your butt. She likes Tom again, you know.”
“I know.” I clench my fists and realize that I have become a cliché, clenching my fists … in competition with another girl. Who will win? The sweet folk singer or the hideous slut girl who’s really just troubled? Folk singers are not supposed to be clichés, easy to read. We are supposed to be originals, pushing beyond societal norms. Okay, we occasionally include a cliché or two in our songs, but still … Oh. Blah. Blah. Blah.
But here I am, a cliché. It’s Mimi’s fault, of course. She was the cliché first, right? I wear canvas Snoopy shoes. Nobody wears canvas Snoopy shoes, therefore I am not a cliché. Unless I’m the cliché of the girl trying not to be a cliché and assuming she isn’t merely because of her offbeat shoe choice …
My head hurts.
I know we were all heart-to-heart this afternoon, but still …
Cliché.
Why is it that the self-realization of your cliché status does not make you stop caring or stop being a cliché? What’s the next step? Is there some sort of twelve-step program for this?
“I hate Mimi,” I tell Anna. I suppress the urge to stomp on the floor with my Snoopy shoes.
“I’m sure she’ll suck.”
We enter the greenroom and there she is … Mimi Cote, preening herself in one of the big mirrors. She hikes up her Daisy Duke shorts a little higher. She looks like a hooker or a contestant on some surreal reality show about girls competing to get a job dancing on bars. She catches my eye in the mirror and scowls at me. She checks out my ripped-knee jeans and black off-the-shoulder shirt ensemble and hisses at me. “Sometimes I can’
t believe you aren’t the one that’s gay. Where are your hiking boots?”
I glare at her and try to think of something brilliant to say but all I can do is sputter out, “There’s nothing wrong with being gay.”
This is true, but not a good comeback.
She rolls her eyes. “Tommy could do so much better than you. Like maybe actually date a girl who’s not so self-involved.”
My mouth drops open. What happened to this afternoon? To our sort of peace? I can’t understand anyone. I pivot away, step closer to Dylan.
“Like you aren’t.” Anna grabs my arm. “Shut up, Mimi. I’m trying to see if everyone’s here.”
Mimi smirks and moves away, but only an inch.
Dylan gives me a thumbs-up sign from the couch. He’s perched on the edge. Bob has his hand on Dylan’s thigh. Bob’s other hand is on his saxophone. Self-involved. The whole room seems to spin. I back up and zip out the door, intending to race down the hall and get some fresh air.
But instead, I slam into Tom.
“Hey, Hot Stuff, where you going?” he says. He has an armload of irises, my favorite flower.
“Are these for me?”
He smiles big and passes me the flowers, wrapped up in crinkly green paper. “Yep.”
I breathe them in. They’re beautiful and my heart gets all pitter-patter good. I look up at Tom. “Did Emmie tell you to get them for me? Is she here? Is Shawn here?”
“Of course they’re here. They wouldn’t miss this. Shawn’s already perfecting his whistle.” He shakes his head. “Belle. I’ve watched you do this talent show for three years and every year I’ve wanted to give you flowers.”
My lips tremble. “Really?”
“Really.” He leans in and touches my lips with his. He’s been chewing cinnamon gum. My knees wobble. He laughs and catches me so I don’t lose my balance.
“You are a good boyfriend,” I tell him.
“What? There was doubt?”
“I don’t deserve you.” I rub at my eyes before I remember I’m wearing mascara.
He looks skyward. “Commie … ”
“I don’t. Do you think I’m self-involved?”
“What?”
“Do you think I’m self-involved?”
If Em and Shawn are here and acting like everything is normal then she hasn’t told him yet, right? Ack.
Tom shifts his weight. He’s wearing his jeans with the hole in the knee. I love those jeans. “I think it’s human nature to be self-involved, Belle.”
“So I am?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls out another flower, a gray duct tape replica of an iris. It’s attached to a long, thin, duct tape stem. Tom is really into duct tape.
“This one won’t die,” he says.
My heart flutters. “I’ll keep it forever.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I point at his jeans. There’s a piece of duct tape slashed across his thigh. It says, “Tell me whom you love and I will tell you who you are”—Houssaye.
I have no idea who Houssaye is, but I like the quote. I try to flash Tom a sexalicious look. “Nice.”
“You knock ’em dead, okay?” He raises his eyebrow. “That’s what I say, right?”
“Yeah. Knock ’em dead.”
“Knock ’em dead, Commie.”
I laugh and start to spin away. “Tom?”
“What?”
“Mimi likes you again.”
His cheek muscle twitches. “Commie … ”
My heart stops. One beat missed. Two.
His hands move up to my shoulders. “I like you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Would you like me if I started having seizures all the time again?”
His hands drop. “What? Did you have another one?”
I shrug. “No.”
“Commie? Did you have another one?” His face pales and whitens.
“No, I was just wondering.”
He pulls me back to him, crushing flowers and me against his warm chest. “It wouldn’t matter. I swear it wouldn’t matter.”
In an attempt to calm myself down I pull out my cell and start to text out a list of things to worry about before you go onstage. This is probably not an extremely mentally healthy thing to do.
Worry that you will be booed off the stage. Think about Lauryn Hill who this almost happened to at the Apollo. She survived and won Grammys. So will you. Okay. Maybe not a Grammy.
Worry you will forget your words.
Worry that you will say the wrong words like your mother does when she sings songs. Pray that you will not substitute the f-word for the love word. Start laughing because you imagine your principal, Mr. Raines’, reaction to this. Mr. Raines is so uptight, he yells if you hold hands in the halls. “No personal touching, people! Unhand yourselves!”
Worry that you will laugh hysterically throughout the entire song because you will imagine Mr. Raines saying, “Unhand yourselves!”
Worry that you will look like an idiot. Worry that Mimi Cote will throw used tampons at you, because this is the worst possible thing you can imagine. Except, maybe, used condoms. Used tampons inside used condoms?
Worry that you have a rip in the crotch of your jeans that you do not know about, but everyone will see. Worry that you are somehow magically wearing Kermit the Frog underwear like Amanda Duffy, tuba player.
Worry that your gauzy shirt is see-through. Realize that even if it is, the chance of seeing a nipple will make more boys pay attention and vote for you.
Worry that you should have definitely worn something see-through because Mimi probably has.
Worry that you’ll have a seizure.
Delete this list.
I can’t help it. I’m weak. I sneak out of the greenroom to watch Mimi’s act.
She’s bumping and grinding to a hip hop number that if I were cooler, I would know what it was, but I am not cool. It has to do with humping or something, but all the hump words are bleeped out. So basically the vocals are, “Let’s bleep. You want to touch my bleeps and bleeping bleep my bleeps …” etc.
Mimi’s mouth gapes open and she rocks her pelvis back and forth, while slinking her hands up her body right by her private parts. I suddenly feel like my mother, talking about private parts instead of just using the proper name. Her pelvic region? Her vagina? Her humps?
I glare at her. In thirty seconds of humping dancing, not only has she turned me into a prude like my mother, she’s really just like stripping without taking off her clothes. A lot of the boys in the audience are hooting and whistling.
Tom. Is Tom hooting? Whistling?
The little red light on the sound monitor blinks out a warning.
She’s actually good. I mean, I can see her doing this for a living. I can see the balding insurance CEOs sticking their meaty fingers into her G-string along with hundred dollar bills.
The monitor light turns a steady red.
I lean around the curtain and search for Em, Tom and Shawn in the audience. Shawn’s fingers are in his mouth, whistling and Em’s hitting him in the arm. Gulping, I look for Tom, afraid to look but knowing I have to see. I mean, what if he likes it? What if he’s waving?
A giant gulp seems to fill my entire body and jealousy slings through my blood, because I know, I know that no matter how ridiculous Mimi’s act is, I could never do that, never just be so openly sexual. I mean, this is me, the girl who dated a gay guy for almost three years, the girl who still hasn’t had sex with her current guy, even though she really wants to. And you’ve kind of got to be proud of Mimi in a way because she isn’t afraid of being sexalicious, it’s just … it’s like it’s all she is, or all she pre
tends to be, really.
My eyes focus on Tom. He doesn’t drool. He doesn’t look all excited. Instead, he laughs, puts his head in his hands, and doubles over.
I smile and say, “Good boyfriend.”
But I don’t get to enjoy the feeling long because Mr. Raines bashes past me, a man on a mission. He bangs into my side without even seeing me. He pushes me against the soundboard. My hip shrieks out pain as it accidentally flips some switches.
“Off! Off! Off the stage now!” Mr. Raines screams and grabs Mimi’s bare arm. He yanks her towards the side. The music shrieks out something from The Phantom of the Opera instead of the humping song.
I jump away from the soundboard. I must have hit something. There are four red lights showing now. Frantic, I search for the right switch. Grab it and turn it off. The world is silent. The lights are now green.
I press my hand against my hip. It is going to bruise.
Anna comes trundling into the area as soon as Mr. Raines shoves Mimi to stage left. She puts her hands on her forehead, frantic. “Oh my God. I am so dead.”
She whirls on Mimi. “That was not the song you rehearsed.”
Mimi smiles. “I wanted more of a reaction.”
“Well, you got one,” I say, putting my arm around Anna, who is shaking she’s so mad.
Mr. Raines’ footsteps echo across the stage. Nobody in the audience says anything.
He takes center stage. “I am appalled at the lack of judgment that has just been displayed here and I apologize to any parents that might be in the audience. This talent show is canceled.”
My heart thuds into something painful. Canceled?
No one says anything. I swear no one is even breathing. It’s so silent as Mr. Raines stomps off the stage. Dust falls off the velvet stage curtain. It spreads into a cloud and mixes with air.
Mr. Raines points a long, thick finger at Anna and then at Mimi. “You two. In my office now.”
I cling to Anna’s shoulder. “It wasn’t Anna’s fault!”
He whips his finger at me. “Do you want to join them, Miss Philbrick?”
“It wasn’t her fault. That’s not what Mimi practiced,” I say in a softer voice as Anna moves away from me so I don’t get in trouble too.