Beautiful Music for Ugly Children (10 page)

“Can we get coffee now? It’s after graduation.”

“Mara?” I should have expected her call, but I’m still surprised. My hands get clammy.

“I feel like I’m meeting a celebrity or something.” She sounds like she’s twelve.

“Trust me, I’m not that special.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

I’m so glad she can’t see me blush.

She keeps going. “How about this next Wednesday?”

I tick through my life, but I don’t have to work, and when do I ever have any social stuff planned? “Okay by me.”

“Did you see the paper last week? That was my picture of the garden party!”

“Sure did. I even cut it out.” I feel like a dork admitting it. But right now I’m letting myself love the fact that a girl thinks I’m cool.

“I did too.” I hear the smile in her voice. “What’s the plan for the UCB tonight?”

“I’ll let you know in a minute.” Tonight I want them to decorate a stranger’s car—not in a bad way, just a festive way. Balloons or streamers or flowers, something like that.

“I’m sure it’s awesome, whatever it is.” The smile in her voice is still there.

My mind is swept up in imagining Mara and me, talking and laughing and looking like some fluffy coffee commercial. Then I realize there’s no music, just silence.

“Oh shit!” Mercifully, when I hit the button, Devo’s “Freedom of Choice” slides onto the air.

Laughter from her end.

“Mara?”

More giggles. “The ‘oh shit’ went out on the air, too.”

“WHAT?” I might puke.

“Just an added bonus for the Ugly Children Brigade.”

I try to get myself together, but it’s not working. Best choice: get off the phone. “Wednesday, seven, Coffee Hag, see you then.”

“’Bye.” She’s still chuckling when she hangs up.

Who knows if the FCC has mobile trucks just waiting to bust people who use profanity on the air? I can’t imagine they do, but you never know. I slow my breathing down.

John’s back, and he’s almost falling down. “Oh my heavens, OH my heavens … thank god they have speakers in the hall. That was priceless.” He keeps laughing as I get Akon’s “Freedom” on its way.

“Yeah, thanks for your support.”

His snorts are dying down. “It happens to everyone once or twice. Not a big deal.” He looks into the crate of CDs. “How many more songs do you have left? What time is it?”

“Ten to one, and I have three more songs.”

“I’m going for another smoke and a Pepsi.” And he leaves again.

When the show is over and we’re walking to the car, I realize my mistake. “John, I forgot to tell the UCB to decorate cars!”

“They’ll figure out something. They’re pretty creative.”

When I get home, I check my email, just for fun. And there’s one from the Vibe.

I stare at my pathetic inbox. One email. This one.

I don’t want to know. But then I give in and click on it, because I can’t
not
know.

While it opens up, I close my eyes and say a little prayer:
Dear Universe, please make this moment not suck completely
.
Thank you
.

When I open my eyes, I read very, very carefully.

Dear Gabriel:

We’re glad to know you’d like to participate in our Summer Mondays in the Cities competition. We’re confident our guest spot at the Vibe will be filled by a wonderful DJ, thanks to you and your fellow contestants. We will also change your name in our records.

We look forward to seeing you on July 12. Start planning your set—and don’t forget your secret song!

Yours truly,

Thad Rosenbloom, Station Manager,
The Vibe 89.1

I print it off and run out the front door, banging it loud enough that I’ll hear about it tomorrow morning, I’m sure. Then I pound on John’s door. “They’ll let me do it! Open up! You gotta see this!”

Finally the door opens, and John’s standing there in a rumpled bathrobe. He doesn’t look thrilled to see me. “Make it snappy.”

“You’re already in bed?”

“I know it’s strange, but I’m tired. Make it snappy.”

“The Vibe. They said I could compete as Gabe. Read.” I shove the paper into his hand.

As he reads, his grin gets wider by the second. “I knew they’d take you. Congratulations!” He grabs me and hugs me, rough, like a man would hug a man. Neither of us are the hugging type. “We’ll start work tomorrow. But now you gotta go.” The Southern accent is sliding in.

“I’m gone. Go back to sleep.” He shuts the door and I practically float back to my house.
July 12. July 12. July 12.
It’s engraved on my brain.

Guest spot, here I come. As soon as I get back to my room, I turn on the Vibe and start writing down every song they play. I haven’t done that before. Then I write a list of possible secret songs, and it’s two pages long.

At 2:30, I put the pen down, turn off the radio, and try to crash. Right. About 3:30, I get up and dust my 45. Maybe Elvis really does know the truth, and it really is all right. Or maybe he’s full of shit. Either way, things are all right for this minute, and that’s fine with me.

As I’m drifting off, I hear a faint comment:
Do you doubt me?

Elvis sounds testy.

The next morning I check the UCB’s fan page, hoping
they’ll post pictures of whatever adventure they took
themselves on. Of course it’s magnificent: the words
OH SHIT
are chalked about a hundred times over the face of both Maxfield East and Maxfield West, covering the front of each school. Down at the bottom of the front wall, on each school, it says
HAPPY FREEDOM, SENIORS!

I print off the pictures, then rummage around in a hall closet. When I find an empty photo album, I put last night’s
OH SHIT
photos in there and write the date on them. On another page I put the pictures of the mops and brooms, then move that page ahead of the
OH SHIT
pictures so everything’s in order. I find the clipping of the garden party at the grocery store and tuck it in the book, too.

God, I’m strange. But I can’t help it. They make me feel like a rock star. Like I have something decent to say.

They make me feel like I matter.

Katy Perry is the new Elvis
because She Likes Kissing Girls, Too

Wednesday evening. When I get to the Coffee Hag, I sit by the wall so I can see both doors. I made sure to bind my chest extra-tight and iron my shirt, just for that put-together look. My hair is carefully combed, of course, and I chose glasses today for that studious look. James Franco, right? Normally it takes me about forty-five minutes to be sure I’m guy-ish enough—binder, clothes, shoes, hair, checked over and over and over again—but tonight it was ninety. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I feel good, but I feel like I’m going to explode. With fear or excitement, I don’t know.

I think about leaving, and I actually stand up. But I sit back down and stick my red feet out from under the table. The casual look is a little more convincing. I should lean back, put my arms behind my head, and put my crotch front and center just like bio guys do, but I couldn’t be that macho if I channeled John Wayne.

Mara comes in, a big white daisy pinned to her book bag. She looks light, almost wispy, like the air could carry her away. I never noticed it at school. She’s Bj
ö
rk without the swan dress, if Bj
ö
rk was about seventeen. I let her order coffee. When she turns around, mug in hand and licking the froth, I stand up and smile.

“Mara?”

“Gabe!” She brings her coffee mug away from her face, and I see a spot of foam on her lip. Sexy. She licks it off without a thought. Or maybe she’s a tease. How the hell am I supposed to know? If she had imaginary words on her forehead, they would say
SCARY DUMB IDEA
.

I remind myself to push my voice into my chest. “I have a table over here.”

“Great! Did you get a coffee?”

I pull out her chair for her. Nothing like chivalry to convince people you’re a guy. “I did. I’ve been here a while.”

“You have?” She looks concerned. “Am I late?”

“I like hanging out here. I brought a book.” I point to my book bag at my feet.

“I’ve never seen you here before.” She frowns a little. “And I usually come once a week.”

“I mostly come in the morning, on weekends. I’m a morning person.” Like any eighteen-year-old guy is a morning person.

“Oh. What’s your favorite kind of coffee?” She smiles again. I like that smile. It’s serious, which is strange, since I thought she was perky. Her smile is gorgeous.

“Um … I like mocha frappes.”

“So why aren’t you drinking one?” She gestures to the coffee mug. Definitely not a frappe glass.

“I like to switch it up.” Please let her stop asking questions.

She sits in the chair opposite mine and looks at me. Frowns at me, in fact. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

My heart falls onto my Chucks. Maybe she really was at graduation. “How would we know each other?” I keep the smile light and the voice low. No panic.

“What church do you go to?”

“My family is a bunch of pagan tree worshippers.” Oh man, not religion. The coffee discussion is hard enough.

The frown is still there. “Maybe it’s not church. I’ll think of it.”

If all else fails, change the subject. “So, why did you start listening to KZUK?”

“My parents like it, so I grew up with it. Are you in high school?” She’s frowning at me again.

I ignore the question. “KZUK’s unique, that’s for sure.” Der, der, der—my brain’s got a skip. Why the hell did I say that? I fiddle with my mug.

“How’d you get a show there?” She sips her coffee again. There’s more foam on her lip, and she licks it off without a thought.

“KZUK will give anyone with a pulse some air time.”

“Seriously, where do you go to school? West or East?” She’s not giving this one up.

“New Sibley Day School.” It’s in the next town over.

“Really? My cousin goes to school there—Megan Anderson? I’ll have to ask her if she knows you.”

It figures.

“So what’s on your iPod?” Mara pulls hers out of her bag, and it’s attached to these funky, noise-damping headphones. She and her iPod mean business.

“Nothing too interesting.” Which isn’t true, but I don’t want to bore her.

Fiddle fiddle. “I have 850 songs on here, and I want more. Isn’t that stupid?”

I gesture to the moving pink rectangle. “Who’s on it?”

“Everyone from Coldplay to Mozart.” She sighs. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve heard it all already.”

I think for a second. “Have you tried Brother Ali?”

“No.”

“There you go.”

Mara laughs. “You know what I mean. Right now I’m into nineties stuff, Nirvana and Blind Melon and the Dave Matthews Band … ”

Her lips are red and shiny. Almost like Paige’s. I’m cheating on Paige’s mouth by looking at Mara’s mouth. But I also cheated by looking at Heather’s mouth, and the rest of her.

“Gabe?”

Caught. “Hmm?” I try not to look like I’ve been drifting.

“Are you listening?”

“Sure. Nirvana.”

“You zoned out.” She gives me a pouty face.

“I was … enjoying the view.” I should just shut up.

Mara gathers up her iPod and stashes it away, and I see the blush creeping up her face. When she looks up again, she’s frowning. “I just can’t place you. Do you have a sister?”

My heart is under my Chucks. Hopefully all the color in my face is still there. “Nope, no sister, or cousin.”

“It’s not important. But you really do look familiar.”

The panic rises, and I have to get out of here, like now, or my heart will leap out of my chest. I give her one more smile. “They say everyone has a twin.”

I never should have agreed to this. This is such a small town, even with 40,000 people in it.

“Maybe so. Hey, do you want more coffee?” Mara stands up, foamed-up mug in her hand.

“Um, no thanks. I’ve gotta go.”

She looks disappointed. “So soon?”

I try for casual. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Can we do it again?”

“Give me another call at the station.”

“Sure. It’s awesome to meet you.”

“You too.”

Mara moves to hug me, which is the worst idea I’ve imagined in a long time. I grab the coffee mug in her right hand and give it a couple hard shakes while I reach for my book bag. The mug is better than her hand, since mine is slimy with sweat. Then I bolt.

“Gabe!”

I focus on the door and get the hell out. The car’s close, and I collapse when I get inside it.

It’s all right, Gabe. It will be all right.

Elvis is stupid as hell.

I don’t think we can count that as a track for my B side. Maybe a few seconds’ worth of sound. Maybe I’ll be able to fill the groove in later.

I’m so dumb for thinking this could work. Nobody was going to listen to my funky little show at midnight, especially on a community radio station that caters to middle-age people. Right? Then someone did, then more than one someone, but it was okay, because I was still just a voice in the dark. But now, between McSwingy’s and this complete wreck of a date, Gabe’s so far out in the light he’s glowing. Right in the same town with all the people who think he’s Liz.

I make it home, but I don’t go inside—I pull a lawn chair up to the fountain and dangle my feet in it. It doesn’t really help, but it grounds me a little. My heart slows down. The sun’s fading out of the sky.

“How many times have I asked you not to put your feet in the fountain?” Mom. She comes up behind me and puts her hands on my shoulders. She hasn’t touched me since I told her I was Gabe.

“About a million.”

“So why do you still do it?” She’s smiling. I can hear it in her voice.

“Because you told me not to. And it feels good on my feet.”

She pats me, gently, like I might break. “Just do it when I’m not home, so I don’t see you, all right?”

“Gotcha.”

The grass rustles, and she’s gone. I hear the door close.

She might not hate me.

I pick up five pieces of landscape rock to wish on. Splash—someday I have a successful date with someone who’s never met Liz. Splash—my mom looks at me again. Splash—I find a 45 of “Hot Pants.” Splash—my dad looks at me again. Splash—Paige and I spend the rest of our lives together.

That’s a lot of wishes for one fountain to hold, but nothing explodes. The water just bubbles along.