Beautiful Music for Ugly Children (11 page)

Morrissey Should Have Been the New Elvis but He Couldn’t Get Permission from Elvis’s Estate

Thursday evening at work. I keep thinking about Mara. If all dates are that stressful, I’m gonna be alone for the rest of my life—on purpose. Maybe she’ll call. She might not. And if she does ask me out again, I might not go. And that’s bullshit: of course I’ll go. It’s a girl, and she asked me out.

Chris wants me to dust, so I do, and I switch to thinking about songs for the Vibe contest. You wouldn’t think there’d be songs about radio stuff, but there are tons, some of which are good and some of which are crazy boring.

Dusting is also good cover for watching girls. Not that I stare, but I watch. Heather Graves hasn’t come by yet. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

Lately I’ve been noticing how girls look alike, sort of like a herd. Lots of them have long straight hair, and they all wear layered tank tops with matching flip-flops. Their shorts are pretty short, and everyone carries an enormous purse. Sometimes Paige fits into the look-alike herd, but she usually chooses one accessory that helps her stand out, like tank tops in contrasting colors or cat-eye sunglasses, when everyone else has on the ones that completely cover their faces. She’s smart like that.

After I dust one side of the store, I straighten up things behind the counter and add Paddy O’Furniture to the list of
THE BEST BAND NAMES IN THE WORLD
. Then a herd girl comes up to the counter, carrying a copy of Taylor Swift’s latest. Eeew.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” I have to ask because Chris says I have to ask, but I’d also love to help her turn those musical tastes into caviar instead of cat food.

“No thanks!” She’s perky. Maybe it’s a requirement to belong to the herd, but she has a cute smile, so that’s something. Maybe her name is Ashley. She looks like an Ashley. Or an Amber. Something light and fluffy.

While I’m getting her CD into a bag, she does a double take at my nametag. “You’re Gabe?”

“Uh … yeah.”

“Like Gabe on the radio?”

Warning bells, sweaty hands, brain freakout. “Um … ”

She’s excited and talking fast. “Beautiful Music for Ugly Children? The Ugly Children Brigade?”

The part of my brain that’s ready to go out with Mara again is shouting
OF COURSE IT’S ME! WHO ELSE WOULD IT BE
?
But the part that’s afraid is trying to cover the first part’s mouth.

“I … ”

“His show is awesome! Midnight on Fridays, KZUK, if you’re interested. We listen at the B side wall—we decorated it after the first show.”

That must make her Becca, Sarah, or Maggie. Not like I’ve memorized who’s on the B side wall or anything.

“One week we set up garden gnomes at Food Pride so they looked like they were shopping. We’re on Facebook, too.” She picks up her CD. “Hope to see you.” She gives me a perky little wave as she moves out the door. The bell jingles when the door hits it, and the rings are just as perky as she is.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Chris is watching from the other side of the store.

“What?”

“She says ‘Ugly Children Brigade’ and you don’t bust your ass to say ‘yeah, that’s me’?” Chris and I have gotten to be friends. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“She was talking too fast. I couldn’t get a word in.”

“Yeah, right.” Chris looks both amused and annoyed.

“It’s one thing to be Gabe when nobody can see you. It’s totally different to be out in broad daylight.”

“So Gabe’s really a vampire?”

“Look here, Mr. Minnesota Bland, you don’t know anything about it.” I could be pissed at him, but I’m not. I unpin my nametag from my shirt and throw it to him. “Since Gabe only comes out at night, I need a new name.”

I’m brave, I’m chickenshit. I need to pick one.

He catches it with an odd look on his face. “Like what?” He pauses. “You know, a trans vampire could probably make a lot of bank in films.”

“Being a trans vampire could be better than being a trans music geek. I’ll look into it.” I pick up the feather duster and start on the other side of the store.

By the time I’m done dusting, Chris has come back to the front counter and laid out seven different nametags on the glass counter. They say
MYRTLE
,
BETTY
,
HORATIO
,
CHET
,
ANGELA
,
YAO MING
, and
MR. SNUFFLEUPAGUS
, which almost doesn’t fit in the space on the nametag. “Take your pick.”

I pick up
BETTY
and pin it on. “I’ll save
MR. SNUFFLE
UPAGUS
for Mondays.”

He gathers up the rest of them and puts them in the drawer. “I want to be
BETTY
, too, so don’t hog it.” He’s saved out
CHET
and he puts it on.

“As long as I get to be
CHET
sometimes.”

“No problem,
BETTY
.”

“You should be
ANGELA
today. Your hair is very
ANGELA
-ish.”

Chris flips his
ANGELA
mane at me and goes into the back room while I get to work making a table display of the remastered Beatles CDs. They’re the starting point for all music and culture after 1962, according to John. Who am I to disagree? But there’s still no point to “I Am the Walrus.”

My phone vibrates. When I look, it says,

How r u today, sexy?

Excuse me?

I check the number, but there’s no name. Someone will be pissed they didn’t get it, and someone else will be pissed they didn’t dial right.

I don’t erase it. I can pretend it’s from Paige.

After work I get gas and a Pepsi at the Kum & Go, also known as Ejaculate and Evacuate, because I need to drive around and listen to the Vibe. My brain chants it:
July 12, July 12, July 12
.

I’m on the way out the door when I almost run into a girl. We’re both going too fast and not paying attention.

“’Scuse me.” I duck and keep going, not looking at her.

“Gabe?”

Oh god. Not this soon.

“Mara, hey! How are you?” Immediately my mind goes to my looks, but I’ve been at McSwingy’s, so I’m passing. Or passable, anyway.

“You left awfully fast yesterday.”

“Sorry about that. Stuff to do, all that … ”

“Let me get a coffee. Meet you back outside?” Big smile from Mara.

“Uh … sure.”

Holy shit. Holy shit. Okay. Be cool.

Once she’s paid for her gas and her coffee, Mara’s at my car. “How are you?” She sips her froth and licks the foam off her lips. Sexy. I’m cheating again.

“I’m good. What’s new since yesterday?” I give her a weak smile and take a swig of my Pepsi.

“I started teaching swimming lessons today.” She fiddles with her coffee cup. “Five second-graders. Very loud. What did you do today?”

“Just … ” I can’t think. “ … Worked.”

“Where do you work?” Mara seems honestly interested.

“McSwingy’s. Need to pad my music collection, you know.” I hope she keeps going with the easy questions.

“Is that where you get all the stuff you play on your show? It must cost a lot to buy it all.”

“Yeah, but my neighbor lets me mooch. His music library is so big I’ll be thirty-five before I get through it all.”

Mara smiles. “How come you never started a band?”

“I don’t play an instrument. I took piano lessons for a while, but that’s it.”

“You’re not even a band geek? Like ‘this one time at band camp’ band geek?” She’s surprised.

“Nope.”

“Me neither. But I always wanted to play something.” She sighs. “It’s a little late to start when you’re a junior. Well, senior now.”

The light is dim, but I can see she has on bright pink lip stuff. Her mouth looks like a strawberry. What a cliché. But it does.

“It’s never too late to start something new.” I take another swig of my Pepsi. “How often do you teach swimming lessons?”

“Every other … ” Then she’s staring at me. Like staring.

“What?”

“Pepsi.”

No no no
. I didn’t even think of that. But it’s too late. I can see it in her eyes.

“The snack bar. You’d always get a Pepsi from the machine.” The puzzle pieces have clicked into place. “I told myself it wasn’t you!” Now she’s crying.

“Look, Mara … ”

“You’re just … messed up.” She’s backing away from me.

“Please just listen.”

“Don’t ever try to find me or talk to me again. You need help.” In the dusk, the tears are heading towards her strawberry mouth.

“Please don’t go.” I reach for her hand.

She jerks back like I scalded her. “I liked you. I really did.” One sob out loud, then she runs to her car. I can’t look up when she screeches away.

Nobody here knows either of us. There was no shouting involved, and nobody made a scene. Just a conversation between two people.

Then it occurs to me: Mara will out me to the Ugly Children Brigade.

There’s a garbage can close to my car, and I heave up all the Pepsi I drank, which wasn’t much, but it feels like I’m throwing up from my toes. A couple walks by on the way to their car and I hear the woman say, “Gross! I bet that guy’s drunk.”

At least she said “guy.”

When I’m done throwing up, I get in my car and drive around for an hour, like I told myself I would. But I can’t hear the Vibe for all the buzz in my head:
Out. Liz. Out. Gabe. Out. Mara. Out.

Maybe it’s good. Gabe 24/7. No more trans vampire act.

Yeah, right. It will not end well.

I have to pull over and puke again. But there’s nothing there, so now my muscles hurt from the dry heaves.

I completely suck for thinking I could do this.

When I get home, I rush to my room. I dust my 45 to calm myself, then check the Ugly Children Brigade fan page. Nothing yet. Give her time.

What does Elvis have to say about the situation?
Don’t be cruel. Stop, look, and listen. It’s now or never.
He’s full of clichés tonight.

Then I notice there’s a box on my bed with a mailing label on it from Mango Products—the perfect ironic twist to the evening. I shove the box under my bed, with enough force to send it deep. I’m too freaked to open it right now.

It’s obvious the powers of the universe are conspiring against me.

Or forcing my hand.

SCREEEEEEEEEECH. My new B side grooves are unwinding.

About three a.m., I check again. Mara’s posted on the UCB page:

Guess what? Gabe’s not really … well, let’s just
say he’s not who he says he is. I’m dropping out. He lied.

Then there are comments underneath the wall post:
Who is he?
and
Why would he lie?
and
That can’t be right.

Then another Mara comment:

Let’s just say he’s got the wrong equipment
to be Gabe. That’s all you need to know.

After that, somebody’s written:

You mean he doesn’t have a turntable?

It could be a lot worse. A lot worse.

But I still can’t sleep.

Friday night. I do the one-hit wonder show—without John, who’s charming a lady friend. The CD he made me ages ago is full of great stuff—“Kung Fu Fighting” and “I’m Too Sexy” and “Crank Dat Soulja Boy” and, of course, “Come On Eileen”—but I suck because my mind is full of white noise. I remember to tell them about decorating someone’s car, but I have no idea if they’ll do it.

Maybe things will blow over. Mara will block the page and nobody will remember after a few weeks.

Then the show’s over, and Marijane is gardening in her dirt. When I come out of the building, there are two guys standing in the parking lot. They’ve got on dark clothes and masks—Jason from
Friday the 13th
on one dude, and the mask from
Scream
on the other.

Guess there’s always a first time to get pounded into the ground.

“Can I … help you?” I don’t know what else to say.

Jason, the tall one, throws a cig on the ground and grinds it out. “You Gabe?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Me. You Gabe? We just need to know.”

“Yeah.”

Jason starts to laugh. “You’re pathetic, you know that? We used to like your show.” Scream doesn’t say anything. They get in their car and peel out. I start to breathe again.

Whatever, fuckers. And masks? Maybe Mara sent them to scare me.

I do not need this right now.

Chuck D. is the new Elvis
even though He Says Eminem
is the New Elvis

Saturday. There are two pictures of decorated cars on the UCB page, so my brain has mostly quit fuzzing out. One car got painted—
with washable car paint, just so you know, Gabe
—like a clown, and one car got completely covered in helium balloons—they’re tied to everything. The balloons all say
Get Well Soon!
and
Happy Retirement!
It was parked in front of the cop shop, which may have been the best part. But only two pictures, and that worries me. Usually there are more.

I check the friend number on the fan page, and it hasn’t gone down—68, which is the highest it’s ever been. So that’s good.

If the UCB gives up on me because of Mara, I will not know how to act. My entire heart turns black when I think about it. I love them. And I made a scrapbook. A stupid goddamn scrapbook. Losing them scares me more than the dudes with the masks.

I get another text.

Hey sexy.

No name, just the number.

Maybe it’s Paige, and she’s using her dad’s phone or something. She’d do that just to mess with me.

Everybody go away. I need peace.

I head to the back yard and stick my feet in the fountain, since my mom’s gone. Then Paige wanders around the corner—with no call or text to warn me—and waves like she’s the queen. I don’t wave back, but she pulls up a lawn chair. “Gabey baby, what’s new? I’ve got gossip for you.”

Of course she does. “Did you text me a while ago with your dad’s phone and say ‘hey sexy’?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Just checking.”

“You’re dumb. And I wouldn’t say you’re sexy, really. More like cute.” She flops her hand at me. “Maybe you have a secret admirer.” She makes kissy faces.

“Whatever. Your gossip?”

She settles into her lawn chair, looking thoughtful. “You look crabby today.”

“Long story.” I’m not ready to talk yet.

“I canned Bobby X.”

This surprises me. “I thought he was your truuuuu luuuuv.”

“Knock it off. I need someone more fun, and he was a perpetual rain cloud.”

“He was definitely bleak, and that scraggly goatee did nothing for him.”

Now she doesn’t look at me. “Guess you’re my only boyfriend.”

I don’t look at her, either. “Guess so.”

What the hell does that mean?

Then the cheerful Paige comes back. “So, why so crabby?”

This is gonna get weird. “Have you looked at the UCB page lately?”

“No.”

“Um … I met a girl.” I whisper, just in case.

“Oh. You did?” She might be okay with it, or she might be pissed. Her face is neutral, but I’m betting on pissed.

“She’s in the UCB,” I say.

“I bet she called you at the station, didn’t she? Like a fangirl.” Still neutral, but with a dose of sarcasm. “Sure it’s not her who texted you?”

“She doesn’t have my number. But she goes to West.”

“So? It’s a big place.”

“She knows I was Liz, so she outed me to the UCB.”

Paige’s eyes are wide. “How’d she figure it out?”

“Snack bar change.”

“What?”

“She used to give me change at the snack bar.”

She sits back, and I can see she’s still working on the neutrality. “Well. Hmm. Now what?” A pause. “I thought I was the only girl in your life.” I’m right about the pissed part. “And I thought BFFs told each other everything.”

“You are, and you’re right, but I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to give me shit.” I’m not going to tell her about the mask guys because I don’t want to hear about them, either. She’ll tell me to go to the police, because she believes in law and order. I, on the other hand, believe the police won’t care about someone like me.

Paige snorts. “Of course I’m going to give you shit. That’s what friends are for.” Then, of course, she has ideas. “You could just deny it. Or you could quit the show, go someplace where no one knows you, and start it up again. Or you could join the circus!” Her voice gets louder with each sentence.

I glare. “Keep it down.” Then I realize I haven’t told her that the Vibe said yes. “I have news related to moving away.”

“You’re joining the circus because you got outed?”

Another glare in her direction. “Do you remember when John entered me into the contest to compete for a radio show at the Vibe?”

“Nope.”

“For someone who claims to be my BFF and wants to know everything, you sure don’t remember much.”

She rolls her eyes. “How about when we were fifteen and you decided you wanted to be a lumberjack? Move up north to Ely and learn how to hack down trees? That was hilarious.”

“Okay, well, anyway, I’m a finalist in the contest, and I still get to do it as Gabe.”

“But you entered as Elizabeth?”

“John didn’t know, then.”

“Have you guys started planning what you’re going to do?”

“I’ve started, but it’s … ” Then I remember what I found on my bed the other day and I jump up like a snake bit me on the ass. “I forgot the Mango!”

Paige stares. “You have major issues today.”

“It’s here.”

“Are you wearing it?”

“Look at me.”

She checks out my baggy shorts. “So where is it?”

“Hidden.”

We go inside to scope the scene. My mom is home now, and unloading groceries. She hears us and comes out of the kitchen. “Hi, ladies. Want a Popsicle?”

I try to shove Paige up the stairs. “No thanks.”

“I’d love a Popsicle!” She’s sweet to parents. Nobody knows her evil side but me.

I give Paige a dark look as she heads into the kitchen to get herself a Popsicle. She smirks over her shoulder. “Sure you don’t want one, Gabe?”

I see my mom twitch just a little when she hears Paige say that name, but she goes back to the groceries. “Later, girls.”

“Bye!” Paige is cheery to the point of nausea.

There’s no lock on my bedroom door, so I stack three boxes of albums in front of it, to warn us if someone barges in, and then I try to find the Mango. I have to crawl under my bed, on my stomach, past boxes of eight-tracks to get it out.

Paige is perched on my desk chair, laughing. “You were afraid someone would open your package?”

“Funny pun.” My voice is muffled because I’m still under my bed.

“In my house, mail is private.”

I find a dusty box of CDs. “You just don’t know.”

“It’s not like the box is the shape of a penis!”

“So?” I find a dress my mom tried to make me wear when I was confirmed in seventh grade. That fight was enormous. “And don’t use that word.”

“Box?”

“Shut up.”

She laughs and takes it from me when I emerge from the wilderness. “When did it get here?”

“Thursday.”

She starts tugging at the packing tape. “And you didn’t open it yet? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Getting outed took up my brain power, plus I had to do a show.”

“You have dust bunnies in your hair.” Paige smirks.

“I do?”

“Let me … ” She slides them out, but gives my hair a yank as well, what she can grab of it. “Open it already, Mr. Security.”

“Hand me those scissors.” I point at a pair on my desk, and she does, then I slice open the tape and pull it out. It’s soft and pinkish, and it looks like a dick. Mostly.

“What’s this for?” Paige points to the funnel thingy.

“You push it against your, you know … where you pee … and it comes out the end of the … prosthetic.”

Paige doesn’t seem bothered at all. “Got it. Gonna try it on?”

She can’t be serious. “Right here? In front of you?”

“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine. Remember when we did that? We were what—six?”

“But it’s a dick!”

“So what? I’ve seen a dick before. Need some help?”

“Can it. And turn around.” I fish out the directions.

Paige points to the harness and straps. “What’s that for?”

“When you wear it with boxers, you need this. Tighty whiteys hold it on so you don’t need the strap.”

She stretches out on top of the comforter my mom picked out when I was fifteen. Ugly and girly. “Are you gonna try it on or not?”

“Dammit, I said TURN AROUND.”

“I’m turned around.” She rolls over and puts her back to me, so I shuck off my shorts.

“Shall I take off my clothes, too?” I hear the mischief in her voice.

“One almost-naked teenager is enough.” She doesn’t know what my boy brain would do with that information.

It takes me a minute to figure out how to hook it up, and she taps her fingers on the wall. “Haven’t you ever worked a penis before? I can give you some tips.”

My whole body is hot and flushed, and I’ve never felt more naked in my life, but I think I’ve got it right. “You can turn back around.”

She does, and her eyes go straight to my crotch. The Mango hangs where it should. My skin doesn’t match its color, but it’s close enough for accidental glances at the urinal. The harness feels odd, but nobody should see it under the boxers. I’ll get used to it.

It’s all I can do not to cover myself with my hands.

Paige studies me. “Hmm. Okay then.”

“That’s all you can say?”

“What do you want me to say? ‘Gee, Gabe, nice dick’?”

“I don’t know!”

She can see how freaked I am. “This has to feel a little surreal.”

“You think?”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to show you mine?” She unsnaps her pants.

“I already have one of those, and I really, really wish you’d shut up about yours.” She has no idea how much I wish she’d shut up.

“Let’s find a teen night in the Cities and try it out. You can pee at the urinals this time.”

Paige turns around again, and I slip out of the Mango harness and tuck everything into my boy undies drawer. All of a sudden, relief pours over my head, shoulders, heart, like someone is drowning me with goodness. I don’t know if I believe in God, but there must be Somebody up there if there’s something like a Mango. I try to be quiet as I’m shuffling the boxers, but Paige hears me sniffle.

“Gabe?” Her hand is on my back.

I turn to her, and she can see I’m trying not to cry. But my nose is beginning to run.

“I’m glad for you.”

“Yeah.” And then I can’t help it. Paige holds me and pats me on the back as the tears gush, and I let myself be held. Finally I’m back to a runny nose.

Paige pats me one more time. “That was a girly thing to do.” She reaches out and smoothes my eyebrows. “Not like these caterpillars. Why don’t you pluck?”

I break away from her and punch her in the arm. “Don’t tell anybody you saw me do that.” I shut the drawer.

“Who am I gonna tell?” Paige’s summer-blue eyes are wide and bright when I look at her. And kind. “Better now?”

I smile at her. “Sometimes you’re really nice.”

“What do you mean, sometimes?” She flops on my bed again. “We should see what Mara’s saying on Facebook.”

“No thanks.”

“Oh, come on.” Paige is still lying there, looking for all the world like one of those women in a really old painting,
la la la and where is the house boy with my grapes
, that kind of thing. “It’ll be fine. I think you’re pretty damn convincing as a man, especially lately.”

“What if I was wearing a nametag that said
BETTY
?”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

I laugh. “I’m
MR. SNUFFLEUPAGUS
on Mondays.”

“You guys are off the chain.” She rolls her eyes. Paige thinks Chris is a loser druggie, which he used to be, but so what?

Paige hops off the bed and picks up my iPod—my graduation present to myself, engraved with
GABE 24/7
on the back. “Have you got ‘Flashdance’ on here?” She starts thumbing through and comes up with it on a playlist called
’80s crap
that I made for her. “The eighties are not crap, and watch this. I memorized her moves so I can use them when we club.” She puts the iPod in its dock on my desk and points to the bed. “Go sit.”

I do. Even though she looks like a cross between a butterfly and a spazzed-out sparrow, it works. Then the song’s done and she’s out of breath, looking at me like she doesn’t know whether I’m going to holler at her or laugh. “So?”

I don’t know what to say, because she looks more beautiful at this moment than she’s ever looked. “Wow.”

She’s annoyed. “That’s all you can say—‘wow’? I wasn’t better than ‘wow’?”

“No! You were … fantastic. Amazing. Breathtaking. Gorgeous.” I stop, because I’m getting close to the truth.

“That’s better.” Now she looks pleased, and she flounces over to the bed and sits next to me. “Maybe I can do it some night at Happiness.”

I scoot away from her. “Maybe some night when I’m not there, so you don’t embarrass me.”

She scoots next to me again, then pushes my shoulder down so I’m lying on my back with my legs dangling off the bed. Once I’m down, she snuggles up next to me. “We make good dance partners, don’t you think?”

My BFF has just curled up to me like I’m a guy. Her guy.