Rules to Rock By (15 page)

EggMtnRckr:
Did you ever think about how I felt when I’d been working on Egg Mountain for over a year, dreaming about it for years before that, and then this upstart girl comes along, sings a song or two, and starts getting HER
OWN FANS?!?!?

Bassinyrface:
umm, no. I guess I hadn’t.

EggMtnRckr:
Well, at first it was kind of hard, to be honest. But then I realized that having you around only made the band better, so I kinda coached myself into not worrying about it.

Bassinyrface:
That’s totally cool! I had no idea. Thanks, R.

EggMtnRckr:
Rule number six: DONT COMPETE WITH YR OWN BANDMATES!

Bassinyrface:
I know, I know.

EggMtnRckr:
Just joking you, Belle, dont sweat it. Just be glad that not only do you have YOUR awesome talent, you have Crackers too!

Bassinyrface:
Absolutely. Youre right, R. As usual.

EggMtnRckr:
So youre gonna help me out next time I have a band crisis of my own, right?

Bassinyrface:
Yes, yes, yes! Absolutely. I swear. Double swear. TRIPLE SWEAR!!!

I was going to mention the Brooklyn possibility to Ronaldo, but I was too nervous to do it. I mean, what if he loved Anthony’s playing so much that he’d tell me I was out of Egg Mountain, now and forever? I was too freaked out to deal with that, so I tried to act as if the choice of Brooklyn didn’t even exist. I went about my life as if the conversation with my mom hadn’t happened, figuring that soon enough the right decision would come to me.

My mom asked me to take the bus with X again and drop him off on the way to school. Awesome! X was in the exact opposite mood as me, and obviously clueless about what had gone on between my mom and me the night before. I was feeling quiet and mellow and wanted to take things nice and slow. He, on the other hand, was swinging in the center of the aisle, grabbing the tops of two seats in opposite rows and barely keeping his balance while swinging. If it hadn’t been so irritating, I would have been pretty impressed by his athletic feat. X looked like he was about to begin one of those old-school break-dancing routines that you sometimes see teenage kids do on the subways in New York. I wondered if he was going to start spinning in circles on the floor as a way to earn extra change.

Then my phone vibrated three times: a message. I looked at the missed call and saw that Abuela had called only thirty seconds before. And when I called back, of course, she didn’t pick up. Stupid cell phone! Was it just me or was the reception in Providence twice as bad as in Brooklyn? Finally, I shrugged and listened to the message.

“Hello, my Annabella,” she said. “Oh, honey, I’m miss you so much right now and I’m wondering, do you talk to your mommy this morning about anything special? Call me when you feel you want talk, okay, honey?”

I couldn’t call her back; I didn’t know what to say yet. I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know what to do. Providence, or Brooklyn? As The Clash once sang, “Should I stay or should I go?”

Rock stars always know exactly what they want.

“Guys, I’m sorry I freaked out,” I said to Jonny and Christine in front of Christine’s locker. “I shouldn’t have stormed out like that.”

“You did freak out,” said Jonny. “And you told me to shut up. Not cool.”

“I’m really sorry. It had nothing to do with you. That was between me and my parents.”

“Remember when I said how bands bring out the worst in people?”

“Yeah, I do. It won’t happen again.”

“If you don’t want me to be the singer, I can just be the keyboard player,” said Christine.

“No, no. I want you to sing,” I said. “Really.”

“How about you both sing?” said Jonny. “Duh. Harmonies. Two girl vocalists. You’ll be huge.”

Crackers and I looked at each other.

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll both sing.”

“How about working on something for this?” Christine said, pointing to a poster across the hall. It was for an open-mic concert at next Friday’s lunch assembly. Anyone could play. All we had to do was sign up.

“We don’t even have a drummer. We’re not even a band yet,” I said.

“You don’t even have a guitarist yet,” Jonny said. “Remember, I said I’d practice, but no gigs.”

“You guys are wimps,” Crackers said.

“What?” I said.

“You say you want to be in a band, but you’re afraid. Both of you.”

“I am not afraid,” I said.

“I might be a little afraid,” Jonny said.

“Annabelle, what are you more interested in?” Christine asked. “Forming a band, or looking cool? Because we might not look that cool at this open mic, but if we do well, people will notice us. And what better way is there to find a drummer than to show the whole school that we’re serious about playing?”

“She has a point,” said Jonny.

“The drummers will come to
us
,” Christine said.

“So, Jonny, you’ll do it if I do it?”

I looked for a flicker of doubt on his face. He had to have seen the threatening note by now, so he knew there was some risk involved if he played in public with us.

“Okay, I’ll do it. I’m a hired gun, though. Just till you find somebody permanent.”

We both knew that he’d said he’d never perform with us before. And now he was a
willing participant
in a live show. So he wasn’t exactly saying yes to being in our band. But he wasn’t exactly saying no, either.

HEY, CRACKERS

On Friday, two periods before the lunch assembly and the open mic, Mr. V gave us back our Soundtrack of My Life song lists, complete with the descriptions of why we had picked the songs. He had already said that “this exercise is not a judgment on your musical taste,” but I was still a little worried about having my excellent indie song list critiqued by a middle-aged Bon Jovi fan. Plus, good song choices were all I had! I felt like I had only actually done a good job on four of the songs and just scribbled random stuff under the other ones, so I braced myself for a horrible grade. But when I Iooked down, I saw a big fat A at the top of the page. Plus, there were exclamation marks next to every paragraph that I had actually completed. He must have really loved it!

The Soundtrack of My Life
, by Annabelle Cabrera
Opening Credits: “The Perfect Me,” Deerhoof
Everyone dreams of being perfect at something. It could be school, or sports, or Grand Theft Auto. I want to be as perfect as Satomi Matsuzaki at playing the bass, singing, jumping around, and generally being awesome. This is my favorite Deerhoof song of all time. The drums are crazy, there are weird bell sounds on top of everything, and a church organ from outer space.

Receiving a Gift: “Strawberry Fields Forever,” The Beatles
This is my “receiving a gift” song because that’s how I feel when I’m listening to it: like
I
am being given a gift by The Beatles. Directly by The Beatles, like they wrote it just for me. It’s a really gentle song, but then every once in a while Ringo’s drums really bang in on a fill, and it just sounds awesome. I also like how a lot of the words don’t really mean anything. But if you know the song, they somehow do start to make sense. They make sense the way a beautiful dream makes sense, but then you wake up and you can’t explain to
anybody
what made the dream so excellent.

Treasured Memory: “Kooks,” David Bowie

This song reminds me of how life was when I was really young, maybe four or six years old or something. The song’s about a couple of weirdos who are in love—and trust me, my parents are kind of weird—and who have a kid. Maybe by accident, it’s hard to tell. But they are happy about having the baby, and they sing a song to her, welcoming her to their nutty family. The parents in the song sort of apologize for being weird, and to make up for it they buy the kid a trumpet and a guide for how to not get picked on, which is totally something I could use right now.

     And it’s cool to be different, but I wish my parents were more like they used to be, more like the parents in this Bowie song. When we lived in Brooklyn, with my abuela, she was the boss, and my parents and brother and I were kind of all her kids. It was a lot more fun that way.

Moment of Regret: “Waitin’ for a Superman,” The Flaming Lips

Sometimes you just want somebody to come down and save you. Maybe you’re having a bad day. Maybe you wish you were taller or played the bass better. But you can’t just become an amazing musician or grow a whole foot overnight, so you dream about it instead. I think I chose this for “moment of regret” because I always used to think my dad was Superman, and then one day I woke up and realized he was just my dad. He was just a guy.

Loneliness: “Nowhere Man,” The Beatles

What I love about Beatles songs is that the words can be really sad sometimes, but it doesn’t matter because you feel happy when you listen to the melodies and instruments. Everybody feels lonely sometimes, but I never feel lonely when I listen to The Beatles, because it’s like they’re kind of holding your hand and helping you through the hard times. You might be lonely when you turn on this song, but three minutes later you realize it’s all going to be okay.

Final Battle: “Declare Independence,” Björk

I chose “Declare Independence,” the Björk song, for my final battle song because when she sings this song, she sounds like she is at war. Maybe not the kind of war where you load up guns, fly flags, and climb mountaintops. But maybe the kind of war where sometimes it feels like everybody is standing between you and your dream, and you have to get a little bit mad in order to become who you want to be.

     All my life people have used annoying words to describe me, like “sassy” or “spunky.” I hate the word “spunky.” It sounds like a word for feeling like you want to throw up. People describe Björk as spunky, too. (Or they just talk about how she wears weird clothes.) Sassy and spunky mean full of energy and attitude. But I don’t really feel like I have attitude. I feel like I will never get what I want in life. I will never be able to lead my own band. I will never be able to do what Ronaldo did, not on my own.
I will never be noticed again, by my parents or anyone else. I will be invisible.

Closing Credits: “Crimson and Clover,” Joan Jett

Tommy James wrote this song around the time my parents were born, but Joan Jett did it in the eighties and totally
owned
it. She’s somebody who would do another person’s song note for note but still somehow makes it all her own. I really don’t know how everything in the lyrics adds up to “Crimson and Clover,” but those words just sound so good together! Oh, Joan, how I love thee. The guitars on this record are HUGE, but her voice goes back and forth between hard and soft, tough and gentle. When she’s barely whispering on top of those crunchy, distorted guitar chords, I feel like I’m lying in a field of grass gazing up at a blue sky so wide open and unending, it almost hurts.

“This is great, even though you still owe me some of the assignment,” Mr. V wrote. “You are finally opening up a little bit here. We are seeing the real Annabelle now. This is what good writers do. But it’s still not complete. Keep going!”

The real Annabelle? I read my final battle paragraph again and felt a rush of warmth spread across my face. “I will be invisible,” I had written. It was just embarrassing.

“Okay, class,” Mr. V said. “Now comes the hard part: creating a work of art. Over the weekend, I want you to look again at what you have written. Many of you have written very well so far, but in a rather unstructured way. Your thoughts and expressions are full of life on these pages, but they are still raw. The next step is to use your soundtrack as inspiration to create a work of art, a finished piece that you are proud of, a piece that says something of who … you … are.”

I’m not sure if anyone knew what he was talking about. I waited until all the other kids had filed out to approach Mr. V’s desk.

“Ah, Ms. Cabrera,” he said. “Nice work on that assignment. Do you know what your work of art will be?”

“Huh?” I said.

“Your work of art. A song perhaps?”

“Yep, that’s what I want to do. But …”

“It’s scary, right?”

“No, I’m not scared exactly. I’ve been around songwriting my whole life. My parents do it, my friends do it. And when they do it, it looks really easy. Every time I do it, though, it feels impossible.”

“So you’ve written songs before, then?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I just write a few words here, a few words there. I put them to some chords. Sometimes it sounds good, but I can never finish anything. The ideas never
go
anywhere.”

“Ah, you’ve got a bit of a block happening, maybe. It takes a long while to truly become good at something, you know. You might not feel very young right now, but believe me, you are. And you have a lot of time to develop your talents. The only thing I can say is that, as your teacher, I see you have a lot to say. You just need to keep working at it, a little bit every day. It’s a long climb, but believe me, you will get there. Slow and steady wins the race.”

Slow and steady wins the race.
As I set up my bass and looked out at the bleachers, I tried to take courage from Mr. V’s saying, but at that moment it just didn’t do the trick. These assemblies were a total drag. Teachers stood in the halls like watchdogs, making sure each and every kid filed into the gym, but for what? To hear an endless list of boring announcements from the principal, or maybe a motivational speech from the art teacher about how beautiful autumn could be if you only looked up and noticed the trees’ changing leaves. Mostly, they were an excuse for boys to yell out jokes and see if they could get the crowd laughing. I guess the hopeful part of me thought this open mic might change the mood of the assembly, but it hadn’t at all. If anything, the jokers were
more
amped up than usual—this time they had a chance to make fun of their own classmates.

This performance was going to be a huge, humiliating mistake. The stand-up comic and the juggler who had also signed up had dropped out earlier that morning, so we were the only act stupid enough to subject ourselves to the open-mic treatment. Half the crowd looked bored out of their minds, and the rest of the kids were hurling insults our way:

“Loser!”

“Beatles Geek!”

“Dork!”

“Crackers ’n’ Cheeeeeeeese!”

“Fatty McGoth!”

I don’t know how they even recognized Jonny, though. He wore sunglasses and a baseball cap so low on his head that I wasn’t sure he’d be able to see his guitar strings.

“Is that a disguise?” I asked him.

“Kind of.” Either he knew that doing the open mic was the biggest dork maneuver in history or he was hiding from Jackson. Or whoever else might have written him the threatening note.

Mrs. Harris, the principal, played the MC role.

“Okay, kids, we have something really special for today’s open mic,” she said. “It’s a new rock group of sixth graders.”

Jonny’s disguise must have been successful, because Harris didn’t realize that a full-blown seventh grader was our guitarist, even though he was too embarrassed to be seen with us.

“I don’t believe they have a name.” She turned to us. “What do you call yourselves?”

“IDIOTS!” somebody yelled from the stands.

“Hey!” Harris yelled. I didn’t know she had it in her. She was serious about this hope-and-love thing. “These kids have the floor!” Then she walked off and the floor was ours indeed.

Jonny plunked out the intro chords of “Hey Jude” so quietly that I couldn’t even hear the beat, and I was two feet away from him. Then he flubbed a D chord and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oops,” he said. “Bungle.”

“They should be called The Bungles!” said the jerk from the stand. Half the audience cracked up. Were we going to be the first band in history to be named by a heckler? Maybe. But I was not going to let Rule Number Five get the best of me!

“Go ahead, Jonny,” I whispered. “Start it again.”

He played the intro again, more confidently, and Christine and I joined in. I sang the first verse, and I sounded okay, I thought. There were a couple more heckles, but by the time I was done with my part of the song, everybody had shut up. I remembered this from the Egg Mountain days, the way a good song played by a good band can silence a restless, obnoxious crowd in seconds. Music is a powerful thing, and even our quiet little Beatles cover was working its power.

But by the time Crackers finished
her
first verse, she absolutely owned the crowd.

“Go, Crackers!” yelled out a high-sounding girl’s voice. I was thinking,
Crackers has a groupie?

I had pushed for “Hey Jude” instead of “A Place in the Sun” to avoid having Crackers look
so
much better than me, but it didn’t make a difference. She was amazing, no matter what song she sang. This much was clear: Crackers was going to be the star of this band. As I scanned the bleachers, I saw that half the kids had stood up. Most of the school had probably never even consciously laid their eyes on this gawky girl, a mere eleven-year-old who blended into the sea of faces in the halls. Before today, there had been nothing unique about her except for her constant snacking. Plus, she was all spindly arms and legs, and had that distant quality, that faraway look in her eyes of someone who barely even seemed to know where she was.