Teen Angst? Naaah ... (6 page)

Army of Clones finished, and two or three kids clapped. The parents stayed, recording everything, as Shrivel took the stage. The band had technical problems. The vocalist's mike went dead; no one could hear what he was screaming about. The bass amp was busted, too; at one point, the bassist stopped plucking to tie his shoes and nobody noticed. That was all right. The music was standard, whiny fare, but at least it was loud. The first song they played was the theme from
Batman
. That was good enough for me.

By now, the kids had formed a mosh pit.
^*
Not a hardcore one, with people actually getting bloodied—just a “mini pit” where misunderstood students could vent themselves.

I never dance—I hate dancing—but I figured I could mosh a little. Anyone can mosh: just jump in and flail your arms around, right? Well, it isn't that simple. You have to know when to
start
moshing. If you start too early, you have no one to slam into and you look like an idiot. If you start too late, people give you dirty looks and call you a poser. It's a delicate balance. At the Shrivel show, I started when three or four people were going at it, and I still felt dumb. The adults didn't venture into the pit, but I'm sure it made interesting fodder for their VCRs.

As I was moshing, I noticed a girl I couldn't quite place. Then I remembered—summer camp. I'd completely forgotten her name. What was I supposed to say to her? I already have a problem with seeing people from camp in the city; it feels odd. I have an even bigger problem with, um, girls. Midway through Shrivel's set, she came up to me.

“Don't I know you from somewhere?” she asked.

“Camp.”

“Oh, yeah.” She walked away. Phew. I escaped that confrontation with monosyllabic simplicity.

The second-to-last song was hard and fast. I jumped in the pit, and some kid punched me in the chin, so I swung on ceiling pipes and kicked people in the head.

By 9:45 it was over. Shrivel left the stage; their parents packed up the cameras. Ears ringing, I climbed out of the West End and into the winter night. There, on the corner, looking at a thick history book he'd picked up from a used bookstore, was my dad. I walked up to him.

“So, Ned, how was it?” He smiled. “Oh, wait, should I talk to you? I'm not embarrassing you too much, am I? Maybe I should move away so your friends don't see me.”

He has a comforting bass voice, my dad. I started laughing as we walked to the van.

L
ate spring, when I was fifteen, I was given a Scholastic Writing Award for a short story I wrote. Actually, it wasn't a real award—it was an honorable mention. I'm always getting honorable mentions; I used to think it was me, but now I realize that the teen world itself is full of second prizes. Nobody wants to hurt our self-esteem.

Anyway, I'd written this story earlier freshman year. Called “The Bagel Man,” it was about a kid who goes to school, eats a bagel, meets an old man, and realizes the old man is freer than he is. My English teacher liked it, so I sent it off to the competition. Two months later I got the letter: “We are pleased to announce …”
^*
At first I was excited, until I saw that about six hundred kids had entered the contest and three hundred won something.

The letter invited me to a ceremony on May 19. From 1:00 to 2:00
P.M
. a reception would be held. From 2:00 to 3:00
P.M
. the awards would be handed out. My invitation said that I could bring a guest; I
considered taking Dad but, as a fledgling teenager who wanted nothing to do with his parents, I decided against it. Dad was kind enough, however, to drive me into Manhattan.

We got stuck in traffic,
^*
in disgusting New York City heat. Even worse, when we left our apartment in Park Slope, a group of kids on skateboards was behind us. As we came to a complete stop around Flatbush and Atlantic, they passed us by and coasted into the distance. I hate it when kids on skateboards pass me; they're already cooler than me—they have to be faster, too?

Dad dropped me off at the Fashion Institute of Technology, a college in Manhattan, at 1:50. Not bad, considering I had planned to get there at 1:00, and my family is usually
two
hours late. I got out of the van, wished Dad a safe trip home, and followed the signs for “Scholastic Writing Winners.” I found myself at the entrance to the Marvin Feldman Auditorium, where a giggly blond woman asked me what my name was.

“Ned Vizzini,” I told her. Not Viccini, or Zizzini, or Zazooni.
^**
I hate my name sometimes.

“Okay, Ned,” she giggled. She gave me this
computer-personalized name tag and a yellow index card that read:

I wondered what the card was for.

“Ned? Just go right up those stairs to the reception,” said the woman.

I went.

Now, I didn't know that this awards ceremony was a dress-code occasion. After all, I was only getting honorable mention, and my story wasn't very good. Besides, I figured the place would be full of artistic types, and you never know what they're going to wear. So I dressed, you know … casually. I had on a plain white T-shirt and blue plaid shorts.
Everybody else
was in a dress or blazer, or at least a button-down shirt and tie.

I sighed, slunk over to the refreshments table, and got some punch. I was sipping it casually, elbow cocked up, when it spilled spectacularly all over my shirt and shorts. And it wasn't even that pale yellow adult-looking punch—it was bright red, like Kool-Aid.

Wiping myself off, I went from the reception
room to the auditorium, where I was shown to my seat among the other winners in the short short story category.
^*
I was placed right in the middle of the row, so everyone could look at my huge red stain as I walked to my seat. On my left sat a glasses-clad, curly-haired boy dressed in a blazer and tie. He looked about two years younger than me. His name tag said, “Brian.” To my right was an even younger blond-haired girl—I never did get her name—wearing a pristine dress. She kept leaning across me and whispering, “Kimberly, Kimberly! What'd you win?”

I turned to Brian, “So what happens now? We just get our certificates, right?”

“Nah, they have to make speeches first.” He had a really deep voice, deeper than mine. “Maybe,” I thought, “he's older than me and just short.”

“What are these things for?” I asked, showing him my yellow index card.

“When you go up to get your award, you give your card to the guy, who reads off what's on it. Then everybody claps, and you get your award, and you sit down.” I looked at Brian's index card. He'd won honorable mention, too.

The speeches began. The first lady was young
and unprepared. She kept saying “um” and “well” and “in fact.” Most of her speech was about how lots of famous writers—the only one I remember was Bernard Malamud—had won Scholastic Writing Awards
^*
when they were kids. And she said something about how we were the light of the future. The second speaker, an older woman, was articulate and confident. She also said we were the light of the future. The third speaker kept it brief and remarked on how imposing it was to have all these future writers in the room. And we were the light of the future.

Then the handing out of the awards began. The kids were called by category (dramatic script, science fiction, etc.); they got out of their seats and formed a line leading to the foot of the stage. From there they walked up one by one and handed their index cards to “the guy,” who read off their names. Then people applauded. Just like Brian said.

Naturally, the short short story category was the last to receive awards. That gave me a chance to sit in my punch for the longest possible time. When the announcer finally called us, the girl next to me giggled and whispered, “Kimberly, I'm
sooo
nervous.” We lined up single file. I was between Brian and the
Kimberly girl. We walked onstage to receive our awards. I handed my index card to the guy; of course, he needed help with pronunciation.

“Vi-ZENE-ee,” I told him. He read it off, and everybody clapped halfheartedly.

As they applauded, I peered down at my peers, in their suits and prim dresses. Suddenly I felt superior. It was a wonderful, virile, teenage sort of superiority. There I was, receiving an award for something I'd done completely on a whim; these kids' parents had probably forced them into the Scholastic Writing contest to earn points for Harvard.
^*
The stain on my shirt was all part of it. It was a
statement
.

I walked back to my seat thinking about happiness. I decided that you didn't really need money, power, success, religion, a spouse, or kids to be happy. All you really needed was to feel superior. I could be a homeless druggie; I'd still be able to look at businesspeople trudging off to work and think “Hah!” because I'd be freer than them.

I thought about that for a little while. Then I decided it was all pretty stupid and, award in hand, I took the subway home.

M
y dominant nerd brain was telling me to stay home and cram. My subordinate cool brain was causing problems.

It was the night before my Biology Achievement exam. Doing well on it would improve my life greatly, my nerd brain reminded me. I had to take three Achievements to attend a Good College; if I got the biology one over with at the end of freshman year, I'd have less work come crunch time. But that night my favorite band, Moxy Früvous,
^*
was playing so my cool brain ordered me to screw the test, screw authority, be different, and go see them.

Moxy Früvous is a folk band. They use a little feedback and curse at their shows, but they are not alternative and they are not hardcore. They play accordions and sing about gambling in Canada. They have songs called “Bittersweet” and “Fly.” They rely on harmony, not volume; they don't bust up their vocal cords during a set; and you'll never find them on commercial radio stations. If you want to make fun of me for liking some nerd folk band, feel free.

I lay my head down on my open study guide and thought about the first time I'd seen Moxy Früvous, three months earlier, in March. It was the first time I'd ever seen a live band (Shrivel
^*
didn't count). I begged Mom to let me go, and as usual, she would allow it only if Dad played escort.

So we got in the van and drove to the venue, a small organic place in Manhattan called the Wetlands. We arrived at 10:50; I thought Dad would leave to hang out at a bookstore or something, but he stayed—he wanted to see the band.

“Where are we going to stand?” he asked as we paid our money at the door. “I mean, I know you don't want to be seen with me, and I definitely don't want to be seen with you.”

“I'll stay by that column,” I said as we strode inside. “I guess you can go by the bar.”