37
Let’s live like we mean it
Because today is the youngest we’ll ever be
For the rest of our lives.
— Kids from Alcatraz
I WAS LYING ON MY BED READING Love, Stargirl, listening to Llama Parade, trying not to think about Spaghetti, actively recovering from my concussion, when my computer made the little noise that lets me know an email has come in.
I put my eReader down and sat at my desk. I saw who the email was from and nervously clicked on it. I read it. I read it again. I read it a third time. I sat there for a few minutes, thinking. Pondering. My heart racing. I got up, dug my phone out of my bag, and set it on the floor in front of me. I dialed the number from the email with my shaking toe.
A man answered the phone. “Hello,” I said to the man. “My name is Aven Green. I found you on Find My Family.”
“This is incredible, Aven,” Mom said from the front seat of the car. “I didn’t think anything would actually come back from the test. I can’t believe it.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes.
“When do we meet him, Sheebs?” Dad asked.
“He flies in in a couple of days,” I said from the back.
“And he’s excited?”
I smiled at him in the rearview mirror. “So excited.”
Mom took a tissue out of her purse and blew her nose. “Well, he should be. It’s simply incredible,” she said, her voice cracking. “And to think . . . all these years and he never even knew.” She cried into her tissue.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“I have every right to be emotional right now.”
“Well, you’d better get it together,” Dad said. “Who knows what might happen at this thing?” He looked at me again in the rearview mirror. “Are we really doing this tonight? Is it too late to back out?”
“Way too late,” I said.
Mom dabbed at her eyes with the tissue. “I think it will be fun.”
“It’s going to be so much fun,” I assured them.
“I don’t know. . . . ” Dad said.
“Remember,” I told him. “Today is the youngest you’ll ever be for the rest of your life. Do it while you can.”
Mom whipped around in her seat and faced me, her eyes huge in the dark car. “Aven, that was profound.”
“I totally know!” I cried. “It felt profound as I was saying it. Like it should be in song or something.”
“Hey, remember when you used to write songs?” Dad said.
“Yeah, but they weren’t any good.”
“They were, too,” Mom said. “I think you should try it again.”
Dad pulled our little car into a crowded parking lot lit by a few dim street lights. As soon as I stepped out of the car, I could feel the hum of electric guitars shooting across the cool night air. The steady beat of drums pulsed through my whole body.
“Are we sure this is a good idea for Ms. Head Bonk here?” Dad asked, getting out of the car. “I don’t know if a loud rock ’n roll concert is the best remedy for a concussion.”
“Don’t say rock ’n roll,” I told him. “It makes you sound old.”
“What should I call it then?”
“Punk. And don’t worry. I’ll stay out of the mosh pit.” This time, I added secretly to myself.
“What’s a mosh pit?” Mom asked as we walked through the parking lot.
“It’s like an area where everyone jumps around and slams into one another.”
“Yeah, you definitely need to stay out of that,” Mom said, then she turned to Dad. “I might try it out, though.”
Dad laughed. “Yeah, right, Laura. I can see you now.” He shook his head. “Not in a million years.”
Mom’s face hardened. She stared straight ahead at the big gray block building in front of us, her jaw set with determination. “I am definitely going in that mosh pit. Make sure you have your phone out to record me so there’s proof.”
“This is going to be so much fun,” I said. “Thank you guys for taking me.”
Dad put an arm around me. “If it’s important to you, Sheebs, it’s important to us.”
“Next stop!” I announced. “The tattoo parlor!”
“No,” Mom and Dad both said immediately.
I sighed. “Yes, I suppose there is a limit to your coolness.”
“You’ll rethink that statement when you see me moshing,” Mom said. “Or is it mosh-pitting?”
Trilby and her parents were standing outside the building already waiting for us. Trilby threw her arms around me. “I’m so happy you’re here!” she cried.
She pulled away, and my mouth dropped open. She ran a hand over her shaved head, which had hair chalk designs all over it—flowers and rainbows mostly. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “What do you think?”
“I think you look incredible. But why did you do it? Is it because of the heat?”
“I decided my hair was just another way I was conforming to the Man’s expectations of me,” she said. “And it feels amazing!” She rubbed her hands frantically over her head and jumped around in a circle. “And think of all the money I’ll save on shampoo!”
I tore my eyes away from Trilby’s scalp and found Mom and Dad were already chatting with her parents—wanting to know how things were going with the smoothie shop, how they liked working at Stagecoach Pass. Dad eventually asked what to expect from “this thing.”
Trilby’s mom put a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Ben—no crowd-surfing for first-timers. And Screaming Ferret’s a good intro to punk. Nothing too hardcore.”
“I’m actually going to go in there and listen to something called Screaming Ferret?” Dad said. “Do they think that name makes them sound enjoyable?”
“Dad!” I cried. “You’re going to like them. They’re amazing!”
I loved the sound of the music blasting through the small opened doorway as we waited in line to pay cover charges and get our hands stamped. The bouncer took one look at Trilby then told her to put her hand out. He stamped “underage” on it. “No going into the over twenty-one area for you, baldie,” the bouncer said. Then he turned his attention to me. He scanned over me, an intense look of contemplation on his face. He scratched at his tattooed neck. Then he stamped “underage” on my nub.
The bouncer gave our parents wristbands (and I thought Mom was going to die of pride when he asked for her ID), and then let us into the stuffy, loud, crowded building.
We slowly inched our way closer and closer to the stage, completely surrounded by singing, dancing, and shouting people—most of them older than Trilby and me but definitely younger than our parents. Our group didn’t exactly fit the punk-show profile. And I loved that.
We all stopped when we reached a small open area surrounding the mosh pit. It was pure chaos in there—people flying here and there and everywhere. Every now and then someone would tumble out of the pit and into the crowd and the crowd would push them back in. I’d never felt so much energy in my life.
“Get ready to record, Ben!” Mom cried out, but Dad just stood there gaping at Mom as she flung herself into the mosh pit.
“You shouldn’t have told her she wouldn’t do it!” I shouted in his ear.
He laughed and pulled out his phone to record her. A young guy with about a dozen piercings in his face stuck his hand up at Mom and cried out, “Right on, lady!” Mom smacked his hand before someone slammed into her, knocking her out of our sight and into the chaos. Dad kept recording, even though we couldn’t see Mom anymore. I guessed he was hoping she would come up for air at some point and he could catch another glimpse of her. I realized right then in that moment that Dad didn’t just love Mom. He liked her, liked her. And he liked her. That was maybe the most important thing of all.
I stood there awhile, taking in the scene, gazing around at all the people, all dressed so differently, like we were at Comic Con again, and they were wearing costumes.
But they weren’t wearing costumes at all. And the people at Comic Con weren’t wearing costumes. Lando as Captain America—Isaiah Bradley—jumping up on the coffee table and flexing his foamy muscles—that was the real Lando. Lando at school was the Lando in costume. I looked next to me at Trilby, at her shaved head with the colorful designs, at her tank top with another punk band on it. Trilby never wore a costume. I watched as she pumped her fist in the air, jumped up and down, and sang along to the music. She stopped and looked at me, breathing hard, sweat already pouring down her face. “Who cares, Aven?” she yelled. “Just who the heck cares?”
I closed my eyes, let the music, the lyrics fully sink in.
I’m seeing things clearly now
For the first time ever.
I see me.
I’m not what they thought.
I am what I believe.
I found myself yelling the words along with Trilby as she put her arm around my shoulder. And then we were jumping up and down together, shouting and singing and fighting in our own tiny way against the Man.
And I finally knew exactly who the Man was in my life.
The Man was Joshua and his friends.
The Man was Janessa looking at me like she was better than me.
The Man was every kid who’d ever called me a freak.
The Man was movies and magazines and books that portrayed beauty as being only one thing.
The Man was every single person who had ever seen me as less than.
The Man in my life was sometimes . . . me.
I opened my eyes and looked at Trilby. She stopped jumping and raised her eyebrows at me. “Thank you,” I yelled at her.
She smiled. “You’re welcome,” she screamed.
Sometimes the friends you make aren’t the ones you expected. And sometimes the place you find yourself in isn’t the place you were hoping for. And sometimes, if you keep an open mind, you’ll find they’re so much better than what you imagined.