IT’S FOURTH-PERIOD LUNCH ON MONDAY, AND Scuzz and Chuckie have been talking nonstop about Saturday night at DRC.
“Marley was amazing,” says Chuckie, “cooler than cool….” He pops a cigarette in his mouth, lights it, takes one puff, and stubs it out again before the lunch monitors can catch on. “Cooler than cool,” he says again, shoving the cigarette back behind his ear.
“Marley,” Scuzz says, taking a long pause after my name for effect, “was so creative”—another pause—“and so smooooooth”—another pause—“he had that crowd, man, in the palm of his hand.” He looks around the lunch table with wide, serious eyes as he shakes his hand, palm open, like he wants to be absolutely sure he has every person’s undivided attention.
“In the palms of his two talent-filled, record-spinning hands,” Chuckie adds.
“He played these Isley Brothers tunes and then blended them into Notorious B.I.G. and Ice Cube,” Scuzz explains before shoveling a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. He chews, swallows, and twirls another spoonful onto his fork. “The transitions came out real cool cuz Biggie and Cube used Isley Brothers tunes for melodies.”
“It was genius, Marley, mixing them all up like that.”
“It was sick, ya’ll. Like you’re hearing this Isley Brothers tune you’ve never heard before but could swear is so familiar and then all of a sudden it turns into something you know and you’re just like, damn, is that where that melody came from?”
Chuckie nods and pounds the table. “You were on, Marley! You were on!”
He pulls his cigarette from behind his ear and reaches for his lighter again, but Scuzz snatches the lighter from Chuckie’s hand before he can touch it to the end of his cig. “No smoking at the table while the rest of us are trying to eat.”
“I know, I know,” Chuckie says, holding up his hands in apology. “I just need it sometimes.”
Scuzz glares at Chuckie a moment longer before turning his attention back to the rest of the table. “Marley was going for this classic old-school hip-hop vibe with a dash of R & B sexy sprinkled on top, right, Mar?”
I continue to work on my burger, crouching over my food like I don’t hear him. I’m not much for being put on the spot.
“He was so great,” Chuckie says, gazing at the ceiling to make it all seem more dramatic, “in his little booth with the brim of his hat pulled down low….”
“Like always,” Jennifer says, smiling at me.
“The crowd loved him,” Chuckie is telling everyone.
“Okay, the crowd did not love me,” I finally say, because all the hype is starting to get to me. “They didn’t cheer or clap or anything.”
“But they didn’t hiss or boo either,” Scuzz points out. “DRC is a black club. If they didn’t like you, they would’ve let you know. You know how our people get, Mar.”
“They would have let you know, Marley,” Chuckie agrees, nodding vigorously. “I was nervous for you. I was sure you were gonna fuck up, but you didn’t.”
“That’s great, son,” K.C. says.
“I’m so proud of you, Marley,” says Denise.
“When do we get to see you?” Jennifer asks. “I’d like to come to the club sometime.” She watches me with questioning, hopeful eyes.
“It was just a one-time deal,” I tell her, as if she didn’t already know.
She leans across the table and throws a dreamy smile my way. “Well, maybe somewhere else, then. I’d really like to see you in action.”
“I’ll bet you would,” Chuckie says, gyrating in his chair and making moaning noises.
“I meant his music,” Jennifer snaps, but everyone is already shouting teasing comments and laughing.
I get up from the table. “I have to get to music class.”
“Lunch ain’t over for another twenty minutes,” says Will.
I answer with a shrug as I grab my pack and pick up my tray. “I’ll see you guys later,” I say, and rush off. This, of course, is all a reaction to Jennifer, who hasn’t eased up one bit. That and the teasing from our friends.
But once I leave the cafeteria, my mind really is on music. I’m hoping Mr. Faulkner is in the band room setting up or something. I want to tell him about DRC and thank him again for letting me borrow the laptop and decks.
I’ve been really pumped since Saturday. I barely slept these last two nights, and all morning I’ve been dying to get to Beginning Jazz so I can work on some new ideas.
I crank the volume in my headphones as I cross the main courtyard. The trees sway, the wind blows, the students’ bodies move to the beat of a Damian Marley song called “Confrontation” that’s dramatic and raw and powerful and that I’d love to put in a mix. There’s nothing like reggae to make you feel alive and connected.
And then, I see her. The angel in girl’s clothing. My curse in life. Lea Hall.
She strolls the walk that sits parallel to the one I’m on with her friends Brittany and Melanie. Three super rich senior Haves trail along behind them. It’s kind of nice to watch Have boys squirm a little. Especially these particular ones who happen to be unusually big jackasses. The tall, wimpy-looking blond one grabs Lea’s hand, but she pulls away. That’s Todd Bitherman. Total rich boy. Total creep.
He moves in again, dropping a limp arm across her shoulder, but Lea ducks away and begins to walk faster. Is she mad at him? No, Todd looks too confident. He continues to stroll and grin in his usual cocky way as if nothing is wrong at all. She must be teasing him, playing a game.
I move to a nearby tree and lean against it, waiting for the group to pass. I’m a little torn between wanting to stay out of sight and wanting to watch her walk by.
Lea has an amazing body. Her girlfriends look more like two sticks piercing the pavement with their bony bodies. You can tell they work hard to stay thin so the boys will like them more. Probably take a second look at their food in the bathroom after every meal.
Lea Hall is not thin. She isn’t overweight either. She’s athletic-looking, but in this soft, sexy sort of way, and I’d knock over both her skinny, stuck-up friends to get to her. I watch her hair blow in the wind as she pushes Todd away a third time.
The group is passing me now and Lea suddenly glances my way. I drop my gaze and continue on toward the band room, walking twice as fast on the path I’m on as they do on theirs. I don’t look back. I’m dying to. But what’s the point?