The number 12 bus smells funny. It just does. Mom says it smelled funny before I was even born, when she rode it out to the school for work. Now it smells like a combination of Chinese food and bleach. Sometimes it’s more like banana peels and chalk dust. I know it’s not always the same bus. I’ve seen the bus depot, and there are at least a dozen buses that shuttle people around this magnificent smallopolis we call our hometown. Surely each bus rotates through the number 12 route. It can’t always be the same one. But it always smells.
I’ve ridden the other bus routes. Neither the number 5 nor the number 8 smell. Only the number 12 smells. It’s freaky.
Maybe it’s something about the route it takes. It actually does go through what qualifies as Chinatown (two Chinese takeouts and an acupuncturist) and past the industrial laundry that does all the hospital washing. So that explains the Chinese food and bleach. The bananas and chalk are a mystery though. I guess some mysteries are just meant to go unsolved.
“What are you spacing out about?” Miles says, nudging me. We’re riding the number 12 to the other side of town. On a kind of quest. Like the Fellowship of the Ring. Only with fewer fellows.
“Bananas,” I answer.
“Cryptic,” Jacob says. As usual, he’s strumming his acoustic guitar. The bus is half empty and we’re sitting right at the back, spread out on the long bench. Miles has a guitar with him too. A tiny little half-size classical. I don’t know why the boys brought their guitars along on this trip. We’re going to listen to music, not play it. I guess they just can’t live without them.
At the next stop, about ten teenage girls get on board, slouching into the seats just in front of us. Jacob begins playing a guitar riff. Loud. Really twanging it. I recognize it, of course. It’s U2, “Sunday Bloody Sunday.” He plays it a couple of times, then stops, looking at me expectantly.
Okay. The song actually starts with drums. One of the few songs that does. I pull some drumsticks out of my backpack. Yeah, so, I never leave home without them. So what? I start playing the distinctive drum pattern using the metal handle on the back of the seat and the soft seat cushion as high-hat cymbal and snare. Jacob smiles and begins the guitar riff again as some of the girls turn and look back at us. Miles starts plucking out fat bass chords. Soon we have a good little jam going.
U2 is pretty corny, but this is a good song to do acoustically on the back of a bus, I’ll give them that. And lots of kids know it, even dorky kids. Sure enough, soon a couple of the girls are singing along, half in tune and half laughing. By the time we get to the chorus, the whole back of the bus is shouting, “SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAAAAAAY!” and “HOW LONG? HOW LONG MUST WE SING THIS SONG?”
Jacob, Miles and I are trying not to laugh. These girls are all done up to go and hang out at the mall or something, and here they are, belting out this 1980s protest song about Northern Ireland. But they seem to be enjoying it. And some of them even know all the words. By the time we get to the mall and the song ends, they’re all squealing and telling us how great we are. Jacob is flirting like crazy, though all the girls are at least two years older than him.
When the girls finally pile out, the bus driver turns and looks back at us. “Do you know ‘I Will Follow’?” he says.
I guess there are some cool people in this town. All you have to do to find them is ride the number 12 bus.
If you can stand the smell.
* * *
We get out at the second-to-last stop and walk two blocks down a row of large houses to a modern-looking church at the end. The sign outside the church reads Free Coffee and Everlasting Life.
“It should say ‘free coffee OR everlasting life,’” Miles says as we head for the front door. “Then we’d find out who the real believers are.”
Jacob snorts with laughter. I shush them both as I push the heavy wooden door open.
Inside, the church is infused with a weird rainbow light, because the setting sun is beaming in through the stained-glass windows. The pews are empty. There’s no service on right now, just choir practice. I see Tamara look over at us as we slip into a pew, as quietly as possible. The choir is in the middle of singing something about eagles’ wings. Tamara isn’t singing a solo or anything, but I can still pick her voice out from those of the other girls and women. It’s strong and clear, but also, in this song anyway, other-worldly. Like she’s singing from a mythical land.
But it’s church music. The type of music I want to do is about more than just hitting the notes. It’s about believing in it. I wonder whether Tamara could believe in anything but the stuff she’s used to.
As the eagle song finishes, I hear the door open behind us. A cute but geeky guy comes in and waves to Tamara. She waves back. Boyfriend? Figures. They match each other.
The choir director says something I can’t hear, but it makes the whole choir chatter with enthusiasm. After riffling through their music for a moment, they start a new song.
I don’t recognize it at first. It sounds African. Then half the choir starts making this kind of heartbeat whoomph sound, like a rhythm. And Tamara starts to sing solo.
As soon as the first words are out of her mouth, I recognize the song. It’s “Biko,” by Peter Gabriel. I’ve got no idea why they are singing a song about apartheid in South Africa in a church on the other side of the world. But it’s straight-up off the hook. Her voice is so spectacular, and the acoustics are so good, I feel like I might have found God.
When the choir comes in on the chorus, “Oh Biko, Biko, because Biko,” for real I almost pee my pants. And you can tell, I can tell, Miles can tell, Jacob can tell, the cute guy behind us can tell—heck, the statue of Jesus can tell—that Tamara believes in every word and every note she’s singing.
There is no question in my mind that she’s my singer. I must have this girl in my band. Now I just have to convince her.
When the song ends and my heart rate slowly returns to normal, Tamara comes back to talk to us.
“Looking to join the choir?” she asks. “We always need new singers.”
“We can’t sing,” we all say at once.
Tamara grins. “Are you guys triplets or something?”
Good, I think. A sense of humor helps.
“Hey, Tam,” the cute boy behind us says. “We should go. I’m illegally parked.”
“Okay. Wait for me?”
He leaves, chatting with the choir director and holding the door for some of the older singers. Tamara, the boys and I exchange names.
“So,” Tamara says. “You’re not here to join choir. What are you here for?”
“We have a band,” I say before I lose my nerve. “We need a singer.”
I’m not sure what kind of reaction I expected. Laughter maybe. Or eagerness. Or something. Instead, Tamara just frowns.
“We heard you sing at the baseball game,” Jacob says. “You’re really good.”
“Yeah, thanks.” She crosses her arms over her shapeless gray cardigan. “Look, I have to go. Why don’t you email me or something?” She fishes a pen and a slip of paper from her purse and scribbles her details, handing the paper to me.
“I love to sing. I guess you figured that out, but…” She looks at the boy still holding the door open. He gestures for her to hurry. “I’m in a weird place right now. But, you know, email me. I’ll think about it.”
The choir director hustles us all out the door and locks it behind us. Tamara and the boy get into a perfectly boring car and drive off. Miles, Jacob and I stand on the church steps like orphans.
“A weird place?” I say. “What does that mean?”