I set a different text tone for everyone I know. But I guess I forgot that I set Tamara’s tone to be a cat meow. So when I wake up, I think there’s an invisible cat in my room, and I’m very confused for about five minutes. That’s just what it’s like being me. Once I figure out the invisible cat is no threat, I read Tamara’s text.
Sorry. Call me.
I press the button, and she picks up after one ring.
“I wanted to apologize for yesterday,” she says straight away. “My brother brings out the worst in me sometimes.”
“S’okay,” I say, scanning my floor for a clean T-shirt. I’ve had some time to think about it, and I can see why Tamara is feeling sensitive. It must have sucked, getting pushed out of Fantalicious, especially for such a dumb reason. And I don’t know what was going on with Nate taking so many pictures of me. I decide not to mention that part. “Calling them the Fantasy Lickers was mean,” I say.
“Yeah, I guess. I know it was cheesy, but it was fun. And I miss them.” She sighs into the phone. “I just feel like crap right now.”
I’m not normally the type of person to follow up someone saying “I feel like crap” with a request for more details. So no one is more surprised than me when I say, “You do? Why?”
“I just…hate my body. I feel ugly and stupid. I really want to be a performer, but I don’t have the image. You know? And you’re so…like, perfect and cool and…”
“Chinese?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Name a Chinese girl rock drummer.”
That stumps her, but only for a second. She counters with “Name a fat pop singer.”
“Ann Wilson, Aretha Franklin,” I say. “Meatloaf.”
“Meatloaf! You’re supposed to make me feel better, not worse!”
She’s laughing though. That’s good.
“Image isn’t everything,” I say. “The music is what matters. This band is old school, remember? We’re going back to the days before video clips and style blogs.”
She’s quiet for a second. “I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
“Why?”
“Well, to be honest, when I met you I thought you might be a bit of a poser. I mean, you’ve got the hair and the piercings. Lots of kids look a certain way, like rockers or whatever, but they don’t know anything about that scene.”
“But you don’t still think I’m a poser?”
“No way! You’re an awesome drummer. And it’s wild to sing with a real drummer. Fants only ever used canned music. It’s just not the same.”
“Right? This is my whole motivation for the band! Real music for real people.”
“Totally.”
We have one of those silences where you’re talking to someone and you know that you both feel exactly the same way about something. You just have to take a moment and enjoy how good that feels. I realize I’ve been standing in the middle of my room with a pair of red-and-black leggings in one hand and my phone in the other. Also I’m wearing only an oversized Led Zeppelin T-shirt.
“Stella?” Tamara says suddenly. “Can I send you some lyrics? I mean, lyrics I wrote?”
“You write lyrics? I’d love to read them.”
“Cool. I’m going to email them. Don’t, like, barf or anything. You’ll probably think they’re dumb.”
“Just send them. I promise I’ll be nice.”
After we hang up, I get dressed, which basically means putting the red-and-black leggings on under the Led Zep tee. Then I open my laptop. Tamara’s email has already arrived. She doesn’t waste time with salutations or anything. It’s just the lyrics.
They’re amazing. And heartbreaking. Tamara has this air of confidence sometimes, especially about music. But other times she seems so unsure of herself. I guess that’s normal—I feel that way most of the time too—but her lyrics just capture it. The song is called “The Alien,” and it’s kind of a story about someone who can’t hide the fact that they’re from another planet. And the more they try, the more people shun them. The last verse of the song is about the alien falling in love with someone who can’t love them back.
Wow. I have tears in my eyes when I finish reading. I pick up my phone and text one word back to Tamara.
GENIUS.
She replies in seconds with a happy face.
Normally I hate happy faces, but it’s nice to see her smile.
* * *
The boys hunch over the printout I made of Tamara’s lyrics while Tamara and I open all the studio windows. The neighbors usually don’t complain about the noise so early in the day, and it’s hotter than Tabasco in the studio, so we decide to risk it.
“Something like Nine Inch Nails?” Miles says. “Sort of slow and rolling?” He plucks out a few bass notes in an interesting progression.
“Nah, it needs to be darker,” Jacob says. “Like ‘Creep’ only not so emo. And more minor chords.” He strums a chord, then taps a pedal with his foot. His guitar is nice and distorted when he plays the second chord. Miles nods in agreement as Jacob plucks out some killer intro riffs.
“Nice,” he says as they continue jamming.
“I’m not sure about this,” Tamara whispers to me.
“Sure about what?”
“About them turning my lyrics into a song.”
I look at her like she’s just grown moose antlers out of her eyebrows. “What?! What else are lyrics for?”
“Well, they’re for songs and everything, of course. But this is a little dark. And personal.”
We watch the boys improvising for a few seconds. Jacob starts to mumble the words in a cool melody.
“Don’t you think the crowd will like covers better?” Tamara says.
“What crowd?”
“At the summer festival. They might relate to stuff they know better.”
She’s right. Most people, especially around here, love to hear songs they know. And we could play some well-known classic stuff—Beatles or the Stones. U2 is popular, obviously. We could get the crowd singing along, like they did on the bus. That would be cool. But…
“You look lost in thought,” Tamara says. The boys are ignoring us, having transitioned into what I guess will be the chorus of this increasingly epic song.
“I think we should play originals. We should be making our own sound. If we play, say, a U2 song and the oldies in the crowd go wild, then they’re going wild for U2, not us. What’s the point of that?”
“But what if we play originals and they just sit there?” She’s nodding her head in time to the music, a little smile growing on her face. “They sound really good,” she says.
The boys play on, oblivious. Tamara and I abandon our argument as I plop down behind my drum kit and start with a simple pattern. She plugs in her mic and starts singing the chorus of her song as if she’s sung it a million times. Miles and Jacob adjust their volumes, and soon we’re blasting out “The Alien,” a grungy ballad with blues overtones. Tamara sings her lyrics with a little Janis Joplin edge. Then, as though we’ve all tapped into some unspoken agreement, in the middle of the song we bust into power alt rock—like Nirvana meets Queens of the Stone Age but with more feedback. It rapidly turns into a rock bridge from the Devil’s list of all-time greatest rock bridges. Jacob takes a wicked solo, and Tamara improvises some wild vocals, while Miles and I just look at each other, huge grins on our faces.
When Tamara dives into the last verse, we reach a new plane of musical existence. Everything disappears but us and our instruments. It’s like the walls of the studio fall down and we’re playing for all creation, at the beginning and end of the universe.
I look up from my drums to see Miles blissing out, his eyes closed, his fingers thrumming the bass strings. Tamara clutches the microphone like she’s hanging on for her life and sings with such emotion that my heart aches. And Jacob—Jacob is staring at Tamara with his mouth hanging open, like a hungry dog. Now that’s interesting. He catches me watching him and looks away quickly. Still, very interesting.
When the song is finished we’re sweating, red-faced and laughing like maniacs.
“THAT WAS TOTALLY INSANE!!” Miles yells.
Even though Tamara is laughing too, she also looks like she wants to cry. Or hug someone. Possibly both. We’re all in a weird post-uber-awesomeness daze.
I freaking LOVE this band.