Sometimes I miss the days when I had normal, peaceful waking-up experiences. My mom or dad would come in and rub my back or stroke my hair, and when I rolled over they would say, Time to get up, buttercup, or something like that. They’d make breakfast for me, and it would all be like something out of an old picture book.
Now it seems like every morning is some new, bizarre world that I have to figure out. If it’s not weird dreams or meowing phones, it’s those mornings where you feel like maybe you’ve been drugged, because you’re so groggy you can barely move. And then there’s waking up with an urgent need to write a song. I mean so urgent that I have to write the lyrics down before I even pee. And I’m busting to pee so bad, I end up taking my notebook into the bathroom with me.
Once that’s taken care of and four verses of lyrics and a chorus are written down, I pull out my guitar. I don’t play guitar that well—enough to plunk out a few of the easier chords—but I can usually fake a little accompaniment, especially if the key is C. I take my guitar to the breakfast table and am taking bites of toast and figuring out my chords as Dad comes in, wearing his Sunday outfit. That is to say, his pajamas. We’ll be lucky if he’s dressed by four o’clock when my grandparents come over for dinner.
“That’s sounding good,” Dad says as my song comes together. “What’s it about?”
“I don’t know. It came to me in a dream.” I look down at my lyrics, analyzing them for the first time. “I think it’s sort of a love song.” Oh my god! Why did I say that? Now Dad’s looking at me with a big, goofy smile on his face. If he says something about his baby girl growing up, I’m literally going to die. I shove toast into my mouth and escape out the back door before that can happen.
After strapping my guitar into the basket of my bike, I ride around aimlessly for a while, thinking about my song. And I keep thinking of Nate, which is infuriating. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore, apparently, because I turn my bike in the direction of Tamara’s house.
“Hey, Stell,” Nate says as he opens the door. “Tammy’s not here.”
I stand there with about a million expletives running through my brain, none of which are helping me think of a way to get out of this with my dignity intact.
“Do you want to come in?” Nate says. “You look hot. I mean, sweaty, I mean, not in a bad way, just…do you want some juice or something?”
A few minutes later we’re sitting on the front steps, sipping orange juice. “I just wrote a song. Do you want to hear it?” I ask him, more out of a desperate desire to break the awkward silence than because I actually want to play my song.
“I’d love to!”
Oh, Lord. Now I’ve done it. I pull my guitar out of my bike basket and strum the opening chords. But I only manage to sing one verse and half the chorus before my throat starts closing up like I’ve been stung by one of those killer bees.
“It goes on like that,” I croak. “I haven’t finished the rest of the verses.” Lie. But necessary.
Nate smiles at me. “You have a pretty voice. It reminds me a little of Angie Hart.”
“Wow. Thanks. That’s an obscure comparison. But thanks.”
“Tammy and I went through a Buffy the Vampire Slayer thing a few years ago.” He shrugs and taps his forehead. “I have one of those memories that just keeps compiling things, like a giant database. You wouldn’t believe the music trivia I’ve got up here.”
“That’s awesome. Hey, sometimes they have music-trivia night at the Youth Club. We should totally go next time.”
What. The. Hell. Did I just ask Tamara’s brother out on a date? No more juice for me.
Nate grins, two round pink patches growing on his cheeks. “That would be cool. I think we’d crush the competition, don’t you?”
“Probably.” If I was able to string a sentence together. Which I doubt.
Nate slurps the last of his juice and looks at a scampering squirrel on the lawn. “So did you come here to see Tammy or…?”
“Yes!” I yelp way too enthusiastically. “I mean, yes. I wanted to play her my song. Will she be back soon?”
“I’m not sure. She said she’d be at the church. Something about rehearsal. I have to go to work, but I can drop you there. You can put your bike in the back of the van.”
Figures. He drives a minivan.
* * *
I wait for Nate to drive away before I open the church door. It would be just my luck for Tamara to come out right as he’s leaving and see him. Then there would be all kinds of awkward questions about what I’m doing with her brother that would make me turn five thousand shades of red.
He does give me a little wave as he drives off though.
When I push the door open, I’m surprised not to hear the whole choir singing. I can only hear Tamara and an acoustic guitar. And it’s not at all a church song. It’s a schmaltzy old Shania Twain song that Mom used to make fun of. But Tamara’s voice sounds sweet.
As I open the second door, from the vestibule into the church, I see a pair of sneakered feet poking out from behind the pews. They look familiar. Just then Tamara opens her eyes and sees me. She stops singing abruptly.
“Stella! What are you doing here?”
Beside her, emerging from behind the high pews, Jacob stands up.
I look at them both for a moment. Really, it’s no big deal. Tamara wanted some singing practice and she asked Jacob to accompany her. It makes sense.
Except she wasn’t singing any song that we do. Or any song that she would do in choir. And they both look guilty.
“What’s going on?” I say.
“Nothing,” Jacob says.
“We’re just jamming,” Tamara adds. Then there’s an awkward silence. And awkward silences in churches are the worst because you feel like the whole holy family is judging you. I swear I see the statue of Mary roll her eyes.
“Okay, look,” Jacob says. “We’re just practicing a different sound. We figure if the punk band doesn’t get into the festival, maybe a country-pop duo will.”
I just stare at him, resisting the urge to punch him in the nose. “I don’t understand,” I finally say. “Are you guys quitting the band?” To my horror, I start to feel like I’m going to cry. I mean, Jacob is like a little brother to me, and Tamara—she’s practically the best girlfriend I’ve ever had. And the band is my whole life!
“We’re not quitting,” Tamara says. “We’re just covering the bases. Chad is right about our sound. It’s too edgy for this gig.”
“So you don’t even want to try?”
“Of course we still want to try. This is just a backup plan.”
Backup plans. The best way to suck the excitement out of almost anything. Backup plans are like diving off the high board with a parachute. I don’t know why, but this bugs me. It’s like I want it to be an “if we go down, we all go down together” kind of deal. Because how are we supposed to still be a band if Miles and I are shut out of the festival but Jacob and Tamara are in? That won’t be good for band morale.
I cross my arms. I know I’m doing the sulky face that Dad says will never win me any beauty contests, but I don’t care.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Tamara says.
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jacob says.
I glare at him because I think he should understand. “She’s already been famous. She’s already done tons of big gigs. She Facebooks Chad Banner like it’s nothing. And she only wants to get into the festival for revenge. It’s different for me.”
Now it’s Tamara’s turn to cross her arms. “Yeah? How is it different?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m not a phony!”
You know when you look behind you and “too far” is already about a mile away? That’s me. I expect Tamara to clock me one. Lord knows I deserve it. But instead, she speaks calmly and slowly as she packs her music sheets into a folder.
“You know, Stell, I wish you had been kicked out of Fantalicious. Then you’d know what phony is. Oh, except you wouldn’t have been kicked out because, well, look at you.”
Then she grabs her cardigan and her purse and stomps out. Jacob and I wait in silence as the heavy door swings closed behind her.
“You totally would have been kicked out of Fantalicious,” Jacob says, snapping his guitar case closed. “You can’t even sing.”
I think of about a dozen nasty comebacks, but not until he’s already followed Tamara out.
And I never even got to play them my song.