We all arrive at Isabelle's house at the same time Friday night. Eli gives me a laid back "What's up?" and Thomas just smiles at me. I want to look away and pretend I don't see him but, at the same time, I don't. I'll have to get used to interacting with him if we're going to hang out tomorrow night.
Hang out. What does that even mean? Is it going to just be us, one on one, will there be other people there? What's really going on? Why doesn't he just tell me? The uncertainty of it all is making my anxiety levels shoot through the roof. I'd really like it if he just told me the specifics right this very minute but that's obviously not going to happen.
On one hand, I think I'd like it just to be the two of us. On the other, the thought of being alone with this boy, this boy who plays the bass, has incredible dark hair, and makes my face feel hot when I look at him or even think about him, is so terrifying that I feel light headed like I'm going to pass out. I can't do that to the band. Again. The band comes first because I really, really want to continue to be a part of it.
My near constant flow of conflicting thoughts reminds me of the stories my mom tells me all the time about her favorite band, Fleetwood Mac. She's a huge fan, especially of Stevie Nicks. The band is infamous for having lots of crazy relationships among the members, especially Stevie and Lindsey Buckingham. I really don't listen closely to most of her stories but one keeps running through my mind now that I'm facing the role of lead singer of our band.
Stevie said that when she and Lindsey broke up they had to always put Fleetwood Mac first, even when they couldn't stand to be on stage together. So when we reach that level of superstardom and have millions of screaming fans dying to come to our concerts I'll bang my tambourine and twirl around the stage no matter if Thomas and I are still together or not. Or something like that. It might sound ridiculous to compare myself to a huge star like Stevie Nicks but for the first time I'm starting to think it might happen someday.
But band or no band, I'd also like to know what it's like to have a boyfriend, or at least go on one date. Even if it doesn't go anywhere I can say that I went on that one date. If it's awful, I can laugh about it later. Much, much later after I've cried for a few weeks. If we have fun but decide just to be friends, then we'll go on to greatness as bandmates. I hope. I mean I really, really hope that happens. I know it's not realistic because there are so many musicians out there who want the same thing as we do. And I'm sure that each of those musicians even have names for their bands, which we do not.
I close my eyes and stand still in Isabelle's front hallway, willing my mind to just stop. This has always been a problem for me. My brain moves faster than my mouth and the never-ending whirlwind of fragmented thoughts and feelings usually overwhelm me. The only thing that helps me focus is forcing my eyes shut until they fade away. Usually, though, I'm alone in my room with my pillow over my head so closing my eyes isn't a weird thing to do. When you do it while surrounded by friends in someone else's house, however, people tend to notice and stare at you.
And that's what I see when I slowly open my eyes. Isabelle has joined the guys and they're all standing in a circle around me. I laugh to try to make a joke out of my weirdness but it comes out like a sharp bark.
"You OK?" Isabelle's dark eyes are glittering and she starts laughing at me. Thomas and Eli join her until I'm surrounded. They're mocking me and flames of embarrassment begin to spread from my neck up the sides of my face. Just when I'm ready to bolt out the front door, leap into my mom's car, and speed away Isabelle throws her arm around me and pulls me out to the back porch.
"You're so weird!" She squeals and hugs me to her side. The guys follow us and pretty soon I'm laughing along with them as we take our places on the stage. It dawns on me that they're laughing with me not at me.
The weather is turning cold but instead of moving our band practice inside, Isabelle's parents have set up heaters and extra lights for us. Isabelle sees me checking out the new additions to our rehearsal space and her face lights up.
"Sweet, huh? I thought that we need to get used to playing outside. I see carnivals, state fairs, and then after everyone realizes how incredible we are we'll be playing stadiums."
I stare at her, not sure of what to say. "You really think so? We've sung together once. If we get it together, tonight will make two."
I don't know why I'm saying these things. I don't want to make Isabelle feel bad or discourage her and I would be so freaking heartbroken if we never got to perform in public at least once. I'm not used to getting what I want and I'm afraid that this thing is something I'm going to fail at. Another thing that is going to be ripped away from me.
Like swimming. I was a really strong swimmer and was on a local team but my knees got so bad I couldn't even kick in the water without being in massive pain. Part of me was really disappointed because I thought swimming would be the one sport I could do. I tried soccer, I tried gymnastics and dance but nothing stuck. I love the water and for a long time thought I would become a marine biologist so spending even more time in the water made perfect sense.
I have to confess, though, that an even bigger part of me was really relieved to be able to quit the swim team. I started later than most kids my age and that meant the team I qualified for was filled with eight and nine year olds. I was 13 at the time. I looked like a giant fish among guppies.
Or marching band. I had to quit because my back couldn't handle all the standing, bending and marching in place, especially during band camp when my dad had to drive three hours to come get me when I just couldn't take it anymore. My mom sent him downstate to the university where our band director made us practice in unbearable heat, hour after hour. We then got to go back to musty dorms to collapse on bunk beds with lumpy, stained mattresses.
I thought he was going to be upset that he had to use his one day off to drive all that way when I'd only been at camp for two days. I thought he would want me to stick it out for the rest of the week because he's one of those if it's important to follow through on your commitments kind of dads. But with the exception of getting irritated because he kind of got lost after he got to the campus, he was really understanding.
The ride home was just what I needed. Mostly quiet with my dad's 80s hair band music drifting at a low volume from the radio, the air conditioning blasting from the vents. I settled back into the passenger side front seat and closed my eyes only to open them when my dad cleared his throat.
"So, band camp really sucked, huh?" He glanced over at me as he drove onto the ramp leading to the highway.
My eyelids seemed impossibly heavy but I forced them open to look at him. "It really did. I'm sorry you had to come get me."
He shrugged. "It's OK. Why the hell did they make a group of teenagers march in the heat all day every day? The parents should sue!"
He laughed and patted my hand. "Seriously, though. I'm glad you're coming home."
It was my turn to laugh at the thought of a group of band parents suing the school over the extreme conditions at band camp. They'd never do it. Marching band parents are really into the whole thing, usually more than their kids are. They have those removable stickers in the school colors on the back windows of their cars.
Proud Parent of a Flute Player! My Kid Plays the Oboe!
They're member of the band boosters, sell stuff at our competitions, and try to recruit others for the cause. It's cult, really. They usually escape the cult and get their weekends back once their kids graduate, but some choose to remain in it through the college years, too.
My dad might have been kidding but judging by the absence of stickers on the back of their cars and the fact that their only daughter nearly collapsed into a heat stroke induced coma, my parents just might be the ones to get the ball rolling on that law suit.
I closed my eyes and before I drifted off to sleep I put my hand on his. "Thanks, dad. I'm glad you were the one who picked me up." Don't get me wrong-my mom could have done it, but she would have wanted to talk about what happened and she would have had a million questions for me. And I'm not up to rehashing every moment of the last few days.
He turned the radio down and we drove all the way home in the peaceful silence only two introverts can enjoy together.
Everyone in my high school who is in band has to participate in marching band their freshman year whether they like it or not. After that they can make the switch to concert band if they are sick of marching in the heat for hours and hours every summer or ready to do something else on the weekends instead of playing for every single home football game in the fall. And when you live in a small town there are lots of football games because there isn't much to do on a Friday night other than cheer on players with over-inflated egos and peppy cheerleaders. Even though I missed being with my friends when they were trapped in marching band hell, I certainly didn't miss the testosterone or back stabbing disguised with laughter going on down on the field.
I did stay in concert and symphonic band throughout all four years of high school and had to play in pep band during basketball season. Pep band was a huge joke because I'm the least peppy person ever. From my dark brown, almost black hair to my penchant for wearing nearly all black clothes during every season to my epic resting bitch face, I am the anti-pep. The anti-cheerleader. The polar opposite of perk.
I say nearly all black clothes because the older I get I've started to make slightly bold fashion choices. As a freshman, I never considered wearing anything but black. Maybe dark gray. As a senior, I've ventured a little outside of my comfort zone by adding a dress with little red flowers, on a black background, of course. I'm not ready to go completely crazy with color to my wardrobe. I also have two new colorful t-shirts to wear under my favorite black old man cardigan. I love that thing. Its pockets have holes in them, it's all stretched out, and if my mom ever gets her hands on it and washes it one more time I'm sure it'll disintegrate. I'll never give it up. They'll have to bury me in it.
One of my new t-shirts is a soft yellow with a dolphin on it. I used to really love the ocean, especially dolphins, so my grandma got me the shirt for Christmas last year. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I'm not as interested in dolphins when I realized I'd never be a marine biologist. I still like the ocean, though, and my grandma so I wear it. The other shirt is blue with a green sketch of a turntable on it. As much as I hate to admit it I've joined my generation in our fascination with old technology like vinyls. My parents call them records and like to remind me that they're nothing new, nothing special.
"Hello? You in there somewhere?" My mind snaps back to the present and I notice Isabelle staring at me.
I look around and realize we're alone. "Sorry-where are the guys?"
She shrugs and looks at me quizzically. "They went into the house to get some drinks around the time you started zoning out. You ready to get this thing started?"
As usual, Isabelle is vibrating with energy. And as usual, I'm hesitant to get going and worried about how I'm going to sound.
"Sure, let's go."
She starts to jump off the stage to make the guys some back so we can actually practice.
I grab her hand. "Wait!"
"What?" She's exasperated and looks a little angry. I see a crack in her overly cheerful surface and this actually makes me like her a little bit more.
I'm not sure how to say this other than blurt it out. "So, Thomas asked me if I wanted to hang out tomorrow night. Did he ask you, or maybe Eli, to hang out too?"
She looks confused. "No and I'm busy tomorrow anyway." Her eyes light up. "OH! He asked you on a date! Just the two of you! I knew it, I knew it! I saw him looking at you, you know. He likes you, he-"
I interrupt her frantic babbling. "Wait! I don't know what he wants, but I think I'm going to go. I, uh, just need some help."
Isabelle is still bouncing up and down. "With what?"
I look over my shoulder to make sure the guys aren't suddenly standing behind me. "With shopping. For some new clothes. I don't know what to wear. I don't have anything to wear, really." I can feel the panic start to rise in my chest. I'm going to look awful and Thomas will leave to go to the bathroom during dinner and he'll run out the front door instead, quit the band, and I'll never see him again.
Isabelle starts bouncing even higher. "YES! Let's go after band practice. We'll go to the mall, we'll shop, we'll finally get you some make-up. You'll look amazing!"
I already wear make-up, but I let that one go because I obviously look like I'm never wearing any. I'm nervous but am actually starting to look forward to this whole thing in a stress making my chest constrict kind of way.
I smile at her. "Cool."
I can hear the guys making their way back to the patio when Isabelle whispers to me, "We still need a band name. I thought something edgy. What do you think about Wet Underbelly?"
I shake my head and begin to adjust the mic. "No."
Isabelle sighs. "At least think about it!"
Still smiling, I shake my head no and take my place in front of the microphone as Thomas and Eli pick up their instruments.. I'm starting to become cautiously optimistic about this whole thing. The band, my new friends, Thomas. Let's hope I don't screw it up.